Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel (Highland Warriors Book 2) Page 13

  “My couriers were less than a score.” James bridled.

  Kendrew stared back at him. “And my honor obliges me to advise you to have a care with the stones. They hail from the damaged dreagan cairn. Could be the beast, Borg is his name, might be for wanting them returned. Could be he’ll come here and-”

  “Could be you’re full o’ Highland wind!” a deep voice boomed from near the hearth fire.

  Hoots and guffaws circled the hall.

  Kendrew looked pleased to have used legend to stir a commotion.

  James reached down to pat the head of Hector, his ancient dog, when he tottered over to lean into him. “I’d sooner worry about my dog turning into a slavering beast than fear a dreagan.”

  “Think what you will.” Kendrew shrugged, unfazed by the jeers and laughter. He did glance at Hector, his gaze flickering over the dog’s bony frame. “I told you once already that I saw spearmen up at the falls behind this keep. You” – he shrugged, dismissively – “chose not to believe me.

  “That is your folly, no’ mine.” He fixed James with a stare. “The stones will be here shortly. They’re in a cart and once they’re in your hands, I’m washing my own of you and your memorial.”

  In the shadows of the stair tower, Isobel dug her hands into the folds of her skirts, gripping tight lest her fingers tremble. She also took care to keep her back straight and her face expressionless, should Kendrew turn his head and look her way. He knew she was here. Prickling awareness rippled between them, scorching the air even if he deigned to keep on ignoring her.

  Annoyance flared in her, hot and swift. This was not how she’d wished their next meeting.

  He’d even acknowledged Hector.

  She’d seen his face soften when he’d glanced at the old dog. Yet he avoided looking at her as if doing so would turn him into a pillar of salt.

  “Now you see him for the bastard he is.” Catriona stepped closer, resting a hand on Isobel’s shoulder. “He has forgotten you already.”

  “Nae, he just doesn’t care.” Isobel pinned him with an icy stare, willing his attention.

  Kendrew continued arguing with James and Alasdair, just now refusing James’ less than enthusiastic urging to return to Castle Haven for the memorial cairn’s soon-to-be-held dedication ceremony.

  Isobel might have been a dust mote.

  A speck of lint on his sleeve or – her blood began to rush in her veins, her temper rising – a smear of mud on the sole of his shoe.

  “Your cheeks are red and your eyes are catching flame.” Catriona curled firm fingers around Isobel’s arm, pulling her deeper into the shadows. “I do believe it’s time for our walk on the battlements. Now, before he does look this way and sees you so upset.”

  “I’m fine.” Icy cold claws squeezed Isobel’s heart, iron bands clamping round her chest, making it hard to breathe. “And I am not going up on the ramparts.”

  “You can’t stay here in the gloom, staring at him.” Catriona tugged on her arm.

  “I won’t be.” Isobel broke free. “I’m away to my bedchamber.”

  Catriona’s eyes widened. “The stair tower to your room is across the hall.”

  “I know.” Isobel tossed back her hair, a little thrill at her daring already lifting her spirits.

  “You’ll have to pass Kendrew.” Catriona’s brow furrowed.

  “So I will.” Isobel shot another glance at the scoundrel. Then she took a deep breath. “He’s about to see what it feels like to be air.”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Catriona snatched at her arm, but Isobel was faster, gliding purposely out of the shadows and into the crowded hall.

  Her bravura faded before she’d taken ten steps.

  Kendrew’s back was turned.

  Worse, James, Alasdair, and Hugh, crowded around him, leading him towards the dais, in the opposite direction from her path. Hector, the clan traitor, slinked along behind them, sniffing at Kendrew’s heels.

  Isobel’s hands curled to fists, annoyance sweeping her like sheeting fire. But she kept her chin raised and didn’t break stride, crossing the hall with as much dignity as she could summon. Without looking back, she entered the turnpike stair and climbed to the third landing. There, she paused beside an arrow slit so the cold night air could cool her face. Only when the heat began to ebb, did she start down the long, dimly lit passage to her bedchamber.

  Frustration accompanied her every step.

