The Chief

by Monica McCarty

  The lid of the wooden chest squeaked as she raised it to replace the book in its hiding place beneath a thick stack of linen towels and extra bedclothes.

  Before she could close it, she startled at the sound of a splintering crash as the door to her chamber was thrown open.

  Her gaze shot to the doorway and her heart crashed to the floor.

  Andrew Fraser, dirty and still reeking of sweat from his day on the practice yard, stood in the doorway. Though not a tall man, he was thickly built, and in the six months since he’d returned, a single-minded determination to fight had restored most of the muscle he’d lost while imprisoned. But the other changes wrought by imprisonment were not so easy to repair. His face had aged well beyond his five and forty years, and gray had leached the brown from his hair. The broken bones and scars of battle on his face that she’d once thought so distinguished now served only to emphasize the coldness in his eyes.

  Eyes that were now pinned on her with suspicion. She wanted to crawl under the bed or disappear into the woodwork, but there was nowhere to hide.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  He can’t find the book. A cold trickle of fear dripped down her spine, but she forced herself to calm. Like any predator, he would smell it. Instead, she stood up slowly and shook out her skirts with apparent disconcern, but her knees were shaking. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Putting away some clothing that has just been cleaned and folded. Was there something you wanted?” She winced inwardly; even her voice had turned weak and submissive.

  “Where is your sister?”

  Her heart jumped. “Beatrix?” she squeaked, the high pitch completely erasing the attempt at nonchalance.

  His face turned a splotchy, angry red. He took a step toward her, and instinctively she cowered. “Of course, Beatrix, you stupid girl. What other sister do you have?”

  Christina cursed her fair skin. She could feel the heat of panic rising up her cheeks. “I’m-m s-sure she’s in the kitchens,” she stumbled out.

  Please don’t let her be where I think she is. Beatrix tried to hide it from her, but Christina suspected her sister still snuck away to the abbey when she could. The call to God was stronger than the reality of their father’s iron fist.

  He took another step toward her, his expression no longer simply angry but menacing. “You’re lying,” he growled, grabbing her by the arm. His strong fingers tightened around her like a steel clamp.

  Her heart fluttered wildly. Fear clutched her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his other hand lift. Her insides curled. She tried to pull away. “Please, don’t—”

  “Where is she?” he demanded, giving her a violent shake.

  The last shard of sun from the fading daylight caught the gold of his ring on his open hand. No! She turned her face away, anticipating the strike. Tears blurred her eyes. “I don’t know,” she sobbed, hating this feeling of helplessness. Hating that she could be reduced to a trembling mass in a matter of moments by a man she’d once revered.

  “Here she is, Father.”

  The sound of her brother’s voice filled her with relief. At eight and ten, three years her junior, Alex already showed incredible promise on the battlefield. He was also the one bright light in her father’s dark existence. Her three other brothers were too young, still away being fostered, but in Alex he saw something special.

  “Beatrix was down in the kitchens, helping to ready the evening meal,” Alex said, his smooth, easygoing voice having the intended effect of soothing her father’s violent temper.

  Alex had been home for only a few weeks, but Christina knew they’d found an ally. He would protect them as much as he could. If only he weren’t so young.

  Her father released her arm, enabling Christina to see Beatrix slide past Alex and step into the room.

  Christina nearly sighed with relief to see her.

  Her sister stood before their father like a penitent, hands crossed before her and head bowed beneath a long, pale-blue veil secured by a circlet of gold. Tall and feathery thin, Beatrix’s delicate features looked as if they’d been carved from the finest marble—except for the yellowish brown shadows marring her cheek. The sight of them filled Christina with rage. How could he hit her? How could anyone strike someone so lovely? It wasn’t just her sister’s angelic face, but the beauty inside. She was innocent. Pure. And achingly fragile.

  “You wished to see me, Father?” Beatrix asked, keeping her eyes lowered. Even her voiced sounded like an angel’s, soft and musical, with an ethereal breathiness.

