The Chief: Order of the Broken Blade

by Mecca, Cecelia

  “I need no hand-holding,” Darron said as he cocked an eyebrow.

  “That’s not my purpose.”

  “So where do you go, then?”

  “Mayhap there’s someone else whose hand I’d like to hold,” he said, grabbing his mantle before walking through the door and into the corridor.

  “What a darling . . .”

  Cristane’s hand froze midway to the foal’s muzzle as the sound of footsteps met her ears. She knew who it was at once. Could see it in the subtle shift of the stableboy’s posture. He’d tossed back his shoulders, straightened his spine. Scrambling to her feet, she slid into the empty stall next to the foal’s.

  None knew the purpose for the second entrance to the stable, but it had come in handy these past few days, enabling her to avoid Rory quite easily. The man really did have an affinity for this place and came quite often.

  The door opened without a creak.

  Just as she stepped into the snowfall—lovely, fat snowflakes—a voice stopped her.

  “Cristane?”

  She’d not been fast enough.

  A chicken squawked at her feet, the smell of hay behind her and cold in front. She could ignore Rory and keep walking, maybe even run to safety.

  Nay.

  She’d already run from him half a dozen times. They lived in the same castle, for now, and she would need to speak with him eventually. Besides, now that her anger had cooled, she’d accepted some responsibility for the fiasco in the hunting lodge. She had very much offered herself to him, and of course they could not marry. The very thought was ludicrous. How could she blame him for the solution he’d offered to their situation? He’d insulted her, aye, but as everyone had told her, she had already risen as high as she possibly could. Dreaming of more was foolish. She should not aspire to be anything other than Cait’s maid. Certainly she could never be Rory’s wife. Some dreams were too big to entertain.

  She turned, and wished she hadn’t.

  With the dark fur on the collar of his mantle brushing against the sides of his face, framing his features, Rory Kennaugh looked every bit a man. He watched from hooded eyes as she melted at his feet. At least, she imagined that’s what it must look like to him. Being around him was so much harder now that she knew what it felt like to kiss such a man. To be held in his arms.

  A glorious feeling, but her dignity was more important. It had to be.

  “Good day, my lord.”

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said bluntly.

  Halfway through the door, there was no use denying it.

  “Aye.”

  “Why?”

  Surely he knew. She saw no benefit in discussing it with him. Or referring in any way to the stolen hours they’d shared in the hunting lodge.

  “You have much to deal with of late,” she said, averting her gaze.

  And I have precisely nothing of value to do.

  Cristane kept that thought to herself.

  “You are well?”

  Well? Nay, Cristane was not well. Her heart had been torn in two, though she could hardly say so.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Surely he knew she lied.

  “I did not wish to offend you, Cristane.” He took a step forward as he said it, and she took a step back. She could not do this. It was too soon. She could still remember the feeling of his hands on her. His lips against hers.

  She turned to leave, but he caught her hand and held it, making her breath lodge in her throat.

  “Ride with me?”

  Cristane laughed, thinking he jested, but his face lacked any humor.

  She forced herself to pull her hand away. “Because our last ride went so very well?”

  “My mother stubbornly refuses to come to the keep, and I fear for her safety. We’ll not talk of the other day. How many times have we ridden companionably before? Come with me.”

  Many, many times. But those other rides had been innocent. They’d happened before she had so foolishly told him what had been hidden in her heart for years. She had been right to keep her secret hidden for so long.

  “I cannot. I . . .”

  She had no excuse, and they both knew it.

  “Please?”

  God help her, she wasn’t strong enough to withstand him. Not when he stood so close. Not when his scent—the one that was so uniquely Rory—flooded her. But his eyes pleaded with her for something she could not give.

  Best he knew as much right now.

  “I will never become your mistress, Rory.”

  She said his proper name intentionally, and it took him back just enough, she hoped, for him to understand her words were sincere.

  “And I would never ask it of you again, having given an unintended insult the first time.”

  The way he looked at her, his gaze beseeching, assured her that he meant what he said. She supposed for now that was enough. Surely it was for the best that both of them accepted there was no way they could be together.

  “I would still ask that you ride with me, however.”

  She smiled, perhaps for the first time in days. “If you can protect me from abduction,” she said, “then I will indeed ride with you.”

  “I can guarantee you safe passage devoid of abductions.” He nodded for her to come back into the stables. “At least by the McKinnons.”

  He said those words so softly, Cristane nearly missed them. So he still felt it too, this connection between them, but they’d agreed to stay away from each other. She shouldn’t accompany him, should she? Every part of her screamed to turn back, that no good would come from spending time with him.

  Every part, it seemed, except her feet, which persisted in moving toward him.

  Chapter 11

  “You are welcome to sit and eat with me,” Rory’s mother said. “But I have absolutely no intention of leaving this hall.”

  Which was what he’d feared she would say. He stood beside Cristane in the hall of his mother’s chosen home. Much smaller than the main keep, it only had room for four trestle tables. No head table here meant all sat together, an unusual arrangement that served his mother. Rory’s father had often jested that, for an Englishwoman, his wife was curiously unpretentious. It was one of the many things Rory loved about his mother.

