The Chief (20 page)

“I work alone,” MacRuairi said.

“Not anymore you don't. Not if you want to stay here.” Tor let the threat hang, but MacRuairi—unfortunately—did not rise to the bait. The look MacRuairi gave him, however, was anything but in agreement.

Tor's gaze slid over each of the men. “From this point on, you will devote everything to the team. Your duty and loyalty are to me and this guard first.”

“Aren't you forgetting someone?” Seton said. “What of Bruce, our liege lord and rightful king?”

“Let me worry about Bruce,” Tor replied. For this kind of group to operate ultimate authority would have to rest with the group leader, but that discussion would be had another day—and left to MacSorley. “Right now we don't exist—even Bruce would agree. Secrecy is paramount. Our names. Our purpose. Everything. You can tell no one what we are about. That includes wives and families, if any of you are married.”

The little intelligence he'd garnered from MacDonald and Lamberton before he left did not mention wives. He knew MacRuairi was recently widowed—from a MacDougall, no less. He hoped not many of them were wed; it was less complicated that way. The men were grimfaced and quiet, reflecting on what he'd said and no doubt wondering whether they'd made a mistake. “If any of you want out, say so now.” He didn't expect anyone to speak—not yet anyway—and none did. “Then get some rest,” he said. “You'll need it. For tomorrow we begin.”

The group dispersed slowly. MacGregor and Campbell started to peel off with the rest of them, MacGregor alone and Campbell following the larger group.

“Wait,” Tor said, stopping them. “I'm not done with you two.” He strode over to a leather bag of supplies that he'd brought with him and retrieved a three-foot length of iron chain. At each end was a manacle. Though he hoped he wouldn't need it the first day, he'd come prepared. The device had proved effective when there had been the
occasional discord in the ranks, but it would prove invaluable here.

For the next few days these men would be bound together whether they wished it or not. He hoped they enjoyed running because they were about to take an extended tour of Waternish.

Both men watched him suspiciously as he approached, the chains clanging as he walked. But it was MacGregor who asked, “What's that?”

Tor smiled, recalling MacGregor's earlier words. “Your cold day in hell.”

Christina watched Tor dress in the darkness. The quick, precise movements that had become achingly familiar to her in the past two weeks seemed a little slower, a bit less purposeful and determined. Her gaze went to the window as she tried to gauge the hour. A few hours past midnight? Was it wishful thinking, or was he lingering longer each time?

“Gone for a few days” had become a regular occurrence. She saw very little of her husband—other than at night, shrouded in a veil of darkness. Since their delayed wedding night, Tor had spent just a handful of nights at Dunvegan. When he was at the castle, he came to her bed without fail—always late—but never slept by her side. She wanted him to stay. To hold her in his arms. To talk. He was still essentially a stranger to her, and she was desperate to get to know him better. But no matter how hot the passion flared between them, when it was over he returned to his men in the Great Hall. And no matter how many times she told herself it didn't matter, it did.

But tonight she refused to allow disappointment to shadow the glow of their lovemaking. She could still feel the warmth of his hands on her body. The fullness of him between her legs. The weight of him on top of her as he
thrust into her. His spicy masculine scent still lingered in the air, in her nose, and on her skin. Her limbs were still weak from the power of her release.

The promise of their wedding night had been more than fulfilled. The passion between them was more wonderful than she had ever dreamed possible.

For now, it was enough.

She closed her eyes, wanting to hold on to the feeling of contentment. If she looked at him, she knew she would say something to ruin the moment. Tonight there would be no questions about his plans for the day or when he would be back, and therefore no increasingly curt responses to dull her happiness.

She expected to hear the sound of the door clicking shut. Instead, she heard footsteps approach the bed. She had to fight to keep her breath even and her eyes from opening to see what he was doing. It was almost as if she could feel the weight of his gaze on her. He stood there for a long time. She would give anything to know what he was thinking.

The air shifted. His dark, masculine scent grew stronger. She could hear the steady sound of his breath as he leaned down over her.

Her heart hammered in her chest. It took everything she had not to jump when his lips brushed the top of her head.

The gentleness of the gesture made the curse that followed seem somehow amusing. He strode—nay, stomped disgustedly—to the door. Only when she heard it shut behind him did she allow her mouth to curl into a big grin.

