The Chief

by Monica McCarty

  “However it was done, I’m impressed.”

  Despite the lighthearted manner in which it was given, the compliment pleased her enormously. Perhaps he was noticing her efforts more than she’d realized? The thought emboldened her. “I know you are busy, but we’ve been married for nearly three weeks now, and we’ve had so little time to talk. I hardly feel as if I know you.” The smile slipped from his face, but she didn’t heed the warning. She was carried away with the excitement of their first “normal” husband-and-wife exchange and didn’t want it to end. “It is almost time for the midday meal, and there are so many things I should like to discuss with you.” Her mind raced in a thousand directions. Had he noticed the new pillows? And she wanted to get his opinion on the color for the new bed hangings. She had so much to ask him! “Perhaps you might stay?” Then she had an even better idea. “Or I could come with you. It’s not raining, maybe a picnic—”

  “That’s impossible.” He’d retreated into his chief’s façade, and she realized her mistake, feeling as if she’d run headlong into a stone wall.

  She struggled to hide her disappointment, not wanting to ruin the moment but fearing that in her eagerness she’d done just that. “Perhaps another time,” she said airily. Trying to recover, she added quickly, “But you still haven’t told me your preferences.”

  He waved it off. “Whatever you decide is fine.”

  “All right,” she said softly. The moment was gone. Why did she have to push? Why couldn’t she just take what he was willing to give?

  He must have noticed her crestfallen expression. “Beets,” he said.

  She looked up at him. “What?”

  “I don’t like beets. Or parsnips, for that matter.”

  She brightened. “I don’t either. Anything else?”

  “Sweet sauces on meats. Sugar belongs in desserts.” He gave her an amused look. “And on dried figs.”

  She blushed, realizing he must have noticed her penchant for sugary treats. “Wine or ale?” she asked.

  “Whisky, then ale.” He grimaced. “None of that syrup you like.”

  He’d noticed her preference for wernage as well? It seemed he’d noticed far more than she’d realized. She wanted to ask him hundreds more questions, but sensing he was anxious to leave, she didn’t want to delay him any longer. “Thank you.”

  He nodded and started to leave, but stopped himself. “I will be gone—”

  “For a few days,” she finished evenly, her tone giving no hint of her disappointment.

  He gave her a sharp look, and she feared he’d seen it anyway. “Aye, for a few days.”

  She forced a non-demanding-wife smile on her face. “I will see you when you return then.”

  He gave her a long look and seemed as if he wanted to say something, but turned on his heel and left without another word. She watched him cross the yard from the window, wondering what it was that took him away for so long.

  She was just about to turn away when she froze. It felt as if she’d just been doused with a bucket of icy water.

  Lady Janet was walking toward him with a large basket. The kind of basket to carry food on a picnic.

  She appeared to have been waiting for him. Tor said something, and they descended the sea-gate stairs together.

  Christina’s heart was beating so fast she couldn’t breathe. She was sure it didn’t mean anything. But why was he leaving with Lady Janet and not with her?

  Winter roared in like a lion, bringing frigid temperatures, icy winds, short days, and endless swaths of gray mist and clouds. As the sun slumbered, the skies poured.

  All Saints’ Day came and went, as did St. Martins. Soon Christina would begin the preparations for Yule and Hogmanay. The cook’s grandchildren had gone. There was little cheer between these somber stone walls, but she intended to do her best to change that.

  She was discouraged but not defeated. Patience, she reminded herself.

  The wind howled and the rain pelted against the Hall’s narrow shutters. What a horrible night! She finished arranging the ferns—the only thing that was still growing in abundance around the castle other than heather—and stepped back to admire the varying shades of orange and brown.

  She took a quick look around the room, satisfied that everything was ready for the evening meal, and started back to her chamber to change. She never knew when Tor would join her, but she tried to look her best for the few occasions on which he did.

  The days had taken on a certain rhythm. Most days he left the castle at dawn, returning well after dark—and sometimes not at all. But he always kept his promise and told her when he would be away “for a few days.” She no longer bothered to ask him where he was going, knowing she would only get the same reply that he was attending to clan matters—single-handedly, it seemed.

  She couldn’t help noticing that Lady Janet was often gone as well.

  She didn’t want to think it was anything but a coincidence. But it was getting harder and harder to convince herself that her husband might harbor a special feeling for her.

  In truth, she didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that anything was wrong…precisely. She had nothing to complain about. But her marriage was not progressing the way she’d hoped, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

  She’d been at Dunvegan for well over a month now, but in many ways she was no closer to knowing her husband than the day she arrived.

  She’d learned what he liked to eat and drink; that his clan revered him as a living legend, a godlike king and warrior hero rolled into one; that he kept his household ordered and running with military precision; that he rarely relaxed; that in addition to a brother he had a sister (this she learned from the clerk), and that he could make her fall apart with a touch.

  She knew the hot feel of his skin on hers, the way the pine scent of his soap intensified as his body heated with passion, the rough scrape of his jaw against her skin, the small “v” of silky-soft hair on his chest, the press of his lips on her breast, and the exquisite sensation of his hands covering her body.

