The Chief (11 page)

He'd bought peace, but at what cost?

Christina had been ordered to appear in MacDonald's solar before the midday meal, uncertain of the fate that awaited her. Meaning that by the time she arrived, she was a tightly coiled bundle of nerves.

Outside the door, she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt of her sapphire silk cote-hardie anxiously, took a deep breath, and knocked. Bid to enter, she drew back her shoulders and—attempting to hold her head high—walked into the room.

Her bravado faltered immediately, her frazzled nerves coiling a little tighter. The room was small and dark, and hardly seemed big enough for one man to hold court let alone the four hulking warriors—and one bishop—gathered around a table, all watching her intently. She looked to her father, but his dark, somber expression gave no hint of what was to come.

She managed not to shuffle or fidget, but it was impossible not to be intimidated. She had the distinct feeling of a child being brought before her father for punishment, but instead of one judge, finding a tribunal. And it wasn't simply punishment for a minor transgression but her future that hung in the balance.

In addition to her father, she recognized MacDonald, his
pirate-looking henchman, the bishop, and, of course, the MacLeod chief. Whether his presence was a good or bad sign she didn't know.

Though she was careful to avoid catching his gaze, she was uncomfortably aware of his scrutiny. Not usually vain, she felt a smidgen of vanity now, aware that she looked horrible. Despite the cold water she'd dunked her face in that morning, the ravages of tears had been wrought on her face in swollen, red-rimmed eyes and splotchy, sallow skin.

Knowing that she didn't look her best didn't exactly give her any much-needed confidence. The dead silence in the solar didn't help any either.

Not sure where to look, she kept her eyes fastened safely on her toes.

It was MacDonald who spoke first. He was seated on the long side of the table with Lamberton beside him and the blond giant of a henchman directly behind him, standing guard. She supposed she was grateful that the room was not large enough to hold any more of the Island chiefs' large retinues. Both MacDonald and MacLeod had at least a dozen men that formed their personal guard. Not surprisingly, her father and MacLeod sat at opposite ends of the table, leaving as much distance between them as possible.

“No doubt you are aware of why you are here,” he said.

She nodded, her heart jumping with anticipation, knowing that the time had come. She couldn't breathe, let alone speak, as she waited.

“Your father and MacLeod have come to terms, and under the circumstances, we think it's best if the betrothal is a short one.”

Betrothal
. She sucked in her breath. He'd agreed to marry her. The wave of relief that crashed over her was surprisingly strong—she'd wanted this more than she realized.

Beatrix was right. And she herself had been right about
him. Even in the face of her father's treachery, honor had won out.

Perhaps behind the cold façade beat the heart of a gallant knight. And maybe he wasn't as indifferent to her as he appeared.

Her heart took a little leap. But then she chanced a glance in his direction and his expression put a hard check on her wild imagination. The knights in her books brimmed with charm and devotion to their lady, but there was nothing charming about this fierce barbarian warlord, and certainly nothing resembling devotion in his penetrating blue gaze. His expression was as hard and inscrutable as usual.

His thoughts about this marriage were impossible to fathom. If she hoped for a small sign of encouragement, she wouldn't find it from him.

Deflated, she shifted her gaze back to MacDonald. “I see,” she said uncertainly.

It was the bishop who gave her an encouraging smile. She latched onto the small kindness like an anchor. “I will take care of the necessary dispensations,” he said, “as we don't want to wait more than three weeks for the banns to be read.”

“The contracts will be signed and the ceremony can take place immediately thereafter,” MacDonald added.

“Tomorrow,” the MacLeod chief said flatly, the first word he'd spoken since she entered the room. “I must return to Dunvegan as soon as possible. I've delayed too long already. We will leave immediately following the ceremony.”

She blanched. “Tomorrow? But, I…” her voice dropped off. Her hands twisted. This was all happening so fast.
Too
fast.

“Everything has been agreed upon,” her father said brusquely, his annoyance with her reaction obvious. “You need do nothing.”

Lamberton gave him a scathing look, and then leaned forward in his chair. “What is it, child? You've been ill
used in all of this, and despite what's been decided here today, I'll not see you forced into marriage.”

“She'll do what she's told,” her father said angrily.

“Enough,” MacLeod boomed. “Let the lass speak. She can answer for herself.”

Christina didn't know whether to be grateful or not. His gaze was utterly inscrutable, so she focused her attention on the bishop's kind face. Having never anticipated that she would have a voice in the matter, the unexpected opportunity gave her a reckless idea. A way to protect herself if she was wrong.

She swallowed. “Aye, I will marry him.”

The men visibly relaxed.

Taking a deep breath, she turned to the MacLeod chief. “But I would ask something of you in return.”

He nodded his head for her to continue.

Not daring to breathe for fear she would lose courage, she blurted, “I would ask that should I ever desire, you allow me to retire to a nunnery.”

The room fell into a stunned silence. Her heart stopped, wondering if she'd made a huge mistake. The pride of men was a tender thing. Had she just wounded his?

His gaze registered a flicker of surprise—and perhaps something else. Admiration. She realized that her minor act of rebellion had unwittingly impressed him.

“What nonsense are you spouting, gel,” her father blasted. “Of course he will agree to no such thing.”

The MacLeod chief ignored him. “Should you ever wish to leave, no one will stop you. You have my word. My men will be informed as such on our arrival.”

