The Chief

by Monica McCarty

  “What nonsense are you spouting, gel,” her father blasted. “Of course he will agree to no such thing.”

  The MacLeod chief ignored him. “Should you ever wish to leave, no one will stop you. You have my word. My men will be informed as such on our arrival.”

  He’d agreed. She couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t really thought he would—and certainly not so readily. Did he even realize the gift he’d given her? It was a small show of respect. A statement that she was not a possession.

  Their eyes locked, and she knew he’d understood. Something passed between them. Something that made hope flare in her chest. It was the same intense connection she’d felt before. And she sensed that beyond the wintry façade, he felt it, too.

  “Thank you,” she said, not breaking the connection.

  He held her gaze for a moment longer, nodded, and then turned curtly away. Cold. Remote. But she hoped something more.

  Her future had been decided.

  Now there was only Beatrix’s to consider.

  —

  Tor spent the remainder of the day cloistered with MacDonald and Lamberton, finalizing the details for his training of the men. With his brother gone, there could be no question of him leaving Skye—at least until he was certain the raids had stopped. He would not leave his clan unprotected. Therefore, it was agreed that the warriors would come to Skye and train at an abandoned broch near the castle.

  Secrecy was paramount, his appearance of neutrality depending on it. As such, only a trusted few of his clansmen would know of their presence.

  Fraser informed him that his daughter knew nothing of the reasons behind their alliance, and Tor saw no reason for that to change. His undertaking for Bruce had nothing to do with her, and it was safer for her to be kept in the dark. Confiding in anyone—let alone a woman—was not something he did unless necessary. The treachery leading to his parents’ death had taught him the importance of keeping his own counsel. The fortunes of his clan rested on his shoulders and his alone.

  Other than the need for secrecy, this would be just like any other training for hire that he’d undertaken many times before. Though he had to admit that he looked forward to the added challenge of training such an elite, if divergent, team of warriors.

  Three months was a small price to pay for peace. After three months the team would be gone, along with the risk of discovery of his involvement with Bruce’s rebellion. His part of the bargain would be paid. In return he would have Nicolson off his back, MacRuairi under his thumb, and an alliance with a family that he could use or disavow as he saw fit. If Bruce succeeded, a connection with the Frasers would be a benefit, but if the rebellion failed, he had some protection in the pretense of enmity.

  All in all, it wasn’t a bad bargain—except for the treacherous circumstances in which it had been forged. He hated knowing that Fraser had gotten what he wanted. That he’d been manipulated was a bitter draught to swallow. He could cheerfully kill Fraser for what he’d done. His anger toward the woman who would be his wife was not so intense, but neither could he ignore her part in what had happened.

  Once his initial anger had cooled, he began to suspect that she’d been coerced. He hadn’t missed the fear in her eyes when she looked at her father—or the betrayal. He would reserve judgment until he heard her side, but she would learn that he did not tolerate deception of any kind.

  His anger was also tempered by the knowledge that she had suffered for her actions. Trick or not, honor would not let him completely ignore that he’d taken her virginity in a crude manner suited for a jaded whore, not an innocent maid. This marriage would at least do something to ease his conscience in that regard.

  Though it wasn’t an alliance he wanted, he would make the best of it. But he could not completely shake the voice niggling him that he’d gotten more in the bargain than he wanted. Something about Christina Fraser set him on edge. His desire for her was…extreme.

  That small taste of her had only whetted his appetite. If her reaction last night was any indication, she was just as passionate as she looked. He’d burned with memories the entire time she stood before him in the solar. When he thought of her in his bed…

  Anticipation was an understatement.

  The intense lust that he felt for her was a distraction, but it did not concern him. He was not an untried lad. He knew how to control his base urges and keep lust in its place—in the bedchamber.

  No doubt the strength of his reaction to her was only because she’d been out of his reach. As his wife, he could bed her at will. No longer would she be the fruit of the forbidden tree. Once sated, his lust would temper, and they would get on to a comfortable coexistence such as the one he’d shared with his first wife. He would have his duties and she would have hers, with little overlap.

