The Chief: Order of the Broken Blade

by Mecca, Cecelia

  He clearly remembered holding himself in his palm that night as he thought of her standing by that river. He’d realized the sweet, pretty girl he’d always valued for her pleasant disposition was a girl no longer. His sister’s maid had very much become a woman. And if their circumstances had been different, he would have gladly given his buckle to her years earlier.

  But not once had he imagined she might feel that way about him. And Rory had always prided himself on his ability to ascertain others’ feelings and intentions. His father, his brother . . . they’d complimented him on little, but both had praised his ability to understand others.

  He’d never known.

  And now that he did? Nothing had changed. Their circumstances remained exactly the same. And yet he’d come to the feast anyway. Perversely, he had needed to see her, even knowing it might give the other maids another excuse to treat her poorly.

  Nay, I will not allow it.

  “Tell me the truth,” he whispered in her ear. Had it always been so delicately shaped? Her hair was pulled back on both sides in the loose braids she so often gave her sister, the two twining together at the back. But the rest flowed freely, beckoning him to breathe deeply of its sweet scent. “How long?”

  As more couples joined them, Rory led her to the outer rim of the floor.

  “My lord, please.”

  He pulled back enough so they could see each other. The nose that always wrinkled when she laughed, her deep and lovely eyes . . . every feature he knew so well looked different to him now.

  Less lovely, more sensual.

  Less friendly, more womanly.

  Rory, get ahold of yourself.

  “I am not my lord, but Rory. I am not some man you’ve just met but one you’ve known for many years. So aye, you’ve the right of it. Please.” He did inhale then and wanted to bottle her scent and take it with him always. “Tell me.”

  A new song. This one faster. If this had been any other dance, he’d have been forced to give her up by now. But this was the lover’s pick, and because of it, Rory was free to hold her hand, touch her waist, spin this beautiful woman around for as long as the pick continued.

  He dearly hoped several men picked poorly.

  He’d made her uncomfortable, even more so than earlier, and so he decided to make her laugh. He spun her about once, twice, a third time, and she crashed against his chest, laughing despite herself. Others seated about the hall were watching them, he knew, and a perverse part of him wanted them to see. To talk.

  Have I ever been happier than in this moment?

  It was the most reckless he’d ever felt, the most joyful, although he knew he shouldn’t be putting her in such a position. She likely knew it too, and yet they continued that way, dancing, laughing, for what seemed like hours. Yet it wasn’t long enough by half.

  “The last pick,” someone yelled as a maid, Maria, came tumbling toward them with a stableboy. Though young, the couple beamed at each other in a way that told him they were one of the few pairs who would use this feast day as the beginning of something real. Turning the game into reality.

  “They like each other,” he whispered, taking Cristane’s hand once more in the very position they’d begun in.

  She peered over his shoulder, the music slowing for one final time.

  “Aye, they do.”

  Their eyes met.

  They had been talking of the young couple, but something changed within that look—both of them were now thinking about their own connection.

  God, he loved her blush.

  “How long have they liked each other?” Rory asked with a smirk.

  By then he had steered them to the edge of the dancing, and they were closer to the dais and the back of the hall than they were the others.

  “I believe . . .”

  She did not want to tell him. But Cristane knew him well enough. He would continue asking until he gained an answer.

  “I believe they have liked each other, or she has liked him, at least,” Cristane qualified, “for a very long time.”

  It was like a punch to his stomach. He had not expected the answer, and yet . . .

  “Even when she kissed the blacksmith’s son behind the forge?”

  He’d never forget the irrational anger that had consumed him the day he’d come upon them, the journeyman and his sister’s maid. At the time he’d told himself he was reacting as a protective older brother would, and yet it had not rung true. To this day, he couldn’t stand the sight of the man, even though their kiss had led to nothing more.

  “Most especially then,” she said, her full lips parting just enough for him to imagine what it would be like to kiss them, to slip his tongue inside. “For it was the very same day Lady Isobel claimed she would become your wife.”

  Rory winced at the name of the woman who had broken his brother’s heart and then set her sights on him. Of course, he would never have married such a woman.

  As they spun, the sensation becoming headier by the moment, Rory promised himself he would only ask her one final question.

  “Did you kiss him before or after you heard Lady Isobel’s foolish claim?”

  When she stumbled, Rory caught her. Which was answer enough for him.

  When the music ended, Cristane pulled away as quickly as she had earlier that day. Rory did not attempt to stop her, for there was naught to say. Although he was foolishly pleased to learn she’d only pursued the smith’s son out of jealousy, he knew it did not, and could not, matter. Soon she would be gone, to Licheford Castle, to serve his sister. And Rory would be left here with nothing but uncertainty. About his place in the clan with his brother in England. And about what could have been had Cristane been born a noblewoman. But she had not. And Rory, though he’d mastered the role of the cad, the foil for his great brother, was not the kind of man who’d pursue her for the kind of relationship sure to ruin her.

  Their delightful dance had been just that, no more or less.

