The Chief (9 page)

He felt like he was jumping out of his damned skin.

Not for the first time, he regretted refusing MacDonald's offer of a lass to share his bed this evening. What the hell had he been thinking?

His jaw hardened, knowing the answer.
One woman was as good as another
, he reminded himself.

Reaching for the jug of
uisge-beatha
, he said a silent thanks to MacDonald for his prescient hospitality and took a long drink, not bothering to pour it into a cup. The potent whisky burned a trail down his throat and chest, and after a moment spread through his limbs like a warm blanket, dulling the blade of edginess.

When the jug was considerably lighter, he looped his finger through the small handle at the neck and carried it over
to the side table. Dropping back onto the bed, he raked his hair back from his face, disgusted with himself.

God's blood, what was the matter with him?

He liked his whisky—as any Islander did—but he did not usually use it to dull his senses. But the wall that he'd erected in his mind was proving to be confoundingly weak.

He'd been damned close to kissing the lass earlier and knew it. For a man who prided himself on control, the lapse was unfathomable.

He
should
be focusing all his thoughts on Nicolson. Tor had learned from MacDonald that Nicolson was not heeding the summons to Finlaggan. Nicolson had sent his regrets, but pressing matters required his attention.

Aye, Tor thought, pressing matters like mounting an attack against the MacLeods.

MacDonald had sent another messenger to Nicolson, demanding his immediate presence, but Tor dared not wait. He needed to return to Skye immediately to begin preparations for war.

But it was not the prospect of war that invaded his thoughts, stiffened his cock, and made him feel like a lion penned in a very small cage.

He was distracted. By a woman, of all things.

He shook his head. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the company of women. But other than light conversation at mealtimes, he related to them best in bed. In that he understood them well. But in truth he'd never given any one in particular much thought. He hadn't had the time or attention to spare. Since his parents' death when he was a lad of ten, he'd been focused on one goal—restoring his clan to prosperity. The better part of the last twenty years he'd spent on the battlefield, returning to Skye when he could.

He'd known his wife, Flora, the daughter of an Irish king, for only a few days when he'd married her, and thinking back, had probably spent less than a few months with her the entire time they were married. Long enough
to give him two fine sons, but little else. He attended his duties and she hers. The marriage suited him perfectly.

He frowned, wondering whether the situation had suited her as well as it did him.

Attributing the odd thought to the whisky he'd consumed, he put aside the jug, lay back on the cool sheets, and closed his eyes, allowing the darkness and the drink to soothe the tension from his coiled muscles.

But the drink hadn't helped. The images burned in his mind were not so easily dislodged. As soon as he closed his eyes it all came back to him. Her lovely face. Her exotically tilted eyes. Her sinful mouth inches from his.

And her bare breast.

He groaned, his cock jerking hard as the image came to him full force. A generous mound of creamy, untouched ivory skin topped off by a tight pink nipple the size of a pearl. It was the most spectacular breast he'd ever seen, designed for a man's pleasure. A perfect blend of innocent and erotic at the same time—much like the lass herself.

He was hard as a smith's hammer. Knowing he wasn't going to get any sleep like this, he wrapped his hand around himself and gave over to the images—her breast, her face, that wide harlot's mouth sucking—and released his frustration into a drying cloth. A warrior's practical solution, if not a particularly satisfying one.

At last he fell into a fitful sleep. But the morning couldn't come soon enough.

Christina couldn't stop shaking, shivering uncontrollably not from cold but from fear. She trudged down the corridor and up the stairs one halting step after the other, as if her father had her at the point of his sword.

She couldn't believe she was doing this. The only thing that kept her feet moving forward was the thought of her father's rage and the knowledge of what would happen to both her and Beatrix if she didn't do as he ordered. The
more she thought about it, the more her father's plan seemed fraught with possibilities to go wrong, but what could she do?

Pray
.

Her father leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Move your feet and stop that blasted shaking. You'll wake him the moment you try to climb in bed.”

Her father's warning stopped her shaking because instead she froze. How was she going to do such a thing?

