The Chief (12 page)

“Where is your daughter?” he asked.

Fraser waved his hand dismissively and sat down at the table to sign the contracts. “Preparing for the ceremony. Women,” he said with disdain. “They've no head for business. She was too busy fixing her hair and said she would meet us at the chapel.”

Something about the statement bothered him. The flippant remark seemed unlike her. But then again, he supposed that he didn't really know her.

An hour later, when he walked into the chapel and saw her standing before the altar, he decided it was well worth the wait.

She took his breath away.

For a moment he stopped in his tracks, drinking in the lovely vision before him. A gold circlet studded with jewels crowned her head. Her dark hair had been braided and
coiled into two rounds at her temples, secured by a gold crespinette. A sheer golden veil covered the back of her head and flowed down to her waist.

Normally, he didn't pay much attention to women's gowns, but this one was exquisite. The tight bodice and sleeves of the cote-hardie hugged her womanly curves in all the right places. She had the kind of lush curves that were built for one thing. Large breasts, a slim waist, shapely hips, and a sweet round bottom for a man to hold tight in his hands. His imagination would have been bad enough, but his body was also dealing with very visceral memories.

God, had he really touched her like that? Had she melted and moved against him? Rubbed her bottom against his cock?

Hell
.

Angered by his weakness and aware that he was staring, he schooled his features into impassivity and started down the center aisle of the chapel. As he drew near, however, his control faltered. He noticed how the dark verdant color in her gown emphasized the creamy ivory of her skin and the flecks of green in her dark, luminous eyes. Eyes that met his full force, drawing him in. He couldn't have turned away if he'd wanted to.

All traces of her tears had vanished and the gaze that met his, though hesitant, was every bit as exotic and enticing as he remembered. Lust hit him like a fist in the gut. Those eyes. That sensual mouth. They were dangerous to a man's sanity. Even in the nave of holiness, his body felt the hard carnal pull of sin.

Mine
. A primitive wave of heat surged through him.

And he couldn't wait to have her. Deep and hard. Over and over, until he purged the weakness from his loins.

“Where's your sister?” Fraser demanded, breaking his trance.

Unsettled by his reaction, Tor felt the strange urge to thank her father for the interruption. What the hell was
wrong with him? It was not as if he'd never seen a beautiful woman before. Though he couldn't recall ever having examined one in such painstaking detail.

For the first time, he noticed that the woman standing beside her was not her sister but a serving maid.

“She wasn't feeling well,” Christina answered evenly. “She will be at the jetty to see us off.”

If he hadn't been watching her so closely, he wouldn't have noticed the slight flicker of her gaze when she spoke. She was lying.

Fraser's eyes narrowed. Whether he'd caught the movement or for some other reason, her father knew it, too. “Send for her,” he ordered. “She should be here.”

Instinctively, Tor moved to Christina's side. “The lass is ill, leave her be.” To Lamberton he said, “The tide will not wait.” He took her hand and placed it in his, her soft fingers disappearing into the fold of his big, sword-hardened palm. “If you'll begin.”

MacSorley grinned, his eyes twinkling wickedly. “Better hurry, Bishop. I believe MacLeod is eager to get his new bride home.” His gaze slid over Christina appreciatively. Too appreciatively, Tor thought with narrowed eyes. “Not that I blame him, my lady; your beauty this day is beyond compare.”

Christina blushed prettily, appearing inordinately pleased by the silly compliment.

It should have come from me
, Tor realized angrily. But the lass had to know how tormentingly beautiful she was…didn't she? He fought the strangest urge to smash MacSorley's too-charming smile into the ground.

The amusement in the henchman's gaze only deepened, as if he knew exactly what Tor was thinking.

But it was Tor who had the last laugh when he shot MacSorley a look that promised retribution. He would have three months to pay him back, and Tor vowed to make good use of every single day. MacDonald's henchman
would lose that swagger in blood, sweat, and pain. Plenty of it.

