The Chief

by Monica McCarty

  To hell with Scotland; his duty was to his clan. “You sound like your blasted cousin.”

  “Angus Og is a wise man—think about it.” And with that he finally left him alone.

  Damn MacSorley to Hades! Tor didn’t need his opinion. He’d done his own analysis—many times over. Even if MacSorley was right, nothing had changed. He still could not justify involving his clan in a war that did not threaten them.

  Two more weeks, he thought. Two more weeks and his obligation would be fulfilled. The danger of discovery—and his treasonous training of men for Bruce—would be over. He would have satisfied his part of the bargain by training the men and succeeded in getting Nicolson off his back.

  Things would go back to the way they were, even if it killed him to think of his men fighting without him: He would go back to being neutral in Scotland’s war and in the feud between MacDougall and MacDonald.

  No matter how much he personally wanted otherwise, his duty to his clan always came first. Always.

  —

  If Christina had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to do something important, she knew this was it.

  Knowing how adamant Tor had been about her leaving the castle, she searched for Lady Janet or Colyne—both of whom she knew Tor trusted—but was unable to find either. Not daring to involve anyone else, she knew she had to try to find him herself. She wasn’t sure he was at the broch, but given the note it seemed likely.

  It was easier than she expected. The only difficulty was in attempting to get on a birlinn to the village. The guardsman at the dock had initially refused to allow her to go. She was at a loss as to what to do until she remembered her husband’s vow. Apparently, he’d kept his word to inform his men of her condition to their marriage, because when she reminded the guardsman that a birlinn was to be at her disposal whenever she wished to go, he relented.

  She allowed a handful of guardsmen to accompany her to the church, but then insisted that she would be fine from there. Once they’d left, she’d made her way back to the forest, retracing the steps she’d taken to the broch that first time. It was dark, and she’d not dared bring a torch, but fortunately the moon was nearly full and bright enough to penetrate the gossamer veil of mist that clouded the cool night air. She was too worried to be scared; her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t remember how to get there.

  She walked slowly and purposefully, keeping her head down to watch her footing. The ground was uneven and she stumbled more than once. But she was nearly there. A few more minutes and she would be near the place where she’d watched from the woods.

  She stopped, checking behind her again to make sure she wasn’t being followed. All she saw was the tall, menacing shadows of trees. But she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was being watched. It was perfectly quiet—too quiet.

  All of a sudden she felt herself wrenched against a steel-clad chest, the unmistakable cold edge of a dirk pressed against her neck.

  A voice growled in her ear. “Your name, lass.”

  This time it wasn’t her husband. “Lady Christina,” she stammered. “Wife of the Chief of MacLeod.”

  He swore, turned her around, and tossed back her hood.

  She found herself staring into the angry gaze of Sir Alexander Seton. Taking advantage of his surprise, she curtsied and said, “Sir Alex, it’s been a long time.”

  “My lady,” he bowed automatically, always the gallant knight no matter the circumstances. “What are you doing out here?”

  “One of my husband’s men has betrayed him and I intercepted a message. An attack is planned for tonight and I had to warn him.”

  His expression hardened. “You’re sure about this?”

  She nodded.

  Sir Alex gave her a long look. “You’d better be.”

  On that ominous note, something long and metal—a farming tool, perhaps?—emerged from the shadows behind his head, coming down hard on his steel bascinet. With a pained grunt, he crumpled in a mail-clad heap at her feet.

  She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, seeing a figure in a dark cloak emerge from the shadows. She opened her mouth to scream. Too late. Something hard hit the back of her head. She had the strangest thought that she heard a muffled “sorry,” before darkness swallowed her.

  —

  Christina woke to the non-too-gentle sounds of a slap and “damn fool Englishman.” At first she thought the voice was directed at her, but when she opened her eyes it was to see an enormous, fearsome-looking warrior leaning over Sir Alex, attempting to rouse him.

  She’d seen him before. Dark, with a heavy brow and a face more rugged than handsome, he looked like a man who’d been in too many late-night tavern brawls. Then she remembered: He was the warrior who’d lifted the big boulder as if it had weighed next to nothing.

  She must have made a sound because he left Sir Alex’s side and immediately came to hers. “Are you all right, lass?”

  “I think so.” He helped her sit up. A moment of dizziness quickly cleared. Reaching around behind her head, she felt a small lump but thankfully no blood. She was conscious of his heavy gaze on her. “Sir Alex? Is he all right?” she asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “You know the Englishman?”

  She realized she hadn’t told him who she was. “I’m Lady Christina Fraser.”

  If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “MacLeod’s wife?”

  She nodded. “And you are…?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Raider.” Apparently, he didn’t want to tell her his name, begging the question why.

  “You are from the borders?”

  She saw the spark of surprise in his gaze—she’d guessed the source of the epithet correctly.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked, changing the subject. “What happened?”