She wanted to run and hide, but it was too late.

“Here,” her father whispered, pointing to the small door on the right. They'd reached the top floor of the tower keep. Thankfully, the MacLeod chief had been given one of the few private chambers in the castle. Only his status as an esteemed guest had prevented this farce from taking place in the Great Hall or barracks surrounded by pallets of sleeping men.

“Hurry,” her father said impatiently. “Give me your cloak.”

She clutched the folds of wool until her knuckles turned white, not wanting to let go. “I…”

“Now,” he said impatiently.

She wanted to beg him to reconsider, but one look into those hard black eyes flickering in the candlelight and she knew it would be futile.

Fingers trembling, she untied the cloak and handed it to him. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling naked though she still wore a linen chemise.

“Go,” he ordered.

“You won't leave?” she said, her voice sounding pathetically like that of a child afraid of being left alone in the dark.

“I have to make a show of looking for you, but after I ‘force' your sister to tell me where you have gone, I'll return.”

He'd thought of everything. “In a few minutes,” she said.

“In a few minutes,” he assured her. “It will be over before you know it.” He pushed her to the door. “Stay quiet and he'll never know you're there.”

Christina put her hand on the latch and took a deep breath, praying for strength.

God forgive me
, she murmured and opened the door.

Before she lost courage, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Standing stone still, she listened for any sounds of disturbance but heard only the drum of her own frantic heartbeat pounding in her ears. After a few moments, she could just make out the soft rise and fall of his breathing. She exhaled with relief.

The room was pitch black, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. Even then, it was hard to make out anything other than shadows. But she recognized the large one opposite the door—the bed. And on the bed, rolled to the side, a sleeping man, which was fortunate because although the bed was big, the tall, hulking warrior took up a large portion of it. There would barely be room for her to squeeze in beside him.

Her stomach knifed, and her already frayed nerves seemed tied in tight knots.

It will all be over in a few minutes
. Little consolation under the circumstances.

Willing her feet forward, she crept to the bed, her footsteps nearly soundless, a talent she'd perfected since her father's return from imprisonment. Though she kept her gaze safely away from the figure on the bed, with each step her awareness of him grew until the pressure built to near bursting. One touch and she was sure she would scream like a banshee.

The room seemed too warm, almost sultry, the air heavy with whisky and a dark, masculine scent that she recognized as his. Her body responded on a base level she didn't understand—the clean, spicy scent seeping through her pores, warming some of the ice from her blood.

She'd reached the side of the bed.

Holding her breath, she ventured a look at the sleeping figure, getting far more than she'd bargained for. It was dark, but not dark enough to prevent her from being able to see that not only was he lying atop the bed coverings, he was doing so without any clothing—completely and utterly naked.

He was facing away from her—small mercy!—and she could just make out the hard lines of his strong back and broad shoulders, the rocklike bulges of his arm, the thick, heavily muscled legs, and the finely carved slope of his buttocks, which were as hard as the rest of him.

Good gracious, he was magnificent. His long, lean, muscled body was built to be worshipped like a statue in some ancient Greek shrine. Apollo, perhaps.

She sucked in her breath, her body flooding with heat. Shocked and embarrassed, but also something else. Curious? Nay, the strange, warm tingling in her breasts and between her legs told her it was more than that.

She was attracted to him—aroused by his nakedness.

Quickly, she dropped her gaze, ashamed by her body's reaction. What was wrong with her? All those muscles, all that raw power, should be terrifying her. She'd be helpless against such strength.

She needed to get this over with. How long had it been? A minute? Two? There wasn't much time left.

She closed her eyes, said another prayer for courage, and carefully climbed onto the bed beside him. The mattress sagged with her weight, causing her heart to jolt. She listened for the even sounds of his breathing, but her heart was in her ears and she couldn't hear anything else. But he wasn't moving; that was a good thing.

She tried to make herself small, turning on her side at the edge of the bed and leaving as much space between them as possible. Though they weren't touching, she could feel
him. He was so big and warm—his body seemed to radiate heat like a fire.

