A Highlander's Temptation Read online

  “I’m not afraid.” Arabella scooted down the railing, secretly relieved by how strong and solid it felt beneath her fingers. The rise and fall of the sea suddenly made that so important.

  “I’ll go inside shortly.” She lifted her voice above the wind, her bravura making her pulse quicken. “For now”—she pressed against the rail and hoped he wouldn’t notice how tightly her hands gripped the slippery wet wood—

  “I will stay here.”

  The guardsman frowned.

  She pretended not to notice.

  “Come, lass.” He tried a different tone, but his eyes still glinted like steel. “’Tis fell dangerous, such pitching and rolling. It isn’t natural for a good, God-fearing soul to have naught between hisself and the deep, dark depths than a thin plank o’ wood!”

  “Captain Arneborg said cogs are the safest ships afloat.” She held fast to the rail as the cog lifted, then plunged into a trough. “Nigh unsinkable.”

  The guardsman’s scowl deepened.

  Arabella smiled sweetly.

  It was new for her to be so bold.

  Having none of it, the guardsman snorted. “If he believes that, then why does he have bells hanging everywhere to ward off sea dragons?” He grabbed the rail, his knuckles whiter than hers. “That proves he’s fearful of capsizing!”

  “Faugh!” The shipmaster strode up to them, laughing. “It proves you’ve let my crew fill your ears with nonsense. The bells”—he reached out to set a cluster of them clanking—“are plague bells. They have naught to do with sea beasties. They—”

  “There isn’t any pest in these waters.” The guardsman swelled his chest, ready to argue. “Latest word put the malaise many leagues from here, in England and—”

  “Then who’s to say it isn’t my bells that’s keeping us safe?” Arneborg jutted his chin. “Everyone knows the scourge travels on the wind. A medical man in Hamburg told me jangling bells break up the air, scattering the pest. As I’ve not been bothered anywhere I’ve journeyed since tying the bells to my ship’s timbers, I believe him.”

  “I’ve ne’er heard the like.” The guardsman remained doubtful.

  Arnkel Arneborg shrugged. “Be that as it may”—he flashed a bearded smile—“the bells serve me well.”

  “Ah…” Arabella’s heart stuttered.

  She’d forgotten the bells. Even though their clanging had rung in her ears since she’d boarded the Merry Dancer. The rising tempest drowned their clatter and that could only mean one thing.

  The storm was worse than she’d realized.

  “Er…” Once again, the words stuck in her throat.

  “Eh, lass?” Arneborg looked at her, one bushy blond brow raised in query.

  She swallowed. “Do the bells help against storms?”

  There.

  She’d blurted her dread.

  Heat flamed her face and she glanced aside, letting the spray cool her cheeks. Across the deck, several men rushed about lashing together the huge herring barrels. Only the barrels had already been tied in place. The portent of the men’s preparations made her stomach clench.

  There’d be no need to secure the barrels with extra lines if they weren’t in danger of being swept away.

  Arabella’s eyes widened.

  The shipmaster followed her gaze. “Yon’s but a wee precaution. And, nae, the bells aren’t storm charms.”

  He stepped closer, taking her elbow in a firm, fatherly grip. “Such things aren’t needed on the Merry Dancer. There isn’t a gale that can take her or a breaking sea she can’t ride.” He sounded sure of it. “We’ll wait out the storm here and sail on when the fury’s past us.”

  Arabella bit her lip, unconvinced.

  If only the guardsman hadn’t spoiled her brief moments on deck. She’d done so well before his arrival—and his voiced concern—reminded her of the dangers.

  “Have you already forgotten the fog bank?” Arneborg looked down at her, his smile still flashing. “Such impenetrable mist could have brought ill to a lesser ship. Yet here we are”—he started leading her across the deck, toward her cabin—“and nary a wood splinter out of place.”

  Arabella nodded.

  She wanted to believe him.

  Her guardsman caught up to them, blocking the way. “We avoided the fog by not sailing into it. This storm”—he shot a glance at the living seas—“is all around us. Wouldn’t it be better to seek shelter in the bay of some islet? The saints know we’ve passed enough of them!”