MacSorley knew it, too. The man known as the greatest seafarer in a land of men descended from pirates would never show fear, but the teasing grin fell flatly from his face.

Christina didn't understand the silent exchange between the two men, but she was grateful for the reprieve.

Wittingly or unwittingly, the MacLeod chief had come to her rescue again, preventing her father from sending after Beatrix and discovering she was gone. Though her sister had sailed at dawn, Christina wanted to give her as much time as she could to get away. Every minute took her sister closer to safety.

She swallowed the hot ball in her throat. Saying goodbye to Beatrix this morning not knowing if she would ever see her again had been horrible. But it had to be done.

She was grateful for the warm, steady pressure of the MacLeod chief's strong fingers; they gave her a shot of much-needed courage.

He gazed down at her. “Are you ready?”

She peered up into his piercing ice-blue eyes, and for a moment thought she detected a glint of concern, or maybe even tenderness. But it was gone so quickly that she wondered if she'd only imagined it. She nodded. “Aye.”

I hope
.

Together, they turned to face the bishop. The short ceremony passed in a blur. Yet through it all, like a fiery beacon in the mist or a rock in a sea of tumult, she was aware of the powerful man at her side. His heat. The spicy, masculine scent of him seemed to enfold her in a dark embrace. He dwarfed her by a foot, outweighed her in sheer steely muscle by at least double, and seemed every inch the battle-hard warlord, but instead of feeling threatened,
she felt safe. Protected. With him at her side, no one would dare to harm her.

He might not be the charming, gallant knight she'd dreamed of—like MacDonald's devilish henchman, she thought with a laugh. That one had a smile in his forbidding visage that spoke of pure mischief. Nay, the MacLeod chief was too fierce and imposing for that. But she did not doubt that at his core he was every bit as honorable and chivalrous as Lancelot himself.

And he was devastatingly handsome. Her cheeks flushed, aware of how she'd stared at him when he'd entered the chapel. He'd looked unreal. Like some bronze sun god. The fearsome expression and power of his warrior's body often made his handsomeness seem almost an afterthought—but not today.

They crossed their right hands, binding a swath of wool around their wrists, and repeated their vows. It was of the same soft blue pattern he wore in the plaid around his shoulders fastened with a big silver brooch. He'd thankfully left his enormous sword at the door, but even for his wedding day he wore his war coat. The metal-studded
cotun
gleamed like armor in the beam of sunlight coming through the window above the nave, the same light that caught the shimmering strands of gold in his silky hair. The bronze locks curled a little around his ear, making her think he'd washed it, and she longed to reach up and wrap it around her finger.

She blushed at her errant thoughts as the bishop handed him the cup of wine. He took a sip and then passed it to her.

It was almost over. Except for…

He bent down, lowering his mouth toward hers.

Instinctively, she sucked in her breath. He must have heard her because his eyes went to hers. He hesitated for a minute, his clear blue eyes darkening. She could smell the faint tinge of mint on his breath and feel the gentle warmth
sweep over her cheek. Her skin prickled with awareness. With anticipation.

Her heart pounded in her throat. Would his mouth be as soft as it looked?

Her eyes closed and her lips parted as she waited for the press of his lips on hers. For their first kiss.

But the light brush of his mouth could hardly be described as a kiss. Their lips barely touched. It was swift. Chaste. Perfunctory.

Her eyes flew open, but he'd already turned away.

Disappointment rushed through her. She didn't know why, but she'd been expecting…
more
. Not the formal, impatient gesture that made it seem as if he couldn't wait to get it over with.

Then it
was
over, and she was married.

As she accepted the felicitations of the men who'd gathered to witness the ceremony, she couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness. When she'd dreamed of this day, she'd always thought it would be different. Romantic. Not terse and businesslike. She'd dreamed of love.

But under the circumstances, what did she expect? Their courtship had been sown in treachery. It wasn't exactly the most promising of beginnings.

Beatrix's premonition came back to her.
Such a marriage would be doomed
. But before she could chase the spell of darkness away, one of her father's guardsmen came rushing to his side, driving all other thoughts from her mind.