Hoping her father would hurry up, she started counting in her head. One minute. Two.

Where was he?

All of a sudden the bed squeaked as he shifted behind her. She gasped when his big arm wrapped around her waist, just under her breasts, and pulled her against the hard length of his body.

She froze like a deer in the archer's sights. Shock and awareness waged war with her senses. Mostly, she was aware of his heat enveloping her. Of the sheer power of the big, hard body behind her.

What was she going to do?

She couldn't move even if she wanted to. It felt as if she'd been encased in warm steel, his big warrior's body rigid and unyielding but inexplicably cozy.

Good Lord, his arms were strong. She could feel the latent raw power in the big muscles flexed against her waist and breasts. She remembered how he'd wielded his sword with deadly precision and tried not to panic.

A task that became impossible when she became aware of something else: He wasn't asleep.

For a moment, Tor thought he was dreaming. He sensed the woman beside him, her soft, feminine scent wreaking havoc with his mind. He couldn't think straight; his head felt as if it had been stuffed with wool.

Bloody hell, he must have had more to drink than he realized. It had been a long time since anyone had snuck up on him. But the twinge of annoyance was quickly forgotten as his body reacted to her presence.

And react it did. Every muscle in his body vibrated with awareness.

This was just what he needed. A soft, willing woman to drown out thoughts of another.

Apparently, MacDonald had ignored his wishes and sent him a lass anyway. He smiled lazily. He'd have to thank his host in the morning.

He drew the lass against his body, her softness melting against him. She was a tiny little thing but felt surprisingly good in his arms, lush and soft, with plenty of womanly curves. And God, that smell. He inhaled, sinking his nose into the soft silk of her hair. Incredible.

The soft hitch of her breath when his mouth touched her ear sent a bolt of lust shooting straight to the head of his cock. He felt himself hardening against the sweet curve of
her bottom and knew right away that he was in for an enjoyable ride.

She gasped and he felt her body stiffen with shock, a reaction he was used to. He chuckled. Aye, he was a big man. “Don't worry, lass,” he murmured in her ear, his lips trailing down the velvety skin of her neck to the sensitive juncture at her shoulder and nape. “I'll be gentle.”

It was a promise he didn't know if he could keep. The honey taste of her skin was driving him half-crazy. She was so damned soft and sweet. He nuzzled deeper into her neck and shoulder, kissing her, sucking, tasting, unable to get enough of her, his hunger insatiable. Her long hair fell around him in a silky veil, tickling his bare chest. He wanted her naked against him, skin to skin, but he didn't think he could wait. His need was overpowering.

Her soft, uneven gasps egged him on. Playing the innocent, was she? He didn't typically enjoy such games, but right now he didn't care. Lust filled his groin with heavy, molten heat. His skin felt like it was on fire. He was already as hard as a damned spike.

Not usually so impatient, all he could think about was sinking into her from behind and thrusting until the mindless oblivion overcame them both. He rubbed himself against her bottom a little harder, liking the idea more and more. His cock throbbed painfully. He couldn't remember the last time he was this aroused. His body responded to her on a base level with pure, raw lust.

MacDonald had outdone himself with this one.

He could feel the gentle swell of her hips and the round curve of her shapely bottom. She might be small, but she was sturdy. Built perfectly for what he had in mind.

His hand slid from around her waist to cup her breast. He groaned at the feel of her filling his palm, his mind immediately picturing the breast he'd seen earlier. This lass had more than enough to make him forget.

He scooped the heavy flesh in his hand, rubbing her
nipple between his finger and thumb until it tightened into a hard peak, the way he'd wanted to touch another.

She made a sharp sound, her hips riding back against him. Oh yes, she wanted it badly. He could feel her heart racing wildly under his hand.

He drew the soft lobe of her ear between his teeth. “Like that, do you?” he whispered huskily.

She didn't respond. She didn't need to. It was better that way. This was about pure, mindless lust. He didn't even want to know what she looked like.

In the darkness, she could be anyone.

