The Chief

by Monica McCarty

  She arched her brow. “You wish me to be friends with your mistress?”

  “Former mistress,” he corrected. “But still a friend. Give her a chance; you will like her.”

  She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “Men don’t understand anything. I doubt very much she wants to be my friend.”

  He had no idea why, but didn’t pretend to understand the intricacies of a woman’s mind.

  He bent down and gave her a soft kiss, lingering longer than he should have. But when he lifted his head it was worth it. Crushed red lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dazed, soft pink cheeks—damn, he loved the way she looked when he kissed her. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  —

  Christina had managed to take Tor’s mind off his troubles, but not for long. Damn Bruce. To hell with MacDonald. He hated deception of any kind. These men were a team and deserved to know the truth. For a covert guard like this to work, ultimate authority for team decisions had to rest with the team leader. If this were his command, he’d tell Bruce and MacDonald exactly what they could do with their “orders.” But in a little less than three weeks, MacSorley would be the leader and it would be his decision to make. Not even the big Norseman, however, knew what was about to happen.

  It was the final test of “Perdition,” delayed by their early return to Dunvegan.

  The men gathered around as he explained their task. It had taken more than two months, but Tor had finally managed to silence them.

  “You can’t be serious.” Seton was the first one brash enough to say what the others were thinking.

  The look Tor shot him said otherwise. “It was the final challenge for Finn MacCool’s Fianna.”

  “But that’s only a legend,” MacGregor said. “No man could defend himself against so many spears while buried up to his waist naked with only a targe to defend himself.”

  Tor smiled. “You’ve nothing to worry about, I’m modifying the test from Finn’s. You can wear your war coat and helm, and not all the spears will be thrown at once.”

  He heard a few snorts. His modification didn’t seem to have impressed them.

  “It can be done,” Campbell interjected. “An accomplished warrior can easily catch ten or more spears. It’s more about controlling your fear.”

  “Easy for you to say,” MacGregor said. “You’ve grown up having spears lobbed at your head. We’ve all seen what you can do with them.”

  Campbell met Tor’s gaze and he nodded his approval. “I’ll show you,” he offered.

  The men spent the next few hours practicing, Campbell throwing the sticks—which they were grateful for after a few well-placed misses—and then, as the men got the hang of it, he progressed to a spear wrapped with a piece of leather over the sharp steel tip. Finally, each man faced the real thing. Other than Seton taking a hard blow on the shoulder, they all managed to catch a succession of at least ten spears—some of the men quite a few more. Campbell was right: Once you controlled your fear, there wasn’t much to it. And to a man, they were fearless.

  Tor dug the hole while the men practiced. Given the challenge he’d given them, he figured it was the least he could do. Waist deep and about two feet in diameter, the hole was tight, but big enough for them to turn around in—barely.

  MacSorley climbed in first as the others gathered in a circle around him, about twenty paces out. He’d removed all the weapons he wore strapped to his massive chest but still had his cotun, helm, and targe.

  Tor raised his hand to signal the start. “Any blood and you fail the challenge.”

  MacSorley nodded. “I understand.”

  “Ready?”

  “Aye.”

  Tor motioned to Lamont, the man on his right, and the spears began to fly around the circle. One by one, waiting a few seconds in between, the men heaved them at the live target in the middle. MacSorley quickly found his rhythm, alternating by catching and using his shield to block. Tor threw last, his spear coming closest, but it was deflected at the last minute by MacSorley’s targe. Like his birlinn, there was a fearsome-looking sea hawk painted on the face of the leather-wrapped wood.

  When it was over, MacSorley had nine spears lying around him and one still stuck in his targe. But he’d done it. And once the other men saw how it could be done, they quickly followed his lead.

  The last man to enter the hole was Campbell. The tension had dissipated with each successful challenger, and as Campbell readied to take his turn, there was even quite a bit of jesting going back and forth.

  Tor met his gaze. “Ready?”