  She should have provoked a meeting, challenging Kendrew to admit his intent, one way or the other. But doing so would’ve caused a clan fight in the hall. Blood would’ve spilled, she’d have been ruined, and – she couldn’t ignore the possibility – men could’ve died.

  Isobel frowned.

  Despite everything, her heart still pounded just from having seen him. Her body responded, craving his arms around her. Need filled her, tingly awareness that flickered along her skin. Recalling his kisses melted her even now, when she was so angry she couldn’t see straight.

  She was also seeing things that couldn’t be.

  She stopped, staring as the wall ahead of her rippled and shimmied, rolling like waves on the sea. A huge tapestry hung there, its colorful width lifting in an impossible, unseen wind.

  “Sweet holy heather.” Her eyes rounding, she reached for her amber necklace, gliding her fingers across the polished gemstones.

  The ambers were cool and still, withholding any hint of danger.

  Sure the enchanted necklace erred, she started to back away. She knew of another, less direct route to her bedchamber. A secret passage through the thickness of the castle walls, its entrance…

  “Agh!” She remembered now. The hidden passage opened here. And someone was inside, trying to force the damp, age-warped door behind the tapestry.

  Isobel’s blood ran cold. No one used the murky wall-tunnel.

  Yet the scrape of wood on stone filled the quiet. As did the rattle of the old door’s rusted latch. Then the heavy woven cloth was flung aside and a big, dark shape pushed into the corridor.

  It was Kendrew.

  And although he didn’t reach for his war ax, he did look angry enough to murder.

  Chapter 8

  “F elicitations, my lady.” Kendrew bowed his head ever so slightly, his eyes glinting in the corridor’s dimness. “We have business. Privy matters best aired here, away from the ears of your kin.”

  “Any matters between us ended when you returned my mantle.” Isobel stared at him, her heart thundering.

  “You know that isn’t so.” He flexed his shoulders, as if throwing off the closeness of the secret tunnel. Somewhere, he’d also cast away his bearskin, but he was still so huge and burly that he diminished everything else around them. He wrapped his hands around his sword belt as if he knew and was pleased to use his great height and width to crowd her.

  “I know no such thing.” Isobel wished he wasn’t so large, so disturbingly virile.

  “You are no’ a good liar, Lady Isobel.” He gave her a bold, provoking look that sent shivers rippling all through her. Chills that stirring wicked, tantalizing sensations she didn’t want to acknowledge.

  She shook her head, still stunned that he could be here. Three floors above the great hall and having just burst out of a centuries-neglected hidden passage only Camerons knew existed.

  “What are you doing here?” She struggled against the urge to draw back.

  He arched a brow. “Did you no’ hear me?”

  “How can anyone not hear you?” Isobel let her gaze flick over him. She also held her ground, refusing to be intimidated. “More like, you’re ignoring my question. You have no right to be here.”

  “I say I do.” His tone implied he made his own rights. “And we will have words. I’ll leave you after we’ve spoken. Till then…”

  He stepped closer, towering over her. A rushlight gilded his rich copper hair and slanted across his mailed chest, casting him in devilish red glow. The hellish sheen suited him, spilling over his big, h
ard-muscled shoulders and arms in a way that weakened her knees. Unfortunately, his fierce expression revealed that she probably didn’t want to hear whatever he wished to say.

  So she looked at him narrowly. “I think you’ll leave me now.”

  “I think not.” He didn’t budge, blocking her escape.

  “I have nothing to say to you.” Isobel made to sweep past him.

  “You will.” He clamped strong fingers around her arm. “And you’ll speak true. If you dinnae, I’ll keep you here until you do.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” Isobel knew he would.

  He glanced up and down the passage, surely aware that it was a well-trodden corridor.

  “Dinnae tempt me, lass.” He gave her a look that sent alarm clear to her toes.

  Isobel flipped back her hair. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she lied.

  “You’d best not.” He tightened his grip on her wrist, a warning. “No good would come of it.”

