The Chief

by Monica McCarty

  Eyes wide, she nodded again. She’d mistaken the source of his anger. “I know you had no wish to marry me, and that because of my father’s trick you felt honor bound to do so, but I swear I will cause you no more trouble.” He wanted to laugh. If she only knew how impossible that was. But his amusement disappeared when she added, “I will try to please you.”

  He stopped breathing, the soft entreaty sending dangerous images through his head. Like of her on her knees taking him deep in her mouth.

  God, he could almost feel the hot stroke of her tongue. He was hard as a rock. The lass had no idea the havoc her innocent words had wracked on his baser desires. She would please him. Too well. But that was not what she meant.

  “It had nothing to do with you,” he explained. “I simply did not think the alliance would benefit my clan.”

  She looked confused. “But the Frasers are an old and powerful family.”

  “Aye, an old and powerful Scot family.” He wondered how much she knew about her father’s plans. “I prefer to stay out of Scotland’s politics—and its wars.”

  “But how can you? You are a Scot.”

  “I’m an Islander,” he said, as if the distinction should be obvious.

  “But a Scottish subject still.” She looked at him with growing horror. “Surely, you don’t support Edward?”

  The famous patriotic Fraser blood clearly ran in her veins. “I support my clan. I do what’s best for them.”

  He’d said all he intended to say on the matter, but then she surprised him. “And marrying me—a Fraser—would pit you against Edward if there is another rebellion.”

  His gaze narrowed, and he lowered his voice. “What do you know of a rebellion?”

  She immediately looked contrite, realizing that she should not speak of treason so freely. “Nothing. It’s just that my father makes no secret of his hatred for Edward, and because of Lamberton’s presence and how badly they wanted this alliance, I assumed they wanted your skills as a warrior for something.”

  He couldn’t believe how close she’d come to the truth. He realized he was going to have to tread carefully around her. The lass was too damned clever for her own good.

  He couldn’t remember ever having a conversation like this with a woman. Hell, he rarely talked this much with his men. Vaguely bothered by the fact, he said brusquely, “What’s done is done. We will simply make the best of it.”

  Her expression dropped; she looked crestfallen by the abrupt change in his tone.

  “I’m truly sorry for my part in what happened.” She lifted her gaze to his. “I hope you will be able to forgive me.”

  God’s blood, there it was again. That sweet, vulnerable look in her eyes that filled him with an urge to pull her into his arms and move heaven and earth to make it go away.

  “It’s your father who should be seeking forgiveness, not you,” he said brusquely. His mouth fell in a hard line. “He should be flogged for sending an innocent maid into a room like that, knowing well that I would think you were a very different kind of woman.” Embarrassed heat flooded her cheeks, but he held her gaze. “Because of that I caused you pain, and for that I’m sorry.” His voice deepened. “It won’t be like that next time.”

  Tonight. Anticipation surged hard inside him, his body growing tight and hot. It couldn’t come soon enough. She was like an itch that needed to be scratched, and he couldn’t wait to ease the discomfort.

  He half expected her to drop her gaze shyly, but instead she nodded, her eyes wide with trust.

  For the first time in his life he questioned whether he’d be able to hold that trust. He was having a hard time keeping his body under control just looking at her; what would it be like to have her under him, her legs wrapped around him as he drove in and out of her tight, wet heat? Would she moan? Move her hips under him?

  He stood up. “I must return to my men. We will be in the Little Minch soon.”

  “Oh,” she said. He didn’t miss the flash of disappointment that crossed her face. The last rays of daylight filtered through the mist, bathing her delicate features in an ethereal light. Her skin looked so soft—almost translucent. He ached to touch her. To sweep his finger across the curve of her cheek and cradle all that velvety softness in the palm of his hand.

  He jerked back. Where had that come from? Cradling her face? He’d never felt inclined to do anything like that before.

  He stared at her. Wondering what it was about this girl that brought out such odd impulses.

  And what the hell was he going to do about it?

  —

  Christina didn’t want him to go. After waiting all day to talk to him, she’d hoped for more than a few brief minutes before he returned to his men.

  Apologizing had been easier than she’d anticipated. Despite the fearsome appearance, his cool, controlled demeanor gave her the confidence to speak her mind without fear of reprisal. It was a heady feeling, not having to mind every word for fear of throwing her father into a rage.

  She’d been nervous to broach the unpleasant subject of her father’s trickery but knew he deserved an explanation. Though his acknowledgment that he hadn’t wanted to marry her initially stung, he had changed his mind—that had to mean something. Moreover, he seemed to accept her apology with a matter-of-fact practicality that made her think he did not blame her, which was an enormous relief.

  Although she’d said what she wanted to say, she didn’t want him to go. She liked talking to him. He listened to her, answered rather than dismissed her questions, and seemed genuinely interested in what she had to say.

  Just being near him like this made her heart race. It was as if her body was responding to some invisible force, her nerve endings flared and her senses heightened. The closeness also gave her the opportunity to watch him, and she hoped for another peek behind the steely curtain. There was more to this cold, fearsome warlord—she was sure of it.

