A Highlander's Temptation Page 8

  But there was no one else at Castle Bane capable of doing the deed. His own hands would have made an even greater mess of it. Even so, his gut clenched and a taste like cold, soured ash flooded his mouth.

  He cleared his throat. “Have a care with those stitches. I’d no’ want—”

  “Aieee!” Mad Moraig shrieked.

  Darroc winced.

  He didn’t have to look to know she’d clapped her hands over her ears. He also knew that she’d be staring at something no one else saw, her eyes turned more inward than ever. And that they’d fill with a glistening brightness that had nothing to do with age.

  He was a dolt!

  His face heated and he whirled to make amends. “You misheard me,” he lied, crossing the room to pry her hands from her head.

  A task he’d done often enough over the years.

  “Good on you, Moraig.” He put all the admiration he could into his voice. “I meant have a care no’ to rush. Lady Mina is sleeping soundly enough for you to take time to do your best work.”

  “Hech, hech! They do be fine stitches.” Her face wreathed in a smile as she took the bait. “There’ll be nary a mark to show where I’ve sewn her up.”

  “For sure, she’ll be grateful.” Darroc dreaded the moment when the lass saw the crooked stitching. The bunched and gathered flesh that a more able leech master would have fitted together as carefully as possible before setting his needle to the wound.

  Mad Moraig beamed. “Aye, she’ll be pleased.”

  Darroc doubted it.

  He did rest a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. He could feel her bones, fragile as a bird’s. Her age-spotted hands were stitching furiously again. And as far as he could tell, she was nearly finished.

  Knowing what an unsightly scar the jabbing needle would leave had him clenching his jaw so hard he wondered it didn’t break. At least Mad Moraig’s herb-washings and sphagnum moss dressings would keep the flesh from fevering. Still, sweat began to bead his brow and stinging droplets rolled into his eyes, making him blink.

  It was then that Mina moaned.

  Only she hadn’t stirred.

  Her beautiful body looked as cold and still as chiseled marble. The pale oval of her face remained white as death. Her lips were unmoving. Or so he thought until the sound came again. Low-pitched, sleep-blurred, and utterly feminine, it was a sound that couldn’t be ignored.

  It definitely wasn’t Mad Moraig.

  Indeed, she’d finished her task and had already tottered away from the bed. Ever particular, she stood at a nearby table and busied herself with carefully returning her bone needle and horsehair thread to their proper places inside her wicker healing basket.

  “She’s waking!” Darroc grabbed her arm, relief sluicing him.

  “Ahhh, so she is!” Mad Moraig wrinkled her brow and peered at her.

  She trilled with delight.

  Arabella heard the skirling and knew true terror.

  She’d been floating in a void of cushioning blackness. Soft, warm, and silent, the stillness soothed her. Now she felt again the icy embrace of the sea. The comforting darkness was receding, letting her hear men’s screams and the frightening howls of the wind, the roar of tumbling, crashing waves.

  Worst of all they’d found her.

  The sea raiders.

  They’d almost seized her once before. She remembered the broad width of a man’s shoulders looming above her, then his arms reaching for her, sweeping her up against his iron hard chest. At first she’d thought he might be the warrior hero she’d imagined in Dunakin’s tower window.

  His dark outline certainly reminded her of him.

  When he’d touched her, she’d even felt a faint fluttering deep in her belly and her heart skittered. It was a wild and giddy sensation, much as her sister Gelis insisted happened when a woman first met the man she was destined to love.

  But then a horrible, oddly furred sea serpent—all fangs and glowing red eyes—had risen behind Mina and she’d known the end was near.

  If she’d had any doubt, the outlaw Norseman she’d mistaken for the Dunakin warrior swiftly abandoned her to a second Viking. A denizen straight from the edge of hell, that raider stared at her with fierce blue eyes, hot as Nordic ice and equally terrifying. Most alarming of all, he’d reached for her with arms covered in flames.

  Then she’d known no more until they attacked her.

