Temptation of a Highland Scoundrel (Highland Warriors Book 2) Page 19

  Kendrew didn’t move.

  Isobel risked a glance at him.

  No longer looking at her, he’d fixed his gaze on the edge of the pines. It was the spot where the woodland path led back to his Nought lands. His fierce expression showed that he’d rather be there now.

  He was also quite magnificent. Ire stood him well, the hard set of his jaw only enhancing his appeal.

  His arm rings and fine mail coat shone brighter than the gemstones on the blessing chalice’s rim. Wind caught his rich auburn hair, tossing the gilded strands about his broad, powerfully muscled shoulders. Equally distracting, the golden Thor’s hammer at his throat gleamed with a brilliance to rival the sun, drawing eyes as if the amulet deliberately sought dominance.

  And although Isobel knew he wasn’t that much taller than her brother or Alasdair – both large, well-built men – he appeared to tower above them.

  The slight thrust of his chin proved that noticed her perusal.

  Tamping down her irritation – he was known for causing havoc, after all – she turned to her brother and Alasdair. She nodded once, giving them the signal to bring their swords together.

  Both men did, their blades meeting with a clear ring of steel.

  Kendrew still stood as if carved of granite.

  Murmurs of ill ease began circling through the crowd. Hector, James’s dog, dropped onto his haunches and gave a weary, old-dog sigh. Hector’s friend, Geordie, a likewise ancient beast who belonged to Alasdair, began to bark. Leaving Hector’s side, Geordie took several stiff-legged paces toward the three men, his hackles rising as he fixed a suspicious, unblinking stare on Kendrew.

  This time Kendrew did move. But only to toss a look at his friend Grim, who took two twists of dried beef from a pouch at his belt and then tossed the treats to the disgruntled dogs, quieting them both.

  James and Alasdair frowned.

  Apparently pleased to have annoyed them, Kendrew folded his arms, his face turning stony again.

  “The ax, if you please.” Isobel stepped more closely before him, some of the precious glen water sloshing over the chalice’s rim because she’d moved too quickly in her irritation. From the corner of her eye, she saw Catriona toss back her hair, pinning a chilly stare on Kendrew.

  Isobel inhaled sharply, fixing him with a look of her own. “Your ax,” she said again. “We can’t proceed until-”

  “Thon ax is rusted in its straps.” A MacDonald standing near the cairn spat on the ground. “Belike we’ll no’ be having any friendship with Mackintoshes, what? No’ if their chief is too weak to heft his weapon.”

  “Too simple-minded,” another MacDonald declared, looking round as if proud of his wit.

  Several of his kinsmen chortled. One or two of them made similar quips.

  The Mackintosh warriors put their hands to their sword hilts, their faces darkening.

  Kendrew’s lips twitched. Or so Isobel thought – the flash of amusement in his eyes was so fleeting that she couldn’t be sure it’d been there at all.

  He was enjoying himself.

  No one else seemed to have noticed.

  James’ face was solemn, his stance before the draped memorial cairn, proud and respectful.

  But a muscle jerked in Alasdair’s jaw at the mention of Kendrew’s Norse battle-ax. He narrowed his eyes, his displeasure at Kendrew’s inclusion in the ceremony, more than apparent.

  Ignoring them both, Kendrew stretched his arms and noisily cracked his knuckles. Isobel shot him a warning look, but that only made him cock a bemused brow as he then rolled his great shoulders, showing no hurry to reach for the ax strapped across his back.

  Isobel straightened her own shoulders, keenly aware that all eyes were turned on her. “Your weapon, Laird Mackintosh,” she spoke coolly, pretending not to see the challenge in his clear blue eyes.

  He was deliberately provoking her.

  “My ax is Blood Drinker.” He still made no move to retrieve it. “He likes hearing his name.”

  Some of his warriors chuckled. Gathered near the viands table, they thumped one another’s arms, amused by their leader’s obstinate behavior.

  “By whatever name, he will drink no more, blood or otherwise, if I slice his haft to bits with my sword.” James scowled at Kendrew, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his brand tighter.