  She had a lifetime to get to know him, but she didn’t want to wait for the intimacy that came from the passage of time. She wanted nothing more than to sit beside him and talk until she learned everything there was to know about Tor MacLeod.

  He was her husband, yet she knew virtually nothing about him. Her father had told her that he was widowed and that his two young sons were being fostered, but nothing else about his family. Did he have brothers and sisters? As he was chief, his father must have died, but what of his mother?

  What did he like to do when he wasn’t vanquishing foes on the battlefield or saving maidens from dragons big and small?

  Did he prefer ale or wine? Food savory or sweet? Was he messy or neat? What made him laugh?

  She bit her lip. Did he laugh? Of course he did, she thought nervously. Even if it was hard to imagine his serious expression ever relaxed enough to let down his guard, everyone laughed.

  She didn’t even know how old he was—mid-thirties, probably.

  He stood to go and her mind raced with a reason to delay him. All of a sudden, breaking out of the clouds ahead of them on the right, the steep cliffs of a rocky coastline magically appeared.

  “Wait,” she said, stopping him. She pointed over his shoulder. “Is that it?”

  He answered without turning around. “Aye, that’s Skye.”

  The almost imperceptible softening of his voice told her that she was on to something—clearly, he loved his home. “Will I be able to see Dunvegan soon?”

  “Soon enough. This is the west side of the isle. We’ll sail north around Duirnish and into the sea loch, and then you will be able to see the castle.”

  His gaze flicked back to the men at the sails. She felt she should feel guilty for delaying him, but she didn’t. Not if it meant he would stay. “Won’t you tell me more about it?”

  He sat back down with a sound that might have been a sigh. “What would you like to know?”

  He crossed his arms before his chest, and the resulting bulge of muscles made all coherent thoughts fly out of her head. Her mouth went dry, the bla
tant display of masculine strength making her feel tingly inside. Forsooth, he was incredible. All too well she remembered the smooth, hard lines of his bare chest. Realizing she was gaping, she collected herself and asked, “Is it like Finlaggan?”

  “Nay. You will notice the difference right away. Dunvegan is a defensive stronghold, virtually impenetrable.” He gave her a long look. “You will be safe there.”

  She blushed. It wasn’t what she was worried about, but it pleased her that he anticipated her fears.

  “The castle is built high on a rock, like Edinburgh and Stirling,” he continued, “but accessible only from the water by a sea-gate. It was built on the ruins of an old dun. My grandfather married the heiress of a Danish knight named MacRaild and took possession of the fort. He used the stones from the dun to build a high curtain wall and a new hall to replace the longhouses. I hope to add a tower house soon.”

  Christina frowned. “Do all your people live at the castle? And if there is only a sea-gate, how do you move your horses?”

  He smiled, and the force of it caused her heart to slam into her chest with a hard thud. The gentle curve of his wide mouth seemed to lighten his entire face, making him look years younger. His teeth flashed white in the burgeoning darkness and his eyes sparkled, not with hardness but with mirth. But most entrancing of all was the deep crater of a dimple on his left cheek.

  If she thought him handsome before, it was nothing to the sheer devastation wrought by the dazzling man before her now. She felt a little dazed just looking at him. Could she really be married to this man? But the transformation went far deeper. It made him a little less intimidating—almost approachable. Less fearsome war machine and more mortal man.

  If she ignored the terrifying weapons strapped to him, with his bronze sun-streaked hair blowing in the wind and his powerful body relaxed, she felt as though she had been given a glimpse of an entirely different man. A man unburdened by war and responsibility. A man capable of tenderness and emotion.

  This was the knight of her dreams. She wanted him to look like this always.

  “The castle is big, but not that big,” he replied, breaking her dreamlike stupor. She slammed her mouth closed, realizing she’d been gaping—again. “There is a village nearby and a steady stream of boats to take people back and forth. In the isles you will find little occasion for horses; we travel by the sea roads. The waterways are a much more efficient and faster way to move around. But I do keep a small stable of horses in the village in case the need arises.”

  “Is it dangerous?”

  He shook his head. “Attacks at sea are rare. Pirates travel by sea, but they usually attack on land. Once you get used to it, you will understand. We easily travel distances in a day that would take you weeks to go on land.”

  It was an entirely different way of life, she realized. One she knew so little about. She felt a twinge of self-doubt, not wanting to be a disappointment to him.

  Proving herself had somehow become very important. She wanted him to like her. To not be sorry for marrying her—especially given all that he’d done for her.

  But even if he hadn’t wanted the alliance at first, she reminded herself, he had changed his mind. For a man without a prevaricating bone in his body, that had to mean something. He must care for her a little bit.

  She wanted to make him a good wife. But her experience, such as it was, was limited at best. When her father had been imprisoned, she’d been sent to live with her widowed aunt. Her aunt had prepared her for her duties as chatelaine, of course, but with war raging around them and most men away fighting, she’d had little opportunity to observe the day-to-day interaction of married folk. But she knew all about love from her books.

  She had a thought. “Will your family be there to greet us?”

  All signs of his lighthearted mood vanished. The steel curtain slammed back into place with such force that she swore she could hear it. She cursed inwardly, realizing she’d erred and wishing she could call her question back.