Like it? Christina couldn't breathe—first from shock, and then from the hot waves of sensation rippling through her. It felt incredible. Like liquid heat pouring through her veins.

Her heart was racing like a rabbit's. But he didn't seem to notice. If he wasn't drunk, he was close. She could smell the whisky on his breath and hear it in his voice—the dark, masculine tones turned deep and husky. Who would have thought that such a fierce warrior could sound so seductive?

But if the drink had taken the edge off his intensity, it had also dulled his senses enough to mistake her shocked reaction for something else.

He thought she wanted…this. Admittedly, an understandable mistake given that she was in his bed.

Should she call out? Tell him who she was?

At least she was safe for now. As long as he was behind her, her virtue was safe. She wasn't a complete innocent; she knew how men and women made love.

But where was her father?

Then he was touching her, and she forgot about being scared, forgot about her father's plan, forgot about everything except what he was doing to her. All she could think about was the hard column pressed against her bottom, his
mouth on her neck and ear, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down her spine, and the incredible sensation of his big hands cupping her breasts, squeezing and plying her nipples until they throbbed with pleasure.

Never could she have imagined that a man's touch could make her feel like this. Heavy, drugged, as if her body were not her own. It was even better than in her book! She was hot and achy, awash in sensation, her body tingling in places she'd never imagined. Her breasts were full and heavy, and a strange dampness gathered between her legs.

Her body's reaction would have embarrassed her, but she was too overcome with pleasure to think about it. His hands felt too good. Big, possessive, hot. The pressure exquisite. Leaving her craving—nay, needing—more. She moaned, arching into his hand when the sensations he roused by stroking her breasts became too much to bear. When the clawing need had nowhere to go.

Her innocent response did something to him. His movements grew more demanding. His kiss turned rougher, his mouth and the scrape of his whiskers ravaging the soft skin of her neck. He was breathing hard, the muscles in his arms and chest tight and strained, his passion as fierce as the man himself. And she liked it.

“God, you feel incredible,” he groaned in her ear. “I hope you're ready.” His hand skimming the length of her body from breast to hip and lower, then back up again, but this time without the chemise between them.

Ready for what? She gasped when his rough, callused hand connected with bare skin. The sensation was incredible. Her skin burned under his wicked touch. His hand dipped between her legs, his fingers sweeping the tender skin along the inside of her thigh.

She froze with embarrassment. Dear Lord. He was going to…

One big fingertip swept the sensitive seam of her dampness.
She quivered—with shock or desire, she didn't know. Her body shuddered for his touch, but the dreamy haze that had surrounded her had started to lift.

“Aye,” he groaned. “You're ready.

“I can't wait to make you come,” he whispered. She shuddered, reacting to the wicked tone if not the meaning.

His hands gripped her hips, tilting her back toward him.

Reality returned full force. Something wasn't right. Could he possibly…?

“Please don't…” She tried to wriggle away, but froze when her bottom brushed the thick column of his manhood. “Stop.”

“Oh, I won't,” he said tightly, his voice strained.

His grip on her hips hardened. She felt the thick head of his erection probing her intimately and jerked with panic. “No!” she cried.

But it was too late. In one hard thrust he plunged deep inside her, tearing through her maidenhead. She screamed, feeling as if she'd just been ripped in two.

He stiffened behind her and swore—a crude oath that with what they'd done had just taken on new meaning. Still gripping her hips, he unceremoniously pushed her off him and jumped from the bed as if he'd just been burned.

He had. They both had.

Tor felt as if he'd just plunged into an icy loch. The haze of drink and lust were gone in an instant. What the hell was going on? The chit was a damned virgin!

He strode to the window and tore open the shutter. The wood banged against the stone with a slam that reverberated throughout the room.

Moonlight flooded the room with a shadowy light. He looked into the tear-filled gaze of the woman on the bed and felt the blood drain from his body.

The effects of the whisky had not completely dissipated, and it took him a moment to clear his head enough to
make sure he wasn't imagining her. But nay, it was true. The woman he'd just divested of her maidenhead was Fraser's beautiful, dark-haired daughter.