  Beside him, Alasdair snarled low in his throat. “Unholy goat-men, cliff-climbers no’ worthy of-”

  “Blood Drinker, then.” Isobel ignored their slurs, keeping her gaze on Kendrew as she did as he bade, naming his ax. “I cannot perform the water blessing if you do not offer me your weapon.”

  “That I have already done, my lady.” Kendrew’s words sent heat creeping up her neck, his meaning so obviously not the huge bladed ax he wore. “By coming here this day,” he added, mischief sparking in his eyes.

  “Then please…” Isobel’s pulse skittered wildly. His words recalled scintillating images, memories of them lying together, tightly entwined…

  “That would no’ be wise.” A corner of his mouth tilted upwards. “Me, pleasing you-”

  “I’ll have your gizzard for my dog’s supper.” James shot him a fierce glare, his earlier restraint gone.

  Kendrew grinned, not taking his gaze of Isobel. “As you wish, though I’d prefer something much finer for my own feasting.”

  “Kendrew…” Marjory stepped beside Isobel, her eyes like sapphire ice. “You shame Nought and all we stand for.” She spoke beneath her breath, her voice only loud enough to be heard by those standing close. “If you don’t cease, I am no longer your sister.”

  “Dinnae tempt me, Norn.” He still didn’t look away from Isobel. “No’ that I can think of anything else with Lady Isobel before me.”

  Isobel lifted her chin, sure her face was aflame. “These are the waters from our lands.” She raised the blessing chalice, hoping to return the crowd’s attention on the ceremony rather than the dangerous exchange between her and her clan’s erstwhile greatest foe.

  The man who, even now, took her breath away, firing her blood and making her desire nothing more than to be held in his arms. Kissed long and deeply, his hands roving over her, sweeping down her back, and then clutching her hips, pulling her close…

  She cleared her throat, feeling Kendrew’s gaze like a flame on her skin. “The powers of the joined waters, their peace and protection, must flow over the blades of your united weapons.”

  “So be it.” Looking away from her at last, Kendrew stepped back, his gaze snapping to the MacDonald man who’d jeered that his ax was ‘rusted in its straps.’ “Let no man say that the might of Nought won’t stand to protect this glen.” He reached over his shoulder, whipping out the long-handled war ax with lightning speed.

  “I will cut down any fool” – he swung the ax around as if it weighed nothing, pointing the long-bearded ax head at the gawping MacDonald clansman – “who dares claim otherwise.”

  The man bristled, straightening his back. “I say what I will.”

  “No’ if Blood Drinker takes your tongue before you can spew a word.” Kendrew grinned when the sun glinted off his weapon’s ax head.

  The polished blade shone in challenge, gleaming bright as his mail.

  “You see he is thirsty.” Kendrew took a step toward the man, letting the edge of the ax blade nudge the man’s wide leather belt.

  “Threats are no’ wished here, Mackintosh.” James’s warning went unheeded.

  “A word o’ caution, no’ threat.” Turning back to James and Alasdair, Kendrew swept his huge war ax in a circle, taking in the crowd. “From this day onward, Mackintosh strength guards all.”

  The vow made – Isobel noted that he only spoke of the glen, not the other two clans – he hauled back to swing Blood Drinker in a whistling arc, bringing the big blade down onto the joined blades of James’ and Alasdair’s swords with such speed that Isobel feared he’d knock the swords out of the other two men’s hands.

  But the ax head lit down a
s gently as a feather.

  Kendrew grinned, his flourish drawing appreciative gasps from the celebrants.

  Neither James nor Alasdair flinched, their iron-willed calm surely meant to show Kendrew that they were equally bold. Warrior chieftains just as worthy to wield power in the glen they all shared.

  In seeming acknowledgment, Kendrew raised one hand, using the other to keep his ax blade atop James’s and Alasdair’s weapons. “Then have done with your ceremony.” He spoke to Isobel, but his voice carried, deep and strong. “Blood Drinker wearies of consorting with mere swords.”

  Isobel bit back a smile. “Then he shall now be revived through the power of our glen water.”

  “Humph.” Kendrew’s brows lowered. “So he may, as long as his steel isn’t pitted by the taint of Blackshore or Haven water.”

