The Chief

by Monica McCarty

  Tor frowned. MacSorley had jumped to the same conclusion as Christina. “I’ve no claim on the lass; Janet is free to do as she pleases.” Tor thought back to earlier in the day, when he and Janet had spoken in the Hall. He’d told her to take the day off, but she’d insisted on coming. “It will help me keep my mind off it,” she’d said. “Today is a difficult day,” he explained. “Janet’s husband was killed five years ago this day.”

  “Ah,” MacSorley said. “I see.”

  They had turned to head toward the broch when Tor noticed that Campbell had not moved. His senses seemed fixed on something. Watching him, Tor felt a chill sweep over him. Though useful, Campbell’s uncanny ability to sense things took a bit of getting used to.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Campbell met his gaze. “We’re being watched.”

  —

  From her perch high in the tree, Christina moved a branch aside to try to get a better view over the wide stretch of brown moorland to the ancient broch a few hundred yards away. She wished she could get a little closer, but not wanting to risk discovery, she’d been forced to stay back in the copse of trees for cover.

  When she’d made the spur-of-the-moment decision to follow Lady Janet, she hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this. Rather than a secret love bower, she’d apparently stumbled on to some kind of training camp.

  She should have been relieved. Her fears about her husband and Lady Janet appeared to be unfounded. And at first she was, but the longer she watched, the more certain she became that something odd was going on here.

  Most of the warriors were armored for war in the Highland fashion—instead of mail, wearing simple leather war coats studded with metal, leines, and terrifying Norse-looking steel nasal helms that hid most of their face. One man, however, wore a habergeon of mail, a tabard, and a more typical steel helm with a visor. She frowned. The wyvern crest looked familiar.

  Though she had grown accustomed to being surrounded by tall, well-muscled men, even for Islanders this group seemed…extreme. Yet despite the helms and the plethora of prime male specimens, she’d picked out her husband right away. It wasn’t just the noble bearing that gave him away, but the authority and command emanating from him.

  As she watched the men go through various training exercises from archery practice, to spear throwing, to tossing boulders, to using ropes to climb to the top of the broch, Christina began to sense that something was odd. These were no ordinary warriors.

  During the boulder toss, one of the men had lifted an enormous stone that must have weighed hundreds of pounds over his head as if it were hollow. Even Tor had strained to get it off the ground. When the other warrior laughed, her husband hadn’t seemed to mind and had laughed along with him.

  Although Tor was clearly in charge, depending on the task a different man would take the lead. She’d first noticed it during the archery practice, when the man who was clearly better than the others moved to the forefront and started issuing instructions.

  She’d been watching for an hour or so when the men broke off into smaller groups. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she probably should be getting back. It wasn’t that long a walk back to the village, but the terrain wasn’t easy, especially in the damp.

  But then she saw Tor lift his sword from the scabbard at his back and decided to stay for a while longer.

  The contest started out civilly enough—as civil as swinging heavy, razor-sharp steel blades at one another can be. It was brutal, and her heart still pounded, but without the deadly edge of the battle she’d witnessed with MacRuairi, she was able to watch it without feeling as if her knees were about to buckle.

  It was almost like a dance, with each man taking turns attacking and evading the two-handed swings of the blade. She squinted into the distance, thinking that there was something vaguely familiar about his opponent. But with the steel helm on, she couldn’t make out his face.

  After a few minutes, Christina’s heart started to beat a little faster. The exchange of blows grew more intense, the sound of steel crashing against steel louder. Suddenly, the practice didn’t look quite so friendly. She scooted forward and had to catch herself, forgetting that she was sitting on a branch.

  She gasped and blinked when, in one smooth move, Tor wrapped his leg around the other man’s, grabbed the arm that had been moving forward in a strike, and flipped him over onto his back.

  In the blink of an eye, Tor had his blade at the other man’s neck. For a horrifying moment she thought he meant to run him through. It was just like before. And just like before she made a small, involuntary sound. This time, thankfully, he didn’t hear her.