“Gone?” her father said loudly. “What do you mean she's gone?”

Nettles!
Her time was up. Unconsciously, Christina looked around for her new husband, but he was in deep conversation with Lamberton and MacDonald at the rear of the chapel with the other guardsmen who made up his large retinue.

The guardsman mumbled something to her father that she couldn't hear.

“I'll get to the bottom of this,” her father said, coming toward her. He grabbed her elbow and jerked her around to face him. “Your sister is missing. Do you know anything about this?”

She felt the familiar wave of fear crash over her but forced herself to meet his gaze.

“Beatrix is gone,” she said softly.

“Gone?” He went white with anger, his fingers biting into her arm. “What do you mean, gone? Where?”

“Somewhere safe.”

His dark eyes blackened with rage. He lifted his hand. “You'll tell me where she's gone or I'll—”

All of a sudden her husband was at her side. He grabbed her father's arm, wrenching it behind his back with such force she heard a sickly pop. Her father yelped in pain.

“Touch her again and I'll kill you. Your daughter belongs to me now. Do you understand?”

With that deadly voice it was impossible not to. He was looking at her father as if he would love nothing more than to prove it.

Christina gazed at him in awe, stunned by his fierce defense of her. No one had ever spoken up for her like that. His reaction was so intense, she wondered if maybe…

Was it possible he did care for her?

Her father nodded mutely, his face twisted in agony. Tor pushed him away with a grunt, her father cradling his arm, which fell unnaturally from his shoulder.

“My daughter, Beatrix,” he said, his voice strained with pain. “She's gone, and this one knows something about it.”

Tor turned to her, waiting for an explanation—as were the rest of the men.

The thrill of his fierce defense faded. She swallowed nervously, knowing that her sister's future might well depend on the next few minutes. Would these men be sympathetic, or would they side with her father? Would they try to force her to tell them where Beatrix had gone?

She bit her lip, realizing she should have feigned ignorance. “Beatrix is somewhere safe. That is all I can say.”

“You had something to do with this?” Tor asked.

From his even tone it was impossible to guess what he was thinking—she suspected that would be a common occurrence in her future. Would he punish her for defying her father and helping her sister escape? She took a deep breath of faith and nodded.

He frowned, and for a moment, she tensed.

“She went alone?” he asked.

He didn't sound angry. Cautiously, she nodded again.

Her father broke in. “You stupid girl. Do you not realize the danger she is in? A beautiful innocent like your sister? It's like sending a lamb into a pack of hungry wolves. If she's been harmed, it will be your fault.”

“He's right, lass,” MacDonald agreed, in a far less belligerent tone. “The Highlands are no place for a woman alone. She could be in danger.”

Danger…

No! Christina refused to let them scare her. She wasn't alone. There had been many other women travelers on the boat, as well as a friar. Beatrix would come to no harm. With favorable winds, she would be there before night fell.

She chanced a glance at her new husband; he was watching her with a curious expression on his face. “You knew the risk?” he asked.

She nodded, pleading for understanding. “We had no choice. Beatrix…” She twisted her hands, searching for a way to explain. “You see, she isn't strong. It was far more dangerous for her to stay.” It might have been her only chance to get away.

Her husband gave a curt nod, as if satisfied by her explanation.

She couldn't believe it. He wasn't going to demand that she tell him what she knew. The show of trust was more than she could have dreamed.

But her elation was short-lived.

“How dare you!” her father growled. Despite his dislocated shoulder, he looked as if he'd like to grab her again. “ 'Tis not your decision to make.” To his guardsman he said, “She couldn't have gone far. Check the jetties for any boats that have departed and ask the guards whether anyone was seen leaving the castle. She knows no one in the area—” All of a sudden he stopped. A steel glint came to his eye. He turned to Lamberton. “Where is the closest nunnery?”

Christina paled. Dear God, how could he have guessed so quickly? He knew Beatrix better than she'd realized. Would the nuns protect her sister against an angry father demanding her return?