A Highlander's Temptation Page 11

  More head bobbing, a hoot, and a bit of hearty foot stomping showed that most of the clan’s esteemed elders were of a like mind.

  Conall held his silence and stooped to retrieve Mungo’s discarded ale cup. He placed it on a table discreetly. In a household where few tread nimbly, such carelessness could be hazardous.

  If Conall hadn’t retrieved the cup, Darroc would have done so himself.

  As it was, he continued to ignore the bickering and kept pacing the little room where they’d gathered. Cozily warm thanks to a well-laid peat fire no one ever let extinguish, the chamber boasted a fine groin-vaulted ceiling and was ringed with cushioned settles, providing sitting comfort for the clan’s least hardy warriors.

  It was a place good men could seek quiet when nights in the hall turned a bit raucous.

  But Darroc thought of the chamber as his thinking room.

  His best ideas came to him here.

  Unfortunately, none appeared just now.

  Too many conflicting emotions whirled inside him. Shock, frustration, and anger were only three. He didn’t have room for more.

  Least of all Lady Arabella.

  Even if he was honest enough to admit that she was the reason he’d been wearing a track in the floor rushes. Or that because of her he needed all his willpower to keep from clenching and unclenching his hands as he paced.

  Regrettably, she wasn’t just the spark that set his world to collapsing around him.

  She was the purpose of this meeting.

  She was his greatest foe.

  It scarce mattered that she was a woman. She carried tainted blood and the weight of deeds so foul their darkness could never be erased.

  Or forgiven.

  Truth was, he’d sooner cut off his sword arm.

  So he willed himself to stop imagining her lush nakedness or how badly his fingers itched to glide along every curve and dip of her creamy, satiny smooth skin. He certainly didn’t need to think about her flowing raven tresses. What it would be like to bury his face in those silken skeins. To nuzzle deep, breathe in the heady scent of her.

  Darroc frowned.

  His blood iced with fury.

  Stomach clenching, he hitched his hip on the room’s sole table and crossed his arms. “Good men, hear me! This is a serious matter.” He closed his eyes for a moment, hoping no one would notice. But he could feel the back of his neck burning like fire, hated how closely entwined the she-demon was with his clan’s privy affairs.

  But that was the sad way of it, so he took a deep breath and plunged on. “God alone knows the truth of the Black Vikings. Whate’er, we must consider well. The lady’s tellings give us no other choice.”

  “Bless me!” Mungo waved his hands. “The poor lassie doesn’t know what she saw. Mad Moraig said she’s been in and out o’ her heid for days.”

  “Aye, just! And here’s proof!” Geordie Dhu flung out an arm. “Has anyone seen the day?” he demanded, pointing at the nearest window.

  Little more than a narrow oblong and fairly high-set, the window’s unshuttered opening revealed inky black clouds, thick, heavy, and rumbling.

  They sailed past at impressive speed.

  And it was at them that he stabbed a finger. “Yon are the maid’s sea raiders. Cloud galleys! The storm that doomed her cog was a tempest. When the ship hit our skerries and started to break apart, she saw demons where there were none.”

  Swelling his chest, he glanced around. “I’d wager my beard on it.”

  “That wouldn’t be wise.” Darroc looked at him, the once doughty warrior and now Castle Bane’s cook. Geordie Dhu’s mastery in the kitchen—and his magnificent black curling beard—was all that remained of his pride.

  Able to make the most savory pottages out of ground fishbone meal when times were lean and delighting even jaded palates with his egg batter fritters and custard tarts on feast days, he was well-loved by all.

  And when he accompanied Darroc to Glasgow-town, the dock-and-tavern lassies never failed to succumb to his charms.

  His beard was a true lady lodestone.

  Grinning, he pulled on that beard now. “I wait! Who’ll take my wager?”

  “No one because we all ken you’d lose against the lass’s claims.” It galled Darroc to take her side. “She came to her wits soon after Moraig dressed her leg. And”—he shot a glance at Mungo—“she isn’t the fearing sort. Nor do I think she’s inclined to fancies. I believe she spoke true.”

  Six slack-jawed faces stared at him.