  “All the more reason to stay put!” The shipmaster stepped around him and reached for the cabin door. “Were you a seaman, you’d know anywhere near land is the worst place to be in a gale. If that land is a lee shore…”

  He shot a glance at the guardsman, letting his expression explain the unspoken words.

  “I am thinking of Lady Arabella.” The young man flushed. “Her safety—”

  “Will be assured in my cabin”—Arnkel flung open the door and ushered Arabella inside—“well away from breaking swells and jagged rocks and ledges that could rip the bottom out of us were we to approach land.”

  Releasing her, he crossed the cabin and lit two horn-held candles bracketed in the wall. “In such weathers, it only takes one strong gust to hurl a ship to her doom. Here, at sea, we have naught to fear but greensickness!”

  The guardsman frowned, looking a bit queasy already.

  Arabella started feeling better. Now she knew why her father had trusted her to Captain Arneborg’s care.

  But hours later, when a great thump in the hold jerked her from her sleep, she couldn’t help but wish that his bells did work against storms.

  Apparently Mina felt the same, for the little dog had burrowed beneath the covers and was snuggled tight against the backs of her knees, trembling.

  Arabella reached down for her, gathering the dog into her arms. She bundled her into a fold of the bedclothes, then stroked her silky, warm fur until her shaking and whimpering lessened.

  “Shush, Mina.” She cradled the dog to her breast, holding her close. “It will be over soon.”

  She wished she believed it.

  She didn’t want to be afraid.

  But the cog rocked crazily. And the timbers screeched louder each time a new swell crashed into them. Arabella stifled a shudder and tried to ignore the noises. She knew the ship was straining. Scariest of all, at some point while she’d slept, the candles in the two horn lanterns had gutted, leaving her in cold, inky darkness.

  The cabin had but one small porthole and she could barely see its outline, dimly lit by the silvery gleam of the moon. She heard the clanging of the bells and the shouts of men as the thuds and bangs in the hold increased.

  She sat up and felt for her cloak, swirling its warmth around her shoulders. Unfortunately, it didn’t do much to ease her chill.

  Something was different.

  The air in her cabin felt wet. Even more alarming was the strange—surely imagined—sensation that spume swirled around her, lashing her with tiny, needle-sharp pellets of icy sea water.

  Inside her cloak, Mina squirmed, whining.

  “Shhhh…” Arabella tried to soothe her. “It’s only the cargo wine casks and strongboxes. I’m sure they’ve just broken loose. There’s nothing—agggh!”

  The cog lurched violently, flinging her from the bunk. Somewhere in the darkness, Mina yelped. But before Arabella could scramble to her feet and look for her, one of her iron-bound coffers shot across the slanting floor and slammed into her.

  “Owww!” She ignored the blaze of pain in her shoulder and pushed up on her knees, clutching the bunk with one hand and using the other to grab Mina who—praise be—was scrabbling at her legs.

  “Ach, dia!” She scrambled onto the bunk, the little dog clasped in her arms.

  Mina trembled uncontrollably.

  Arabella sat frozen.

  For some ridiculous reason, she thought of the man she’d imagined in one of Dunakin’s windows. If such a warrior’s arms were no
w holding her, she knew she’d fear nothing. As it was, she found herself alone, dread tightening her chest as the thumps and thuds in the hold erupted into a series of earsplitting crashes.

  Thunderous bangs that shook the cabin, threatening to splinter its walls. Furious poundings too close to come from the cog’s well-laden belly.

  “Lady!” The door burst open. “Make haste!”

  Arabella jerked, the command putting a cold lump in her stomach.

  “What… ?” She couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t stand because her legs had turned to jelly.

  Bobbing torchlight spilled into the cabin, revealing her most persistent guardsman. He rushed in, terror in his eyes and his face ashen.

  “Come now!” He seized her, yanking her to her feet. “They’re lowering the spare boat. You must be on it—you and four of us to guard you.”

  “Dear God!” Her heart stopped. “We’re sinking?”