  Though they appeared to have stopped, she could still feel them stabbing her. Again and again, they’d wielded fiery hot blades against her tender flesh. And she’d been helpless against their assault. Her protests came to nothing more than a painful welling in her throat. When she tried to move, to flee their evil, her entire body felt so leaden that she couldn’t even lift her smallest finger.

  She only wanted to sleep.

  But the blessed darkness was slipping away and her foes were celebrating her wakening. No doubt such fiends took more pleasure skewering a lucid victim.

  They just hadn’t reckoned with her being a MacKenzie.

  Proud of her blood—and taking strength from it—she cracked her eyes ever so slightly.

  To her surprise, she wasn’t on the deck of the black-painted Norse dragonship. She didn’t even seem to be at sea. Far from it, she appeared to be in the four-postered bed of a modest tower room. A room too dark to see clearly, for only one window had its shutters opened and the day outside looked gloomy. But she could make out the shapes of a strongbox and a table with two matching chairs.

  A tapestry—its colors faded and the edges worn—graced the opposite wall, and there were several iron-bracketed torches though none were lit. The rest of the chamber swam in deep, silent shadow. Someone had pulled a linen coverlet over her, though she couldn’t imagine why they’d show her such consideration.

  Nowhere did she see any Vikings.

  She tried to push up on her elbows, but she couldn’t muster the strength. The effort also sent sharp jolts of pain knifing through her shoulder. Her leg hurt even worse, throbbing maddeningly. But she did manage to summon her courage. If her tormentors meant to start attacking her again, they were in for a surprise.

  MacKenzies didn’t cringe in fear.

  So she took a deep breath and opened her eyes fully.

  “I know you’re here!” She ignored the hoarseness of her voice and put all her outrage in the words. “Do what you will. I won’t cower before Vikings so spineless they dress their ships black!”

  “Vikings?” A bent old woman with a whirr of iron-gray hair appeared from the shadows. “Here be no Vikings. We—”

  “We mean you no harm, lady.” A man spoke from the gloom behind the woman. His voice was deep, rich, and wonderfully soothing.

  Her pulse leapt and some of the distress in her heart began to ease.

  “Moraig, go belowstairs and make our guest one of your wine caudles. And”—the man came forward to put a hand on the crone’s shoulder—“be sure to add extra egg yolks. The lady needs the strength.”

  The old woman sniffed. “’Tis sleep she needs, just!”

  But she hitched up her skirts and went dutifully to the door. Arabella scarcely noticed. She kept her attention on the man. The room’s dimness shadowed his face, but not so much that her breath didn’t catch just looking at him.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs.

  His presence surrounded her, something about him sending deliciously hot shivers rippling through her. She had vague recollections of his arms encircling her, carrying her. The memory made her breath catch. If she were standing, she was sure her knees would turn to water.

  As it was, she could only stare.

  Tall and powerfully built, he looked dark as she was, if not more so. His long, silky black hair gleamed with the same midnight sheen, but there the similarity ended. While she prided herself on her femininity, he was surely the most manly man she’d ever seen.

  He was certainly the most beautiful.

  In a bold, savage kind of way.

 
Cold wind pouring in through the window tossed glossy strands of his hair about his face, but rather than lift a hand to push them aside, he appeared amused. As if he enjoyed the wind and courted its wildness. A wide gold armband clamped around the bulging muscles of his right upper arm and a large Celtic brooch winked at his shoulder, the bright glint of its red center stone paling by comparison when he stepped closer and flashed a smile.

  Arabella gulped.

  She was lost in the dazzle of him.

  “So-o-o!” He tossed back his plaid and flourished a bow. “I am MacConacher. Darroc MacConacher, chief to my people and keeper of Castle Bane. I welcome you to my home, Lady Mina. Be assured you are safe—”

  “Mina!” Arabella’s heart stopped. “I am not Mina. She’s Captain Arn—” She broke off, horror washing through her. Again she heard the screams, the bells, and the awful cracking of wood. Blinking back tears, she dashed a hand across her cheek and tried again.