He might not like it, but her husband wasn't as indifferent to her as he seemed.

A little patience was all she needed.

Christina was still smiling after breaking her fast. Tor had not joined her—she assumed he'd gone wherever it was that he went all the time—but she wasn't at a loss for
company today. It seemed she had gained a retinue of her own.

Since she'd first caught them staring at her from the kitchen storeroom a few days ago, they'd followed after her like a pack of hounds. Right now they were watching her arrange the last of the autumn flowers in a glazed pottery vase at the head table on the dais, doing their best to be patient (which was clearly killing them) and not to get in her way (which, as they were practically glued to her heels, was impossible).

When she stepped back from the vase, Deidre could wait no longer. “We did like you said, my lady,” the little girl said expectantly.

Christina gazed down at the three pleading faces, to a one their cheeks smudged with the special berry preserves the cook had made them, and smiled at their eager expressions.

The cook's daughter was visiting from the Isle of Harris and had brought her three children—Ewan, age eight; Deidre, age seven; and Anna, who had just turned five.

“You washed your hands
and
faces?”

All three fair heads bobbed up and down. “Aye, my lady.”

She pursed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“Mother said we weren't to bother you,” Deidre said. She caught the edge of her bottom lip in her tiny teeth, then turned a worried face to hers. “We aren't bothering you, are we?”

“Of course we're not bothering her,” Ewan said indignantly. “The lady said we could watch her, and then when she was done with the morning chores, she would tell us the rest. Didn't you, my lady?”

“I did indeed, Ewan.”

He turned back to his sister, folded his small arms across his chest, and gave her a superior nod of his head.

“Are you done yet, my lady?” little Anna asked.

Christina smiled, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I
just finished,” she lied, ignoring the wax that still needed to be scraped from the tablecloths, the candles that needed to be replaced, and the silver candelabra that needed to be polished. All of that could wait.

Besides, it wasn't as if Tor noticed anyway.

Patience, she reminded herself. If the rustic state of the Hall when she'd arrived was any indication, it had been a long time since anyone had seen to his comfort. Eventually, he would notice her efforts to create a cozy home, a place he'd want to stay and be eager to return to.

Turning her thoughts back to the children, she said, “Now where did I leave off?”

“The evil Meleagant has stolen the queen from Arthur and has taken her to his horrible castle in…”

“Gorre,” Christina provided.

“Why do Lancelot, Sir Kay, and Sir Gawain go after the queen and not King Arthur?” Deidre asked.

Good question, Christina thought. But how to say that King Arthur's failure to fight for his lady is what justifies Guinevere's unfaithfulness? She was saved from having to answer by another question. “Is Lancelot going to kill Meleagant and save Queen Guinevere?”

Ewan snorted. “Of course he is, silly. Lancelot is the greatest warrior of his time—just like the
ri tuath
. The chief would never let anyone steal you, would he, my lady?”

Christina grinned. “I should think not, Ewan. But if you are so certain of Lancelot's victory, perhaps you do not need to hear the rest?”

They practically jumped on her in their enthusiastic responses to the contrary. Once the chorus of “no's” had died down, Christina grabbed the candlestick and picked up the story where she'd left off the day before.

Tor left the seneschal and his clerk in the solar. Going over the correspondence and accounts had taken much
longer than he expected; he'd hoped to be at the broch sometime ago and was eager to return to the men. Their training was progressing—better in some places than in others. It would take time to break down the barriers among them. Time he didn't have. Another week and then he'd chain them all together if he had to.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the stiffness that extended down his back. God, what a wretched night. He hadn't been able to get comfortable. It wasn't hard to figure out why. Compared to the soft, silky bed linens and warm furs that he'd left behind, the plaid and rush-strewn floor had felt as welcoming as a bed of rocks.

Christina's trunks had arrived, and with them came many luxuries he'd never known before. Linens so soft they felt like silk, and perhaps the most enticing…feather pillows. The first time he'd lain his head on one, he thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

It took all of his resolve to pull himself from such comfort every night. But damnation, warriors didn't sleep in beds.

Hell, who was he fooling? It wasn't the pillows and bed linens that made him reluctant to leave, it was his too-enticing wife. But his hunger for her was to be expected, he reasoned. The newness of their marriage and his insatiable lust for her would wear off soon.