  “Kendrew!” Marjory glared at him, and then flashed apologetic looks at James and Alasdair. “He doesn’t mean-”

  “I do.” Kendrew’s tone was mutinous. “If I find a single speck of tarnish, there’ll be a price to pay.”

  “As there will be if we must keep suffering your blether.” Alasdair flicked his wrist in warning, causing his sword – a blade known as Mist-Chaser – to ring against Blood Drinker’s long-bearded head.

  “You’ll be free o’ me anon, brine-drinker.” Kendrew twisted his own wrist, letting his war ax force Mist-Chaser down a few inches.

  “No’ soon enough.” Alasdair jerked his arm, lifting his sword back in place.

  Isobel glanced at Marjory, still standing so close beside her. Then she flashed a look at Catriona who was now making her way through the throng, coming to join them before the memorial cairn.

  Her friends’ gazes were locked on the three chieftains.

  This moment was one they’d worked so hard to make possible. Though – Isobel was sure – James and Alasdair would erroneously believe that the idea for the cairn and the celebrations was their own.

  The women of the glen knew better.

  And they couldn’t let their brothers ruin what they’d achieved. Their efforts and hearts’ blood should spread gladness throughout the glen and prove long-lasting, leaving a legacy of peace for all time to come.

  If this day’s ceremony failed, their hopes would be dashed, slipping ever farther from their grasp.

  That was a tragedy Isobel couldn’t allow.

  So she kept her chin raised and smiled determinedly as Catriona finally reached her and Marjory’s sides. She gave her two friends a tiny nod, knowing they’d understand her unspoken message.

  Kendrew could balk all he wished.

  He didn’t stand a chance against the battle pitched before him.

  He was outnumbered three to one.

  Chapter 12

  Hoping the sacred number three would prove fortunate, especially for a trio of – she truly believed – such well-meaning and deserving women, Isobel again raised the blessing chalice, this time using both hands to hold the gleaming vessel high above her head.

  She pretended not to see the hint of doubt in her friends’ eyes.

  Hoping to encourage them, she let her own faith in their pact shine in her own eyes. The renewed stubbornness glinting in Kendrew’s fierce-eyed stare gave her a most satisfactory boost. If he noticed her strength, that she’d thrown down a gauntlet and was battle-ready, the war was half won. He might not care for her methods, but he was sharp-minded enough to know when he’d met a greater opponent.

  Praying it was really so, Isobel squared her shoulders and rushed on, calling out the age-old words she’d been practicing for days.

  “Powers of water, strong and everlasting, bless these weapons and the men who yield them, keeping them true and ever faithful to the sacred glen whence you come.”

  Lowering the chalice, she dipped her fingers into the bowl, sprinkling water on the two sword blades and the head of Kendrew’s long-bearded ax.

  “As the Old Ones have willed and blessed our truce” – she took a breath – “so mote it be.”

  “So mote it be,” James and Alasdair agreed in unison as they raised their swords to the heavens.

  Kendrew humphed and shook the water droplets off Blood Drinker.

  When he started to turn away, Isobel stepped in front of him, blocking his escape. “The three of you must take your banners off the cairn.” She kept her voice low, hoping that none of the celebrants noticed he’d tried to stride away. “The blessing isn’t yet complete.”

  “Plague take your ceremony.” He shot an angry look at Alasdair, snorting as the other chief used Mist-Chaser to whip the MacDonald banner off the cairn, much to the delight of his clan’s pipers, who were now blowing more gustily than ever. “I am done here.”

  “We are only beginning.” Isobel slid a glance at Marjory, who nodded encouragement. “If you’ll just remove the Mackintosh tartan-”

  “‘Tis myself I’ll be removing. And” – he glared at his sister, his scowl blackening when he saw she’d stepped closer to Alasdair – “my fool sister who will no’ be running after web-footed brine-drinkers.”

  “You are the one who is running.” Isobel raised her chin, letting her eyes spark with challenge. “The great Mackintosh Berserker, your arms and chest carved with pagan kill-marks, fears using his ax head to lift a piece of cloth from a pile of stones.”