  “Nay,” he said curtly. “Though my brother should be joining us soon.”

  Something about the way he said it made her want to steer well clear of that subject. “And your sons? I should like to meet them.”

  It was the right thing to say. If the smile did not return to his face, she did detect a slight softening in the creases around his eyes. “Malcolm and Murdoch are being fostered on Lewis with my uncle. Both have the makings of being fierce warriors. They were at Dunvegan last month on their way to Ireland, where they will visit their mother’s family for the Twelfth Night and Yule celebrations.” He eyed her laughingly. “Malcolm is not yet three and ten, but I think he is already taller than you.”

  He was teasing her. Christina couldn’t believe it. Feigning a much-put-upon sigh, she said, “I fear that is going to be a common occurrence around here. But, believe it or not, in some places I’m considered quite average height for a woman.”

  He cocked a brow, looking her over in a way that made her body tingle with awareness through the thick wool cloak. “Is that so?” he drawled.

  She nodded. “Aye, and in these same places there are even men who are under six feet tall.”

  The dazzling smile returned with a chuckle. “We may have one or two in the isles, but we hide them away.”

  “That’s better than a cliff or drowning, I suppose,” she said wryly.

  “We’re not barbarians,” he mocked. “We did away with throwing them off the cliffs a few years ago.”

  She rolled her eyes. “What a relief, I won’t have to lock my door at night.”

  They grinned at each other in the settling darkness. A rush of warmth crashed over her. The discovery of his dry sense of humor filled her with all the excitement of unearthing a buried treasure. He might appear cold and remote, but she’d known there was warmth beneath the stony façade. She needed only to find a way to unlock it.

  He studied her for another moment, as if she’d surprised him and he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

  This time when he stood, it was not so eagerly—perhaps there was even a hint of reluctance. “I must ready the ship for arrival; we’ve entered the loch.” He turned around and pointed into the darkness. “If you keep looking straight ahead once we get around the other side of the islet, you’ll be able to see the castle soon.”

  “I will.” She smiled, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and made his way down the center of the boat back to his post at the sails. She couldn’t help watching him. Noticing how his powerful legs moved in a long, purposeful stride, navigating the rocking boat with ease. He was in total command and in total control, as comfortable on the sea as he was on land. She’d never met a man like him.

  And he belonged to her.

  The warm glow of their conversation settled over her. She was becoming more and more convinced that despite their dubious beginning, marriage to Tor MacLeod might be a dream come true.

  He was a fiercely aggressive man. All hard edges and brusque manners. But when he’d smiled and teased her, she’d gotten a glimpse of something more. Something she could help bring out.

  She snuggled deeper into the fur, savoring not only its warmth but the heady masculine scent of the man who’d worn it. She imagined long nights before the fire, tucked away in the cozy haven of their keep, just the two of them talking or playing a game of dice or chess. Or perhaps she would be reading and he would turn to her and smile, a secret smile meant only for her.

  She kept her gaze fixed in the direction he’d shown her, excitement building in her chest. It was dark now, the black waters of the loch mixing seamlessly with the night, but she could just make out the halo of torches in the distance, marking a wide curtain wall.

  Then she saw it. She gasped, as the mist parted like an ephemeral curtain. The sharp lines of the massive rock and austere curtain walls loomed before her like a battering ram, piercing the mist with sheer brute domination.

  Impenetrable indeed, but he h
adn’t mentioned terrifying.

  To say it wasn’t what she was expecting was an egregious understatement. There was nothing remotely warm and charming about Dunvegan Castle. It was a warlord’s stronghold, built to defend.

  There was something cold and desolate about the place, but also menacing. Not unlike its owner, she thought with a shiver.

  Remembering the pride with which he’d spoken of his home, she kept her face turned away from her husband’s, not wanting him to see her reaction.

  She took a few deep breaths, trying to not get carried away. It couldn’t be that bad.

  But as they drew nearer, she could not prevent the chill from settling deep in her bones. A less welcoming place she could not imagine.

  And it was about to get worse.

  No sooner had the castle appeared when she heard a stir behind her. The energy in the boat did a dramatic shift as the men roared into action. Something was wrong. Tor started barking out orders in a hard, clipped voice.

  She tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t even look in her direction. The warlord had returned. She’d never seen him like this—even when he fought Lachlan MacRuairi there hadn’t been this kind of deadly intensity. He looked savage, determined, and utterly ruthless. She pitied whoever had brought it on.

  She turned to one of the guardsmen seated near her on the oar. She thought his name was Aonghus; he was one of numerous guards in her husband’s personal retinue. His Am Fear Braitaich, she thought, his standard bearer. “What is it?” she asked hesitantly. “What’s wrong?”

  His expression was grim and angry. “An attack, my lady.” He pointed to an area beyond the castle. She could just make out the dark plumes of smoke that she’d mistaken for mist. “At the village.”

  An attack? She paled, fear gripping her throat.

  The next few minutes passed in a blur of shouts and well-ordered activity. The relaxed atmosphere of their journey was utterly forgotten as the men pulled together in concerted action, working as one.