  She’d have the protection of his castle and name, fine gowns, a castle to run, food to eat, a warm bed to sleep in, perhaps a few children to fill her arms. Everything a woman could want.

  Besides, any qualms he felt about the lass seemed insignificant in light of the more immediate benefits to his clan.

  She was only a lass, after all. And a small one at that. What harm could she bring?

  He woke early the next morning, eager to have the day behind him. Now that he’d resolved himself to the alliance, he wanted it—and its formalities—over with so he could focus on the task at hand. The sooner it was done, the sooner he could return to Dunvegan and begin to prepare for training the men. He’d be too busy to think about anything—or anyone—else.

  As his clerk had not accompanied him, he employed one of MacDonald’s to look over the marriage contract. MacDonald and Lamberton had not exaggerated. Christina Fraser’s tocher was generous. Tor had just gained a considerable chunk of land in Stirlingshire and a smaller one along the Borders—assuming Edward did not confiscate it after what Bruce and his cohorts had planned.

  He frowned when Fraser entered the solar alone. Though Christina would not be required to sign the contract, Tor had assumed she would be present.

  He hadn’t seen her since yesterday morning’s meeting in the solar. It’s not that he was anxious to see her; he wanted only to assure himself that her father had not punished her for her “condition.”

  Her show of spirit in the solar had been an unexpected surprise. It spoke of substance and courage. Perhaps there was more to the girl than he’d realized. He’d mistaken her innocence for timidity.

  He could guess what had motivated her bold request, and it enraged him. She would soon learn that he was a very different man from her father. Agreeing to her demand seemed like a small price to pay to ease her fear—especially given that he was confident the situation would never arise.

  She would never have cause to leave him.

  She would be his wife. No matter how it had come about—or whether he’d wanted it—Tor protected what was his. Always.

  “Where is your daughter?” he asked.

  Fraser waved his hand dismissively and sat down at the table to sign the contracts. “Preparing for the ceremony. Women,” he said with disdain. “They’ve no head for business. She was too busy fixing her hair and said she would meet us at the chapel.”

  Something about the statement bothered him. The flippant remark seemed unlike her. But then again, he supposed that he didn’t really know her.

  An hour later, when he walked into the chapel and saw her standing before the altar, he decided it was well worth the wait.

  She took his breath away.

  For a moment he stopped in his tracks, drinking in the lovely vision before him. A gold circlet studded with jewels crowned her head. Her dark hair had been braided and coiled into two rounds at her temples, secured by a gold crespinette. A sheer golden veil covered the back of her head and flowed down to her waist.

  Normally, he didn’t pay much attention to women’s gowns, but this one was exquisite. The tight bodice and sleeves of the cote-hardie hugged her womanly curves in all the right places. She had the
kind of lush curves that were built for one thing. Large breasts, a slim waist, shapely hips, and a sweet round bottom for a man to hold tight in his hands. His imagination would have been bad enough, but his body was also dealing with very visceral memories.

  God, had he really touched her like that? Had she melted and moved against him? Rubbed her bottom against his cock?

  Hell.

  Angered by his weakness and aware that he was staring, he schooled his features into impassivity and started down the center aisle of the chapel. As he drew near, however, his control faltered. He noticed how the dark verdant color in her gown emphasized the creamy ivory of her skin and the flecks of green in her dark, luminous eyes. Eyes that met his full force, drawing him in. He couldn’t have turned away if he’d wanted to.

  All traces of her tears had vanished and the gaze that met his, though hesitant, was every bit as exotic and enticing as he remembered. Lust hit him like a fist in the gut. Those eyes. That sensual mouth. They were dangerous to a man’s sanity. Even in the nave of holiness, his body felt the hard carnal pull of sin.

  Mine. A primitive wave of heat surged through him.

  And he couldn’t wait to have her. Deep and hard. Over and over, until he purged the weakness from his loins.

