The Chief

by Monica McCarty

And with that ominous warning ringing in her ears, he turned on his heel and left.

  Three days later the tears had dried, but Christina was still smarting from her husband’s blunt set-down. The injustice outraged her. How could he speak to her so harshly? Everything she’d done since arriving here had been to try to please him—even using wanton attempts to please him in bed. One minute they were sharing the most sensual experience of her life, doing erotic, wicked things that she could never have imagined. In those moments, she’d never felt closer to anyone. The next he was firmly putting her in her place. Distancing himself. Shutting her out. Making her feel like a shameless harlot for attempting to win him with her body.

  Was passion all he was going to ever give her?

  It certainly seemed that way.

  She’d dreamed of so much more. If he would just open up a little, she knew it could be wonderful. He was so alone; he needed a little warmth in his life. But it was like trying to chip stone with a needle of bone—exhausting, and doomed to failure.

  To Hades with him. The flash of anger surprised her. But if this was how it was going to be—if passion was all he would give her—she was going to take it and find a way to eke out a little happiness for herself.

  And that didn’t include sharing him with Lady Janet.

  Despite his warning, Christina could not let it go. He’d thought her a jealous, silly girl, which was appropriate, because that’s exactly how she felt. And her jealousy continued to fester with each day he was gone.

  Of course it didn’t help that Lady Janet was absent as well. Curse him, what was she supposed to think?

  If it weren’t for Brother John, she would have gone mad. He seemed to welcome her company as much as she did his, and they’d taken to walking together around the barmkin in the morning when the weather allowed; and often, such as today, when Rhuairi was busy elsewhere, she would join him in the solar as he transcribed the seemingly endless correspondence and accounts. No matter how hard she tried, her husband’s seneschal had not warmed to her, and something about him made her uncomfortable. He’d made it quite clear that he did not think she belonged in her husband’s solar.

  If he knew that she could read, he’d be even more horrified. From the surreptitious reading that she’d managed, she realized she’d had no idea about the immense amount of work that went into being chief of a large clan. From the mundane, such as fixing leaking roofs in a villager’s cottage and collecting the rents for his vast holdings, to the lawdays spent presiding over disputes between clansmen or passing judgment for far more serious crimes, her husband had a hand in it all. No wonder he was so busy. Though she couldn’t help feeling proud, it was too much for any one man to handle and made her even more determined to help. There was more to life than war and duty, if only he could see it.

  She’d hoped her husband would confide in her on his own, but since he wouldn’t, she was happy to learn about him any way she could.

  She was tempted to confess her ability to read and write to Brother John—he could certainly use her help—but many of the documents were confidential and she worried that he would bar her from joining him if he knew.

  Besides, she wanted to tell her husband first. She’d almost done so that night when he’d caught her eating figs and reading her book, but for some reason she hesitated. It wasn’t that she thought he would react like her father, but he was a proud man, and she didn’t know whether it would matter to him if he had a wife who was more educated than he was. Still, she’d begun to wonder whether her unusual skills might be the way to help him. Maybe it would help him see her in a different way—as more than just a bedmate.

  The clerk finished his story and Christina laughed at his absurd description. “I’m sure it couldn’t have been as bad as all that,” she said kindly, handing him the new quill she’s just finished sharpening.

  “I assure you it was worse,” he said, taking it with a grateful nod. “I was so scared I went running out of the dormitory wearing nothing at all. When the tutor finally opened the door the next morning, let us say he was not amused.”

  “Did the other boys get in trouble?”

  He looked affronted. “Or course not. I swore I’d walked in my sleep and somehow the door had locked behind me. The tutor told me to sleep in my robe from then on, lest I do so again.”

  “That was very magnanimous of you. Those boys were terrible to scare you in your sleep so.”

  His gaze dropped back down to the piece of vellum he was working on. “Not magnanimous,” he said uncomfortably. “I was a coward. I feared what they would do to me the rest of the time if I told.” His mouth curled. “Not that my silence mattered much.”