  For a moment, his eyes narrowed, his mouth setting in a hard, tight line. But then he threw back his head and laughed, loud and boldly, drawing eyes. Men and women turned from watching James sweep the Cameron plaid from the cairn, looking on as Kendrew spun Blood Drinker in a fast and furious figure-eight motion. Then, with a grand flourish and at eye-blinking speed, he used the curved ax head to hook and whip the Nought banner off the stones.

  “My banner, fair lady.” He bowed low, extending the long-handled ax to her, offering the banner. “I give it to you, a token of my esteem and admiration.”

  Isobel set the blessing chalice on a plaid-draped table and accepted his banner, her heart thumping as she gathered the silken length over her arm.

  She wanted to touch her fingers to Kendrew’s face, tracing his lips and chasing the hard, cynical set of his mouth. Her heart, everything she was, ached to remind him of their kisses, the bliss they’d shared.

  Happiness she knew could be theirs if only he wasn’t so thrawn.

  “So you can be a gallant, as well as stubborn.” She held his banner close, the silk chilled from the wind. “Perhaps you will also-”

  “I am no’ a chivalrous man, Lady Isobel.” He held her gaze, looking deep into her eyes. “I am only a man who knows what is best for you. Keep thon banner and each time you gaze upon it, remember no’ to trespass on wild places where no maid as fair as you ought to tread.”

  “I am no longer a maid.” Isobel refused retreat, the loud skirl of the pipes and general din, allowing her to speak freely.

  “You remain a lady.” Kendrew was firm, his tone final.

  Looking past her, he inhaled sharply when his gaze lit on Marjory. “My sister shall stay a lady as well.” He moved to step around her, clearly bent on separating Marjory from Alasdair. “I’ll no’ allow her to-”

  “She is only giving him the ale offering.” Isobel watched her friend hand a large earthen jug to the MacDonald chieftain. “The ceremony is threefold. Alasdair will now bless the cairn with ale, ensuring harmony and good cheer for the glen and our clans.

  “Catriona, my good-sister, will present James with a bowl of freshest milk so he can honor the stones with the fruits and bounty of our glen and” – she felt her cheeks warming – “the future children of our land who, we all wish, shall live together in peace and prosperity for all the generations stretching before us.”

  “You said three blessings.” Kendrew folded his arms. “I only heard two.”

  Isobel took a breath, her fingers clutching his banner for courage.

  Kendrew cocked a brow, waiting. “Speak, lass, or I am gone from here in a blink.”

  “The thi
rd blessing is yours.” She explained quickly, not giving herself a chance to falter. “You must pour the remaining glen water on the cairn.” She glanced at the chalice, sure the gemstones around the rim shone brighter than before. “The combined powers of the three waters will seal the blessings and end the ceremony.”

  “I am to have that honor?” Kendrew’s brow arched a fraction higher. His tone made it sound more like an annoyance than a privilege.

  “It was hoped you’d accept.” Isobel wasn’t about to tell him she’d argued with her brother and Alasdair to secure such an honor.

  Or that she’d outsmarted them by implying the last blessing would be of lesser significance.

  She knew it was the most important.

  Nothing else mattered – except that Kendrew complied.

  And then – she fervently hoped – that he’d agree to stay for the celebratory feasting.

  Unfortunately, the tense line of his jaw warned he was about to storm away. Or that steam would shoot from his ears any moment, ruining the glee of the celebrants, who were already circling the cairn in a joyous, foot-stamping dance, wild, carefree, and happy.

  “Hail to the glen!” The revelers shouted the chant, holding hands as they rounded the memorial deiseal, moving in the direction of the sun. “Peace to our lands! By the gods’ will, so mote it be!”

  “So mote it be.” James and Alasdair stood side by side before the cairn, the ale jug and bowl of milk held high in their hands, respectively.

  When they tipped the ale and the milk onto the stones, a great cheer rose from the circling dancers. The pipers went wild, strutting proud, their red cheeks puffing with all their lung power.

  “It’ time.” Isobel’s heart thundered. “Four little words, ‘so mote it be,’ and then...” She let her voice trail away, sharply aware that Kendrew’s expression had turned fierce.

  “Old women like your Grizel should chant such drivel.” A muscle jerked beneath his eye.

  As before, he didn’t move.