The Chief (3 page)

Christina could see him, sitting atop his great warhorse, his tall, muscular warrior's body covered in brilliant chain mail shining in the sun, the azure blue of his tabard matching the piercing blue of his eyes, which were just visible beneath the steel visor of his helm, his golden hair covered except for one errant lock that whips across his strong, handsome features as he rides across the battlefield, holding the heavy sword effortlessly in his hand, to vanquish all intent on harming his lady fair.

She sighed again, her eyes growing soft and a dreamy smile curling her mouth. Though such a scene did not take place in the book she was reading, it played over and over in her head.

Perhaps one day…

A shout from below put a harsh end to her daydreams. The romantic yearnings that filled her chest were replaced by ice-cold fear.

Father
.

Surely it was too early? Her gaze shot to the small window in the small tower chamber, seeing the soft yellow and pink of the setting sun through the open shutter.

She froze. Nettles! How could she have let the day get away from her? She knew the risk. Her palm pressed reverently on the precious wooden cover wrapped in dark brown leather and secured by metal corner pieces painted to look like colored glass. The volume was her most cherished possession. And if her father caught her, her most dangerous. The memory of her father's anger was painfully fresh. Her fingers went to the tender spot high on her cheek where the skin torn by his ring had just begun to heal. But the feeling of helplessness still lingered.

Christina had been so excited to tell him about her learning, remembering how proud he'd been of her brothers. But instead of being impressed, the man who'd become such a stranger to her had been enraged to hear that for the past three years while King Edward had held him prisoner in England, she and her sister had learned to read from the priest at the village church.

Reading would only fill their heads with ideas and distract them from their duties. An education was reserved for men and nuns.

That becoming a nun and escaping to the peace of the abbey was exactly what the girls wanted is what had earned them their beating. The beating had almost killed her sister. Beatrix was already so frail, the illnesses that had plagued
her as a child having left their mark. He'd nearly finished the job when he'd forbidden them to return to the abbey. Only Christina's promise that she would find a way for her sister to take the veil had prevented Beatrix from succumbing to hopelessness and despair. All her sister dreamed of was a life dedicated to God. The peace of the abbey called to Christina, too, but in a different way. It promised safety.

She couldn't repress the shiver of fear. If her father discovered her reading, who knew what he'd do?

He'd become completely unpredictable, his moods swinging from cold disdain to an almost frenzied rage over the most seemingly inconsequential matter. Andrew Fraser, the former Sheriff of Stirlingshire, from the noble patriot family, once a proud and respected knight, had turned cruel with hatred. His impassioned patriotism had turned rabid in the quest to destroy Edward. It was so hard to remember the man he'd been, she wondered if she only imagined the father who'd been quick with a smile, now forgotten behind the mercurial mask.

For the last six months since his return, Christina felt as if she'd been living on the edge, in a constant state of fear. Fear that she'd say the wrong thing or appear at the wrong time. She'd learned to slink through the corridors, to hide in the shadows, and to avoid drawing attention to herself.

She forced herself to stay calm. He never came to the small chamber room in the garret that she shared with her sister and their serving woman.

Still, an abundance of caution made her hurry.

She turned onto her knees and, despite the frantic pace of her heart, carefully wrapped the precious volume in a swathe of ivory linen. The book had been a parting gift from Father Stephen. He'd assured her that despite its value, no one would miss it. Chrétien's romances with their lustful adultery between Lancelot and Arthur's queen had lost favor, replaced by tales of Arthur more in keeping with church doctrine.

She missed Father Stephen horribly. He'd opened up an entire new world for her.

“One day someone will see how special you are, child.”
His parting words came back to her. She desperately wanted to believe him, but it was getting harder and harder in the face of her father's cruel disregard.