  Campbell nodded grimly. Tor gave the signal and the spears began to fly. Because this was the last man, the other warriors had gotten used to it and the timing between tosses had fallen into a nice pattern.

  A pattern he broke.

  When MacGregor, who was standing on his left, released his spear, Tor let his fly at the same time.

  As the other men had done, Campbell had fallen into a rhythm. He easily caught MacGregor’s spear but wasn’t ready for Tor’s. Without time to get his targe in position, at the last minute he leaned to the side just enough to evade a spear in the chest. But it grazed his arm, sticking in the ground a few feet behind him.

  After a shocked pause, Tor heard a collective sigh go around. “That was close,” MacGregor said.

  MacSorley answered with a sad shake of his head.

  Tor didn’t say anything. He, like the others, was watching the arm of Campbell’s cotun stain with blood.

  Campbell’s gaze locked on his. “I’m sorry, lad,” Tor said quietly.

  Campbell looked away and nodded his head. He knew the rules. “I’ll gather my things.”

  Without another word, he pulled himself out of the hole and made his way to the broch. The other men watched him go in stunned silence.

  It was Seton who turned on Tor first. “You can’t seriously mean to let him go. We need him. There’s not another scout like him in Scotland—or anywhere, for that matter.”

  “He failed the test,” Tor replied, though no explanation was necessary.

  Seton’s face turned florid with outrage. “Because you cheated.”

  The blast of silence was deafening. The Highlanders knew what this English knight did not. “If I subscribed to the code you are referring to, you’d be dead for what you just said.” Seton’s jaw clenched; he’d realized his mistake. “In war there is no such thing as cheating, and if you want to be of part of this team you’d better learn that fast. This guard needs to be ready for anything and Campbell got complacent. Complacent will get us all killed.”

  MacSorley gave him a strange look and Tor realized his slip—he was not part of “us.”

  “The captain is right,” MacGregor said. “We all got complacent. Campbell should not be the only one to suffer. I’ll take the test again with him.”

  Tor gave him a long look, impressed by the depth of the bond that had developed between these two former feuding clansmen. They might argue like enemies, but beneath the clan rhetoric was friendship. He swore at the injustice of the situation but betrayed none of his thoughts when he spoke. “Campbell had his chance. We will have to make do without him. Boyd and Lamont are excellent scouts; they can take over.” He looked around the angry circle of men so there could be no mistake. “It’s done. I’ve made my decision.”

  Knowing it was futile to argue, the men dispersed. They weren’t happy about his decision but accepted it with varying levels of outrage. Not surprisingly, MacGregor avoided him for the rest of the day.

  Campbell said his solemn good-byes and when it was time, Tor alone walked him to the galley that would take him back to the mainland.

  “You have everything?” he asked.

  Campbell nodded.

  “I’m sorry about this, lad. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

  Campbell’s face was a mask of stony acceptance. “Aye, captain, I understand.”

  “How is your arm?”

  “It’s fine.�
�� Campbell instinctively grabbed the top of his arm—not the left that had been injured by the spear, but the right where Tor had secretly tattooed a mark deep into his skin late last night. The other men might not know the truth, but Campbell was one of them.

  “If you ever get in trouble.”

  Campbell nodded. “I know what to do.”

  Tor clasped him by the arm, giving him a firm shake. “Bas roimh geill.”

  “Death before surrender,” Campbell replied fiercely. With one last look at the broch, he jumped into the boat and sailed away.

  Tor watched him go.

  Now there are ten.

  Tor had been gone a few days when Christina’s restlessness began to catch up with her. As she’d suspected, Lady Janet wasn’t interested in striking up a friendship. She was polite, but Christina was certain the other woman’s lingering feelings for Tor prevented anything more. Christina could hardly blame her.

  With little to occupy her time, she’d taken to long walks around the perimeter of the barmkin. In addition to her morning walk with Brother John, she’d started to walk after the evening meal.

