The Chief (28 page)

An arrogant grin spread over his brother's face. “Lord knows that gorgeous bride of yours is probably tired of your fierce charm. Perhaps we should play that game we used to when we were young—”

Tor had him in a chokehold before he could finish, taking Torquil completely by surprise. He would have to thank Boyd for the move later. He looked into his brother's eyes. “Touch her and I'll kill you. Do you understand?”

Torquil nodded, and Tor released him.

“Damn, it was only a jest.” Massaging his neck, Torquil stared at him in the darkness, a knowing look on his face—a look that reminded Tor of MacSorley. “A rather strong reaction, wouldn't you say, for a wife you didn't want? I think the lass has gotten under your skin. It's bloody well about time, if you ask me.” He read Tor's anger. “I just hope you realize it before it's too late. Lasses need a little warmth and tenderness.”

His hell-raising brother had been married for a couple of months and now he was the damned expert? Tor didn't know what his brother
thought
he knew, but he didn't know a damned thing. “Shut the hell up, Torquil, or you'll see the dungeon sooner than you think.”

“Does that mean I'm forgiven?”

Tor let him wait—and worry—a moment before answering. He
should
be punished—and he would be—but right now he needed his brother for something more important. His uneasiness had only grown since John MacDougall's unexpected appearance on Skye. Something wasn't right, and he wasn't going to take any chances.

“Nay, it means your punishment will be delayed. I have a mission for you first.”

Sensing the importance, Torquil sobered, becoming every bit as serious and focused as Tor. “What is it?”

“I'm going to banish you and your new bride to the Isle of Lewis, where you can keep an eye on Malcolm and Murdoch until I find out who is behind the recent attacks and finish training the men. If anyone discovers my involvement, I want to know that my sons are safe.”

Torquil's expression darkened dangerously. “You think someone would hurt them?”

“I won't take any chances.”

“Who?”

Tor laughed. “I've made plenty of enemies over the years. Not to mention our longtime nemeses like the MacRuairis.”

“Bastards.” Torquil spat, his expression black. His brother hated them as much as Tor did. He wished he could tell Torquil about having Lachlan MacRuairi under his thumb, but he had to keep the men's identities secret. “There is also your new father-in-law to consider, and MacDougall.”

“And if you and I are thought to be on the outs—”

“It will help protect them from my enemies,” Tor finished. “Though I hope it won't be necessary.” He gave his brother a wry smile. “I'm afraid it also means your bride is going to have the ‘wrong' impression of me.”

Torquil winced. “You're going to make it look bad, are you?”

“It shouldn't be too difficult, given that it is no more than you deserve. But you can't tell her the truth.” Torquil started to argue, but he cut him off. “I'll not risk it. Besides, it would be more dangerous for the lass.”

“She'll be furious when she finds out I've deceived her.”

“Better furious and safe. Consider it a direct order.” Something he knew his brother could not refuse. “Do this for me and I might only chop off parts your young bride might not miss so much.”

Torquil laughed but quickly sobered. “I'm sorry, brother. I know I've caused you trouble. If there had been another way, I would have taken it. You have my word that I will do what I can to make it up to you.”

Tor nodded. “Aye, you will. But it's not only me who will exact payment. MacDougall wants payment for the broken betrothal. Half the lass's tocher.”

Torquil swore. “MacDougall can suck my—”

“Do not underestimate John of Lorne. He's a bastard, but a crafty one. My marriage has given him all the ammunition he needs to try to bend me to his knee.”

“What will you do?”

Tor shook his head. “Hope that something happens between now and January to prevent me from having to formally decide. This is Scotland's war, not ours.”

He'd worked his whole life to bring his clan to a state of prominence and prosperity; making the wrong choice in this war could sink them back into darkness and undo all that they'd achieved. But he knew the winds of rebellion were growing stronger. War was coming, even to the Isles, and Tor could feel the noose tightening around him.

His brother understood. “To hell with Edward of England and Robert Bruce. What do they know about the Isles?”

