The Chief

by Monica McCarty

“You still have a few hours, then. Join me in my solar. I think we can have this matter settled to everyone’s satisfaction.”

  “It’s already settled.”

  The old warrior quirked a bushy gray brow. “Is it?”

  Tor held the other man’s gaze, clenched his jaw, and followed him into the small room off the Great Hall. His host deserved an explanation.

  He assumed the less formal setting of the solar, rather than the council chamber, was an attempt by MacDonald to avoid the appearance of judgment. Tor wasn’t surprised to see the other men already seated around the small table. It was the same group who had tried to persuade him to join with Bruce: Lamberton, Campbell, MacSorley, and, of course, Fraser.

  “In light of recent events,” MacDonald started once he’d sat down, “I hope you will consider our original offer.”

  Tor turned a cool, challenging gaze on Fraser. “Nothing has happened to change my mind.”

  Fraser struggled to control his temper. “Nothing except that you’ve ruined my daughter,” he sputtered.

  Lamberton frowned. “Is this true?”

  Though Tor knew that under the circumstances an explanation was in order, he wasn’t used to being questioned—or being put on the defensive. It was a position he found he did not enjoy. “I took her maidenhead. It’s her father, however, who did the ruining.”

  Fraser flushed angrily.

  Campbell gave Fraser a puzzled look. “What’s he talking about?”

  When the other man didn’t say anything, Tor said, “Why don’t you ask him how his daughter came to be in my room?” He was interested in hearing that himself.

  Lamberton’s eyes narrowed on Fraser. “What’s he suggesting, Sir Andrew? Did you send your daughter to his room?”

  All eyes were on Fraser now, and it was clear he didn’t like it. “How my daughter came to be in his room is immaterial. Anyone could see that he wanted the lass. I merely gave him the opportunity; I did not force him to ravish her.”

  The other men stared at Fraser with varying levels of disgust, but Lamberton was outraged. He was a churchman not just in office but also in conviction—which wasn’t always the case. “Your own daughter? How could you have used the lass like that? The poor girl must have been terrified.”

  Tor didn’t like hearing that any more than Fraser did.

  “None of this matters,” Fraser said angrily. “If he had any honor he would offer for her, accept the alliance, and join forces with us. A knight would—”

  Tor leaned forward and grabbed the man by the throat. He’d had about enough of Sir Andrew Fraser. “I’m not a damned knight,” he said in a deadly voice. “That’s the very reason you want me to lead your team. I don’t play by your rules or codes. I do what needs to be done to win. Kill or be killed—that’s my code.”

  He held Fraser like that for a long moment, then tossed him away with a grunt of disgust.

  Only the sound of Fraser’s sputtering broke the silence. It was the truth, and they all knew it. After a moment, MacDonald turned to the other men and said, “Leave us.”

  Fraser looked as if he wanted to argue, but Lamberton stopped him. “I think you’ve said enough.”

  When the room had emptied of all but the two of them, MacDonald studied Tor appraisingly, and then gave him a wry smile. “You’re right, of course. Though Lowlanders aren’t used to such blunt speaking. The reason they’ve come to us is not just because there are no better fighting men in Christendom, but also for our less than ‘knightly’ style of warfare. But just because they think we fight like savage pirates doesn’t mean we are. We might not live by the knightly code, but honor isn’t reserved for knights.” He chuckled. “Even Highlanders have a line, and though I think you don’t like it, you know you’ve come up against yours.”

  Tor met the other man’s gaze but didn’t say anything, his expression giving no hint of his thoughts. MacDonald was right, damn him. As much as Tor hated it, he couldn’t escape the sensation of a noose tightening around his throat.

  In theory he knew he was right to reject the alliance, but it did not ease the weight on his conscience. He’d taken her, damnation—rather crudely, too. It was no more than she deserved. But did she have to look so ridiculously vulnerable?

  His jaw locked as images of her face assaulted him. Pleading. Scared. Horrified when she realized he had no intention of offering for her.

  Anger and outrage surged inside him. Damn her for putting him in this position. Damn the whisky. Damn his own mindless reaction to her.