  Then one of the men glanced back at the window, his face deeply troubled. “I’m with Mungo and Geordie Dhu. The maid was terrified for her life. She—”

  “She may be the only living soul to survive a Black Viking attack.” Conall pushed away from the settle he’d been leaning against. “We’ve heard tales of them for years. Nor”—he looked round, his gaze challenging—“is there anyone in this room who won’t agree that a cog is damty hard to sink. Without a bit of help, that is.”

  “Bah!” Mungo jammed his hands on his hips. “Are you saying the wrath of the sea wasn’t enough?”

  Conall shrugged. “I’d sooner think the sea saved the lass. We all know that the sea takes what the sea wants. Some might say her life wasn’t meant to end yestere’en. As for the lost men…”

  He looked down at his feet. “Who knows what burdens they carried? Perhaps the sea didn’t want them crossing its deeps? Or”—his bright head snapped up—“the Black Vikings gave them no choice?”

  Mungo snorted. “I ne’er heard such twaddle.”

  Darroc shuddered.

  He’d heard the like often enough.

  If the cog carried MacKenzie men as well as Lady Arabella, he could well imagine the sea’s displeasure in knowing such murderers rode the waves.

  Still…

  “We cannot ignore the lady’s accounting.” There he was defending her again. “Her story might seem as far-fetched as a little red fox causing a stir in the bailey”—he cut a look at Mungo—“but we still need to run the possibility to earth. If such marauders are plying our seas, we must find and banish them.”

  Several of his men’s faces whitened.

  One or two jutted chins.

  Darroc held his course. “Need be… we destroy them.”

  “Pah!” Mungo bristled. “That’s folly.”

  “The only folly would be allowing another ship to be attacked.” Darroc stood. “We can’t challenge such foes with a single birlinn and a few fishing cobles, but I will soon visit Olaf Big Nose.”

  He hooked his thumbs in his swordbelt and assumed the kind of fierce mien he usually strove to avoid. “’Tis true that Olaf scoffs when tongue waggers speak of such predators, but we can now persuade him otherwise. If he rallies his men and will engage his longboats, we have a good chance of chasing the fiends from our waters.”

  Geordie Dhu stepped forward. “Olaf Big Nose is a Viking. Why should he—”

  “Olaf is a Norseman and our friend. He’s been the like in times when no other soul would even glance at us. He is a man of honor who only wants to live in peace on his isle. He will—” Darroc broke off, an idea coming at last.

  It was a great one.

  So brilliant he almost whooped.

  He did grin, causing his men to stare in bewilderment.

  “Olaf will join us because we now have sure word that there are Black Vikings and”—he raised his arms above his head and cracked his knuckles—“because doing so is an opportunity he will no’ want to miss.”

  “You’re for giving him the cog’s cargo barrels?” Mungo cocked a shaggy brow. “We opened a few. They’re full o’ wine and salted herring.”

  “We burn the lot—as ordered.” Darroc’s smile slipped a bit. “Olaf will be keen to help because if we succeed in vanquishing the sea raiders, the Scottish crown might be so pleased as to grant him the right to finally call his little isle his own.”

  His men’s eyes rounded.

  Darroc waited until the thi
nking room worked its magic and they comprehended.

  It didn’t take long.

  “By glory!” Mungo’s jaw slipped. “Such a feat—if there are Black Vikings and we besiege them—would put us back in the crown’s good graces!”

  “Our honor restored,” another agreed, his face alight with wonder.

  “That is my hope, aye.” Darroc could scarce contain his own pleasure.

  The possibilities were tremendous.

  A master stroke of fate.

  But then—as was the way with such marvels—his thinking room intruded beyond what was good for him. One by one, glints of an entirely different nature entered the eyes of his men and he braced himself as they exchanged telling glances.

  The back of his neck started to heat again and the air around him turned cold and seemed to recede, making it difficult to breathe.

  He gritted his teeth, waiting.

  He knew what was coming.

  As did Conall if his twitching lips and high color were any indication.

  Mungo spoke first, his gaze shrewd. “The crown might even reward us.”

  “They might.” Darroc nodded.

