Sue-Ellen Welfonder - MacKenzie 07

A Highlander's Temptation

MacKenzie 7

Sue Ellen Welfonder

The Legacy of the Thunder Rod

Along the west coast of Scotland lies a chain of islands of such beauty and grandeur even the most ardent romantic is hard-pressed to describe their majesty. Curving bays of glistening white sand and glittering seas of every hue vie to catch one's breath while jagged, spray-strewn skerries and sheer, impossibly steep cliffs compete with gentle, grass-grown dunes and long-tumbled ruins to stir the soul.

Ruled for centuries by the pagan Norse, the Hebrides are a place of legend, each isle steeped in ancient lore and tradition. Sea gods, merfolk, and fabled Celtic heroes abound, their mythic tales spun with relish by silver-tongued bards in the long, dark cold of deep winter nights.

But not all such tales are widely known.

Indeed, some are kept secret.

And one of the most intriguing secrets to be found in the vast Sea of the Hebrides belongs to the once proud Clan MacConacher.

Broken, small in number, and ill-favored with the Scottish crown, the MacConachers dwell far from their erst-while seat in Argyll; their straight-backed, long-suffering ranks reduced to scratching out a living on a rocky, wind-swept isle surrounded by reefs and rough seas.

An isle they cherish because it is all that remains left to them, and, above all, because MacConacher's Isle lies well beyond the reach of the dread MacKenzies, the powerful clan responsible for their ruin.

Not that the MacConachers wish to forget their doom-bringing foes.

Far from it. The present chieftain is young, bold, and of fiery spirit. Keen to throw off his clan's mantle of shame and sorrow, he has only two burning ambitions. He lives to restore his family's good name and fortune. He also plans for the day he can wreak vengeance on Clan MacKenzie.

His least concern is his clan's most precious possession, the Thunder Rod.

Given to an ancestor by a Norse nobleman, the relic is a polished length of fossilized wood, intricately carved with runes and still bearing bits of brilliant color. Clan elders claim the rod was either a piece of wood torn from the prow of Thor's own longboat or, perhaps, crafted by a great Viking lord for his lady to keep in his remembrance when he is at sea.

Roughly the size of a man's forearm and rumored to hold great magic, its particular powers do not interest the braw MacConacher chieftain.

Until the stormy morning when the black winds of fate present him with an irresistible opportunity to settle a long-simmering score.

Now, at last, he can use the Thunder Rod.

If he dares.

THE GREAT HALL AT MORNING

AUTUMN 1350

What do you mean you wish to see the Seal Isles?"

Duncan MacKenzie, the indomitable Black Stag of Kintail, slapped down his ale cup and stared across the well-laden high table at his eldest daughter, Lady Arabella. His good humor of moments before vanished as he narrowed his eyes on her, his gaze piercing.

Arabella struggled for composure. Years of doing so helped her not to squirm. But she wasn't sure she could keep her cheeks from flaming. Already the back of her neck burned as if it'd caught fire.

So she moistened her lips and tried to pretend her father wasn't pinning her with a look that said he could see right into her soul, maybe even knew how her belly churned and that her palms were damp.

Or that all her hopes and dreams hung on this moment.

"Well?" He raised one dark brow.

Arabella plucked at a thread on her sleeve, then, realizing what she was doing, stopped at once. She looked up, somehow resisting the urge to slip a finger beneath the neckline of her gown or perhaps even loosen her bodice ties. Faith, but she needed air. Her chest felt so constricted, she could hardly draw a breath.

She did manage to hold her father's stare. Hot and bold MacKenzie blood flowed in her veins, too. And even if she'd spent her life quashing any urges to heed her clan's more passionate nature, this was one time she meant to do her name proud.

So she angled her chin and firmed up her jaw with just a touch of stubbornness.

"You heard what I said." She spoke as calmly as she could, her daring making her heart skitter. "The seals..."

She let the words trail off, the excuse sounding ridiculous even to her own ears.

Her father huffed, clearly agreeing.

"We've plenty of such beasties in our own waters." He made a dismissive gesture, his tone final. "You've no need to journey to the ends of nowhere to see them."

At once, a deafening silence fell around the hall's torchlit dais. Somewhere a castle dog cracked a bone, his gnawing all the more loud for the sudden quiet.

Everywhere kinsmen and friends swiveled heads in their puissant chieftain's direction, though some discreetly glanced aside. Whatever their reaction, no one appeared surprised by the outburst. Those who called Eilean Creag their home were well used to the Black Stag's occasional bouts of temper.

"If it is such creatures you wish to study, I saw one just yestere'en." He sat back in his carved oaken laird's chair, looking pleased. "A fine dog seal sunning himself on a rock down by the boat strand."

Arabella doubted every word. She did tighten her fingers on the handle of her spoon.

This wasn't about seals and she suspected her father knew it. His continued stare, narrow-eyed and penetrating, was more than proof.

She started to lower her own gaze, but caught herself and frowned instead. And rather than returning her attention to her wooden bowl of slaked oats as she would have done just a few days ago, she sat up straighter and squared her shoulders.

She only hoped that no one else heard the thundering of her heart.

It wasn't every day that she dared defy her fierce-eyed, hot-tempered father.

Indeed, this was the first time she meant to try.

Her contentment in life - she couldn't bring herself to use the word happiness -

depended on her being strong.

Firm, resolute, and unbending.