  “That I know.” She’d never spoken truer words. Already, her pulse leapt just from his grasp on her arm. Tingly heat sparked in her belly, spooling low by her thighs. Trying not to notice, she glared at him. “You are wild, heathen, and dangerous.”

  “So men say, aye.” A thread of cold wind blew through an arrow slit, lifting his hair about his face. “Women…” He looked down at her, one corner of his mouth curving. “They say other things.”

  “I know what they say.” Isobel’s chin went up. She was not going to discuss his joy women. Just thinking of them twisted her insides and made her feel as if tiny daggers were stabbing her heart.

  “You know prattle.” His brief smile vanished, his blue eyes suddenly hard as winter ice. “I would know if I’ve a need to speak with your brother about something other than his memorial cairn?”

  Isobel blinked, hoping she misunderstood. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I say you do.” His gaze dipped to her belly. “Though, I’m thinking all is well with you.”

  “To be sure, I am well.” Isobel could hardly speak, rivers of heat washing through her. Only this heat wasn’t the exciting kind. A terrible mix of frustration, embarrassment, and anger, it welled inside her, hot and damning. “There’s no reason for you to offer me the courtesy of” – she forced herself to breathe – “saving my reputation.”

  “You are sure?” He didn’t release her, his expression intense. “It’s only been-”

  “It’s been long enough.” She rushed the admission. “I know nothing happened. I am not…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.

  Not that there was a need.

  Kendrew’s face cleared swiftly, showing he understood. “Odin be praised.”

  “Indeed.” Isobel glared at him, his relief insulting her to the core.

  Ire gave her the strength to pull free of his grasp. Stepping back, she dusted her sleeve demonstrably, hoping to show her disdain.

  “Now that you’ve heard what you wished to know, you can tell me how you knew of the wall-tunnel?” She held his gaze, sure that her eyes gleamed like an evil shrew’s.

  She didn’t care.

  He deserved to be set upon by a host of talon-fingered, grizzle-headed crones who’d cackle with glee as they hastened him to the coldest, most black level of hell.

  “Well?” She lifted her brows, waiting. “How do you know Haven’s secrets? I’m sure you didn’t ask James how to waylay me.”

  “I told James I didn’t trust his stable lads with Mackintosh horses. He thinks I went to the bailey to care for the beasts myself.”

  “That isn’t what I asked you.”

  “I told you once that Mackintoshes can night-walk.” His mouth twitched, as if suppressing a smile. “How do you think I amused myself as a lad? Many were the day I came here and crept about these walls, in high fettle because no’ a one of you knew I was about.

  “All castles have secret squints and wall passages.” Now he did grin. “My cousins and I wagered who’d be the first to discover yours.”

  “And you won?” Isobel didn’t doubt it.

  “I did.” He looked mightily proud. “The memory served me well this day.”

  * * *

  Kendrew only wished his good sense had served him better, a regret that pained him even more when the high-spirited minx swished past him to flip back the tapestry, revealing the wall-tunnel’s warped and wormwooded door. He didn’t care about the pitiful door or the dank, cobwebby passage beyond. But Isobel, with her glossy black hair spilling down over her shoulders and her face flushed, was a sight to behold. The hint of fresh, spring violets trailing in her wake was a torture no man should endure.

  He frowned at her, annoyed that such a comely female could be so vexing.

  She was worse than a pebble in his shoe.

  Ignoring his scowl, she gestured at the tunnel door. “Your fine recall can guide you back down to the great hall, where your arrogant presence is surely missed.”

  Her dark eyes blazed at him, the agitated rise and fall of her breasts proving that she possessed more weapons than her raven tresses and delectable scent.

  She did have a magnificent bosom.

  And she had no idea how close he was to pulling her into his arms and tearing open the ties of her bodice, just so he could again gaze upon her luscious, full-rounded breasts. Only this time he’d do more than look at them. He’d kiss and lick them, graze the sweet peaks with his teeth until she writhed against him. He wouldn’t stop there, also devouring another wildly alluring part of her. The notion tightened his groin painfully.

  And that unwelcome throbbing made it easier to keep glowering at her.