  She stepped into her chamber, her eye going to the bed—the one place they connected. Heat washed over her with the visceral memories.

  She knew the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed when he held himself above her to push inside. She knew how hard those muscles felt bulging under her hands. She knew the weight of him on top of her, the fullness of him inside her, the rhythm of his lovemaking as he moved in and out of her. She knew the way his stomach muscles clenched into tight bands right before he cried out his release. She knew the sound of that release—the sharp grunt and deep groan echoed in her ears long after he’d gone. And gone he was, every time, no matter how much she hoped he would want to stay. To wake up in his arms just once…

  Her chest tightened as she turned away from the bed.

  She knew his lovemaking, but she knew nothing of the man. He kept his thoughts to himself. No matter how hard she tried to break through the wall he’d erected around himself, nothing worked. Perhaps she should ask King Edward to borrow his infamous siege engine “Warwolf,” she thought ruefully.

  Tor was so used to being alone, to keeping his burdens to himself, that she didn’t even think he knew what he was missing. Or that his efforts to keep her out hurt. On the rare occasions that he joined her for a meal, her attempts at more intimate conversation were politely, but definitively, rebuked. Her attempt to make the household more cheery and bring a little warmth to the dreary Hall had been for naught. She tried to be helpful. To do nice things for him, like having the cook prepare his favorite meals or keeping his clothes spotless and freshly laundered. But he seemed too busy to notice.

  She’d begun to feel like one of his dogs. An adoring pup, following him around at his heels, looking for any show of affection. A tender touch. A look. Anything to show he might care. Even another kiss on the head would give her hope.

  It wasn’t that he was cruel. Cruelty would require some flare of emotion. Perh
aps that would be easier. At least then, she would know where she stood.

  She had thought she’d sensed something special between them, but what if she was wrong? What if there were no cozy nights before the fire? What if this was it?

  Tor seemed to have two emotions when it came to her: polite indifference during the day and passion at night. The latter gave her hope. The passion between them had only grown as she’d gradually become more comfortable with her body’s desires and started to let go.

  At least it had for her. She wanted to think it was mutual, but then again, she didn’t have anything to compare it to. Not the way he did.

  But even in bed, she couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong. That he was holding back. She felt a sharp pang in her chest, fearing that she was a disappointment to him. I must be doing something wrong.

  Desperately, she wanted to please him. But how? Impressing him with her wifely skills certainly wasn’t working. He’d taught her passion, how to sense the desires of her own body, but she still knew so little of his. What did he like?

  He always seemed so under control, except for—

  That was it! The first time. There was something raw and real about the first time. Maybe that was how he liked it?

  Her cheeks heated at the wicked memory of how he’d entered her from behind.

  Warmth settled low in her belly. She had a plan. It required boldness, but modesty would not deter her. To knock down the wall of distrust and isolation that he’d built up around himself, she would need to strike hard. Warwolf was nothing compared to what she had planned.

  —

  The wave crashed over him, dragging Tor down and holding him under for long enough to make most men panic. Lungs on fire, he broke back through the surface of the water, sucking in air in big gulps.

  “Anyone ready to quit?” he yelled, his voice dulled by the roar of the wind and the hammer of the rain.

  His question was greeted by a chorus of exhausted but determined men: “Nay, captain.”

  But after more than an hour in the icy waters of the loch during the worst storm to hit Skye this season, even MacSorley was showing signs of weakening.

  Only a madman would be caught out in the water on a night like tonight. But it was just the night he’d been waiting for. He couldn’t have devised more challenging conditions if he’d divined the storm himself.

  Thor had unleashed his vengeance in a mighty torrent. Water crashed against the craggy rocks that lined the loch in huge, pounding waves.

  They’d swum out to the mouth of the loch, perhaps a quarter mile from shore, through five-foot swells and a current intent on driving them back. Treading water since, they’d been doing their best to stay afloat as the black seas and sleet swirled mercilessly around them.

  On a calm summer day, he could stay out here indefinitely. But the freezing winter waters and fierce seas sapped a man’s strength in minutes. His teeth had stopped chattering, and his legs and arms had stopped burning long ago. He didn’t feel anything. He knew the signs of danger but pushed on, pushing through pain and fear that would defeat all but the most elite warriors.

  Strength. Endurance. Never surrender. Toughness of body and mind is what made his men the best.

  When other men stood on the shore shaking, his men plunged in.

  Given that he was one of the best swimmers of the group—as good as MacRuairi, if not quite as inhumanly strong as MacSorley—he could imagine how some of the other men must be suffering.

  But quitting wasn’t an option. Ever. Best if they find out whether they had what it took now, when it risked the loss of one and not the entire team.

  Most of the men were good swimmers, but Seton and MacKay were not as comfortable as the others in the water—Seton because he was English, and MacKay because he came from the mountain country deep in the Highlands.

  The team was only as strong as its weakest link. And this exercise, along with many of the others he’d subjected them to the past few weeks, was intended to demonstrate the importance of working together, along with the need to be prepared in whatever environment they encountered—both physically and mentally. To defeat a much larger and better-equipped army they needed to be quicker, smarter, stronger, and able to move around in the most unwelcoming terrain with ease, including water.