  “I may not condone Fraser’s methods,” MacDonald said, “but he’s right; no one compelled you to accept his wee gift.”

  “I didn’t know who it was. I thought you sent a woman to me.” He didn’t offer it as an excuse, but as an explanation.

  MacDonald nodded. “Ah. I wondered. And the lass said nothing?”

  Tor shook his head. Not until it was too late, at least. He stood up and paced across the room, knowing that if he had to sit there another moment he’d break something. The loss of composure only added to his anger. Finally, he turned back around to meet the older man’s gaze. “I’ll be damned if I’ll be forced into a marriage that is of no benefit to my clan by trickery and deceit.”

  “If you refuse to marry the lass, you’ll make an enemy of Fraser and his family.”

  “And Bruce as well, you mean.” Choosing sides, exactly what he’d sought to avoid.

  MacDonald shrugged. “You know Lowlanders. They have codes. Rules. You took the lass’s virginity; you are honor bound to marry her. End of discussion.” MacDonald leaned forward. “But, I think I have a solution that may solve all our needs.”

  Tor crossed his arms. “I’m listening.” Reluctantly.

  “Fraser may have been overzealous, but we all want the same thing: for you to train and lead this team of elite warriors. What I’m suggesting is a compromise. Train the men for a few months—someone else can lead them. You can do so in secret, and no one need be aware of your involvement. You will stay outwardly neutral and not draw the ire or scrutiny of King Edward and MacDougall.”

  “Unless someone discovers what I’m doing. Why would I want to risk it?”

  MacDonald smiled. “Because it will benefit your clan to do so. If you agree to train the guard, I will appease Nicolson.”

  Tor stilled. MacDonald had caught his attention. “How?”

  “My youngest son needs a bride. I will see to it that he’s betrothed to Nicolson’s second daughter.”

  Tor raised his brow. MacDonald must want him more than he realized for him to give Nicolson such a prized alliance.

  It would work. Nicolson would have to accept. Staving off war with Nicolson was the reason he came, and MacDonald was handing it to him. But it wasn’t enough—it would only exchange one problem for another. “What you are suggesting solves only half the problem. If I marry Fraser’s daughter, I will have appeared to ally myself with the family—and with Bruce.”

  MacDonald smiled. “Actually, thanks to Fraser’s treachery, it will be just the opposite.”

  “How is that?”

  “Rumors are already flying around that you ravished the lass. When you marry, it will only validate the rumors. Fraser will understandably be furious and you will appear to be enemies. Not such a stretch, I would imagine.” He chuckled. “It won’t look like an alliance, and no one will suspect you are working for Bruce.”

  Outwardly maintaining his neutrality.

  “I’m not usually known as a despoiler of innocent maids,” Tor said wryly.

  MacDonald snorted a laugh. “We’ll let it be known that you were besotted. That you fell in love and when the lass’s father refused you, you took matters into your own hands.” MacDonald’s eyes twinkled with mirth, guessing how much the idea of sounding like a lovesick fool appealed to him. “Didn’t your brother recently do the same?”

  Tor grimaced. “No one who knows me will believe it.”

  “The lass is exquisite, and every man
can be made a fool for love.”

  Not me. But if he could weather the humiliation, it was just ludicrous enough to work.

  “I never thought to hear such banalities from you.”

  A flash of pain flickered in the old warrior’s gaze. “As I said, every man.” He shrugged off the strange sadness that had crept into his voice. “So what say you to our agreement? I will take care of Nicolson and give you the peace you wanted, if you agree to train the men. After three months, you can walk away if you wish. Everybody will be happy.”

  Especially Fraser. Despite the obvious benefits of the offer, it went against every bone in Tor’s body to give Fraser what he wanted. Tor sat back in his chair, eyeing the other man carefully. “The alliance isn’t necessary. Marrying the girl doesn’t have to be part of the bargain. You will get what you want—my agreement to train the men—simply by staving off the war with Nicolson.”