  “The hall awaits you.” She shook the wall hanging, sending up puffs of dust.

  “We’re no’ done talking.” He blinked against the dust cloud, willing his ache for her to subside. “You can let the tapestry fall, lest you wish your arm to cramp from holding it aloft.”

  “Oh!” The color in her cheeks deepened. But she released the wall hanging, the fury in her eyes spearing straight to his heart.

  “That’s better.” He wrapped his hands around his sword belt again, needing a reminder that he was a warrior untamed, a Berserker. And that until she answered a certain other question, he couldn’t trust her. He’d handle his desire for her later, with a good, bone-chilling dip in an icy lochan on the ride back to Nought.

  As to why upsetting her pinched his heart, making him feel a worse scoundrel than the blackest rumors about him…

  That was a matter he’d simply ignore.

  For now, he looked down at her, hoping his face was fierce enough to hide what she did to him. “Tell me true. Did you spell Borg’s stones?”

  She blinked. “Borg’s stones?”

  Kendrew nodded. “You were in the hall when I spoke of Borg. The damaged cairn is called after him, has been for centuries. Dinnae try to-”

  “I’m not trying to do anything.” Her eyes snapped, her outrage singeing him. “I’m surprised you knew I was there. You didn’t so much as glance-”

  “You should know why I didn’t look at you.”

  She rushed on as if he hadn’t spoken. “I know nothing of your dreagan legends, Borg, or his stones.” She waved a hand in the air. “I wouldn’t know how to spell a dung beetle. If I had such talent, you’d be a croaking toad and I’d be safe in the peace of my bedchamber.”

  “Then I thank Thor you are no’ so blessed.” Kendrew wished she’d stop eyeing him through her thick, black lashes. Her apparent innocence annoyed him, making him feel like a great, bumbling ox.

  Still…

  He needed to probe further. “Someone cast dark magic over Borg’s stones. The topmost rocks wouldn’t stay in place when we rebuilt his cairn. They kept rolling to the ground, no matter how we set them. No’ all the stones either, just enough to fill a cart.”

  He watched her carefully. “If no’ you doing the spelling, it’s well known that Gorm and Grizel, the Makers of Dreams, dwell in the high moors behin
d Castle Haven. They favor Camerons.” He couldn’t keep the suspicion from his voice. “Could be they were persuaded to work mischief to provoke us at Nought.”

  The words fell hard from his tongue.

  Her light, clean scent kept wafting behind his nose, reminding him of how her warm, smooth-skinned body had felt beneath him. All her lithe suppleness and the soft, plump weight of her full, round breasts in his hands. Then the wonder of holding her tight against him, her gasps of pleasure when…

  He pushed the memories aside before the accompanying stirrings at his loins could worsen into something more formidable. Better to think of the fabled ancients said to spin all the world’s dreams. And who, most annoyingly, were sworn to watch over Isobel’s clan.

  Praise Odin, he’d heard enough fireside tales of the two to envision them. And the image of a tiny, wizened crone and a small, long-bearded man with an elfin face and a whirr of iron-gray hair swiftly chased all misplaced twinges of lust, clearing his mind.

  He took a deep breath, relieved. “I ken the pair are half-mythic and-”

  “Gorm and Grizel are real.” Isobel flicked a speck off her sleeve, her eyes gleaming with annoyance. “Their home, Tigh-na-Craig - House on the Rock – exists, as does Gorm’s Cave with its Pool of Truth. All tales about them are true. But they are peace-loving souls. Neither of them would use their spelling skills to do harm.” Looking up, she let her mouth curve into a challenging smile. “They wouldn’t plague anyone undeserving, that is.”

  She eyed him boldly, implying that he should reap the full force of the fabled pair’s witchery.

  “You are a minx, Isobel Cameron.” He stepped closer, bracing his hands on the wall either side of her, trapping her against the tapestry. “I warned you already that I’m no’ man for you to provoke.”

  “I didn’t follow you up here.” She puffed a strand of hair off her face, bristling.

  “Would you rather I’d asked you in the hall if my seed quickened inside you?” He gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.