For the first time in her life she'd been good at something. She couldn't sing or play the lute, and her needlework was atrocious—all accomplishments that came so easily to her sister—but she'd learned to read and write faster than anyone Father Stephen had ever seen. Not just Latin, but Gaelic and French as well. He'd told her she had a gift that should not be wasted. He'd given her something she'd never had before: a purpose.

The lid of the wooden chest squeaked as she raised it to replace the book in its hiding place beneath a thick stack of linen towels and extra bedclothes.

Before she could close it, she startled at the sound of a splintering crash as the door to her chamber was thrown open.

Her gaze shot to the doorway and her heart crashed to the floor.

Andrew Fraser, dirty and still reeking of sweat from his day on the practice yard, stood in the doorway. Though not a tall man, he was thickly built, and in the six months since he'd returned, a single-minded determination to fight had restored most of the muscle he'd lost while imprisoned. But the other changes wrought by imprisonment were not so easy to repair. His face had aged well beyond his five and forty years, and gray had leached the brown from his hair. The broken bones and scars of battle on his face that she'd once thought so distinguished now served only to emphasize the coldness in his eyes.

Eyes that were now pinned on her with suspicion. She wanted to crawl under the bed or disappear into the woodwork, but there was nowhere to hide.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

He can't find the book
. A cold trickle of fear dripped down her spine, but she forced herself to calm. Like any predator, he would smell it. Instead, she stood up slowly and shook out her skirts with apparent disconcern, but her knees were shaking. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Putting away some clothing that has just been cleaned and folded. Was there something you wanted?” She winced inwardly; even her voice had turned weak and submissive.

“Where is your sister?”

Her heart jumped. “Beatrix?” she squeaked, the high pitch completely erasing the attempt at nonchalance.

His face turned a splotchy, angry red. He took a step toward her, and instinctively she cowered. “Of course, Beatrix, you stupid girl. What other sister do you have?”

Christina cursed her fair skin. She could feel the heat of panic rising up her cheeks. “I'm-m s-sure she's in the kitchens,” she stumbled out.

Please don't let her be where I think she is
. Beatrix tried to hide it from her, but Christina suspected her sister still snuck away to the abbey when she could. The call to God was stronger than the reality of their father's iron fist.

He took another step toward her, his expression no longer simply angry but menacing. “You're lying,” he growled, grabbing her by the arm. His strong fingers tightened around her like a steel clamp.

Her heart fluttered wildly. Fear clutched her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his other hand lift. Her insides curled. She tried to pull away. “Please, don't—”

“Where is she?” he demanded, giving her a violent shake.

The last shard of sun from the fading daylight caught the gold of his ring on his open hand.
No
! She turned her face away, anticipating the strike. Tears blurred her eyes. “I don't
know,” she sobbed, hating this feeling of helplessness. Hating that she could be reduced to a trembling mass in a matter of moments by a man she'd once revered.

“Here she is, Father.”

The sound of her brother's voice filled her with relief. At eight and ten, three years her junior, Alex already showed incredible promise on the battlefield. He was also the one bright light in her father's dark existence. Her three other brothers were too young, still away being fostered, but in Alex he saw something special.

“Beatrix was down in the kitchens, helping to ready the evening meal,” Alex said, his smooth, easygoing voice having the intended effect of soothing her father's violent temper.

Alex had been home for only a few weeks, but Christina knew they'd found an ally. He would protect them as much as he could. If only he weren't so young.

Her father released her arm, enabling Christina to see Beatrix slide past Alex and step into the room.

Christina nearly sighed with relief to see her.

Her sister stood before their father like a penitent, hands crossed before her and head bowed beneath a long, pale-blue veil secured by a circlet of gold. Tall and feathery thin, Beatrix's delicate features looked as if they'd been carved from the finest marble—except for the yellowish brown shadows marring her cheek. The sight of them filled Christina with rage. How could he hit her? How could anyone strike someone so lovely? It wasn't just her sister's angelic face, but the beauty inside. She was innocent. Pure. And achingly fragile.