“Enough to know that they need us to win,” Tor said, admitting, “which is more than they knew before.”

The rain started to come down harder. “Come,” he said. “I should like to meet the lass who has caused so much trouble, though I doubt she will be happy to meet me when she hears what I have to say.”

He was right. Torquil's bride had spirit; he'd give her that. The wee firebrand looked like she wanted to take his bollocks off with the spoon she was waving at him. He'd made one concession, allowing them to wait until morning to leave the castle because of the storm. Under different circumstances he might have actually welcomed Meg Nicolson as a bride for his brother—if only to enjoy seeing his fierce brother brought to his knees by a woman.
Poor bastard
.

Leaving the Hall behind him, Tor opened the door to the corridor, knowing that he couldn't put this off any longer. He needed to see his wife.

His brother's words had bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Did Christina love him? Selfishly, he'd felt a moment of primitive satisfaction. On a base level he wanted her love—her devotion. He wanted her for himself.

But he also knew it would only hurt her when he couldn't give her what she wanted in return. He wasn't his brother.

Duty. Clan. War. They all came first. But he also couldn't deny what Torquil had pointed out: Christina had gotten under his skin in a way no woman had before. He wanted to please her. To make her happy.

As he approached her chamber, he noticed a sliver of light ebbing from beneath the door to his solar. He frowned, wondering who would be up this late in his private room. Brother John? He always seemed to be scurrying about. Tor knew it was unreasonable, but he'd taken a strong dislike to the new clerk. When Rhuairi had noticed an error in the accounts, Tor had told him to keep an eye on the unassuming young churchman, half hoping to find a reason to get rid of him. But the seneschal had not found anything else, and Tor, who'd been paying more attention
to the translations of his correspondence, hadn't either. Still, for a churchman, the clerk spent too much bloody time with his wife.

He opened the door, surprised to find not the clerk but Christina.

She startled at the sound, jumping to her feet when she saw him, scattering pieces of parchment that must have been in her lap across the floor. “You're back!”

The obvious delight in her voice chaffed against his gnawing guilt. Guilt he had no reason to feel. He was doing his duty. Seeing to his responsibilities. He couldn't be at her beck and call all the time. But in truth, he'd missed her. Every moment he was away. She was making him soft…weak, and that was something he could not afford.

He scanned the table in front of her, noticing the ink and hastily dropped quill, the open ledgers, the stacks of papers, the dark smudges on her hands, and even one on her cheek. “What are you doing in here?”

He knew what it looked like she was doing, but it didn't make sense. He pinned her with his gaze, seeing the flush creep up her cheeks.

She bit her lip, tucking her dark hair behind the delicate pink shell of her ear. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Apparently, it was exactly how it appeared. He looked at her again. Closer this time. Surprised by what he saw—or had failed to notice. “You know how to read and write.”

She nodded and took a few steps toward him, her delicate face lit with excitement. “I'm not finished yet; I wanted it to be perfect. I know how busy you've been and I wanted to find a way to help, so I've been putting the accounts in order. They were a mess.” She waved her hands, her mouth pulled into a broad smile. “Surprise!”

He didn't know what to say. To say he was taken aback was an understatement. Such learning was rare in the Highlands for a man, let alone a woman. Keeping track of the accounts was no simple task. Was this the reason for
the errors Rhuairi had found? He frowned. “Why have you kept this a secret from me?”

Her face fell; obviously, his reaction was not what she'd hoped for. But what did she expect, when he'd walked in not only to discover she'd been keeping a rather big secret from him, but also to find her knee deep in his private business matters? Lord only knew what a mess she could make of things.

“I wanted to surprise you. To show you that I can help.”

Knowing how sensitive she was, he pressed his lips together, trying to control his temper. “This is not a game, Christina,” he said patiently. “You are interfering with important clan matters. Matters that I told you to leave be.”

“I was only trying to help. I saw an error in the ledgers, and with MacDougall's recent visit, I knew that I had to do something.”

