The Chief: Order of the Broken Blade

by Mecca, Cecelia

“’Tis nothing.”

  “You’ve that look about you, Cristane. The one you inherited from Cait. Or she from you.”

  She shrugged her shoulders in mock innocence.

  “The one that tells me you’re lying.”

  As always, Cristane warred with herself. A part of her wished to remain in his presence. To speak with him for as long as she could.

  And yet she had a sensible side, a strong one, and it won out again.

  “’Tis nothing at all.” She pulled her mantle more tightly about her shoulders. “I must go. The cold,” she said by way of explanation. “And with so much to be done before the feast . . .”

  Not that anyone needed her help with it.

  “Allow me to escort you.”

  This is your fault for coming to the stables. You knew he could be here.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Rubbing her frozen hands together, wishing she’d brought gloves, Cristane stepped in front of Rory, exiting the stable. They walked in companionable silence toward the keep, entered it, and were immediately greeted with a flutter of activity. He bid her good day and walked away.

  At once reluctant to leave him and grateful for the escape, Cristane hurried around the corner and pressed her back against the stone wall of the corridor that led to her private chamber. Heart racing, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  She needed to leave Bradon Moor as soon as possible.

  It had begun innocently enough. The boy who’d always had dirt on his cheeks . . . the lad who’d sat in the stables with so many sick and orphaned horses . . . he had become a man.

  A man who knew he appealed to women, and acted on it more often than she cared to know about. One who would never see her as anything more than an elevated scullery maid who’d become his sister’s lady’s maid. Her friend.

  Lately, the situation had become nearly intolerable.

  His exploits, his nearness . . .

  Aye, Cristane couldn’t leave the castle quickly enough for her taste. In the meantime, she’d do her best to avoid him. Avoid the pain of unrequited love.

  For there was no doubt: Cristane loved Rory Kennaugh and was miserable for it.

  Chapter 3

  “Pick one, Cristane.”

  Rory rarely found himself in the servants’ quarters, but after speaking to the marshal and establishing a plan for a possible attack by McKinnon, he’d realized he was quite hungry. He’d missed the midday meal, and though there would be more than enough to eat that evening at the feast, Rory had never been the patient sort. He’d made his way to the kitchens, only to be distracted by the shouts just down the corridor—which was why he’d found himself approaching the open door. He knew what lay inside. Pallets for sleeping and not much else to recommend it. But rarely was it occupied at this time of day, which was what had piqued his curiosity. That, and the calls for Cristane to “pick one.”

  “Pick, pick,” they said to her.

  Rory was not so much of a fool that he did not understand the maid’s tenuous position in the castle. Shunned by her own for daring to rise through the ranks, she’d then been left by Cait, who’d so cleverly tricked him into taking her south, to England. Come spring, he had no doubt Cait and her new husband would come to Bradon Moor to visit their mother and take Cristane back down to Licheford Castle. But in the meantime, he did not envy the lovely maid.

  Too lovely, by far.

  She was more than Cait’s maid. Although she stubbornly refused to call him by his given name, he considered her a true friend, and he knew Cait felt the same way. Rory admired all she’d overcome—and her perpetually sunny disposition, which always lifted the people around her.

  She was very much off-limits for him.

  It had been too long since he’d been with a woman, a fact Rory meant to rectify the moment he knew McKinnon was not a threat. He’d not visit the village now though, not after Kerr’s warning.

  “Do not open your eyes,” a girl’s voice commanded from inside the room.

  Her tone toward Cristane did not please him. She sounded sharp. Jealous.

  “Show us!”

  He was just outside the door now.

  “Nay.”

  It hardly sounded like her. Usually, a happier woman could not be found anywhere, but Cristane sounded anything but happy at the moment.

  And then he realized what they were about when he noticed women inside who were not servants. There was only one day of the year they would be found in here.

  He’d forgotten it was the St. Valentine’s feast day. They were doing the traditional lover’s pick.

  Standing at the door, Rory crossed his arms and watched. One of the maids, presumably the one who’d asked Cristane to show them what she’d chosen, reached for her hand. But Cristane was too quick. She pulled it away and then turned—

  And they all seemed to realize he stood there at once.

  Rory did not want his presence to dampen the festive mood. Although it was a day he’d no wish to celebrate, he did not wish to take their enjoyment away from them. Of course, Cristane did not seem as if she were enjoying it much at all. She avoided looking at him, but the others all grinned.

  “Very well,” the girl said, placing the wooden bucket in the center of the others and giving it a shake.

  When the girl looked at him first, Rory nodded in encouragement, ready to see the games unfold.

  “’Tis the squire’s scabbard,” she giggled, holding it up.

  He took a step closer. “Ahh, Darron’s squire.”

  She slipped the leather into her belt, obviously less hesitant than Cristane to display her pick.

  “I wish you well in that particular courtship,” he said.

  Darron’s squire, a fine enough young man, was nevertheless already keen on another lass. He’d overheard a conversation about it just the day before in the stables. Rory smiled, imagining his mother’s scolding for all his knowledge of the gossip amongst the servants.

  Turning to leave, he stopped at the sight of Cristane’s face.