She'd sat up and had her arms wrapped around her legs as if she were trying to curl into a ball and disappear. Her long sable hair fell in a silky veil around her shoulders, mussed from his ravishment. She looked young, innocent, and very scared, gazing up at him with wide eyes and tears streaming down her soft cheeks.

When he thought of what he'd done to her—how he'd kissed her, how he'd touched her, how he'd taken her virginity from behind—his stomach twisted; he felt ill.

He took a step toward her and stopped. He didn't owe her comfort; if anything, it was she who owed him an explanation. “What are you doing here?” he demanded “Why are you in my bed?”

Her face paled, her dark eyes shimmering with panic. “I…”

All of a sudden the door swung open and Andrew Fraser stepped into the room, the burst of candlelight casting away the shadows, leaving nowhere for the truth to hide. A serving girl and a man stood behind him.

The older man took one look at his thoroughly ravished-looking daughter on the bed and at Tor, whose naked state left little to the imagination. Not all the blood had drained from his body, and his arousal was still prominently clear—as was the dark red smear running down its length. If that wasn't proof enough, the spots of blood on the coverlet were incontrovertible. He'd taken her maidenhead.

But the gleam of satisfaction in Fraser's eye made Tor's blood run cold.

The truth hit hard. He'd been tricked.

His gaze snapped back to the lass, not wanting to believe she'd played a part in such treachery.

She startled from the intensity of his gaze, then looked away. But he'd seen it: guilt.

Christina was numb. Past shock. Past horror. All she felt was lost. Like she was running through the dark maze of a horrible dream and couldn't find a way out.

But it wasn't a dream; the throbbing pain between her legs proved that it was very real.

How could this have happened? One minute she'd been consumed by passion, ablaze in the most wondrous sensations, connected to him in a way she'd never imagined, and then it had all gone so wrong. He'd entered her so fast, she didn't realize what he'd intended until too late. She didn't know a man and a woman could make love—her cheeks heated—
that
way.

And then her father had entered the room and everything became so much worse. The maidservant he'd brought to witness her shame quickly averted her eyes. But the guardsman stood stoically behind him, watching the whole thing.

“What have you done to my daughter?” her father demanded, sounding aggrieved.

She ventured a look at the MacLeod chief, his expression as fierce as she'd ever seen it. He glared at her father with cold fury in his eyes. “Exactly what any man would do when a whore is sent to his bed.”

Christina gasped at the crude barb. Shock squeezed her chest. How could he say such a thing? A few moments ago he was touching her as if he couldn't get enough of her, as if he desired her more than anyone else in the world. As if she were special. Her body was still tingling from where his hands had caressed her breasts, where his fingers had pinched her nipples, and where his mouth and jaw had marked her neck.

The guardsman's hand went to the sword at his waist, but her father waved him back.

“How dare you!” her father said, not needing to feign outrage this time. “My daughter was an innocent maid. You wear the proof of her virginity on you right now.”

Christina had carefully avoided looking at his nakedness, but her eyes dropped of their own accord—and then widened. Jesu! No wonder it hurt so badly. Cheeks burning, she quickly averted her gaze. But not before the image of his incredible body was burned in her mind. The maidservant, however, eyed him boldly, shooting Christina a look of womanly appreciation that she didn't fully understand.

“I only took what was given to me,” the MacLeod chief said coolly, an unmistakable edge to his voice.

He thought she'd wanted this. That she'd meant to seduce him. But she'd only meant to lie next to him. He wasn't supposed to wake up.

“And now you will pay the price,” her father said matter-of-factly.

So matter-of-factly that comprehension finally dawned on her. How could she not have seen it before? The betrayal smacked her in the chest with nearly as much force as if he'd struck her.

He'd meant for this to happen
. He hadn't been delayed. Her father had never intended to come find her after a few minutes; he'd hoped she would be discovered and ruined. MacLeod could never refuse to marry her now. No matter how it had been accomplished, it was the only honorable thing to do.