  “I am Arabella of Kintail,” she managed, pushing the words past the dryness in her throat. “Mina is my dog.” She lifted her chin, hoping Arnkel Arneborg wouldn’t mind the lie. “Please tell me she—”

  A frantic yipping erupted and Mina burst out of the shadows. She streaked across the rushes, tiny legs pumping as she flew at the bed and then sailed into Arabella’s arms.

  “Mina—my sweet!” Arabella seized her, crushing the dog’s wriggling little body to her breast, half-crying and half-laughing as Mina squirmed and wagged and used her quick pink tongue to smother her face with kisses.

  Until the MacConacher plucked Mina from her hands and settled her onto the covers beside her. “She might hurt you, my lady.” His deep voice had lost some of its warmth, but he rested a large, calming hand on Mina’s wiggling body, quieting her. “You’ve been injured and must lie still.”

  Arabella peered up at him, something about his name—and him—dancing about the fringes of her mind. She tried to think, to remember, but the remaining drifts of darkness made it so hard to concentrate.

  She frowned, trying anyway.

  Her efforts only made her head pound. A memory was there, she was sure. But it was distant and blurred by years. Even so, she felt a strange prickling on her nape and a chill slid through her. She inhaled a shaky breath, wishing she knew what was gnawing at her. Sadly, whatever caused the ill-ease remained hidden deep inside her, inaccessible.

  The MacConacher was watching her closely. Almost as if he, too, had questions on the edge of his mind.

  “Your name…” Arabella peered at him. “Can it be I know you? There’s something—”

  “There is nothing.” He seemed to stiffen. “I assure you we’ve never met.”

  The words spoken, he stepped back so that he was limned by the cold gray light of the window. Arabella’s eyes widened, recognition slamming into her. Looming above her and with his broad shoulders silhouetted so clearly, there could be no doubt that he was the man who’d rescued her.

  When a massive shaggy-coated monster appeared at his side and leaned heavily into him, she was sure. The ferocious-looking beast could only be the creature she’d seen with Mina and mistaken for a furred sea serpent.

  The only one missing was the man with arms of flame.

  Arabella swallowed.

  She was still so weary and it was difficult to keep her eyes open.

  “You were there—in the water. I remember now.” She paused, the thickness in her voice slurring her words. “Another man was with you. He had fiery-red hair and”—she drew a breath before rushing on, embarrassed—“I thought his arms were made of flame.”

  A muscle jerked in the MacConacher’s jaw. “You mean Conall, my cousin. His arms are burned. The scars may have looked like flames in the light of the rising sun.”

  He studied her a moment, his eyes narrowing as if he expected some reaction other than the pity that swept her on hearing his words.

  Arabella felt herself flush.

  She now suspected her travails at sea were responsible for the chills that had just swept her. Worse, she’d insulted her rescuer’s kinsman.

  Uncomfortable, she curled one hand into the linen coverlet and slid the other around Mina. The little dog nudged her with a cold wet nose. Arabella glanced at her, grateful. She needed Mina’s warmth.

  The MacConacher continued to look at her, his expression unreadable. “Conall held you, my lady. He cradled you in his arms as I rowed us to shore.”

  “There aren’t words to thank you.” Arabella knew he didn’t believe her. “I am indebted to you both. Especially”—she looked down at Mina, snuggled so tightly against her—“for rescuing Mina.”

  “Frang is responsible.” The words were clipped. But when he glanced at the dog, his face softened. “He knew you were there before Conall and I saw you.”

  As if in agreement, the huge dog’s tongue lolled out and he wagged his tail.

  “Then Mina and I will consider him our champion.” Mina tilted her head and laid a paw against Arabella’s arm as if she agreed. Arabella looked on as the MacConacher dropped a hand to rub his own dog’s ears.

  “He is a hero.” Arabella saw the MacConacher’s face harden again.

