The Chief (25 page)

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 into 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.”

Tor frowned. MacSorley had jumped to the same conclusion as Christina. “I've no claim on the lass; Janet is free to do as she pleases.” Tor thought back to earlier in the day, when he and Janet had spoken in the Hall. He'd told her to take the day off, but she'd insisted on coming.
“It will help me keep my mind off it,”
she'd said. “Today is a difficult day,” he explained. “Janet's husband was killed five years ago this day.”

“Ah,” MacSorley said. “I see.”

They had turned to head toward the broch when Tor noticed that Campbell had not moved. His senses seemed fixed on something. Watching him, Tor felt a chill sweep over him. Though useful, Campbell's uncanny ability to sense things took a bit of getting used to.

“What is it?” he asked.

Campbell met his gaze. “We're being watched.”

From her perch high in the tree, Christina moved a branch aside to try to get a better view over the wide
stretch of brown moorland to the ancient broch a few hundred yards away. She wished she could get a little closer, but not wanting to risk discovery, she'd been forced to stay back in the copse of trees for cover.

When she'd made the spur-of-the-moment decision to follow Lady Janet, she hadn't known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this. Rather than a secret love bower, she'd apparently stumbled on to some kind of training camp.

She should have been relieved. Her fears about her husband and Lady Janet appeared to be unfounded. And at first she was, but the longer she watched, the more certain she became that something odd was going on here.

Most of the warriors were armored for war in the Highland fashion—instead of mail, wearing simple leather war coats studded with metal,
leines
, and terrifying Norse-looking steel nasal helms that hid most of their face. One man, however, wore a habergeon of mail, a tabard, and a more typical steel helm with a visor. She frowned. The wyvern crest looked familiar.

Though she had grown accustomed to being surrounded by tall, well-muscled men, even for Islanders this group seemed…
extreme
. Yet despite the helms and the plethora of prime male specimens, she'd picked out her husband right away. It wasn't just the noble bearing that gave him away, but the authority and command emanating from him.

As she watched the men go through various training exercises from archery practice, to spear throwing, to tossing boulders, to using ropes to climb to the top of the broch, Christina began to sense that something was odd. These were no ordinary warriors.

During the boulder toss, one of the men had lifted an enormous stone that must have weighed hundreds of pounds over his head as if it were hollow. Even Tor had strained to get it off the ground. When the other warrior
laughed, her husband hadn't seemed to mind and had laughed along with him.

Although Tor was clearly in charge, depending on the task a different man would take the lead. She'd first noticed it during the archery practice, when the man who was clearly better than the others moved to the forefront and started issuing instructions.

She'd been watching for an hour or so when the men broke off into smaller groups. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she probably should be getting back. It wasn't that long a walk back to the village, but the terrain wasn't easy, especially in the damp.

But then she saw Tor lift his sword from the scabbard at his back and decided to stay for a while longer.

The contest started out civilly enough—as civil as swinging heavy, razor-sharp steel blades at one another can be. It was brutal, and her heart still pounded, but without the deadly edge of the battle she'd witnessed with MacRuairi, she was able to watch it without feeling as if her knees were about to buckle.

It was almost like a dance, with each man taking turns attacking and evading the two-handed swings of the blade. She squinted into the distance, thinking that there was something vaguely familiar about his opponent. But with the steel helm on, she couldn't make out his face.

After a few minutes, Christina's heart started to beat a little faster. The exchange of blows grew more intense, the sound of steel crashing against steel louder. Suddenly, the practice didn't look quite so friendly. She scooted forward and had to catch herself, forgetting that she was sitting on a branch.

She gasped and blinked when, in one smooth move, Tor wrapped his leg around the other man's, grabbed the arm that had been moving forward in a strike, and flipped him over onto his back.

In the blink of an eye, Tor had his blade at the other
man's neck. For a horrifying moment she thought he meant to run him through. It was just like before. And just like before she made a small, involuntary sound. This time, thankfully, he didn't hear her.

She sighed with relief when he reached down to help the other man to his feet.

Eyes glued to the drama unfolding on the practice yard, she hadn't realized that a few of the other men had gathered around to watch as well.

But she did now.

She smothered the gasp of surprise with her hand. They'd removed their helms, and even from the distance, she recognized two of the men right away. Though perhaps she should have recognized Lachlan MacRuairi before from his distinctive lazy stance. If seeing her husband's most reviled enemy wasn't confusing enough, it was even harder to explain the presence of an Englishman. She'd met Sir Alex only once, a few years before her father was imprisoned, but the handsome young squire was not one a young girl would soon forget. Why was her husband training one of Edward's knights?

The man who'd been fighting Tor took off his helm. MacSorley. She should have guessed. She'd almost forgotten how MacDonald's henchman had followed Tor's orders to sail after Beatrix without question.

Her gaze caught on another man and it took her a moment to catch her breath. Good gracious, what a face! He was masculine perfection—a bronzed Apollo with golden caramel hair and divinely chiseled features—easily the most handsome man she'd ever seen. He looked like he belonged on a pedestal.

The men started to move off toward the broch and Christina figured they were breaking for the midday meal. Tor lingered for a few moments, speaking with MacSorley and another man.

What was going on here?

Her husband's warning came back to her. Was this the trouble he spoke of? She bit her lip, suddenly having second thoughts about following Lady Janet.

Perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea. She'd known he might be angry but at the time hadn't cared. Pleasing him certainly hadn't worked, so what did she have to lose?

“Do not leave the castle unprotected.”
She chewed on her lip. A little late to remember her promise now.

Suddenly anxious to return to the castle, she ventured a look toward the yard, seeing that the rest of the men had gone inside. She breathed a sigh of relief and started down the tree. It was an easy climb and she jumped down the last few feet, landing softly on the muddy, leaf-spattered ground.

Her nose scrunched up and she wished she'd worn an older pair of sturdy boots. Her light leather slippers were not made for gallivanting across the rugged Highland landscape in the winter—summer either, for that matter.

She retraced her steps through the trees, feeling better about her adventure with each stride. She might not have all the answers, but at least she knew her husband was not leaving to be with another woman. And assuming no one paid undue attention to her absence, he would never know about her wee excursion.

As she picked her way through the trees, Christina felt a prickle of disquiet. A prickle she attributed to the eerie stillness of the forest. Quickening her step, she could just make out the edge of the tree line when the hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. Someone was…

Before she could turn around, she was grabbed from behind and pulled harshly against a rock-hard chest. Icy panic washed over her. She opened her mouth to scream, but he clasped a hand over her mouth and whispered in her ear, “I wouldn't advise it,
wife
. Not when I have my hands so close to that lovely neck of yours.”

Her heart stopped, then jumped again. Cold and hard as
steel, his voice was without mercy. Any relief she might have felt to discover that the man who held her was her husband died under the terrifying prospect of his rage.

She'd never faced the warrior who struck fear across the Highlands, but she sensed that was about to change.

The moment of shock upon discovering that it was his wife who was spying on them was replaced by almost blind rage.