  Christina’s heart went out to him. She, too, understood the shame of being a coward. Of being forced to confront your own helplessness against a much stronger foe. She and Brother John had much in common.

  She placed her hand on his and gave it a comforting squeeze. “Sometimes surviving is the bravest thing of all.” A cold shadow crossed behind her, sending a shiver down her neck. She turned, but there was no one there.

  He looked at her hand for a long moment. She was just starting to feel self-conscious about the unthinking gesture when he gave her a wry smile. “Do you know, I didn’t want to go into the church?”

  “Really?” She removed her hand.

  He shook his head. “I had three older brothers.”

  She nodded her head in comprehension. There hadn’t been much left over for a fourth son. “What did you want to do?”

  He gave her an uncertain look. “To be a great knight.” Color stained his cheeks. “Like Lancelot.”

  Her eyes widened. “Do you know Chrétien?”

  “They are my favorite stories.”

  A broad smile spread across her face. “Mine, too.”

  They laughed again and spent the next hour regaling each other with the exploits of Arthur’s greatest knight, stopping only when she realized it was well past time to break their fast.

  Christina returned to her room for a moment to freshen up and approached the Hall alone. Later, she was grateful no one was there to witness her shock. Brother John, she knew, already felt sorry for her being ignored by her husband, and she wouldn’t have been able to hide the tumult of emotions.

  At the opposite end of the Hall, near the main entrance, she caught sight of Lady Janet surrounded by a large retinue of men. Christina’s relief that the other woman had returned alone was short-lived. The group of men shifted, revealing the formidable figure of her husband. Her heart jumped the way it always did when she saw him. Unconsciously, she took a step forward. Had he just returned?

  She came to a jolting stop. If so, he appeared to be leaving, freshly bathed and dressed in a clean leine that she’d mended only yesterday.

  Her heart sank like a rock, realizing he’d come back the night before and not even told her.

  And he meant to leave again without saying good-bye.

  Her eyes blurred, not just with hurt, but also with outrage. Past caring, she was going to march over there and demand an explanation when the gorgeous blond Amazon put a hand on his arm.

  Tor covered it with his. It wasn’t the touch but the look he gave her that ripped through Christina’s heart like a jagged knife. Tender. Kind. The meager sign of affection she’d sought for weeks dispensed so effortlessly to another.

  God, it hurt! Her chest burned so badly it was difficult to breathe.

  She watched him leave, standing there like a witless, stunned fool. Thus she didn’t miss the look of longing in Lady Janet’s gaze as she watched him go. Longing that matched her own. The twinge of empathy was hardly welcome under the circumstances. If there had been any doubt, there was no longer: The relationship was not over—at least not for one of them.

  No longer hungry, Christina stepped back, intending to return to her room. Running away. Nay. She stopped, taking a moment to compose herself. She would not tuck her tail between her legs and run. Not this time. Not
to let another woman have her husband. She knew the passion they felt for each other, and even if that was all he intended to give her, she wouldn’t relinquish him without a fight.

  What does she have that I don’t?

  Squaring her shoulders for battle, Christina marched into the Hall and took her seat at the head of the table. Plastering a charming smile on her face, she played the gracious lady of the castle, never giving any hint that inside, her heart had been ripped to pieces.

  She was aware of the other woman the entire meal, but Lady Janet seemed to not even know she existed. When Christina noticed her rising to leave, she made her move. The flash of jealousy in the other woman’s eye as she approached did much to restore Christina’s flagging confidence. They understood each other.

  “Lady Janet.” The other woman gave the obligatory curtsy. “May I have a moment?”

  “Of course, my lady.” Her deferential tone didn’t hide the fact that she would clearly rather not.

  Christina took a deep breath and met her gaze full force. “With the Yule celebration approaching in a few weeks, I was thinking about hanging the boughs this afternoon. I know you’ve been here for many years and hoped that you might be able to help with the placement. My husband values your friendship, and I should like for us to know each other better.”