  Cheeks flaming red, she stood with her hand clenched tightly at her side. She was, for lack of a better description, mortified. He had never seen her appear so uncomfortable before, as if she wished to be anywhere but this room. Perhaps the maids were treating her worse, even, than he had thought.

  Well, if she wanted to leave, he would ensure it happened.

  “A word, Cristane, if you please,” he said.

  He’d thought she might seem relieved at his bidding. It would allow her to escape a situation that had clearly made her uncomfortable. Instead, her cheeks grew even redder, if such a thing were possible.

  Turning away from the doorway, expecting her to follow, Rory was relieved to hear the soft footfalls behind him. When they reached an alcove, he stopped and turned.

  “I only wished to save you from whatever was making you so uncomfortable back there.”

  Only Cristane looked the opposite of grateful. He had never seen her this way before. What could have happened? She’d been fine earlier in the day. And then he noticed a movement—her hand clenching tighter.

  That was it. Her pick. The bucket in the middle of the circle had been filled with items from single men, and each of the lasses was to pick something at random. The game had little significance normally. Except for her, it did. Whatever she clutched in her hand, it was from someone Cristane admired.

  A flash of something tore through him at the thought. Protectiveness? In all the years he’d known Cristane, her name had not once been linked with another’s. He wanted to know whose property she held in her hand. What man at Bradon Moor did she fancy? He discarded one prospect after another.

  “Who is it?” he asked. He’d intended to jest with her, but the words came out harsher than intended.

  He’d been right. She did care for the man whose token she held. But that didn’t explain the raw panic in her eyes, as if . . .

  Nay, it could not be.

  “Cristane, open yo
ur hand.”

  She shook her head.

  Rory needed to know. As impossible as it seemed, the evidence seemed to indicate it was true. Irrationally, he wanted it to be true.

  “Cristane?”

  Again, she shook her head. “Please do not make me.”

  He knew what a gentleman would do. Walk away. Comply with her request. He wouldn’t force a woman to do anything, even such a small thing as opening her hand against her will.

  Hellfire, though, Rory wanted to know what was inside her clenched fist.

  “I would never do so,” he said, and her slight nod said she knew it.

  And then he remembered something. Guessing wildly, he said, “’Tis the buckle from my mantle.”

  Her widened eyes was the only answer he needed.

  “It went missing yesterday—”

  “I did not take it!”

  Rory had not put the missing buckle together with the lover’s pick, but it made sense now. Unwed men were apt to find something missing in the days leading up to the Feast of St. Valentine. Somehow, he had forgotten this year.

  “I know you did not.”

  Rarely did the recipient of the item take it for themselves.

  Turn and walk away.

  She knew he’d guessed. Poor Cristane would not make a very good card player.

  And yet . . .

  Ever so slowly, he reached down for her hand, giving her a chance to stop him. But she did not.

  Taking her balled fist in his hand, the touch more intimate, more meaningful, than it would have been just that morn, Rory turned it over.

  Gently, he pulled open her fingers to reveal his missing buckle.

  But rather than let go of her hand, he stood there, frozen. Replaying all of the times they had spent together over the years. He’d teased her as he would his sister. Cared for her as a cherished member of their clan.

  And she’d cared for him all this time? It could be a new development, but somehow, he knew it was not.

  “Cristane . . .”

  Pulling her hand away, she turned and ran.

  He dearly wanted to stop her. But then what? She was a servant. His sister’s maid. And she could never be anything more.

  Chapter 4

  Rory never came to the Feast of Saint Valentine, and so she did not deny that pleasure to herself. Cristane marveled at the transformation of the hall. Despite the typical lack of colorful foliage in winter months, heather and pansies had been gathered and positioned in every corner. A large collections of candles gave it a welcoming glow.

  Similar to when Rory’s father had been alive. Before their mother had decided to leave the main keep behind and stay in Dalrigg Manor. Thankfully, Cait had taken over her role as lady, and Bradon Moor Castle had eventually become as lively as she remembered from her visits as a young girl.

  Her childhood had been difficult in many ways. Her father had been a farmer, but he had not stayed around to help raise her. Yet her mother had been a remarkable woman, never accepting less than when she believed they might attain more. Her fondest wish had been that Cristane would someday, somehow, rise in the ranks from scullery maid to lady’s maid, an unheard-of occurrence for a non-noblewoman.

  She had died before it happened, but Cristane did not regret that fact. She felt sure that her mother knew. Somehow. And was so proud of her that she was likely telling everyone in heaven of her daughter’s new role.

  Sitting with the other high-ranking castle officers and servants, as she did for each meal, Cristane thanked the cupbearer for filling her goblet with red wine. They were treated as equal to the chief’s family in many ways, their wardrobes made of just slightly less expensive materials. It had taken some getting used to for Cristane, especially after her lady had left.

  Oh, please, let her send for me soon.

  This feast had always been celebrated at Bradon Moor in a fashion that could rival the royal court, but she found she did not enjoy it as much as usual, mortified as she still was from her confrontation with Rory. At least she wouldn’t have to see him quite yet.