“I have clerks to keep the books. It's not your place.” He tried to speak gently. “You are my wife. If you found something wrong, you should have brought it to my attention.” He flipped around one of the ledger books, his gaze traveling down the neatly aligned columns.

She straightened her back, her gaze challenging. “You won't find any mistakes.”

He turned back to look at her. “Sure of yourself?”

“Very.”

He met her gaze. All of a sudden something else occurred to him. Nay, she wouldn't have…would she? “What else have you been reading?” He took hold of her arm. “Have you been reading my correspondence? My
private
correspondence?”

She wouldn't meet his gaze, but the dark stain on her cheeks deepened.

He swore, the effort to control his temper forgotten. He quickly thought back over the past few weeks. He'd received only two secret missives from MacDonald, which he'd kept in his sporran briefly before burning. He thought
he'd been careful, but he hadn't anticipated that his wife could read.

Fear ate at him. When he thought of the danger she could be in if she unsuspectingly saw something she shouldn't…

How was he supposed to keep her safe if she kept nosing into matters that did not concern her? She'd crossed the line. “Damn it, Christina, I told you to stay out of it.”

Crushed, Christina felt the hot prickle of tears burn in her eyes. This wasn't at all as she'd planned. He was supposed to be grateful—maybe even impressed and proud—not furious with her.

Just like her father.

He wasn't like her father. He was fair. He would welcome help no matter the source. Wouldn't he?

I don't need you
, he might as well have said.

His perfectly chiseled face was as hard and unyielding as granite. “I don't understand why you are so angry,” she said. “I thought you'd be pleased.”

White lines appeared around his mouth. “Pleased to have you reading my personal correspondence?”

She cursed her fair coloring and inability to control the heat from rising to her cheeks. There was no excuse. But couldn't he see that she just wanted to be part of his life? “I only wanted to learn more about you. I wanted to know what you do all day. Why you are always so busy. Why you are always gone.” She gazed up at him, seeing the hard set of his jaw. It was the wrong thing to say—a reminder of what she'd seen at the broch. But she wasn't the only one to blame. “If you would ever tell me anything, I might not be forced to use other means to find out.”

“God's wounds, Christina! This is not some kind of childish game—it's dangerous. I'm doing this to protect you.”

Her eyes flared with anger and humiliation. “Then stop
treating me like a child and tell me what is going on.” She grabbed his arm, looking up at him pleadingly. They were standing close. Close enough for her to reach up and touch him. To hold his rough cheek in her hand and feel the hard tic of his jaw under her thumb. “Tell me what you are trying to protect me from.”

They stared at each other in the candlelight, she reaching out, he retreating. A dance it seemed they were doomed to repeat time and time again.

Except this time he hesitated. For a moment she actually thought he might tell her. She could see it in his eyes.

But the force of his iron will was too strong, and he carefully detached his arm from her hold. She could feel the tension radiate from him in the hard flex of his shoulders, feel as he fought the natural attraction of their bodies and held himself stiffly away from her. “Stay out of it, Christina. No more ledgers, no more letters, no more following me, no more questions.”

She wanted to cry out with frustration. “Why do you have to be like this?”

He looked genuinely confused. “Like what?”

“Evasive. Recalcitrant. Never telling me anything. Why can't you confide in me? Would it kill you to share your thoughts with me?”

His gaze hardened. “Nay, but it might kill others.”

The accusation stung. “I would never do anything to betray you. I hoped you'd know by now that you can trust me.”

“That's not the way it works, Christina. This is real life, not some bard's tale. Do you honestly think that after two months I should confide everything—even things that put other people's lives in danger—simply because you are my wife? Even if I wanted to, it's my duty as chief to keep my own counsel.”

He made her sound ridiculous—naïve. But not all of it was his duty. “Are you sure that isn't just an excuse? Surely,
not everything is of life-or-death importance to the clan.” She leaned against him, her breasts pressing to his chest. His dark, masculine scent washed over her. She remembered the rich, spicy taste of him, the silky, warm press of his mouth on hers. The deep, erotic sweep of his tongue. “What harm could come from—”