  Christina had decided to slay her foe with kindness. It would be much harder for Lady Janet to continue a relationship with her husband if they were friends, wouldn’t it?

  It worked. Lady Janet appeared taken aback; the friendly offer had obviously confused her. Her beautiful blue eyes shifted away uncomfortably. “I’m sorry, my lady. I can’t. Not today. There is a matter I must attend to.”

  Christina clasped her hands together until her knuckles turned white. Her pride was taking a vicious beating, but she forced herself to stay calm. “Does this matter involve my husband?”

  If such a question had been put to Christina, her cheeks would have flooded with color. Lady Janet’s perfectly pale and serene expression, however, betrayed absolutely nothing. She stared at Christina for a long moment, until an embarrassing flush rose to her own cheeks.

  “You’re very young,” Lady Janet said, as if just realizing it herself.

  Humiliated, Christina felt every year of age difference between them in the other woman’s quiet confidence. What did Lady Janet have that she didn’t? Experience and maturity with which Christina could never hope to compete.

  Christina didn’t think she could feel any worse. But she was wrong.

  Lady Janet’s expression changed. It was clear that she understood the hurt that lay behind Christina’s question. “Tor”—she stopped herself—“The ri tuath has many responsibilities that demand his attention.”

  And Lady Janet knew what they were. Misery rose inside Christina. Tor had confided in his leman but not in his wife.

  Lady Janet seemed to weigh her words carefully. “We all help when we can. There is nothing for you to worry about.”

  Could this get any more humiliating? Now her husband’s erstwhile mistress was feeling sorry for her.

  Mustering what pride she could, Christina forced a carefree smile to her face. If it shook, the other woman was kind enough to pretend not to notice. “Perhaps another time.”

  Lady Janet nodded and turned away. Christina watched her go, doing her best not to burst into tears.

  —

  Tor lifted his sword above his head and brought it crashing down on his opponent’s thick skull.

  MacSorley—Devil take him!—merely grinned. “Careful, captain,” he tisked, “or I might think you really mean to take my head off with that thing.”

  Not his head, but that damned knowing smirk. Tor clenched his jaw and swung again. It was a brutal, all-out attack, one that not many men could repel. The hulking Norseman might not know when to shut his mouth, but he did know how to handle a sword. All the men were superior swordsmen; at this level only the slightest variations in skill made the difference between victory and defeat.

  MacSorley blocked the blow, though he needed both hands to do so. The clash of steel reverberated through the dull, wintry air. Tor pressed down on his sword until only inches separated their faces. “Had enough?”

  MacSorley was still grinning through the grimace. He shook his head. “Not just yet.” His voice was tight, every muscle straining from the effort to keep Tor’s blade from slicing him in two. He pushed back, then in a deft balance relaxed just enough to roll free of Tor’s sword. “This is too much fun.”

  Tor cursed, knowing he should have anticipated the move. But he was too mad to think straight. In a battle, not concentrating could get him killed. Worse, MacSorley knew it and was using it to his advantage, taunting him to make him lose focus. Normally, he was immune to such tactics, but he was pulled as tight as MacGregor’s bowstring and the men knew it.

  Tor hadn’t lost a challenge in more than ten years, and damned if he’d listen to MacSorley boast about a victory for another ten. He pushed all other thoughts from his mind, refusing to think about the restless energy building and burning inside him like a volcano ready to explode. Refusing to think about the sound of his wife’s laughter as he walked past the solar this morning. Refusing to think about the tender way she’d placed her hand over the clerk’s or how comfortable they’d looked together. A clerk, for God’s sake! For one half-crazed moment he’d actually wanted to smash his fist in the churchman’s boyish face.

  MacSorley circled around, sword poised to fend off another attack. “I hope your bride forgives you soon—for all our sakes.”