  But her sister’s sweetness seemed only to further annoy her father, as if he couldn’t believe such weakness came from him. “Pack your things.” He looked to Christina almost as an afterthought. “Yours as well. We leave on the morrow.”

  “Leave?” Christina repeated, dumbfounded. “But where are we going?”

  Her father’s gaze hardened at the impertinence. They were to follow orders, not question them. Thus, she was surprised when he answered her. “Finlaggan Castle on Islay.”

  She would have been less shocked if he’d said London.

  It took even Alex aback. “The Western Isles?”

  It was like another world. Barbarian lands, full of…well, barbarians. Ferocious warlords and Norse-blooded pirates who ruled over the western seaboard with virtually unfettered authority. It must have been the sheer shock that gave Christina the courage to ask, “But whatever for?”

  Her father’s hard, black gaze narrowed on her menacingly, as if he’d like nothing more than to grind her under his heel. So when he smiled instead of striking her, she knew the answer was going to be bad. Very bad.

  “To forge an alliance.”

  “But why do you need us?” Christina was surprised to hear her sister’s voice. Beatrix rarely found the courage to address their father directly.

  “Why do you think?” he challenged. “One of you will marry him.”

  The three siblings gasped in unison. Marriage? To some brutish warlord? God have mercy! The color drained from Christina’s face. She shook her head mutely; she couldn’t do it.

  Her father drew up as if he intended to inform her otherwise, but then apparently reconsidered. “It will probably be Beatrix because she is the elder.”

  A wave of relief swelled over her. Thank God.

  Then she looked at her sister.

  “No,” Beatrix whispered, terror choking her voice. She started to swoon, but Alex caught her around her tiny waist and held her against him.

  Something twisted in Christina’s chest seeing them like that, her frail, innocent sister sagging against a big, mail-clad warrior. Though still young, Alex was dark-haired like her, but tall and broad-shouldered. Next to him, Beatrix looked painfully vulnerable. Like a butterfly in an iron claw.

  Beatrix would die under some vile brute. Christina knew it with certainty that could not be avoided.

  Without thinking, Christina stepped forward. Her stomach tossed, but she fought back the panic. “No, Father. I’ll do it. I’ll marry him.”

  Her father looked back and forth between the two girls, appraising them as if they were two horses at market. For once he seemed pleased with what he saw. “You’ll both come, and he will choose which of you pleases him more.”

  Without another word he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving both girls reeling in his wake.

  Christina grabbed the wooden bedpost to steady herself. Beatrix was still plastered to her brother’s side like a floppy poppet of rags. Alex stroked her head as she wept softly against his shoulder.

  Over their sister’s veiled head, their eyes met. Christina read the compassion in her brother’s gaze. They both knew he could do nothing to stop their father. That the girls had not been betrothed before this was only because their father had been imprisoned and King Edward had not gotten to them yet. Marriage was what was expected of them. She’d known it. Ignored it, perhaps, but in the back of her mind she always knew this day would come.


  A vision of Lancelot sprang to mind before she quickly forced it back. Only a dream. But never could she have anticipated this.

  “Maybe he won’t want either of us?” she ventured hopefully.

  The look of compassion only deepened. Alex shook his head as if she were sadly deluded. “I very much doubt that, sister. You and Beatrix, well,” he paused uncomfortably. “You are very beautiful. In different ways, perhaps, but equally exquisite. Beatrix looks like an angel and you…” His cheeks reddened. “You don’t.”

  It should be a wicked thing to say, but he made it sound as if it were just the opposite. Her brows wrinkled together. “I don’t understand?”

  Alex grimaced, looking as if he’d rather be doing anything other than talking about this. “It’s your mouth and eyes.”

  “What’s the matter with them?” Her eyes were maybe a little slanted and her mouth perhaps a tad wide, but she didn’t realize that something was so horribly wrong.

  He made a sound of exasperation. “Nothing. It’s just I’ve heard men say it makes them think of sin.”

  Her eyes widened, and self-consciously she covered her mouth with her hand. “Really? How awful!”