  “Nae, but—”

  “Then why?” Hope surged. “If we aren’t—”

  “We’re no’ sinking yet.” His words chilled her. “But we soon will be—or worse!”

  “Worse?” The shrill voice surely wasn’t hers.

  “Just come, my lady. We must go while there’s time.” He started pulling her to the door.

  It was then that she noticed he’d strapped on more steel than her father kept in his armory. Nor did she miss how his gaze kept darting to the porthole. Feeling sick, she twisted away from him and ran across the cabin. Not wanting to look, but unable not to, she peered out into the darkness.

  What she saw iced her blood.

  A great Norse dragon ship was flying straight at them, its long sweeps sending up clouds of spume as it sped across the water.

  “Mercy!” Her eyes rounded. “They’re pirates. Vikings!”

  “They’re demons from hell.” The guardsman reached for her again, taking her arm in a bone-crushing grip. “We’ll get you away before they reach us. The fog will hide—”

  “They’re almost upon us now!” She couldn’t look away.

  Horror drenching her, she watched as the galley closed the distance between them with incredible ease. Sail, hull, and even the shields lining its sides gleamed black as pitch. Most terrifying of all was the steel-headed ramming lance projecting from the tall dragon-headed prow.

  She whirled from the porthole. “They’re going to pierce us!”

  The guard didn’t deny it.

  Instead he swept her up in his arms and ran with her from the cabin. He raced to the other side of the cog where Captain Arneborg and several of his men were heaving the spare boat over the side.

  It didn’t look any larger than a skiff.

  Arabella stared in disbelief.

  It was a cockle shell!

  But before she could object, they were at the rail. Three of her father’s men leapt overboard, each one landing in the tossing, bobbing craft. The crewmen closed around her, lifting her over the side. Clearly, they meant to drop her into the outstretched arms of the men already in the little boat.

  Arabella closed her eyes and screamed.

  Then she was falling.

  But the men never caught her.

  She plunged into the icy, surging sea. Down and down she plummeted, the cold shocking her. Her lungs burned like fire. But she kept her mouth clamped shut, knowing she didn’t dare gulp seawater.

  Frantic, she kicked and thrashed, fighting her way to the surface. A near impossible task with one arm clasped like iron across her breast. But at last she broke free, choking and gasping.

  Her men and the cockle shell were nowhere to be seen.

  Nor was the Merry Dancer.

  She splashed about in the darkness, alone save the towering seas. Everywhere water swirled around her, pulling her into troughs, then sweeping her up again, tossing her over foaming crests. Fear almost lamed her and her heavy cloak tangled around her legs, dragging her down. Each time a new swell crashed over her, it was more difficult to claw her way out again.

  She didn’t want to die.

  Terrified, she blinked hard, straining to see. But waves kept slapping into her and the stinging sea spray blinded her. If her men and the spare boat were near, they would have found her by now.

  There was no one to save her.

  Above the shrieking wind and the roar of the seas, she caught sounds of battle. Though distant, the angry shouts of men came to her. As did the screech of steel on steel, then—most horrifying of all—the unmistakable cracking and splintering of wood.

  The Merry Dancer was breaking apart.

  She heard screams and knew men had been thrown into the water and were drowning. The raucous hoots and jeers of the sea raiders proved it. As did the abrupt silencing of Arnkel Arneborg’s plague bells.

  Arabella shuddered.

  A terrible sadness flooded the place where her heart should have been. It spread through her, numbing her worse than the frigid water.

  She thanked the saints she couldn’t see.

  Strangely, the burning in her eyes suddenly lessened and her vision cleared. Only it wasn’t the smashed cog that loomed before her, spelling her demise. It was the near-vertical wall of the most enormous wave she’d yet seen.

  And it was rushing right at her.

  Arabella screamed.

  Then the monstrous black wave reached her and she knew no more.

  Deep in the silent hour before sunrise, Darroc frowned in his sleep. His heart thundered and a strange urgency pulsed inside him. Not quite dreaming yet not awake, he flipped onto his back, barely aware of the damp, twisted bed sheets. Except for the muted roar of the sea, the quiet should have been absolute. But something else slipped in through his bedchamber’s shuttered windows.