“You wished to see me, Father?” Beatrix asked, keeping her eyes lowered. Even her voiced sounded like an angel's, soft and musical, with an ethereal breathiness.

But her sister's sweetness seemed only to further annoy her father, as if he couldn't believe such weakness came from him. “Pack your things.” He looked to Christina
almost as an afterthought. “Yours as well. We leave on the morrow.”

“Leave?” Christina repeated, dumbfounded. “But where are we going?”

Her father's gaze hardened at the impertinence. They were to follow orders, not question them. Thus, she was surprised when he answered her. “Finlaggan Castle on Islay.”

She would have been less shocked if he'd said London.

It took even Alex aback. “The Western Isles?”

It was like another world. Barbarian lands, full of…well, barbarians. Ferocious warlords and Norse-blooded pirates who ruled over the western seaboard with virtually unfettered authority. It must have been the sheer shock that gave Christina the courage to ask, “But whatever for?”

Her father's hard, black gaze narrowed on her menacingly, as if he'd like nothing more than to grind her under his heel. So when he smiled instead of striking her, she knew the answer was going to be bad. Very bad.

“To forge an alliance.”

“But why do you need us?” Christina was surprised to hear her sister's voice. Beatrix rarely found the courage to address their father directly.

“Why do you think?” he challenged. “One of you will marry him.”

The three siblings gasped in unison.
Marriage? To some brutish warlord? God have mercy!
The color drained from Christina's face. She shook her head mutely; she couldn't do it.

Her father drew up as if he intended to inform her otherwise, but then apparently reconsidered. “It will probably be Beatrix because she is the elder.”

A wave of relief swelled over her.
Thank God
.

Then she looked at her sister.

“No,” Beatrix whispered, terror choking her voice. She
started to swoon, but Alex caught her around her tiny waist and held her against him.

Something twisted in Christina's chest seeing them like that, her frail, innocent sister sagging against a big, mail-clad warrior. Though still young, Alex was dark-haired like her, but tall and broad-shouldered. Next to him, Beatrix looked painfully vulnerable. Like a butterfly in an iron claw.

Beatrix would die under some vile brute. Christina knew it with certainty that could not be avoided.

Without thinking, Christina stepped forward. Her stomach tossed, but she fought back the panic. “No, Father. I'll do it. I'll marry him.”

Her father looked back and forth between the two girls, appraising them as if they were two horses at market. For once he seemed pleased with what he saw. “You'll both come, and he will choose which of you pleases him more.”

Without another word he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving both girls reeling in his wake.

Christina grabbed the wooden bedpost to steady herself. Beatrix was still plastered to her brother's side like a floppy poppet of rags. Alex stroked her head as she wept softly against his shoulder.

Over their sister's veiled head, their eyes met. Christina read the compassion in her brother's gaze. They both knew he could do nothing to stop their father. That the girls had not been betrothed before this was only because their father had been imprisoned and King Edward had not gotten to them yet. Marriage was what was expected of them. She'd known it. Ignored it, perhaps, but in the back of her mind she always knew this day would come.

A vision of Lancelot sprang to mind before she quickly forced it back. Only a dream. But never could she have anticipated this.

“Maybe he won't want either of us?” she ventured hopefully.

The look of compassion only deepened. Alex shook his
head as if she were sadly deluded. “I very much doubt that, sister. You and Beatrix, well,” he paused uncomfortably. “You are very beautiful. In different ways, perhaps, but equally exquisite. Beatrix looks like an angel and you…” His cheeks reddened. “You don't.”

It should be a wicked thing to say, but he made it sound as if it were just the opposite. Her brows wrinkled together. “I don't understand?”

Alex grimaced, looking as if he'd rather be doing anything other than talking about this. “It's your mouth and eyes.”

“What's the matter with them?” Her eyes were maybe a little slanted and her mouth perhaps a tad wide, but she didn't realize that something was so horribly wrong.