  “Call out,” he ordered. It was too dark and choppy to see all the men, so he had to rely on periodic checks to make sure everyone was accounted for.

  He’d paired them off that first day and instructed them to never stray far from their partner—in the water, that meant no farther apart than arm’s length. They wouldn’t always work together in teams—big or small—but he needed to prepare them to do so.

  “Team one, ready, captain.”

  MacSorley and MacRuairi. The seafarer and the pirate. The cousins and descendants of the mighty Somerled were both excellent swimmers, but MacRuairi’s special skill lay in extraction. He was said to be able to get in and out of anywhere. A useful skill not only in retrieving men, but also in cutting throats.

  An assassin—now that Tor could see.

  He’d paired the good-humored MacSorley with his dour, black-hearted cousin to keep an eye on him. The fact that MacSorley’s constant needling annoyed MacRuairi was incidental, but not an unrewarding benefit. Used to working alone, MacRuairi chaffed at the partnership—another benefit.

  “Team two, ready.”

  Campbell and MacGregor. The scout and the archer. Campbell was also highly skilled with the throwing spear, and the two men had taken to increasingly ridiculous challenges of marksmanship as the days progressed.

  After a week chained side by side, the antagonism had only grown between the two enemies, but they’d learned to work together and get the job done. It was enough for now.

  Their pairing had been more appropriate than he realized. Both men avoided group conversation. MacGregor was a loner and Campbell an observer, content to stay on the periphery—not that their similar temperaments had eased their antagonism any.

  “Team three, ready, captain.”

  MacKay and Gordon. Another apt pairing. The braw, rugged mountain man and the lean alchemist couldn’t appear more outwardly different, but it turned out that MacKay was also something of an inventor and experimenter. Unlike the strange black powder that Gordon used to create thunder and flying fire, MacKay experimented with weapons, forging terrifying instruments with gruesome but descriptive names like the “eye plucker” or the “skull crusher.”

  “Team four, ready, captain.”

  Lamont and MacLean. The hunter and the attacker. Lamont was known as the hunter of men—able to track any trail, no matter how faint. MacLean wielded a formidable battle-axe and was said to have led a series of bold raids against the English in Carrick.

  The Lamonts had also been engaged in a long-running feud with the Boyds. Had Tor known of it before, he might have made a different pairing.

  “Team five, ready, captain.”

  Boyd and Seton. The strongest and the weakest. The Englishman was the weakest link in the chain, and it infuriated him to no end. It wasn’t a judgment of whether he deserved to be there, but simply a reflection of his youth and inexperience. Actually, Seton had rather downplayed his skill with a blade; he threw a dirk with extraordinary accuracy. But it wasn’t Tor’s job to tell him that he deserved to be here; Seton had to figure that out for himself.

  Tor attempted to frown, but his face was frozen stiff. If the training didn’t kill Seton, Boyd just might. Despite the obvious difference in strength between the two, Seton refused to back down. Whenever Boyd taunted him, Seton let it get to him. It was eating away at him, and Tor was just waiting for him to snap. His haughty English pride just might be the death of him.

  Tor might have erred in this pairing, underestimating Boyd’s hatred of the English. The feuding clansmen—Boyd and Lamont—might have been a better choice. Discord was not difficult to find in this group.

  Another wave dragged him unde
r. Enough. Time to head back. He gave the order and sensed the relief, but the men were too drained and cold to cheer.

  He was proud of them. He usually saved this test for later in training, but the storm had proved too tempting.

  This time the waves and current were with them, and they swam in to shore with considerably more ease than when they’d swum out.

  By time the men dragged themselves out of the water, Tor was ready to collapse naked on the rocky shore. Bending over to catch his breath, he noticed that a handful of the men were doing just that.

  “Good work,” he said when he had caught his breath, giving his rare praise.

  The wind and sleet had let up just enough for him to be able to make out the forms in the dark. The hairs on the back of his neck rose on end—and not from the cold. The nine forms. He’d done the tally without thought—it was something he did instinctively. He needed to know that all of his men were accounted for.

  He swore. His gaze shot to Boyd. “Where is Seton?”

  Boyd startled, looking around. “He was right behind me—”

  Tor didn’t wait another instant. He jumped back in the water, rage giving him a fresh burst of strength.

  He was going to kill Boyd with his own hands, strongest man or not. Tor hated losing a man for any reason. But not looking out for your partner was inexcusable. He had no intention of explaining to Bruce how he’d managed to allow his young brother-in-law to drown.

  MacSorley swam up beside him. “Do you see him?”

  “Nay,” Tor replied. It was as dark as the bowels of Hades out here. He turned around and saw the rest of the men behind them. “Fan out. Keep your eyes straight ahead and wait for the waves to—”

  “There!” MacRuairi pointed about twenty feet ahead of him. His ability to see in the dark was uncanny. Tor could just make out the flash of light breaking above the surface. Luckily for Seton, he had fair hair.