  Something more than thin gray light and chill air.

  It was the song of the seals.

  He groaned and flung an arm over his eyes.

  Cold sweat beaded his brow and—causing his scowl—desire throbbed hot and needy at his groin. The raven-haired beauty who’d haunted his dreams of late had returned to tempt him. Only this time, instead of enticing him with the sleek glide of her silky thighs and lush curves, she used her mouth, wet and delicious, to slide kisses up and down the hard, aching length of him.

  Yet each time he reached for her, she immediately ceased her wondrous ministrations and an icy, black emptiness swirled around him. He cursed under his breath and rolled back onto his stomach.

  He’d seldom endured a worse night.

  Even the seals invaded his sorely needed rest. Some half-awake part of him knew they weren’t really there. He was dreaming them. But he heard them all the same. Their music teased and taunted, first hauntingly beautiful, then so terror-filled that the cries chilled his marrow.

  “Damnation!” He dragged a pillow over his head.

  Someone yanked it away.

  “By all the powers!” He jerked upright, somehow not surprised to find Mungo clutching the pillow. The old goat wore a look fearsome enough to blast the frost off a witch’s behind.

  Darroc glared at him. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waking you.” Mungo eyed him as if he were a simpleton.

  “That I know!” Darroc leapt to his feet, naked as he was. “I also know I’ve been waking myself fine ever since I can remember,” he snapped, scowling at the shadows, still thick in the room’s corners.

  The ungodliness of the hour soured his mood.

  Unable to summon his usual good humor, he jammed his hands on his hips. “Tell me the keep’s caught fire—or leave me be so I can go back to sleep.”

  At the foot of his bed, Frang stretched and opened one eye, pinning them both with an accusatory canine stare. Like his master, Frang enjoyed his leisure.

  “Well?” Darroc waited.

  He did take malicious pleasure in the cloud of tainted fumes Frang used to show his displeasure.

  Mungo grimaced, his nose wrinkling.

  Then he tossed aside the pillow and cleared his throa
t. “The keep’s fine, but there’s a wreck on the beach.”

  Darroc’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re sure?”

  He could scarce believe it.

  Remote as MacConacher’s Isle was, galleys rarely came anywhere near them and those that did were his own or belonged to his friend, Olaf Big Nose. And both of them knew the treacheries of these waters well enough to keep their boats away from rogue currents and blade-sharp rocks.

  But Mungo was bobbing his head. “Mad Moraig roused the men in the hall. ’Twas her what saw the little red fox and heard the ruckus. She—”

  Darroc snorted.

  Now he knew this was folly.

  “There aren’t any foxes on this isle.” He dropped back onto his bed, annoyed anew. “If Mad Moraig has anything to do with this—”

  “She wasn’t just blethering this time.” Mungo defended the clan’s well-meaning but slightly addled hen wife. “I saw the fox myself. He was harrying the broody hens in the bailey, causing them to squawk and make a racket.” He paused to scratch his beard. “Strange thing is he didn’t touch a feather on any of them. Just chased them about until I ran out and shooed him away.”

  That did it.

  Darroc pressed his fingers to his temples. His clan had gone daft.

  “The fox had queer eyes.” Mungo kept pulling on his beard. “I swear he looked at me as if he knew me.”

  “And what does all this have to do with a wreck?” Darroc’s head was beginning to pound.

  He didn’t believe a word he was hearing.

  “A wrecked cog.” The seneschal surprised him. “For some reason I can’t explain, I followed the fox after shushing him out of the bailey. He trotted right down to the boat strand then just disappeared. That’s when I saw—”

  “A cog?” Darroc jumped to his feet, not caring about vanishing foxes. If Mungo could specify the kind of ship that had foundered, this was serious.

  Wide awake now, he started snatching his clothes off the floor. “You saw the wreckage?”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

  Darroc stared at him, his blood icing. “Were there survivors?”

  Frang barked then, suddenly alert.

  But the seneschal shook his head. “Six bodies so far, all ripped and slashed by the rocks. Conall and some of the others are down on the strand now, burying them.”