  “All MacConachers honor life, my lady.” He gave her another strange, almost piercing look. “There isn’t a one of us who would stand idle when a ship founders in our waters. We—”

  “The Merry Dancer didn’t founder.” Arabella shuddered just remembering. “There was a storm, yes, but the shipmaster swore the cog could ride it out. I believed him. What happened was”—she glanced aside, tears burning her eyes again. “We were attacked. A black-painted dragonship sank us.”

  “The Vikings you mentioned?” Darroc stared at her, horror freezing his blood.

  He’d so hoped he’d misheard.

  Or that she’d dreamt such a nightmare.

  But she was nodding and the terror in her eyes told him she spoke true. “They came out of the mist, shooting straight at us with a long steel-headed ramming lance projecting from the prow. They pierced the cog and—”

  “You fell overboard?” Darroc could hardly speak past the bile in his throat.

  “No.” She pressed trembling fingers to her lips. “The shipmaster and his men lowered the spare boat, but when they dropped me over the side the men in it didn’t catch me. I don’t remember much after that.”

  Darroc rubbed the back of his neck. “You were on a raft of cargo barrels when we found you.”

  “I don’t know how I got there.” She dashed away the tears dampening her cheeks. “The seas were high. Perhaps I was washed onto it?”

  Darroc considered.

  He didn’t like any of this.

  Least of all her name.

  “You say the dragonship was painted black?” He posed the question that troubled him almost as much.

  Again she nodded and Darroc’s heart sank.

  The certainty on her face gave substance to a myth most folk in these remote isles told around the fireside to frighten children into behaving.

  If they weren’t good, the Black Vikings would get them.

  Darroc glanced aside, his gaze going to the window arch. The sky was even darker now and the first spatters of rain were just beginning to pelt the tower. From below, the crashing of the waves was louder, too, the familiar sound filling the little room.

  When he looked back at Lady Arabella, he saw the day’s bleakness all over her. “My regrets, lady”—he hated having to push her, even if she was a MacKenzie—“but can you tell me of them? The Black Vikings?”

  “I…” She trailed off, shuddering. Then she pulled the little dog—Mina—onto her chest and dug her fingers in the dog’s long, silky fur. “I only caught a glance at them, but it was enough. Everything about them was black, the hull and shields, the sail, and even the sweeps.”

  She looked up from stroking the dog, her eyes glistening. “I’m not certain, but I think even the men were clad in black jerkins.”

  Darroc released a grim breat
h. “You cannot have been mistaken? There were thick drifts of fog last night. Perhaps you—”

  “I know what I saw.” Her chin set with a stubbornness that would have amused him under different circumstances. “Would that I were mistaken! But”—She held his gaze, her expression determined. “I must ask… I would know if…”

  Her voice cracked and her bravura faded. “If anyone else… if there were—”

  “My sorrow, lady.” Darroc spared her the question. “You were the only living soul we found.”

  She bit her lip and glanced aside, her entire body shaking. Darroc clenched his fists. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for a MacKenzie. But when she finally looked back at him something had changed. Her eyes still glittered and her cheeks remained damp, but her gaze was steady and she no longer trembled. He could almost see the steel flowing in her veins.

  “You said I was injured.” She didn’t make it a question. “It must be my leg, for it pains me the greatest.”

  Darroc nodded, unable to lie.

  But he wished she hadn’t mentioned it. He’d hoped for her to recover before she saw Mad Moraig’s handiwork.

  And now…

  He cleared his throat. “There was a gash in your left leg. It was bad and needed immediate care. Old Moraig, our clan hen wife, cleaned and stitched it for you. She’ll make certain the wound doesn’t fever and heals well. Until then, I advise you no’ to look—”

  But it was too late.

  She’d already lifted the coverlet’s edge to peek beneath.

  Darroc braced himself for her screams, but she only stared down at bunched and sewn flesh. Her eyes did widen and the blood drained from her face, but she didn’t dissolve into panic.

  “Please thank Moraig for her kindness.” She looked up from the clumsy stitching. Her pallor was the only indication that the sight unsettled her. “If you swear not to tell her, I would be grateful for a small knife, a needle, and stitching-thread. I can undo her work and re-sew the wound myself.”