  She loved to look up at the sky on a clear night—admittedly a rarity in the winter on the “Isle of Mist.” The stars were so close here, it almost seemed as if she could reach out and grab one. Tonight was such a night, and despite the colder-than-normal temperatures—even for January—she lingered on the battlements, gazing first at the sky and then at the sea. There was something so mesmerizing and haunting about watching the shimmery black waves crested with white froth crash against the rocky cliff below.

  She glanced down at the jetty and stilled. A chill swept through her. The terrifying birlinn with the hawk-carved prow sat docked among the other boats.

  All of a sudden she remembered that day when she’d seen Rhuairi at the dock. Could the seneschal be the spy?

  Her suspicions were bolstered when the very man she was thinking about hurried out of the Great Hall across the courtyard and down the sea-gate stairs. Lost in the shadows of darkness, he didn’t notice her presence. She leaned over the wall but was unable to see what was happening below. A short while later, however, Rhuairi rushed back up the stairs and retraced his steps into the Hall.

  Her heart thumped. She stayed huddled in the darkness for a while longer, not sure what to do. What she’d just witnessed could be completely innocent. But why had he acted so strangely before and denied receiving a message?

  Her first impulse was to follow him, but Tor’s admonition came back to her. He didn’t want her involved. If Rhuairi was the spy and she was discovered, it could be dangerous. She would have to wait until her husband returned and tell him her suspicions then.

  She just hoped it wasn’t too late.

  —

  Lady Christina didn’t realize she was being watched.

  Brother John MacDougall, nephew and namesake of John of Lorne, couldn’t be sure of what she was thinking, but he had to take a chance. An innate sense of self-preservation had taken hold the past few days, and he’d arranged for his departure. If he was going to find out what MacLeod was involved in it must be now, and the seneschal’s secret messenger had given him an idea.

  He’d suspected for some time that she knew how to read, suspicions that were confirmed when he’d noticed that someone had corrected the books. He didn’t want to involve her in this but told himself he was doing her a favor. He didn’t like MacLeod. The harsh, ruthless brute clearly didn’t recognize the jewel he had for a wife. But it was equally clear that his young wife idolized him. Maybe this would force Christina to see him for what he really was.

  He hoped.

  He wished he hadn’t let his uncle talk him into this—spying should be left to those with the stomach for deceit. Not that he’d had much choice. Like MacLeod, his uncle was not a man to defy.

  —

  Two more days passed, and Tor had not returned. In the meantime, Christina’s suspicions were eating away at her. Yesterday, she’d entered the solar with Brother John and Rhuairi had jumped, a guilty flush staining his face as he gathered his papers and left. The clerk had noticed the seneschal’s strange behavior as well, commenting on Rhuairi’s increased agitation.

  Mindful of her promise to her husband, Christina responded that she hadn’t noticed. She hated not being able to confide in her friend. Though Brother John seemed like the last person to be a spy, Tor had warned her not to trust anyone.

  She’d debated sending her husband a note but didn’t have any proof. She also wouldn’t be able to do so without Rhuairi knowing about it. With no other choice, she waited—until the following evening.

  Christina was in her usual place after the evening meal, walking around the barmkin, when she noticed Rhuairi once again rushing out of the Great Hall. Instead of meeting another messenger, however, he climbed into a waiting birlinn and headed out toward the sea—not toward the village.

  Thinking it odd, she started back inside when she was very nearly run over by a flushed-face Brother John.

  He apologized distractedly. “Have you seen the seneschal by chance?”

  She nodded. “Aye, he left a few minutes ago.”

  “Nettles!”

  She smiled at his appropriation of her favorite oath. “Is there a problem?”

  He held out a folded piece of parchment. “Rhuairi dropped this, and from the way he was hurrying I thought it might be important. But I’m supposed to go to the village tonight and see Father Patrick.”

  “You don’t know what it is?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing I transcribed.”

  Christina’s heart beat a little faster and all her instincts flared. She held out her hand, not quite able to control the high pitch in her voice. “There’s no need for you to delay your visit to the village. I’ll give it to Rhuairi when he returns.”

  The clerk hesitated. “Are you sure? He probably should get it right when he gets back and it could be late.”