"I'm not interested in Kintail seals, Father." She cleared her throat, careful to keep her chin raised. "And there is a need. Besides that, I want to make this journey. The Seal Isles are mine now. You gave them to me."

"I added them to your bride price!"

"Which makes them my own." She persisted, unable to stop. "It's only natural I should wish to see them. I can make a halt at the Isle of Doon on the way, bringing your felicitations to your friends the MacLeans and the cailleach, Devorgilla. You can't deny that they would welcome me. After that, I could perhaps call at - "

"Ho! What's this?" Her father's gaze snapped to a quiet, scar-faced man half-hidden in shadow at the end of the table. "Can it be a certain long-nosed loon of a Sassunach has been putting such mummery in your head?"

Arabella bit her lip. She wasn't about to admit that her head had been fine until a courier had arrived from her younger sister's home a few days before, announcing that Gelis had at last quickened with child.

A pang shot through her again, remembering. Hot, sharp, and twisting, her bitterness wound tight. Just recalling how the messenger's eyes had danced with merriment as he'd shared the long-awaited news that had upturned her world.

It'd been too much.

The whole sad truth of the empty days stretching before her had come crashing down around her like so much hurled and shattered crockery.

She refused to think about the cold and lonely nights, warmed only by the peats tossed on the hearth fire and the snoring, furry bulk of whichever of her father's dogs chose to scramble onto her bed.

Setting down her spoon, she fisted her hands on the cool linen of the table covering and swallowed against the heat in her throat.

To be sure, she loved her sister dearly. She certainly begrudged her naught. But her heart wept upon the surety that such joyous tidings would likely never be her own.

"Faugh!" Her father's voice boomed again. "Whoe'er heard of a lassie wanting to sail clear to the edge of the sea? 'Tis beyond - "

"Hush, you, Duncan." Stepping up to the high table, her mother, Lady Linnet, placed a warning hand on his shoulder. "Bluster is - "

"The only way I ken to deal with such foolery!" Her father frowned up at his wife and, for a moment, all the fury drained from his face.

Linnet, the mirror image of Gelis, only older, flicked back her hip-length, red-gold braid and leaned down to circle loving arms around her husband's broad shoulders. Blessed with the sight - another gift she shared with her youngest daughter - Linnet's ability to soothe her husband's worst moods wasn't something Arabella needed to see at the moment.

The obvious love between the two only served to remind her of the intimacies she'd never know.

Burning to call such closeness her own, she winced at the sudden image of herself as a withered, spindle-legged crone humbly serving wine and sweetmeats to her parents and her sister and her sister's husband as they reposed before her on cushioned bedding, oblivious to aught but their blazing passion.

Arabella frowned and blinked back the dastardly heat pricking her eyes.

Her mother's voice, clearly admonishing her father, helped banish the disturbing vision. "Ach, Duncan." Linnet smoothed a hand through his thick, shoulder-length black hair, sleek as Arabella's own and scarce touched by but a few strands of silver. "Perhaps you should - "

"Pshaw!" He made a derisive sound, breaking free of her embrace. "Dinna tell me what I should and shouldn't do. I'd rather hear what that meddling lout who calls himself a friend has - "

"Uncle Marmaduke has nothing to do with it." Arabella spoke before he could finish. "He is a better friend to you than you could wish. Though he did mention that he's here because a southbound trading ship - "

"A vessel said to be captained by an Orkneyman you know and trust." Her uncle sipped slowly from his ale cup, his calm giving her hope. "Word is that the trader is large enough to take on your girl and an escort in all comfort."

"Hah! So speaks a meddler!" Her father smacked his hand on the table. "Did I no'

just say you were the cause of this?" He roared the words, glaring round. "Aye, there's a merchant ship set to call at Kyleakin. Could be, the captain is known to me. I ken most traders who ply these waters!"

"And I ken when you are about to make a bleeding arse of yourself." Sir Marmaduke set down his empty cup and leaned back in his chair, arms casually folded. "A pity you do not know when to heed those who care about you."

Duncan scowled. "And I say it's a greater pity that you dinna ken when to hold your flapping tongue!"

He flashed another look at Arabella. "I'll take you to see what wares the merchant ship carries. There are sure to be bolts of fine cloth and baubles, perhaps a few exquisite rarities. Maybe even a gem-set comb for your shiny black tresses."

Pausing, he raised a wagging finger. "But know this. When the ship sails away, you will no' be on board!"

Arabella struggled against tightening her lips.

The last thing she wanted was to look like a shrew.

Even so, she couldn't help feeling a spurt of annoyance. "I have coffers filled with raiments and I've more jewels than I can wear in a lifetime. There is little of interest such a ship can offer me. Not in way of the goods it carries."

She took a deep breath, knowing she needed to speak her heart. "What I want is an adventure."

"A what?" Her father's brows shot higher than she'd ever seen.

He also leapt to his feet, almost toppling his chair.

Out in the main hall, several of his men guffawed. On the dais, one or two coughed. Even the castle dogs eyed him reproachfully.

Duncan's scowl turned fierce.

"A little time away is all I ask." Arabella ignored them all. "I'm weary of waiting for another suitor to make his bid. The last one who dared approached you over a year ago - "

"The bastard was a MacLeod!" Her father's face ran purple. "Dinna tell me you'd have gone happily to the bed of a sprig of that ilk! We've clashed with their fork-tongued, cloven-footed kind since before the first lick o' dew touched a sprig of heather!"