  She sighed with relief when he reached down to help the other man to his feet.

  Eyes glued to the drama unfolding on the practice yard, she hadn’t realized that a few of the other men had gathered around to watch as well.

  But she did now.

  She smothered the gasp of surprise with her hand. They’d removed their helms, and even from the distance, she recognized two of the men right away. Though perhaps she should have recognized Lachlan MacRuairi before from his distinctive lazy stance. If seeing her husband’s most reviled enemy wasn’t confusing enough, it was even harder to explain the presence of an Englishman. She’d met Sir Alex only once, a few years before her father was imprisoned, but the handsome young squire was not one a young girl would soon forget. Why was her husband training one of Edward’s knights?

  The man who’d been fighting Tor took off his helm. MacSorley. She should have guessed. She’d almost forgotten how MacDonald’s henchman had followed Tor’s orders to sail after Beatrix without question.

  Her gaze caught on another man and it took her a moment to catch her breath. Good gracious, what a face! He was masculine perfection—a bronzed Apollo with golden caramel hair and divinely chiseled features—easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He looked like he belonged on a pedestal.

  The men started to move off toward the broch and Christina figured they were breaking for the midday meal. Tor lingered for a few moments, speaking with MacSorley and another man.

  What was going on here?

  Her husband’s warning came back to her. Was this the trouble he spoke of? She bit her lip, suddenly having second thoughts about following Lady Janet.

  Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea. She’d known he might be angry but at the time hadn’t cared. Pleasing him certainly hadn’t worked, so what did she have to lose?

  “Do not leave the castle unprotected.” She chewed on her lip. A little late to remember her promise now.

  Suddenly anxious to return to the castle, she ventured a look toward the yard, seeing that the rest of the men had gone inside. She breathed a sigh of relief and started down the tree. It was an easy climb and she jumped down the last few feet, landing softly on the muddy, leaf-spattered ground.

  Her nose scrunched up and she wished she’d worn an older pair of sturdy boots. Her light leather slippers were not made for gallivanting across the rugged Highland landscape in the winter—summer either, for that matter.

  She retraced her steps through the trees, feeling better about her adventure with each stride. She might not have all the answers, but at least she knew her husband was not leaving to be with another woman. And assuming no one paid undue attention to her absence, he would never know about her wee excursion.

  As she picked her way through the trees, Christina felt a prickle of disquiet. A prickle she attributed to the eerie stillness of the forest. Quickening her step, she could just make out the edge of the tree line when the hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. Someone was…

  Before she could turn around, she was grabbed from behind and pulled harshly against a rock-hard chest. Icy panic washed over her. She opened her mouth to scream, but he clasped a hand over her mouth and whispered in her ear, “I wouldn’t advise it, wife. Not when I have my hands so close to that lovely neck of yours.”

 
Her heart stopped, then jumped again. Cold and hard as steel, his voice was without mercy. Any relief she might have felt to discover that the man who held her was her husband died under the terrifying prospect of his rage.

  She’d never faced the warrior who struck fear across the Highlands, but she sensed that was about to change.

  —

  The moment of shock upon discovering that it was his wife who was spying on them was replaced by almost blind rage.

  Disbelief. Fear. The possibility of betrayal. The divergent threads of emotions wound together, twisting and swirling inside him in a torrential storm just waiting to be unfurled. Every inch of his body strained against the pressure. His blood pounded, his skin flared hot, his heart hammered in his ears. Only the softness of the body pressed against his and the knowledge of how easily he could crush her held him in check.

  Tor met Campbell’s gaze, saw him shake his head, and knew that at least she was alone. With a sharp nod, he gave the silent order for his men to leave.

  When they were gone, he flipped her around and, holding her shoulders, forced a deep breath from his lungs. He stared into her dark eyes, trying to ignore the tinge of guilt he felt to see the white imprint of his hand on her mouth and the fear in her wide gaze.