  Her stubbornness, however, he could do without. Especially when it put her at risk. Although the hall was intimate and warm, courtesy of the large fireplace in the corner of the hall, it lacked the protection offered by the castle walls.

  “Mother . . .”

  “’Tis lovely to see you, my dear,” she said, shifting her attention to his companion. “Come, sit with me.” When Cristane looked to him to answer, his mother added,

  “Do stop brooding, love. Escort Cristane over here with you and eat.”

  With no choice but to do his mother’s bidding, he handed their mantles over to a servant and offered his arm to Cristane. For a moment, Rory feared Cristane might not let him escort her, but she took his arm. The thin fabric of his shirt did nothing to protect him from the jolt he’d not been expecting.

  Though he should have.

  First, the dance. Then, the kiss.

  Everything had changed the day of the feast. Her face was everywhere now, before him when he woke, when he slept. Rory found himself thinking of her sweet lips, the feeling of her body pressed against him, at the most curious of times.

  Like this one.

  Rory pushed the thoughts beneath the surface as they reached the table. Once she was seated, he took the empty spot next to her.

  Their legs touched.

  “Kind of you to bring more pleasant company than yourself,” his mother said, regarding them with a slight grin.

  If his thoughts had been riotous before, they were ten times more so now, the heat of her skin burning through him despite the layers of cloth that separated them. Why had he invited her to join him?

  Invited? Nay, he’d begged her, as if his very life depended on it.

  “Good day, my
lady,” Cristane said softly, pulling away from him. “’Tis kind of you to welcome me so.”

  For a few moments, Rory was allowed to sit in silence, stewing about the feelings he didn’t quite understand, and Cristane spoke to his mother and her ladies as if she’d known them her whole life. Which, of course, she had. A serving maid placed a trencher between them, and they both reached for a morsel of chicken at the same time. Their fingers touched, sending a bolt of energy through him, but he pulled away and pretended it hadn’t affected him. They all made polite conversation until the topic Rory had come to discuss was laid in his very lap.

  “I do not mean to be indelicate,” his mother said to Cristane, “but is it true you were snatched by McKinnon and retrieved by my son?”

  If he was blunt, his mother was even more so.

  “Indeed, my lady. ’Twas my fault for having ridden out alone.”

  “Hmm,” his mother seemed to agree. “But my son should have properly alerted all of the danger, no?”

  He refrained from bringing Terric into the conversation, as he knew his mother despised comparing her sons, but Rory sorely wanted to remind her that their clan would soon be saved. Come spring, the true chief would return and Rory could step back from the duties none seemed to think he could fulfill.

  “Aye, Mother,” he said instead.

  The look she gave him conveyed her displeasure clearly. For putting Cristane at risk or for something else?

  “Which brings us back to the reason for our visit,” he said.

  His mother snatched up her wine goblet and raised it.

  “A toast for those of us who have reached the age where we know our minds and stick to them. And to young love, may it endure even in the midst of clan wars and abhorrent violence.”

  All present knew his mother as well as he did, which meant everyone knew her toast to be her answer to his remark. In other words, she would not leave.

  But what about her other remark, the one about young love? That one he wasn’t sure about.

  Nonetheless, all raised their goblets and drank.

  The remainder of the meal passed without incident, other than the way his thigh inched closer to Cristane’s until they were once again pressed together. Despite knowing he played a game with no winner, Rory could not seem to help himself. Nor could she. Although she did not pull away, she kept glancing at him, eyes flashing with anger and passion, and it was all he could do not to kiss her right there in his mother’s hall.

  Of course he couldn’t. Not ever again. The thought of never tasting her again revolted him, but there was nothing for it.

  “A word, son?”

  The steward jumped at her question, helping his mother to her feet. With no choice but to follow, Rory excused himself from the others as they finished their meal. He followed his mother from the hall and into the solar chamber. To his surprise, she took him in her arms, hugging him as if he were a young boy rather than a man fully grown.

  “I miss you, Mother,” he said, stepping back. “Please come with us. A war is brewing, and I’d not have you here when it happens.”

  Frowning, she crossed her arms in a manner that reminded him very much of his sister, Cait. They really were cut from the very same cloth. Both stubborn as mules.

  “And how will love bloom with a mother’s shadow hovering over it? I stay here.”

  Love? Bloom? How did she know? And why did it sound as if she approved? Surely she knew it was impossible.

  “Mother—”

  “’Tis about time too. That poor girl has been in love with you for years.”

  Chapter 12

  Much to Rory’s consternation, his mother had remained steadfast in her refusal to join them. Cristane could have told him as much from the start. And yet, they were riding together companionably, more so than she would have thought possible given the events of the past week. So she surprised herself when she said something certain to disturb their relative peace. “It cannot be undone.”

  “What cannot be undone?”

  Wind whistled past them as the barren landscape gave way to Bradon Moor in the distance.

  “What was revealed at the feast. The”—she nearly said kiss but bit it back—“lodge.”