He heard a loud burst of laughter and clapping coming from the Great Hall. Wondering what the commotion was about, he rounded the corner into the entry and stopped flat in his tracks. He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't seeing his wife perched on top of a table with what appeared to be a candlestick in her hand, brandishing it like a sword.

He sucked in his breath. God, she was beautiful. Her hair fell loose down her back, pulled back from her face with a simple ribbon, her big, dark eyes sparkled like the moon on the sea, and her velvety-soft cheeks were flushed pink with excitement. She looked happy, carefree, and
young. Very young. Tor couldn't remember ever being that young. Or being that happy or carefree, for that matter.

She was a breath of fresh spring air in the dank of winter.

But what in Hades was she doing? He watched her scoot around the table. Some kind of performance, by the looks of it. Gathered around her were what appeared to be most of the household servants and three small children, who were watching her with rapt expressions on their faces.

No one had noticed him come in—all the attention was focused on the tiny lass giving the impassioned performance. For a moment a memory teased at the edges of his consciousness of his mother's animated face as she tucked them into bed with a story. He felt a sharp longing for times gone by and had the fleeting thought of how different his life might have been had his parents lived. He shook it off, ashamed by the weakness.

Christina waved the candlestick at the boy standing below her. “This time you will not escape your punishment, Maleagant,” she said in an exaggerated deep voice. “You have besmirched my lady's honor and I, Lancelot, the Greatest Knight in the Kingdom, will defend her. You must pay with your life.” She made a stabbing motion with the silver. “Die, you evil scourge.”

The little boy cried out and died most dramatically, much to the amusement of his sisters and the crowd, who burst out into another round of clapping when his legs gave their last prolonged twitch.

“That was brilliant, Ewan,” Christina said, putting down the candlestick to join the applause. “You would make a wonderful knight.”

“But I don't want to be a knight, my lady.”

She looked perplexed. “I thought all little boys wanted to be knights.”

He puffed up his small chest. “I want to be a fierce Highland warrior like the
ri tuath
.”

Smart lad
, Tor thought with a grin.

“Oh, my lady,” the elder of the two little girls said, “what happens next? How does the queen reward Lancelot for his devotion?”

A hot blush fired up Christina's cheeks. Suddenly, her gaze found his. A startled gasp emitted from between her softly parted lips, and her cheeks seemed to blaze even hotter.

“My lord! You're here!”

Realizing they'd been caught idling, the servants hastened to appear busy and promptly scattered. The elder boy and girl grabbed their protesting younger sister and pulled her along behind them.

The little girl tried to break free. “But I want to hear—”

“Shush, Anna,” the boy said, making haste out the door. Over his shoulder he remembered, “Thank you, my lady.”

“I see you've been abandoned by your audience,” Tor said, crossing the space between them in a few strides to stand before her.

A wry smile curved her mouth. “It seems I have. Rather ungallant of them, wouldn't you say?”

He found himself returning her smile. “I would apologize for the interruption, but I think in this case it was well timed. Am I right to think that the queen thanked the knight in a way you'd rather not share with the children?”

She blushed again and nodded, lifting her gaze to his. “I think Deidre guessed that I was doing a little editing of the more ‘romantic' parts of the story.”

She started to climb down off the table, but he stopped her and circled her waist with his hands. Her dark eyes locked on his. His skin sizzled with awareness. The memories of last night's lovemaking were still fresh in his mind—and in his body. “Allow me,” he said huskily. He lifted her off as if she weighed next to nothing—which she did—and brought her against him, lowering her slowly to the ground and savoring the moment of connection as her body slid against his.

Heat washed over him. She was so soft and smelled so
sweet. Just her nearness made him harden against her. “So how did the queen show her gratitude?” he asked softly, unable to resist.

Her cheeks might end up permanently stained dark pink if he didn't stop teasing her. But damn, it was adorable.

“I—I,” she stammered.

He tried not to laugh. She might no longer be a maid, but she was still enchantingly innocent. So different from anyone he'd known before. He held her a moment longer than was necessary, more than tempted to carry her back into their chamber. He released her. “I must go,” he said firmly, more to remind himself than anything else. “I have duties I must attend to.”

He spoke sharply, and she took it as a criticism—though it wasn't meant as one. Her face fell. “You must think you've found a slattern for a wife. I was about to polish the silver, but—”