  She should be scared. Very scared.

  “You’d better have a damned good excuse for spying on me.”

  Her eyes widened even more. “I wasn’t spying on you. How could you think that?”

  He didn’t want to, but damn it, he couldn’t ignore the possibility. “Maybe it’s the fact that I find you hiding in a tree watching me. Or the fact that you followed me. Or that I instructed you to stay out of matters that do not concern you.” His jaw hardened and his gaze sharpened. “Or maybe it’s that I recall the treachery that brought us together.” She flinched as if he’d struck her. She tried to pull away, but he wasn’t done. He leaned closer, forcing her gaze to his. “Did someone ask you to follow me, Christina?”

  Despite the obvious threat, her little chin jutted up. He stood a hand over six feet and outweighed her by at least double, had killed hundreds of men on the battlefield, and was one of the most feared warriors in the land, but she looked at him as if he were smaller than a midge for the mere suggestion.

  “Of course not. I would never betray you.” Everything about her voice and expression said that she told the truth. “I hoped you knew by now—no matter how our marriage started—that you could trust me.”

  He trusted few, and none completely. Trust got people killed. “If you are not spying for someone, then explain how you came to be here alone in a tree.”

  She bit her lip, color staining her pale cheeks. “I was in the village, taking some of Cook’s honey cakes to wee Iain, who’s sick—they’re his favorite, you know”—he didn’t—“when I saw Lady Janet and decided to follow her.”

  The tic at his temple throbbed. She acted as if she’d done nothing more than gone for a pleasant stroll rather than ignored every instruction he’d given her. He took a step toward her, tightening his fists, fighting for patience. “So am I to understand that the reason I find you here is because in a fit of jealousy you decided to follow the woman you thought I was bedding, even after I told you that I was not, into the countryside…alone?” His voice shook with anger. When he thought of what could have happened to her…it made him damned near lose his mind. “God’s wounds, Christina, do you know the danger you could have been in?” Many of the possible consequences flashed through his head, including an image of her with that torn gown. “You promised me you would not leave the castle without a guard.”

  He’d backed her up against a tree, and because she had nowhere left to retreat with him looming over her, she nodded with an apologetic wince.

  She was too close. He could smell her sweet, flowery scent, and it stirred his anger hotter. Did she always have to smell so damned good? It must be some cruel test of restraint intended to drive him half-crazed.

  “You make it sound so foolish, but what else was I to think? You tell me nothing about where you are going for days on end, yet it was clear that you had confided in your leman.”

  Because he was trying to protect her, damn it. He didn’t want her anywhere near this. It chilled his blood to think what danger any inadvertent knowledge of Bruce’s guard could put her in. This was treason, and the fact that she was a woman would not stop Edward of England. “Janet cooks for us, that is all. I asked her and she agreed—without asking questions.”

  But Christina ignored the jibe. “What is going on out here anyway?” she asked, wrinkling her tiny nose. He shot her a warning glance that she did not heed. “Who are these men, and why are you training them in secret?”

  The cold in his bones could only be described as fear. “You will return to the castle, forget everything you have seen, and never come here again. Do you understand?” He was shouting. No one made him lose control like this. She shrank back, but he took her arm and forced her to look at him. The pounding in his heart would not subside. He wanted to shake her until she listened to him. “You are to never ask me about this again.”

  Only inches separated them. He’d never tried to intimidate a woman with his size, but if it made her see the seriousness, then he would do whatever he had to. By all that was holy, she should be terrified. But it seemed his wee wife trusted him more than she should. Right now, he didn’t trust himself.

  A mutinous look crossed her delicate features. “Perhaps I shall ask Sir Alex,” she said, meeting his black gaze without flinching. Hell, she’d recognized the bloody Englishman. “Or Lachlan MacRuairi.” She gave him a coy smile. “He said if I ever needed—”

  Tor snapped. He pulled her hard against his chest, a dark emotion washing over him. “MacRuairi is a viper. Stay away from him.”