  A black scowl twisted Tor’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  From beneath the steel nasal helm, MacSorley smiled goadingly. “You seem a little more…tense than usual after a return from the castle. Seems reasonable to assume that your current charming temperament might have something to do with that beautiful new bride of yours. Because I can’t imagine that sweet girl hurting a midge, I figured you were to blame.”

  Tor kept his anger in check—barely. But even hearing another man speak of his wife’s beauty riled him. God, he was losing his grip.

  His efforts to bury himself—and his men—in work weren’t working. He couldn’t stop seeing her face when he’d left. He wasn’t used to being pushed or questioned, and he’d reacted badly. Harshly. With the blunt truth that she didn’t want to hear. Though subtlety and softening the truth were foreign to him, if he was going to have any peace of mind, he was going to have to try. Christina managed to get to him like no one else.

  Being distracted was bad enough. That the men had picked up on it, and guessed the source, was worse. He attacked again, this time keeping his mind honed on the task at hand—seeing MacSorley on his arse.

  The Viking fended off the blows, but Tor could see that he was tiring. He smelled victory. Perhaps MacSorley did as well, for he tried one more time. “If I had a woman like that warming my bed, I wouldn’t be spending so many nights in this cold pile of rocks. I’d be happy to take your place—”

  Tor lost it. His mind went black. A fierce pounding sounded in his ears. He had the blackguard on his back, blade to his neck, before MacSorley could finish. For once, the taunting grin had been wiped clean off his face.

  Blood pounded through Tor’s veins. After years of battle, the urge to kill had become instinct. They stared at each other, both breathing hard and both realizing just how badly Tor wanted to sink that blade into MacSorley’s throat. MacSorley had prodded the lion one too many times. Every muscle in Tor’s body shook with barely repressed restraint.

  He fought for control and slowly found it. Sanity ebbed through the madness. His mouth fell in a hard, unforgiving line. “Anything else you’d like to say?”

  For a man on the edge of death, MacSorley appeared surprisingly nonplussed. He arched a brow, but then winced as if even the small movement pained him. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “I see you’ve been practicing with Boyd.” He squinted int
o the sun. “Bheithir, is it?” he asked, referring to the inscription on Tor’s sword. Inscriptions were meant to enhance the sword’s power. “Never been close enough to read it before. But ‘thunderbolt’ is appropriate. I feel like I’ve been hit by one.”

  Tor held perfectly still, as if he’d not yet decided on McSorley’s fate. After a long pause, he pressed the tip of his blade a little deeper, holding the other man’s gaze to his. “One of these days, that glib tongue of yours is going to be your downfall.”

  MacSorley grinned—reckless, given his current position. “I do not doubt it.”

  Tor tossed his sword aside and reached down his hand. MacSorley grasped his arm at the elbow, and Tor helped him to his feet.

  The incident had shaken him. He’d almost killed a man he considered a friend over nothing—a ribald jest the likes of which he’d heard a hundred times before in long nights around a campfire.

  A handful of the other men had finished their practice and had gathered round to watch the contest. From their expressions, it was clear they’d seen enough to know that the man reputed to have ice in his veins had lost his cool. It was also clear that they didn’t quite know what to make of it.

  Neither did he.

  Crossing his arms, he eyed them blankly. “So who wants to go next?”

  After a moment of dead silence, MacSorley started laughing. “He’s jesting, lads.” A few of the men smiled hesitantly. Defusing the tension even further, MacSorley inhaled deeply. “Unless I’m mistaken, our beautiful cook is making beef stew. And I, for one, could use a drink to go along with it.”

  MacSorley’s pronouncement was all the excuse they needed, and the men started to make their way back to the broch for the midday meal. Tor had noticed the Viking’s flirting, and though he knew Janet could take care of herself, he held him back. “Leave the lass be today,” he warned.

  MacSorley frowned and then gave him an odd look. “I thought…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize you still had a claim on the lass. I meant no offense. A bit of harmless flirting, that is all.”