  It all came back to her in a rush and she jumped to her feet in panic. How long had she been unconscious? “What time is it?” she asked frantically. Before he could answer, she grabbed him by the front of his cotun. He didn’t budge an inch. Goodness gracious, he was even larger than her husband. What was wrong with these Highland warriors? Were they all built like mountains? “I’ll explain everything, but there is no time. You must take me to my husband.”

  He didn’t look happy about it, but her tone must have impressed upon him the urgency of the situation. “Can you walk?”

  She nodded, and he helped her to her feet. Sir Alex was a large man, but this border “Raider” lifted him off the ground and tossed him like a bag of flour over his shoulder—none too gently, either. It seemed he had no fondness for the young knight. Without further discussion, he led her through the trees.

  When they entered the clearing before the broch, he hooted like an owl, obviously giving some kind of signal. Despite the time of night, there were a handful of men practicing with various weapons—swords and axes, from what she could tell. A man stood at the entry, and she knew from the size of the shadow that it was her husband. Her heart filled with relief to know that she had arrived in time. She’d done it.

  He started walking toward her and she ran forward to meet him. The others gathered round, curious as to what was going on.

  “Christina?” he asked, his voice sharp with disbelief. “What’s happened? Why are you here? I thought I warned you never to come here again.”

  She heard the spark of anger and rushed into his arms before it could flare. They closed around her automatically, but he looked away from her long enough to see the big man drop Sir Alex at his feet. Christina was relieved to see the young knight was stirring.

  Tor swore and grabbed her by the shoulders, his eyes raking her from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “A bump on the head, that’s all. This man Raider found us.” Tor raised a questioning brow, but the brawny warrior merely shrugged as if to say he would explain later.

  “Who did this to you?” his voice was as cold and deadly as she’d ever heard it.

  “I don�
��t know, but you must listen—there isn’t much time.” In her eagerness to tell him, it all came out in a jumbled mess. Noticing his growing impatience, she simply handed him the note. He held it up to a torch. “It’s Rhuairi’s handwriting,” she said, not knowing how much he would be able to read. “He knows where you are and is planning an attack for tonight.”

  “It looks like Rhuairi’s handwriting, but it doesn’t make any sense.”

  She didn’t have a chance to ask why. He called out, and a moment later two men emerged from the broch. She paled, recognizing Rhuairi as one and Colyne as the other.

  If Rhuairi was the spy, what was he doing here? He should be long gone by now.

  She’d been so certain she was right that even when the possibility that she wasn’t hit, it didn’t quite sink in.

  Rhuairi came over to read the note. He scanned it quickly and handed it back to Tor. “It’s a good likeness of my writing, but I did not write this.”

  Tor’s voice was deceptively calm, but she sensed the burgeoning storm. “How did you say you came by this note?”

  She explained about her exchange with Brother John.

  “And he said he was going into the village?” Tor asked.

  She nodded, and he swore. The look he gave her was not full of gratitude, but of derision—as if he couldn’t believe she could be so stupid.

  “When?” he asked, shaking her shoulders. “How long were you unconscious?”

  Her eyes widened, completely taken aback by the reaction that was so different from the one she expected. “I d-don’t know,” she stuttered. “An hour, maybe longer.”

  He looked to the man Raider for confirmation. “I was patrolling to the east, Seton to the west. When the Englishman didn’t answer the call, I went looking for him. It could have been an hour, maybe more.”

  “You didn’t think to go after whoever did this?”

  Raider’s mouth clamped in a hard line. “I thought it more important not to leave the lass alone and to bring her to you.”

  Even when the truth that she’d been tricked stared her in the face, she didn’t want to believe it. There had to be some explanation. “You’re wrong about Brother John. It couldn’t be him.” He wouldn’t do this to me. “He doesn’t know I can read.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about that?” The look her husband gave her could have cut a diamond. “You’d better hope you are right. You have no idea what you might have done.”

  Without another word to her, he ordered two of the men to the village via the woods to see what they could find, and the others to ready the birlinn to return to Dunvegan by boat.

  Christina was numb with horror. Had she led the spy right to her husband? “Sorry.” The voice in the darkness made sense now. She wanted to put her hand over her ears and block out the truth. Dear Lord, there has to be a mistake. Please let there be a mistake.

  —

  Tor was grim as he waited for Lamont and MacLean to return from the village. But he already knew. The clerk had followed Christina through the woods and was long gone by now. It had been dark, but Tor had to assume he’d seen enough to jeopardize everything.

  Christina’s interference had put both his clan and the secrecy of Bruce’s guard at grave risk. Twenty years of war and struggle to restore his clan, the lives of his clansmen, and his own life hung in the balance. If the clerk connected him to Bruce, his life, if King Edward got hold of him, wouldn’t be worth spit. But he wouldn’t suffer alone. His clan would go down with him. And if the clerk had recognized any of Bruce’s secret guard, they would have targets on their heads as well.

  How could he allow this to happen? He knew better. He’d wanted to think he and Christina were different. Had he learned nothing from his parents’ deaths?