  Eyes wide, she nodded. Whatever that black emotion was, she saw it—or heard it in his voice—and fear quieted any thoughts of argument.

  “I didn’t mean it,” she said, her mouth trembling. “I will never mention it again, if that is what you wish.”

  He froze. What was he doing? She was looking at him as if he might strike her. God’s wounds, not all men were like her father. He would never hurt her, he only wanted to protect her. It was just that she’d made him…jealous.

  But he didn’t get jealous.

  His chest was so tight he couldn’t breathe. He pulled her toward him, knowing it was the only way to get relief. He couldn’t fight it. She was too close, and the temptation was too strong.

  Their eyes met; he was drowning. “God, what do you want from me?”

  Her eyes widened at the raw emotion in his voice. But before she could answer, he bent his head and did what he’d longed to do since almost the first moment he’d met her. With a groan, he covered her mouth with his.

  He smothered her gasp of surprise with his mouth. Christina’s heart slammed into her chest at contact. It was incredible—nothing like before. The perfunctory brush of his lips on their wedding day could hardly compare to this fierce onslaught. To this possession.

  The exquisite pressure, the incredible sensation, the closeness. It felt perfect. So right. As if her mouth had been made for this. Only for this. With him.

  She felt as if she’d just plunged into a dark pool and was drowning in sensation. The heat. The hard strength of his body. His sultry scent. The dark, spicy taste of him. He overwhelmed her senses with the sheer force of his raw masculinity.

  And his mouth…sliding, tasting, moving over hers. Pure heaven! His lips were firm and every bit as soft as they looked, coaxing—nay, demanding—her response.

  So she surrendered. Willingly. Sinking into his fiery embrace, returning his kiss with all the eager enthusiasm that her inexperience could manage.

  He groaned, drawing her closer, fitting her body to his. She could feel his desire hard against her stomach. Warmth rushed through her, concentrating between her legs. At the sensitive tips of her breasts. Her skin flushed tight. Closer, her b
ody demanded. She melted against him, dissolving deeper in to the kiss. Into him.

  The kiss intensified. Grew harder. Faster. More insistent. She moaned, opening her mouth against his, feeling the warm sweep of his tongue.

  She gasped. The raw, carnal passion of it momentarily stunned her. But he gave her no quarter and no time to think, assailing her shock with the dark sensations wrought by his wicked kiss.

  He probed. He plundered. Taking more and more with each sensual stroke. Deeper. Hotter. Wetter. Until her heart fluttered wildly in her chest and heat washed through her in heavy, quivering waves.

  She breathed him in, never imagining a kiss could be like this. So powerful. It wasn’t just lust that she felt in his kiss. There was an edge of something far deeper. Something that grabbed her heart and tugged. In his kiss, she felt the yearning, the raw emotion, he’d always held back. It was tender and erotic, yet with a fierceness that took her breath away.

  His tongue swirled against hers, demanding more. Tentatively, she joined him. Circling, twining, sliding her tongue against his in a warm, delicious dance that penetrated right to her toes.

  He kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough of her. As if he was desperate for her. As if he could claim her soul with his mouth and tongue. His fingers threaded through her hair, angling her mouth more fully against his. She could feel the warm pressure of his fingers at the back of her head. The scrape of his stubbled jaw on her skin. The heavy pounding of his heart against hers.

  He groaned, sinking deeper into her mouth, sinking deeper into her. The weight of his body pressed down on her. His hand squeezed her breast, his hips rocked against hers, in the same sensual rhythm as his tongue thrusting in her mouth.

  She moaned, her fingers digging into his broad, muscled shoulders. She felt weak, boneless, her body aching for him to give her the release that she craved.

  His hand skimmed her bottom, cupping her and lifting her so that he was wedged right where she needed pressure.

  God, it felt so good. She moaned into his mouth, rubbing against the thick column of steel at her apex until her breath sharpened.