  “That might have been true before last night,” the older man said. Tor waited for him to continue, but he knew what he was going to say. “You’ve taken the lass’s virginity—no matter the circumstances. Fraser will find many who agree that you are honor bound to marry her. Bruce needs Fraser’s support, and for that he will need to keep him happy. The alliance must be part of the bargain.”

  He should refuse. The alliance would only cause him problems. Walk away.

  But damnation, he couldn’t.

  MacDonald had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn it to his advantage. “Call off your dogs.”

  MacDonald’s brows gathered in genuine confusion. “Dogs?”

  “Your cateran kin, the MacRuairis.”

  “Ah…” A long, slow smile spread across MacDonald’s face.

  “You find something amusing?” Tor asked.

  “You never asked about the warriors who will make up the secret guard.”

  MacDonald recited a list of ten names. Tor frowned at a few of them, but when MacDonald reached the last name, Tor returned his smile with one that was much more devious. Lachlan MacRuairi. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Having MacRuairi under his heel alone would almost be worth it. “What’s his special skill, cutting throats?”

  MacDonald laughed. “Something to that effect.”

  “And you trust him with this?” MacRuairi’s loyalty was suspect at best, nonexistent at worst. “How can you be sure he won’t go running to Edward or MacDougall the first chance he gets?”

  MacDonald nodded. “He won’t. You’ll have to trust me.”

  It was a lot to ask. He knew the blackguard. After a long pause he nodded.

  “Then you agree?”

  Tor thought for a moment. Though everything MacDonald said made sense, something about marrying the lass still bothered him. But so did the idea of leaving her to an uncertain fate. “I do, for what it’s worth. But what you ask may be impossible. These men are more enemies than a fighting force.”

  Hell, there was even a bloody Englishman among the names.

  “They will follow you,” MacDonald said confidently. “Your reputation is well known, even in the borders. Men line up for the opportunity to fight with you despite the knowledge that only a very few of the toughest will survive what is it called…perdition?” Tor nodded, amused by the name given the two-week period of grueling training all his men endured—or, more often, didn’t. “What is it they say? You’re a man who could turn a group of ten-year-old lasses into toughened warriors.” He grinned at the jest. “Why do you think we wanted you so badly?”

  One side of Tor’s mouth lifted. Ten-year-old lasses would be easier than this bunch. “I know how to train soldiers, not make miracles.”

  MacDonald guffawed and slapped him on the back. “There’s always a first.” He stood and went to the sideboard, pouring a cup of uisge-beatha for each of them. Handing one to Tor, he lifted his glass. “To new alliances.”

  Tor returned the gesture and drank. But it did nothing to warm the chill that swept behind his neck. Getting the Nicolsons and MacRuairis off his back was worth the risk for now, but he hoped he didn’t come to regret his decision. He knew well what was at stake if his involvement with Bruce was discovered.

  He’d bought peace, but at what cost?

  Christina had been ordered to appear in MacDonald’s solar before the midday meal, uncertain of the fate that awaited her. Meaning that by the time she arrived, she was a tightly coiled bundle of nerves.

  Outside the door, she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt of her sapphire silk cote-hardie anxiously, took a deep breath, and knocked. Bid to enter, she drew back her shoulders and—attempting to hold her head high—walked into the room.

  Her bravado faltered immediately, her frazzled nerves coiling a little tighter. The room was small and dark, and hardly seemed big enough for one man to hold court let alone the four hulking warriors—and one bishop—gathered around a table, all watching her intently. She looked to her father, but his dark, somber expression gave no hint of what was to come.

  She managed not to shuffle or fidget, but it was impossible not to be intimidated. She had the distinct feeling of a child being brought before her father for punishment, but instead of one judge, finding a tribunal. And it wasn’t simply punishment for a minor transgression but her future that hung in the balance.

  In addition to her father, she recognized MacDonald, his pirate-looking henchman, the bishop, and, of course, the MacLeod chief. Whether his presence was a good or bad sign she didn’t know.