  This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid.

  He was a damned fool. He thought she’d understood. He never should have confided in her. In trying to please her, he’d let down his guard and allowed her to get too close. He’d allowed a woman to come between him and duty to his clan.

  He was so furious that he didn’t trust himself to talk to or even look at her. But he was painfully aware of her seated beside him on the dais, wide-eyed and pale. He hardened his heart, not letting the quiver of her lip or the slight shaking of her shoulders get to him. Never again would she get to him.

  Blood pounded in his ears, and he was barely able to hear as the men returned and confirmed what he’d already known. The clerk was gone. No one had seen him leave, but Tor had to assume he’d had help getting away.

  His jaw locked, clenching so tight he could feel the veins in his neck bulge. He barked out orders to ready the ships. They had to find the traitor before he could pass on whatever information he’d learned. Failure wasn’t an option.

  The men cleared the solar. He gave some last-minute instructions to Colyne and Murdoch to prepare the castle for war and stood to leave. The room was empty except for his wife.

  She should have just let him go, but she never knew when to stop. She grabbed his arm, the soft press of her hand like a brand. On his skin. In his chest. But his continuing weakness for her only fueled his anger.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, wringing her hands and gazing up at him with those big, beseeching eyes. “I was only trying to help.”

  He held perfectly still, despite the maelstrom raging inside him. Not one flicker of the emotion showed on his face. Her pleas would not penetrate. Not this time. Never again would he allow her—anyone—to compromise his duty.

  “Help?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Apparently, it is difficult for you to understand, but I don’t want, nor do I need, your help. You are my wife, by God, not one of my men. I warned you not to interfere. I told you to never—under any circumstances—come to the broch again. Your ‘help’ has put my clan, the men I’ve been training, and me in grave danger. If the clerk is not found, King Edward will have a price on my head big enough to send even my closest allies after me. You have no idea what you’ve done.”

  Though she looked ready to fall apart, she stiffened at his words. “You’re right, given that you’ve never seen fit to tell me.”

  He struggled to maintain his control. Only she would dare reproach him after what had just happened. His gaze darkened, biting like the blistery edge of his voice. “With good cause, after what you just did. This is exactly why I didn’t want you involved. I should have known better than to trust you with any of this.”

  Her temporary bravado faltered, as she seemed to realize the gravity of her actions. “You have every right to be angry, but I thought you were in danger. I could never have guessed what Brother John intended. I took every precaution—”

  “Which obviously weren’t enough.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned into him, but he held himself perfectly erect. He had to force himself not to move. Not to give in to the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and shake her—or to kiss her until the ache in his chest went away. He wasn’t like other people, damnation; he wasn’t supposed to feel anything. Wasn’t that what he’d prided himself on? Wasn’t that what made him a great leader and warrior? But her tears ate at his steely resolve like acid.

  “I swear it will never happen again,” she whispered.

  He needed to make it clear exactly how it was going to be between them. His gaze held hers, hard and unrelenting. “Damned right it will never happen again because I will never tell you another bloody thing.”

  She shrank back from him as if he’d yelled, though his voice was deadly calm. “You’re angry,” she whispered. “You don’t mean that.” It sounded as if she was trying to convince herself.

  The look he gave her would have frozen lava in hell. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life.” He’d made a mistake, but it wasn’t one he ever intended to repeat. This was his fault as much as it was hers. He’d allowed himself to become part of her little fantasy. But that was over. “I told you exactly what I want from you: Oversee the castle, be
ar my children, and leave the rest to me. Don’t expect anything more.”

  —

  Christina flinched, utterly stricken. Who was this harsh, unforgiving man? He’d never looked at her like this—even the first time she’d seen him he hadn’t looked so cold and remote. So unfeeling.

  He doesn’t mean it, she told herself. He’s angry. But a whisper of doubt stole into her heart.

  She forced her gaze to his, refusing to be cowed. He shouldn’t talk to her like this. She’d made a mistake, but not without cause, and her intentions had been pure. “I deserve your anger, but not your scorn. I did not act precipitously, nor did I mean for this to happen. I was tricked. You have to know I would never do anything to hurt you.” She paused, then said softly, “I love you.”

  She waited for some reaction to her heartfelt declaration, but he stood in stony silence—aloof, distant, imperious as a king. The only evidence that he’d heard her was the slight whitening around his mouth.

  She hadn’t expected him to return her sentiment…had she?

  A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. Her throat was so tight it was hard to talk. Why was he acting like this? This was the way he acted with everyone else, not with her. Where was the man she’d read stories to in bed? “Don’t do this to me. Don’t pull away. I don’t deserve being treated as if I mean nothing to you.” She tried to swallow, but it hurt. “This isn’t you.”

  His gaze shifted to hers, silently challenging her words. If there had been anger in his eyes she would have held out hope, but the cool, steady gaze that met hers was ice-blue, without a flicker of emotion. She stepped back, as if seeing him for the first time.