  He gave her a look she had difficulty reading, something he’d done once or twice since they’d left the manor. Cristane could not quite place Rory’s mood. Nor her own. She’d spent so long yearning for Cait to return, but now she wasn’t so sure she wished to leave. Even if she and Rory couldn’t be together, she’d miss him. And she’d miss Scotland too. It was her home.

  Nay, your home is with Cait now. Licheford Castle is not so far south that you’ll never see Scotland again.

  Cait would want to visit home, wouldn’t she? She’d want to see Rory. Which meant Cristane would be able to see him too.

  But it would not be the same. It would never be the same.

  “I would not will it so,” he said, his slow perusal of her sending shivers down her back.

  Cristane very much disagreed.

  “We can be friends still,” he said, riding closer to her. “Can we not?”

  “You are my lord”—she looked over at him, eager for him to listen and heed her—“and a good one. I should not have let you think otherwise for even a moment.”

  “Your lord?” Sitting up in his saddle like that, he looked every bit a chief. Why couldn’t he see himself that way?

  “Aye, my lord. You are capable of being every bit the chief.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I will be the one to oversee our first clan war in years. A reluctant leader at a time when our clan needs Terric.”

  She had nothing to lose now. Cristane had bared her soul to this man. She might as well tell all. “You act differently when he is gone. Your brother has never seen this Rory”—his given name came easier now on her tongue—“and you will not show it to him.”

  Quiet hung between them as they approached the castle gates and the portcullis was raised for them, but Rory continued to look at her with that strange, intense regard. She knew him well enough to understand he wasn’t ignoring her. He was considering her words. It was one of the things she liked most about him, the thoughtfulness hidden deep beneath a showmanship that fooled only himself. And perhaps Terric.

  He didn’t speak again until they’d ridden through the empty outer and inner wards and were approaching the stables.

  “What of you?” he finally asked.

  “My lord?”

  She ignored his stern look. Cristane would not use his given name in front of the stablehands. They already thought her a traitor to her class—no longer quite a servant like them but still very much serving the Kennaugh family.

  At his continued scowl, Cristane dismounted and nodded toward Anthony, one of two stableboys. When he took their mounts and led them inside, Rory finally spoke again.

  “You’ve earned the right to hand him those reins. To call me by whatever name I give you leave to use. If I act differently with Terric, then certainly you recognize you do the same?”

  As they walked toward the keep, the wind tossed Cristane’s hair every which way, the tempest an apt comparison for how she felt inside.

  “I do not deny it.”

  Stepping into the blessed warmth of the hall, Cristane placed her gloved hands over her ears. They felt like two miniature icicles.

  “And will you not deny me?”

  With preparations for supper underway, they were anything but alone. And yet, it felt as if only she and Rory stood in the entrance to the hall. His look had changed, his eyes filling with a fire that threatened to burn her.

  “Pardon, my lord?”

  “The pleasure of your company at supper. Take the meal with me, in the solar.”

  She started shaking her head before words could even escape her.

  “Nay, I could not.”

  “Cristane.” Rory moved toward her. “I would continue this discussion, privately. You have my word I’ll not repeat the mist
ake I made back in the lodge. But we must talk. My mother . . .”

  He stopped when the steward approached.

  “What of your mother?” she pressed.

  But Rory would say no more. She could sense this was not a subject for the steward’s ears. A private supper was a horribly bad idea given their recent history, but Cristane already knew she would accept his invitation. She wanted to finish their conversation too, and besides, she had never possessed enough willpower to resist this man.

  “Very well.”

  If he seemed surprised by her acquiescence, she was even more so by how quickly her resolve dissipated whenever Rory was near.

  Chapter 13

  Darron had entered his bedchamber unannounced and stood at its entrance, staring.

  “Kind of you to bathe and dress so finely for me,” he said, his mouth twitching. “But I assure you, I’ve already set my sights on someone.”

  Admittedly, Rory did not usually put so much effort into his appearance, but he did not wish to be called on it. Not when he couldn’t offer an explanation. Although Rory could not remember when he’d last kept anything from Darron, he was reluctant to speak of Cristane just yet. There was much to consider, and her place here was already precarious enough.

  “Very funny,” he said, pushing his way past his friend into the corridor.

  “Who is the woman you seek to impress?”

  Light from the wall torches flickered against the stone walls as they walked past. He felt his friend’s gaze on him but shrugged off the question. “I seek to impress no one. What word from Kerr?”

  “None yet.”

  “You’ve sent a messenger to Dromsley too?”

  “Aye.”

  “If McKinnon thinks to expand his holdings on the back of an unstable English monarch and a French prince, then he has underestimated the borderers once again.”

  “Is he not, in fact, a borderer himself?”

  Rory’s answer was immediate. “Nay. He will never be one of us.”

  Although his holding lay just northeast of Bradon Moor, which made him a borderer by definition, McKinnon broke the rules the others held sacred. He’d covered his attack on Clan Kerr’s cattle by making it look like it had been done by reivers. An act disrespectful to the Kerrs and the reivers. Which gave him an idea. “Tomorrow send another message. To Aaron Dunn. Tell him McKinnon is planning an attack.”