  Though she was careful to avoid catching his gaze, she was uncomfortably aware of his scrutiny. Not usually vain, she felt a smidgen of vanity now, aware that she looked horrible. Despite the cold water she’d dunked her face in that morning, the ravages of tears had been wrought on her face in swollen, red-rimmed eyes and splotchy, sallow skin.

  Knowing that she didn’t look her best didn’t exactly give her any much-needed confidence. The dead silence in the solar didn’t help any either.

  Not sure where to look, she kept her eyes fastened safely on her toes.

  It was MacDonald who spoke first. He was seated on the long side of the table with Lamberton beside him and the blond giant of a henchman directly behind him, standing guard. She supposed she was grateful that the room was not large enough to hold any more of the Island chiefs’ large retinues. Both MacDonald and MacLeod had at least a dozen men that formed their personal guard. Not surprisingly, her father and MacLeod sat at opposite ends of the table, leaving as much distance between them as possible.

  “No doubt you are aware of why you are here,” he said.

  She nodded, her heart jumping with anticipation, knowing that the time had come. She couldn’t breathe, let alone speak, as she waited.

  “Your father and MacLeod have come to terms, and under the circumstances, we think it’s best if the betrothal is a short one.”

  Betrothal. She sucked in her breath. He’d agreed to marry her. The wave of relief that crashed over her was surprisingly strong—she’d wanted this more than she realized.

  Beatrix was right. And she herself had been right about him. Even in the face of her father’s treachery, honor had won out.

  Perhaps behind the cold façade beat the heart of a gallant knight. And maybe he wasn’t as indifferent to her as he appeared.

  Her heart took a little leap. But then she chanced a glance in his direction and his expression put a hard check on her wild imagination. The knights in her books brimmed with charm and devotion to their lady, but there was nothing charming about this fierce barbarian warlord, and certainly nothing resembling devotion in his penetrating blue gaze. His expression was as hard and inscrutable as usual.

  His thoughts about this marriage were impossible to fathom. If she hoped for a small sign of encouragement, she wouldn’t find it from him.

  Deflated, she shifted her gaze back to MacDonald. “I see,” she said uncertainly.

  It was the bishop who gave her an encouraging smi
le. She latched onto the small kindness like an anchor. “I will take care of the necessary dispensations,” he said, “as we don’t want to wait more than three weeks for the banns to be read.”

  “The contracts will be signed and the ceremony can take place immediately thereafter,” MacDonald added.

  “Tomorrow,” the MacLeod chief said flatly, the first word he’d spoken since she entered the room. “I must return to Dunvegan as soon as possible. I’ve delayed too long already. We will leave immediately following the ceremony.”

  She blanched. “Tomorrow? But, I…” her voice dropped off. Her hands twisted. This was all happening so fast. Too fast.

  “Everything has been agreed upon,” her father said brusquely, his annoyance with her reaction obvious. “You need do nothing.”

  Lamberton gave him a scathing look, and then leaned forward in his chair. “What is it, child? You’ve been ill used in all of this, and despite what’s been decided here today, I’ll not see you forced into marriage.”

  “She’ll do what she’s told,” her father said angrily.

  “Enough,” MacLeod boomed. “Let the lass speak. She can answer for herself.”

  Christina didn’t know whether to be grateful or not. His gaze was utterly inscrutable, so she focused her attention on the bishop’s kind face. Having never anticipated that she would have a voice in the matter, the unexpected opportunity gave her a reckless idea. A way to protect herself if she was wrong.

  She swallowed. “Aye, I will marry him.”

  The men visibly relaxed.

  Taking a deep breath, she turned to the MacLeod chief. “But I would ask something of you in return.”

  He nodded his head for her to continue.

  Not daring to breathe for fear she would lose courage, she blurted, “I would ask that should I ever desire, you allow me to retire to a nunnery.”

  The room fell into a stunned silence. Her heart stopped, wondering if she’d made a huge mistake. The pride of men was a tender thing. Had she just wounded his?

  His gaze registered a flicker of surprise—and perhaps something else. Admiration. She realized that her minor act of rebellion had unwittingly impressed him.