  How unfortunate.

  Chapter 6

  Cristane tightened the reins around her leather gloves. Though the snow had melted and no more had taken its place, every ride was attended by the sound of her horse’s hooves crunching on the frozen ground. Not for the first time, she chastised herself for riding by herself in the cold—a danger, to be certain, especially in her riding gown and mantle, nearly as nice as a lady’s finery—but after yesterday’s feast, she needed to escape. Even if it was just for a few minutes.

  She’d attempted to help in the kitchens again this morn, only to be tossed out by Amye. What was worse, the looks she’d received from the other scullery maids had told her they did not want her there.

  And so she had hurried out to the stables. The lads had prepared her horse for her, a mare Cait had given her as a gift on her day of birth the year before, and she’d ridden past the gatehouse guards with nothing more than a shouted warning.

  If Cait had been with her, they’d never have been allowed to leave so easily, but no one had attempted to stop her. The cold air slapping her face felt good at first—it helped her shake off the hours she’d lain sleepless in bed.

  She didn’t hear them until it was too late.

  One moment, she was contemplating returning to the castle. The next, the thunder of hoofbeats surrounded her. Her gaze caught on the red and black plaids, and she bit back her surprise. McKinnon’s men. On Kennaugh soil? Rarely did their enemy venture so close to the village, and never had they dared intrude upon the chief’s residence. They typically raided closer to the borders of their own land in a constant quest to extend them.

  “A lone chick so far from her nest,” spat one particularly rough-looking rider, his face dirty and long matted hair more than a bit disheveled.

  So the rumors were true. Another feud was brewing, and McKinnon did not appear to be waiting for the weather to break to make himself known. And now here she was, caught in the middle of it.

  “I am the personal maid to Lady Cait, sister of the chief
of Clan Kennaugh.” Cristane raised her chin, ignoring the shaking of her hands. “And you, sirs, are trespassing.”

  A round of laughter greeted her bold statement.

  “She will do.”

  Cristane had no time to react before a tug on her leg made her aware that the others had been moving while she spoke to the man who appeared to be the leader of the group. Ripped from the saddle, she nearly fell headfirst to the ground. A man caught her around the waist at the last moment, and it was only then Cristane thought to scream.

  And scream she did. Loudly, for a moment at least, until a gloved hand clasped over her mouth. No amount of kicking and wriggling out of the man’s grasp seemed to help. She was carried over to another member of the group, still mounted, and hauled up into the saddle.

  The stark reality of her situation hammered into her. She was being taken captive by a member of an enemy clan. Her hands were no longer alone in their violent trembling.

  “If you scream again,” a menacing voice said from behind her, “I will slit your throat.”

  With that, they were already on the move, traveling over the rolling, barren hills to the north of the castle and the village. Traveling away from anyone who might save her.

  How could she have been so stupid? Would her absence even be noticed?

  As they rode, the men remained silent with the exception of an occasional rumble of cuss words from the man behind her. Apparently, he considered sharing his saddle an inconvenience—one she would dearly love to remedy by being let go. To taunt her with as much misery as possible, the elements also conspired against her as a mixture of freezing rain and sleet began to fall.

  “Bloody hell,” her foul-smelling captor cursed.

  Precisely.

  Her only consolation? Rarely were such abductions anything other than a provocation. If she’d thought they would truly harm her, Cristane would not have been able to remain so calm.

  “We’ll enjoy a bit of sport before giving you back,” her captor sneered, as if reading her thoughts. That’s when Cristane began shivering in earnest. The wet and cold were no match for the thought of being raped by these men. Would they dare such an insult to Clan Kennaugh?

  The same men who’d dared to steal her off the chief’s own land?

  Aye, they would indeed.

  “Ride ahead with the girl!”

  No sooner was that shouted by the horseman in front of her than her captor tightened his grip. She had no idea what was happening, but the speed at which they now traveled in this weather was Cristane’s new cause for concern. Heart pounding, she closed her eyes as the icy droplets drove into her face.

  “Surround him!”

  Who were they talking about?

  They slowed to a stop, prompting Cristane to open her eyes again. She looked over her shoulder and gasped.

  Nay, it could not be . . .

  Except it was. Rory was already dismounting, running toward them. The others did indeed surround him, and from what Cristane could see, he was alone.

  Her captor was yanked off the horse with such ferocity and speed Cristane feared she might topple over as well. Gripping the reins, she managed to stay seated for long enough to see her abductor lunge forward, toward Rory.

  Biting her lip, knowing it would be best not to intervene, she watched as they engaged. Except it didn’t take very long. Enraged, Rory buried his sword under the man’s outstretched arm, dropping him to the ground screaming in pain.

  He then addressed the other McKinnon men, who had not even dismounted yet.

  “You know who I am, but if there be any question, you’ve the honor of insulting the chief of Clan Kennaugh’s second. So unless you plan to kill me, do not dismount or attempt to help your friend.”

  None of the McKinnon men moved.