  “I don’t mind,” she answered him. “I’m not tired.”

  “I do hope it’s nothing serious, but Rhuairi did seem even more anxious than usual tonight.” A small smile turned the young clerk’s mouth, and whatever hesitation he had fled. Handing it to her, he said, “But I did promise Father Patrick, and I suppose it’s safe enough with you.”

  Christina knew what he was referring to and was glad he could not see the guilty flush staining her cheeks. She’d been waiting for her husband’s lead and had yet to tell anyone that she could read. Knowing the way Tor’s mind worked, she supposed he thought it safer to keep that piece of information to himself until he found the spy.

  “I wonder what is going on with Rhuairi,” Brother John said absently. “He’s been so secretive of late.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Christina lied, trying not to feel guilty. She hoped Brother John would forgive her, but she could not take a chance in voicing her suspicions.

  “Thank you, my lady. If you don’t mind, I should be going.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and watched him walk through the sea-gate down to the jetty.

  Resisting the urge to tear open the note right there, she tucked it in the folds of her cloak and fled to the privacy of her chamber. There, by candlelight, she carefully unfolded the small piece of parchment.

  Her heart raced. This could be the proof she’d been looking for. She felt a prickle of guilt and quickly shook it off. If the note turned out to be nothing, Tor would never know. But if it was something, he would thank her for it. He could forbid her from interfering, she rationalized, but not from observing what was right before her.

  She recognized the crude style of Rhuairi’s lettering right away, though the note was not signed. It was short and succinct, but it caused her heart to freeze with an icy blast of fear. She’d found her proof, but it was so much worse than she’d thought.

  “Confirmed MacLeod’s location. Bring men. Attack at midnight.”

  Dear God, what time was it
now? Seven? Eight? Her heart raced wildly. What was she going to do? She had to find a way to warn him, before it was too late.

  —

  Tor sat on a large, flat stone outside the entry to the broch, a flagon of cuirm in his hand, watching the last pink wisps of daylight sink over the horizon.

  Campbell had been gone for nearly a week, but the team had yet to recover from the loss of one of their own. He knew it should please him—serving as proof that his training had been a success—but it did not. The loss of one of the team, no matter how it occurred, rankled.

  He uttered an oath and took a long swig of the strong ale, slamming the cup down hard on the stone when it was empty.

  “Ouch,” MacSorley said, coming out of the broch to take a seat beside him. “The ale a little bitter perhaps, or is that the taste of regret?”

  “Leave it,” Tor warned. “I’m not in the mood for your sharp tongue tonight.”

  MacSorley took a drink from his own cup. They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again. “They’ll forgive you. Give them time.”

  Since Campbell had left, the gap between Tor and the men had widened. Once again, he was firmly ensconced in the role of leader—the man forced to make the tough, unpopular decisions. Part of the team but detached. That, however, wasn’t what was bothering him. He just wanted this damned thing over with.

  “Are you going to tell them soon?” MacSorley asked quietly. “There are only two weeks left.”

  Tor’s jaw hardened. This time the other man’s aim was true. “Nay, not yet.”

  MacSorley’s expression lost all sign of joviality, hardening into a forbidding mask of anger. “They deserve to know before we are sailing away that you will not be leading them when we’re done here.”

  His words were too close to Tor’s thoughts, and he didn’t want to hear them right now. His eyes narrowed on McSorley dangerously. “Have care, Norseman. You aren’t in charge yet.”

  MacSorley did not shrink from his warning—not that Tor had expected him to. The Viking was nearly as reckless as he was glib. “You know what I think?” Tor acted as though he hadn’t heard him, staring out over the clearing to the edge of the trees. “I think you don’t want to tell them because you want to lead them, and it’s bothering the hell out of you that you think you can’t. But you can’t sit on the wall forever, MacLeod.” Not “captain.” Tor didn’t miss the slight. “War is coming and one of these days—sooner than you probably think—you are going to have to choose. This team needs you,” he said quietly. “Scotland needs you.”