He'd agreed. She couldn't believe it. She hadn't really thought he would—and certainly not so readily. Did he even realize the gift he'd given her? It was a small show of respect. A statement that she was not a possession.

Their eyes locked, and she knew he'd understood. Something passed between them. Something that made
hope flare in her chest. It was the same intense connection she'd felt before. And she sensed that beyond the wintry façade, he felt it, too.

“Thank you,” she said, not breaking the connection.

He held her gaze for a moment longer, nodded, and then turned curtly away. Cold. Remote. But she hoped something more.

Her future had been decided.

Now there was only Beatrix's to consider.

Tor spent the remainder of the day cloistered with MacDonald and Lamberton, finalizing the details for his training of the men. With his brother gone, there could be no question of him leaving Skye—at least until he was certain the raids had stopped. He would not leave his clan unprotected. Therefore, it was agreed that the warriors would come to Skye and train at an abandoned broch near the castle.

Secrecy was paramount, his appearance of neutrality depending on it. As such, only a trusted few of his clansmen would know of their presence.

Fraser informed him that his daughter knew nothing of the reasons behind their alliance, and Tor saw no reason for that to change. His undertaking for Bruce had nothing to do with her, and it was safer for her to be kept in the dark. Confiding in anyone—let alone a woman—was not something he did unless necessary. The treachery leading to his parents' death had taught him the importance of keeping his own counsel. The fortunes of his clan rested on his shoulders and his alone.

Other than the need for secrecy, this would be just like any other training for hire that he'd undertaken many times before. Though he had to admit that he looked forward to the added challenge of training such an elite, if divergent, team of warriors.

Three months was a small price to pay for peace. After
three months the team would be gone, along with the risk of discovery of his involvement with Bruce's rebellion. His part of the bargain would be paid. In return he would have Nicolson off his back, MacRuairi under his thumb, and an alliance with a family that he could use or disavow as he saw fit. If Bruce succeeded, a connection with the Frasers would be a benefit, but if the rebellion failed, he had some protection in the pretense of enmity.

All in all, it wasn't a bad bargain—except for the treacherous circumstances in which it had been forged. He hated knowing that Fraser had gotten what he wanted. That he'd been manipulated was a bitter draught to swallow. He could cheerfully kill Fraser for what he'd done. His anger toward the woman who would be his wife was not so intense, but neither could he ignore her part in what had happened.

Once his initial anger had cooled, he began to suspect that she'd been coerced. He hadn't missed the fear in her eyes when she looked at her father—or the betrayal. He would reserve judgment until he heard her side, but she would learn that he did not tolerate deception of any kind.

His anger was also tempered by the knowledge that she had suffered for her actions. Trick or not, honor would not let him completely ignore that he'd taken her virginity in a crude manner suited for a jaded whore, not an innocent maid. This marriage would at least do something to ease his conscience in that regard.

Though it wasn't an alliance he wanted, he would make the best of it. But he could not completely shake the voice niggling him that he'd gotten more in the bargain than he wanted. Something about Christina Fraser set him on edge. His desire for her was…
extreme
.

That small taste of her had only whetted his appetite. If her reaction last night was any indication, she was just as passionate as she looked. He'd burned with memories the entire time she stood before him in the solar. When he thought of her in his bed…

Anticipation was an understatement.

The intense lust that he felt for her was a distraction, but it did not concern him. He was not an untried lad. He knew how to control his base urges and keep lust in its place—in the bedchamber.

No doubt the strength of his reaction to her was only because she'd been out of his reach. As his wife, he could bed her at will. No longer would she be the fruit of the forbidden tree. Once sated, his lust would temper, and they would get on to a comfortable coexistence such as the one he'd shared with his first wife. He would have his duties and she would have hers, with little overlap.

She'd have the protection of his castle and name, fine gowns, a castle to run, food to eat, a warm bed to sleep in, perhaps a few children to fill her arms. Everything a woman could want.

Besides, any qualms he felt about the lass seemed insignificant in light of the more immediate benefits to his clan.

She was only a lass, after all. And a small one at that. What harm could she bring?

He woke early the next morning, eager to have the day behind him. Now that he'd resolved himself to the alliance, he wanted it—and its formalities—over with so he could focus on the task at hand. The sooner it was done, the sooner he could return to Dunvegan and begin to prepare for training the men. He'd be too busy to think about anything—or anyone—else.

As his clerk had not accompanied him, he employed one of MacDonald's to look over the marriage contract. MacDonald and Lamberton had not exaggerated. Christina Fraser's tocher was generous. Tor had just gained a considerable chunk of land in Stirlingshire and a smaller one along the Borders—assuming Edward did not confiscate it after what Bruce and his cohorts had planned.

He frowned when Fraser entered the solar alone.
Though Christina would not be required to sign the contract, Tor had assumed she would be present.

He hadn't seen her since yesterday morning's meeting in the solar. It's not that he was anxious to see her; he wanted only to assure himself that her father had not punished her for her “condition.”

Her show of spirit in the solar had been an unexpected surprise. It spoke of substance and courage. Perhaps there was more to the girl than he'd realized. He'd mistaken her innocence for timidity.

He could guess what had motivated her bold request, and it enraged him. She would soon learn that he was a very different man from her father. Agreeing to her demand seemed like a small price to pay to ease her fear—especially given that he was confident the situation would never arise.

She would never have cause to leave him.

She would be his wife. No matter how it had come about—or whether he'd wanted it—Tor protected what was his. Always.