  They may have been authorized to take a captive, but an attack on Rory Kennaugh would be akin to a declaration of war.

  “Be on your way,” he said to them, lifting a hand to her as if he were not surrounded by enemy warriors. “And tell your chief his provocation has been received and will be dealt with.”

  They did not even hesitate. Not only did they abandon their friend on the ground, bleeding and still screaming from pain, but they did so at a dangerous speed.

  Rory helped her dismount.

  Only then did he look back down at her captor. “If you do manage to live, let it be a warning to you,” he spat, his tone full of venom. “Non vocis.”

  Those words, spoken so menacingly to the enemy, made her shiver even more.

  Never falter.

  But she did. And felt herself falling to the ground.

  Chapter 7

  Rory could feel Cristane stirring as he hoisted her in front of him on his saddle, but he did not pause in spurring his mount forward. With one hand on the reins and the other firmly gripping her waist, he sped toward the lodge. It would not be prepared for them, of course, but staying there was still preferable to returning all the way to the castle in this weather.

  Once she was settled, he wrapped his mantle around her to ensure she stayed warm. The freezing rain and wind stung his skin, but the only thing that mattered to him in the moment was the safety of the woman who practically sat in his lap.

  “My lord . . .”

  She sat more upright now, making it easier to ride.

  “It will not be long,” he said, already spying the stone structure ahead. Small but functional, it offered everything they needed at the moment, primarily a shelter against the freezing rain.

  “There.”

  “Upper Bradon,” she said, echoing his thoughts.

  “Aye.”

  The hunting lodge, which had not been used much since the death of Rory’s father, sat not far from the northwest edge of their land.

  “We’ll warm there before returning.”

  Although he should have sent for help—he knew that—panic and blind rage had stolen over him at the sight of Cristane’s lost mare. He’d been looking for her, despite knowing it was beyond foolish, and the last thing he’d expected was to find her horse wandering loose. The tracks had led him directly to her, thank God.

  McKinnon’s men had been lucky to survive. Well, most of them. He knew not the fate of the man who’d dared to take her. Nor did he care.

  They could not know the woman they’d kidnapped was the same one he’d dreamt of the night before.

  But it wouldn’t do to think of that now, as he lifted her off his horse and led her into the hunting lodge. Though rarely used, it was well-kept. A large room nearly the size of Bradon Moor’s great hall, with a massive corner fireplace and two large beds off to the side, the lodge held many fond memories.

  Cristane’s whole body was shaking, yet another reminder that he had to get them warm. Now. He hurried over to the hearth and quickly stoked a fire, courtesy of the dry firewood and fire striker. Then he stripped off his wet tunic.

  “What are you doing?”

  “The same as you should be. Warding off a cold fit.”

  Although he did not think either of them would suffer such a malady, Rory wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, he was damn freezing.

  Continuing to remove his wet clothing, Rory attempted to ignore the fact that she was next to him, that she was watching. By the time he was down to his trewes, however, he finally had to acknowledge that he had to make accommodations for Cristane’s modesty. She would not simply strip off her gown.

  She did not, however, hide her appreciation for his chest, a fact Rory’s body responded to with vigor. Cursing, he strode past the fire and lone trestle table to one of two beds, pulling the blanket from it. Shaking away the dust, he brought it to Cristane.

  “You can wear this,” he said, pleased with the solution. But her cheeks got even redder, if possible.

  “I cannot . . . undress. And you . . .”

  “I will look away.”

  He turned his back to her and moved closer to the fire. Rory heard nothing but the crackling source of t
he blessed warmth in front of him.

  “Modesty will not keep you warm,” he said softly.

  “My lord—”

  “Rory,” he interrupted. “When you undress in the same chamber as another person, you’ve earned permission to use their given name,” Rory teased.

  She would not use it. Rory had made the offer, nay, the entreaty, many times before, but his sister’s maid stubbornly refused the familiarity.

  “Should we not return to warn the others?”

  Peering over his shoulder to look at Cristane, who’d removed not a stitch of her wet clothing, he tried again.

  “I will not look.”

  Much as I would like to.

  “And as for a warning, none is needed. The men are already aware McKinnon is making a move. Although it seems word of it had not yet spread this morn.”

  She said nothing.

  He’d not meant it as a rebuke, but Rory belatedly realized it might have sounded like one.

  “I should not have gone.”

  He seized the opportunity. “Nay, you should not have. As recompense, I ask you take off those wet clothes and join me by the fire.”

  Without looking back, Rory moved his discarded tunic and shirt and laid them on the floor in front of the now-raging fire. If their absence was not already noted, it would be soon. The quicker they could get warm and dry, the quicker they could return to the keep.

  He stood, waiting for her to speak, but the sound that came next made him freeze in place. Though she made hardly any noise, Cristane’s mantle hitting the floor might as well have been a battle cry. The clank of metal, a buckle perhaps, was akin to two swords coming together for the first time.

  Each moment that passed, he imagined another piece of clothing being removed. Honor required him to continue to stare at the fire.