  Some said he wanted no association with the courtly love it celebrated. Rory tended to have relationships with women that fell short of the depth of connection celebrated by the Saint Valentine’s Feast.

  Relations she tried, and failed, to ignore.

  But Cristane knew the true reason for his avoidance—and his reasons were complicated and deep enough to assure her that he would not, under any circumstances, make an appearance. It was the chief’s duty to attend such feasts, and Rory was reluctant to take ownership of their clan. So when cheers erupted from the entrance to the hall, she thought nothing of it at first, other than mild curiosity as to the cause. It was only when he was nearly atop her that Cristane realized what was happening.

  Their feast would not lack an official representative from the Kennaugh family after all. The chief’s brother was, indeed, here. And he was staring directly at her as he walked past them to the head table not very far away.

  She turned away, doing her best to ignore him, and spoke a few polite words to the men at her table. Although she knew it made her a fool, the excitement of his presence was a more heady wine than the one that flowed for all. She was not immune, it turned out, to this day devoted to the celebration of lovers, the possibility of better weather, and new beginnings.

  And yet she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Not after what had happened. She managed to eat her whole meal without a single glance at the head table. But when she inadvertently reached inside her pocket and felt the buckle lying inside, Cristane finally gave in to temptation and looked.

  Rory stared back at her with the intent perusal she’d seen him give many different women, but never, ever her. And he held her gaze as she watched him, his scrutiny, if anything, growing more intense. It was as if he had never seen her before, even though they’d roamed the same halls and eaten at the same meals for years. They continued to look at each other like that, two people connected by a glance, until the music began to play. Sweetmeats accompanied the harpist’s music, shared by all, including the servants, who rarely indulged in such fare. The festive mood was impossible to ignore, even for someone who had made an utter fool of herself that day. Who wished to retreat to her bedchamber and emerge only when Lady Cait finally arrived to rescue her.

  When the song finished, a clanging from the head table forced her gaze back up to Rory. He stood, his frame seeming to fill the back of the hall—a tall, muscular man rendered even larger by the knowledge of his own worth, even if he desperately tried to hide it from those around him.

  “The lover’s pick,” he boomed to more cheers.

  She groaned inwardly, or so she thought. The strange looks she received indicated Cristane hadn’t been as subtle as she’d hoped.

  “Not wanting to participate this year, lass?” he asked.

  “’Tis for unmarried maids,” she said, aware she was very much one of those.

  Rory continued, “I thought to begin by making my own guess this year.”

  No.

  He could not. He would not.

  The chief’s family never participated in the ritual, instead giving the honor of first guess—first pick—to a man they wished to recognize. Then, one by one, the rest of the unmarried men would attempt to determine who had chosen their items. Some guessed correctly, but it rarely happened on the first try. They would move from maid to maid in an attempt to find the one who held their token, joining in a dance that ended only when each had found their match.

  She wasn’t the only one in the hall to stare openmouthed at the hardened warrior as he signaled for the musicians to begin playing anew. But Cristane was certainly the only one who knew exactly where Rory was headed when he stepped down from the dais.

  Closer and closer he came, and with each step, Cristane could hear the murmurs of surprise growing louder and louder. It was not just highly unusual but unheard of for Rory Kennaugh to offer his open palm to a maid.


  Cristane had only two choices.

  To shake her head and force him to continue the search, looking for—but of course not finding—the woman who held his buckle. After the fruitless quest, he would sit down without a partner. Legend had it that the man who was not offered a lover’s pick would not find love until at least the following year’s feast.

  Of course, she didn’t believe the stories.

  Or did she give him the buckle, accept the dance, and give everyone even more reason to speak of her in darkened corners? The look he gave her made it clear which he would prefer.

  He wished for her to give him the buckle.

  And she found she could not deny him. Reaching into her pouch, Cristane retrieved it and placed it in his open palm. A hesitant cheer greeted them as he helped Cristane to her feet. None were sure what to make of this particular development. Slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, Cristane walked with him to the only section of the hall not covered with trestle tables, flowers, and candles.

  Rory spun her toward him, and they launched into the long dance, the next pick already having begun behind them. It was a slow song, one with an uncomplicated dance that did not require more than just the two of them to complete. And when his hand settled on the small of her back, the second wrapping around her other hand—the touch both innocent and not—Cristane finally remembered to breathe.

  “So then, Cristane,” Rory said, his voice low, deep, and for her ears only, “I pick you.”

  Chapter 5

  Rory had anticipated this moment all day.

  And whenever he’d caught a free moment amidst readying the men, fortifying the castle walls, and sending scouts in all directions to confirm Kerr’s claims that McKinnon was indeed on the move, he’d thought of one thing.

  The girl who had become a woman before his eyes. Whose breasts he’d nearly spied once quite by accident a few years earlier, a day he’d not easily forget. She and his sister had apparently thought it prudent to cool themselves on a hot summer’s day by the river that ran from north to south just outside the castle’s outer walls. He’d come upon them inadvertently. When Cristane had turned his way, not seeing him approach, he’d seen the outline of her full breasts beneath her thin, wet shift. And before he’d turned away, he’d also caught a glimpse of the dark triangle between her legs.