  It was thinkable.

  He just hoped his men left it at that.

  But Geordie Dhu grabbed his arm, proving they wouldn’t. “You could wed yon lassie abovestairs! She’d make a meet bride, comely as she is. And”—he chortled, his eyes dancing—“she’s already in your bed!”

  Merry laughter filled the room.

  Darroc winced.

  His men didn’t notice.

  All around him, they hooted and guffawed, slapping each other on the back or using scarred and age-worn hands to sketch a woman’s voluptuous form in the air. Even Conall joined in, hastily filling two ale cups and thrusting one into Darroc’s hands.

  He set it aside untouched.

  This was the moment he’d been dreading.

  He cleared his throat, wishing he didn’t have to dash their high spirits. It wasn’t often that the men of Castle Bane found themselves in such fine fettle. Indeed, they were so busy cavorting, no one looked his way until he whipped out his dirk and used its handle to bang on the table.

  The gabble stopped at once.

  “MacConachers!” He spoke strongly. “What you suggest would land us in a greater broil than we’ve e’er seen. There can be no pairing between myself and the maid. Neither with God’s blessing or otherwise.”

  He shuddered at the thought.

  His men gaped, clearly disappointed.

  Conall’s shoulders slumped. “She’s already wed?”

  “She is Arabella of Kintail.” Darroc kept his voice firm, making sure everyone heard. “Lady Arabella, eldest daughter of the Black Stag, Duncan MacKenzie.”

  “MacKenzie?” His men spoke together, their voices aghast.

  Darroc nodded.

  He wasn’t surprised to see them blanch. He’d felt his own blood drain when he’d learned.

  But then Mungo brightened. “Heigh-ho!” He jumped as if someone pricked him with a pin. “That does change things. Now we needn’t worry where we’ll get the coin to search for the Black Vikings. We—”

  Geordie Dhu elbowed him.

  Mungo didn’t care. “We ransom the lass!”

  Darroc gave him a look that would have fried another man’s gizzard. “She stays here—as our guest—until it is safe to transport her. Then we see her home without a word of thanks or a siller expected.”

  Mungo’s brows snapped together. “But—”

  “MacConachers do not make war on women.” Darroc’s words were final.

  “I’m no’ saying we throw her in the dungeon.” Mungo remained belligerent. “Just that—”

  “There will be no just that or aught else.” Darroc raised his hand when the seneschal started to argue. “Anyone who even looks at her sideways will find themselves in the pit. No matter.”

  The edict spoken, he folded his arms, waiting.

  An awkward silence followed. A bit of foot shuffling and knitted brows, some glances at the window where the storm now raged in all fury.

  Conall went to the hearth, where he stood staring at the glowing peats.

  No one said anything.

  Then finally they nodded, each in turn.

  Including Mungo.

  But the set of his hunched shoulders said he wasn’t ready to concede. “I’d be hearing where we’ll get a fat enough purse to fund such a crazy venture as you’re proposing?” He thrust out his chin, eyes flashing. “Olaf Big Nose may be a friend, but he likes his palm well-greased. By my last reckoning, we scraped the coffers to build the new birlinn.”

  He hooked his thumbs in his belt, letting his stance announce his displeasure with the cost of the flashy little galley.

  “I’ll think of something.” Darroc forced a light tone.

  The new birlinn had beggared them.

  But he wasn’t about to tell the seneschal why it’d been so dear. Only Conall knew and Darroc trusted his cousin with his life.

  As for the others…

  Some things were best kept secret.

  So he turned to retrieve the ale cup Conall had given him, this time downing its contents in one great gulp. Feeling better, he reached to pour himself another measure when Mungo appeared at his elbow.

  “I know how we can refill our coffers.” He leaned close, his tone conspiratorial.

  Darroc inhaled. “I’ve spoken my last. The maid—”

  “This has naught to do with her.” Mungo’s voice dipped low. “We can sell the Thunder Rod. There are men who would empty a king’s treasury for—”

  The ale jug slipped from Darroc’s hands, landing on the floor with a thump. Ale splashed onto his legs and spilled across the rushes. Bending, he snatched the ewer and plunked it back on the table.