  He nodded solemnly. “I’m afraid so. Between the two of you, the man is going to be hard pressed to choose.”

  Beatrix’s soft whimpering was the only sound that could be heard in the forlorn silence that followed. The dread of inevitability settled over her, but Christina knew what she had to do. Beatrix might be the elder by a year, but Christina had always taken care of her, and she would continue to do so.

  She swallowed the lump of fear knotted in her throat. She would just have to make sure that if it came down to it, the vile brute chose her.

  Finlaggan Castle, Isle of Islay

  “I’m not interested.” Tor leaned back in his chair, eyeing the handful of men seated around the large circular table in the council chamber of Finlaggan—MacDonald’s stronghold on Islay and the ancient center of the Kingdom of the Isles.

  The round table was not a democratic allusion to Britain’s famous hero, but a practical solution to best take advantage of the shape of the room. Instead of enjoying the luxury of MacDonald’s new tower house, they were gathered in the ancient roundhouse beside it. The dark and drafty crude stone building was said to have been built before the time of Somerled—the great king from whom the MacDonalds, MacDougalls, MacSorleys, and MacRuairis were all descended—and used by the kings of the Isles for centuries. His host knew well the power of tradition. At Finlaggan, round table or not, Angus Og MacDonald, descendant of the mighty Somerled, reigned supreme.

  For a typical war council, the room would be packed with chiefs, chieftains, and their large retinues. But not today. In addition to his host, only four other men were present: William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews; Sir Andrew Fraser, a Scot nobleman familiar to him in name if not in person; Erik MacSorley, Angus Og’s kinsman and Gille-coise henchman, reputed to be the best seafarer in the isles; and Sir Neil Campbell, MacDonald’s uncle and a kinsman to Bruce, from a clan of growing importance with lands near Loch Awe.

  The man behind the proposition, Robert Bruce, was being watched by Edward too closely to attend in person.

  Lamberton and MacDonald exchanged glances after Tor’s pronouncement, with the bishop apparently deciding to take a turn to attempt to persuade him. “Perhaps you don’t understand—”

  “I understand completely,” Tor said, cutting off what was sure to be a long-winded explanation. “You want me to train and lead a secret, highly specialized killing team to aid Bruce in a treasonous rebellion against Edward.”

  The prelate shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t put it exactly like that. The team will be used for many purposes—reconnaissance, intelligence, strategy, and special missions.”

  “Aye, the most dangerous ones,” Tor said dryly, amused by the bishop’s attempt to prevaricate. “But you mistake my objection. It’s not the killing or the danger that prevents me from accepting your offer”—He’d made his name for exactly those reasons, which he knew was why they’d come to him—“it’s because it’s not my war and I have no interest in making it so.”

  Otherwise, he might be tempted. The idea was just outlandish enough to intrigue him. The most elite warriors in the Highlands and Isles all together in one guard? They would be unstoppable. Nearly invincible.

  “But it is your war,” Lamberton insisted. “The Isles are part of Scotland now, and you are Scottish subjects, despite what some of you may choose to think.” The bishop’s sly observation earned a few chuckles around the table. Most of the local men felt as Tor did—he was an Islander, not a Scot. Lamberton gave him a pointed look. “Eventually, you will have to pick a side.”

  Tor lifted a brow. “Whereas you and Bruce change sides so frequently it’s hard to keep up.”

  The bishop prickled, his round face growing flush with indignation. “I fight for Scotland.”

  “Aye, and Bruce fights for whatever side Comyn does not, and MacDonald here fights for whatever side MacDougall does not. I understand the intricacies of Scottish politics well enough. What I don’t see is any benefit or reason for my clan to choose sides right now. Nor is it clear—despite your secret army—that your side would not be the losing one.” He ignored the burst of angry rumbling that followed. With the treasonous journey these men were about to embark on, they needed to hear the truth. “I’ve no love of the English king or John MacDougall, but they make powerful enemies.”