  “Where’s your sister?” Fraser demanded, breaking his trance.

  Unsettled by his reaction, Tor felt the strange urge to thank her father for the interruption. What the hell was wrong with him? It was not as if he’d never seen a beautiful woman before. Though he couldn’t recall ever having examined one in such painstaking detail.

  For the first time, he noticed that the woman standing beside her was not her sister but a serving maid.

  “She wasn’t feeling well,” Christina answered evenly. “She will be at the jetty to see us off.”

  If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he wouldn’t have noticed the slight flicker of her gaze when she spoke. She was lying.

  Fraser’s eyes narrowed. Whether he’d caught the movement or for some other reason, her father knew it, too. “Send for her,” he ordered. “She should be here.”

  Instinctively, Tor moved to Christina’s side. “The lass is ill, leave her be.” To Lamberton he said, “The tide will not wait.” He took her hand and placed it in his, her soft fingers disappearing into the fold of his big, sword-hardened palm. “If you’ll begin.”

  MacSorley grinned, his eyes twinkling wickedly. “Better hurry, Bishop. I believe MacLeod is eager to get his new bride home.” His gaze slid over Christina appreciatively. Too appreciatively, Tor thought with narrowed eyes. “Not that I blame him, my lady; your beauty this day is beyond compare.”

  Christina blushed prettily, appearing inordinately pleased by the silly compliment.

  It should have come from me, Tor realized angrily. But the lass had to know how tormentingly beautiful she was…didn’t she? He fought the strangest urge to smash MacSorley’s too-charming smile into the ground.

  The amusement in the henchman’s gaze only deepened, as if he knew exactly what Tor was thinking.

  But it was Tor who had the last laugh when he shot MacSorley a look that promised retribution. He would have three months to pay him back, and Tor vowed to make good use of every single day. MacDonald’s henchman would lose that swagger in blood, sweat, and pain. Plenty of it.

  MacSorley knew it, too. The man known as the greatest seafarer in a land of men descended from pirates would never show fear, but the teasing grin fell flatly from his face.

  —

  Christina didn’t understand the silent exchange between the two men, but she was grateful for the reprieve.

  Wittingly or unwittingly, the MacLeod chief had come to her rescue again, preventing her father from sending after Beatrix and discovering she was gone. Though her sister had sailed at dawn, Christina wanted to give her as much time as she could to get away. Every minute took her sister closer to safety.

  She swallowed the hot ball in her throat. Saying goodbye to Beatrix this morning not knowing if she would ever see her again had been horrible. But it had to be done.

  She was grateful for the warm, steady pressure of the MacLeod chief’s strong fingers; they gave her a shot of much-needed courage.

  He gazed down at her. “Are you ready?”

  She peered up into his piercing ice-blue eyes, and for a moment thought she detected a glint of concern, or maybe even tenderness. But it was gone so quickly that she wondered if she’d only imagined it. She nodded. “Aye.”

  I hope.

  Together, they turned to face the bishop. The short ceremony passed in a blur. Yet through it all, like a fiery beacon in the mist or a rock in a sea of tumult, she was aware of the powerful man at her side. His heat. The spicy, masculine scent of him seemed to enfold her in a dark embrace. He dwarfed her by a foot, outweighed her in sheer steely muscle by at least double, and seemed every inch the battle-hard warlord, but instead of feeling threatened, she felt safe. Protected. With him at her side, no one would dare to harm her.

  He might not be the charming, gallant knight she’d dreamed of—like MacDonald’s devilish henchman, she thought with a laugh. That one had a smile in his forbidding visage that spoke of pure mischief. Nay, the MacLeod chief was too fierce and imposing for that. But she did not doubt that at his core he was every bit as honorable and chivalrous as Lancelot himself.

  And he was devastatingly handsome. Her cheeks flushed, aware of how she’d stared at him when he’d entered the chapel. He’d looked unreal. Like some bronze sun god. The fearsome expression and power of his warrior’s body often made his handsomeness seem almost an afterthought—but not today.