  “Are you mad?” He stared at the seneschal, not caring that all eyes were on them.

  Or what they heard.

  Every man in the room knew the powers of the clan’s fabled Thunder Rod.

  It hung in this very room, the nature of its magic demanding easy access to any MacConacher who wished its services. In the clan’s possession since the laying of Castle Bane’s first cornerstone, the gleaming length of fossilized wood claimed pride of place above the hearth.

  Beautifully etched with intricate Nordic runes and still bearing traces of dazzling red, yellow, and blue paint, there were many legends as to the rod’s origins. Some believed it was a piece of wood wrested from the prow of Thor’s own dragonship. Others insisted a besotted Norse nobleman crafted it for his lady, presenting it to her as a reminder of his love when he was away at sea.

  It was the clan’s most prized possession.

  And despite its dark history—the rod was responsible for much sorrow—no MacConacher had ever dared suggest they use it to gain riches.

  Darroc frowned.

  He could almost feel the Thunder Rod glaring at him, highly affronted.

  Mungo had the gall to grin.

  “So far as I know, no one’s used the rod in ages.” He slid a sly-eyed glance in the relic’s direction. “Belike there are some limp-plagued men in the realm who’d pay handsomely to see their woes ended. A deep-pursed noble or”—he roared—“a Campbell! Those wily dastards are born schemers but word is they lack steel in their swords!”

  A chorus of laughter filled the room.

  One man choked on his ale. Conall grinned broadly and Geordie Dhu’s guffaws were so great that he bent double, beard jigging and belly shaking.

  “Aye, the Campbells are our men!” Mungo rocked back on his heels, triumphant. “They’re also easily found, the cloven-footed buggers. There be more o’ that race in Argyll than dew on the grass. Their wealth—”

  “Shall remain their own!” Darroc looked hard at his men. “If the Campbells are soft, it is no concern of ours. The Thunder Rod remains at Castle Bane. No matter its worth. Or”—his voice was stern—“have you forgotten what happened the last time the rod changed h
ands?”

  The laughter died.

  All around the thinking room, men shifted uncomfortably. One or two dropped onto settles, looking morose.

  Even Mungo clamped his jaw, then glanced down and busied himself brushing at his plaid.

  Dark flushes stained the faces of every man.

  No one spoke.

  “I see you do remember.” Darroc spoke the obvious.

  A desirable young woman left alone to meet her fate on a remote isle, with an empty, echoing tower her only shelter, wasn’t something easily put from one’s mind.

  And her death wasn’t the only one.

  Others had paid dearly when the Thunder Rod passed into MacConacher possession.

  Darroc flinched.

  He looked to where the peats glowed so quietly on the hearthstone and tried not to think of certain cliffs where the wind sometimes held fragments of men’s screams. Nor was it good for him to dwell on the scratches in the stone of the other window in his notch room.

  Faint marks etched by a feminine hand.

  Just as strong male hands—those of his own ancestor, Rhun MacConacher—were believed to have done with the men who’d so loyally served him, vowing silence as they’d toiled to do his bidding.

  Had they guessed what would happen when they completed their task? Did they sense that the bold Hebridean chieftain had his own plans for ensuring secrecy? That he meant for no living soul save himself and his nigh-abducted concubine to know of Castle Bane’s existence?

  Had Rhun known that his hastily built love nest would become a death trap for the very young woman he supposedly loved so obsessively?

  Darroc’s heart seemed to stop.

  Feeling cold, he went to stand by the hearth, needing its warmth. The thinking room had grown dark and still, his men—he’d make amends with them later—having somehow slipped out beneath his brooding nose.

  “That was in very old times.” Mungo spoke from the shadows near the door.

  Darroc started, then whirled to face him.

  “As you saw”—the old man gestured at the empty room—“the men do remember, even if Rhun and Asa are now naught but moldered bones.”

  A shiver sped down Darroc’s spine, but he ignored it and held the seneschal’s stare. “Then they’ll understand why we mustn’t part with the relic. Its powers go deeper than helping a man be a man! It holds a darker magic and I’ll no’ spread that kind of—”