  “Aye,” MacDonald agreed. “And getting more powerful by the minute.” He leaned toward Tor, his goblet coming down hard on the table. “Do nothing and you will feel the squeeze of Edward’s iron fist soon enough even on Skye. Edward might be far away, but his new minion MacDougall is not.”

  “All the more reason not to anger him.” Though Tor’s sympathies lay with Angus Og MacDonald, he’d carefully avoided taking sides in the feud between the kinsmen. He didn’t need John MacDougall breathing down his neck; he had more pressing concerns. But unfortunately, Nicolson had yet to arrive.

  “We will make it worth your while,” Lamberton insisted, changing tactics and trying to dispel the growing tension. “Fraser here has two unmarried daughters, both of whom are very beautiful and come with rich tochers of land.”

  “Which won’t be worth anything if you lose,” Tor said bluntly. “Edward will dispossess all who fight against him of their land and titles—after he divests them of their heads. I’m rather attached to mine.”

  “He has you there,” MacSorley said with a good-natured laugh. “Edward has quite a growing collection of Scottish ornaments adorning the gates of his castles.”

  MacDonald gave his henchman a glowering look, but MacSorley just shrugged with an unrepentant grin.

  The offer of marriage did not tempt Tor. He’d been married before and felt no urgency to take another wife. He had sons. His wife had died almost eight years ago while giving birth to their second son. Murdoch and Malcolm were being fostered on the Isle of Lewis.

  If he married again, it would be to seek an alliance with the western seaboard—Ireland or the Isle of Man—to increase his clan’s power and prestige, not with the daughter of a Scottish noble. But not wishing to give offense, he turned to Fraser. “I thank you for your offer. I’m sure your daughters are very beautiful”—as all ladies of noble birth were in marriage negotiations—“but I’ve no wish to take a wife.”

  Fraser nodded, but Tor could see his cursory dismissal had angered the proud nobleman. Something about the old warrior bothered him. In a room full of battle-hardened warriors, Fraser’s eyes burned too hotly. Emotion like that was dangerous; it had no place on the battlefield—or in the council chamber. Cool and controlled were the mark of a shrewd leader and warrior.

  MacDonald leaned back and gave Tor an amused look, some of his earlier anger fading. “Perhaps you will change your mind when you meet them?”

  Tor shook his head. “My mind is made u
p.” Unlike his brother, no woman—no matter how beautiful—would ever make him lay aside his duty. “You’ll have to find someone else to lead your secret band of Highlanders.”

  —

  Over the long journey from Stirlingshire to Islay, Christina had almost succeeded in convincing herself that it wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe Tormod MacLeod—she’d learned the name of the Island chief her father sought to wed her to—wasn’t a brute at all but a gallant and chivalrous knight.

  The moment she arrived at Finlaggan, however, she knew her imagination had run away with her again. It was worse than she’d originally feared. Much worse. Never had she seen so many terrifying-looking men in one place. Nay, not men, but warriors. These Islanders looked as if they did nothing but fight. It was in their blood and bred into their bones—from the fierce, battle-scarred visages locked in perpetual scowls to their extraordinary size.

  The latter proved truly disconcerting.

  Even without chain mail—they wore shockingly little armor—the men from the Isles seemed taller and broader than their Lowland counterparts. Everywhere she looked stood men well over six feet tall, stacked with layer upon layer of bulky muscle. Their arms in particular—thick and ripped with rock-hard muscle—seemed built for wielding the terrifying two-handed swords, war hammers, battleaxes, and other instruments of warfare they wore strapped to their bodies. And it wasn’t just the men; the women, too, were tall and strong. A veritable race of giants, or at least it seemed so to her. Unlike her tall and willowy sister, if Christina stood on her tiptoes she was lucky to reach a hand over five feet.

  They probably would have drowned her at birth.

  The men wore their hair to their shoulders, some with braids at the temple, and a disproportionately large number were fair-headed.

  Probably all that Viking blood, she thought with a shiver, feeling a sharp pang of empathy with her forebears. How terrifying it must have been to see those longships appear on the horizon and know that these fierce barbarians were bearing down on them to wreak havoc and destruction in their pillaging wake.