  They crossed their right hands, binding a swath of wool around their wrists, and repeated their vows. It was of the same soft blue pattern he wore in the plaid around his shoulders fastened with a big silver brooch. He’d thankfully left his enormous sword at the door, but even for his wedding day he wore his war coat. The metal-studded cotun gleamed like armor in the beam of sunlight coming through the window above the nave, the same light that caught the shimmering strands of gold in his silky hair. The bronze locks curled a little around his ear, making her think he’d washed it, and she longed to reach up and wrap it around her finger.

  She blushed at her errant thoughts as the bishop handed him the cup of wine. He took a sip and then passed it to her.

  It was almost over. Except for…

  He bent down, lowering his mouth toward hers.

  Instinctively, she sucked in her breath. He must have heard her because his eyes went to hers. He hesitated for a minute, his clear blue eyes darkening. She could smell the faint tinge of mint on his breath and feel the gentle warmth sweep over her cheek. Her skin prickled with awareness. With anticipation.

  Her heart pounded in her throat. Would his mouth be as soft as it looked?

  Her eyes closed and her lips parted as she waited for the press of his lips on hers. For their first kiss.

  But the light brush of his mouth could hardly be described as a kiss. Their lips barely touched. It was swift. Chaste. Perfunctory.

  Her eyes flew open, but he’d already turned away.

  Disappointment rushed through her. She didn’t know why, but she’d been expecting…more. Not the formal, impatient gesture that made it seem as if he couldn’t wait to get it over with.

  Then it was over, and she was married.

  As she accepted the felicitations of the men who’d gathered to witness the ceremony, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness. When she’d dreamed of this day, she’d always thought it would be different. Romantic. Not terse and businesslike. She’d dreamed of love.

  But under the circumstances, what did she expect? Their courtship had been sown in treachery. It wasn’t exactly the most promising of beginnings.

  Beatrix’s premonition came back to her. Such a marriage would be doomed. But before she could chase the spell of darkness away, one of her father’s guardsmen came rushing to his side, driv
ing all other thoughts from her mind.

  “Gone?” her father said loudly. “What do you mean she’s gone?”

  Nettles! Her time was up. Unconsciously, Christina looked around for her new husband, but he was in deep conversation with Lamberton and MacDonald at the rear of the chapel with the other guardsmen who made up his large retinue.

  The guardsman mumbled something to her father that she couldn’t hear.

  “I’ll get to the bottom of this,” her father said, coming toward her. He grabbed her elbow and jerked her around to face him. “Your sister is missing. Do you know anything about this?”

  She felt the familiar wave of fear crash over her but forced herself to meet his gaze.

  “Beatrix is gone,” she said softly.

  “Gone?” He went white with anger, his fingers biting into her arm. “What do you mean, gone? Where?”

  “Somewhere safe.”

  His dark eyes blackened with rage. He lifted his hand. “You’ll tell me where she’s gone or I’ll—”

  All of a sudden her husband was at her side. He grabbed her father’s arm, wrenching it behind his back with such force she heard a sickly pop. Her father yelped in pain.

  “Touch her again and I’ll kill you. Your daughter belongs to me now. Do you understand?”

  With that deadly voice it was impossible not to. He was looking at her father as if he would love nothing more than to prove it.

  Christina gazed at him in awe, stunned by his fierce defense of her. No one had ever spoken up for her like that. His reaction was so intense, she wondered if maybe…

  Was it possible he did care for her?

  Her father nodded mutely, his face twisted in agony. Tor pushed him away with a grunt, her father cradling his arm, which fell unnaturally from his shoulder.

  “My daughter, Beatrix,” he said, his voice strained with pain. “She’s gone, and this one knows something about it.”

  Tor turned to her, waiting for an explanation—as were the rest of the men.

  The thrill of his fierce defense faded. She swallowed nervously, knowing that her sister’s future might well depend on the next few minutes. Would these men be sympathetic, or would they side with her father? Would they try to force her to tell them where Beatrix had gone?