The Chief (4 page)

He made a sound of exasperation. “Nothing. It's just I've heard men say it makes them think of sin.”

Her eyes widened, and self-consciously she covered her mouth with her hand. “Really? How awful!”

He nodded solemnly. “I'm afraid so. Between the two of you, the man is going to be hard pressed to choose.”

Beatrix's soft whimpering was the only sound that could be heard in the forlorn silence that followed. The dread of inevitability settled over her, but Christina knew what she had to do. Beatrix might be the elder by a year, but Christina had always taken care of her, and she would continue to do so.

She swallowed the lump of fear knotted in her throat. She would just have to make sure that if it came down to it, the vile brute chose her.

Finlaggan Castle, Isle of Islay

“I'm not interested.” Tor leaned back in his chair, eyeing the handful of men seated around the large circular table in the council chamber of Finlaggan—MacDonald's stronghold on Islay and the ancient center of the Kingdom of the Isles.

The round table was not a democratic allusion to Britain's famous hero, but a practical solution to best take advantage of the shape of the room. Instead of enjoying the luxury of MacDonald's new tower house, they were gathered in the ancient roundhouse beside it. The dark and drafty crude stone building was said to have been built before the time of Somerled—the great king from whom the MacDonalds, MacDougalls, MacSorleys, and MacRuairis were all descended—and used by the kings of the Isles for centuries. His host knew well the power of tradition. At Finlaggan, round table or not, Angus Og MacDonald, descendant of the mighty Somerled, reigned supreme.

For a typical war council, the room would be packed with chiefs, chieftains, and their large retinues. But not today. In addition to his host, only four other men were present: William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews; Sir Andrew
Fraser, a Scot nobleman familiar to him in name if not in person; Erik MacSorley, Angus Og's kinsman and
Gille-coise
henchman, reputed to be the best seafarer in the isles; and Sir Neil Campbell, MacDonald's uncle and a kinsman to Bruce, from a clan of growing importance with lands near Loch Awe.

The man behind the proposition, Robert Bruce, was being watched by Edward too closely to attend in person.

Lamberton and MacDonald exchanged glances after Tor's pronouncement, with the bishop apparently deciding to take a turn to attempt to persuade him. “Perhaps you don't understand—”

“I understand completely,” Tor said, cutting off what was sure to be a long-winded explanation. “You want me to train and lead a secret, highly specialized killing team to aid Bruce in a treasonous rebellion against Edward.”

The prelate shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn't put it exactly like that. The team will be used for many purposes—reconnaissance, intelligence, strategy, and special missions.”

“Aye, the most dangerous ones,” Tor said dryly, amused by the bishop's attempt to prevaricate. “But you mistake my objection. It's not the killing or the danger that prevents me from accepting your offer”—He'd made his name for exactly those reasons, which he knew was why they'd come to him—“it's because it's not my war and I have no interest in making it so.”

Otherwise, he might be tempted. The idea was just outlandish enough to intrigue him. The most elite warriors in the Highlands and Isles all together in one guard? They would be unstoppable. Nearly invincible.

“But it
is
your war,” Lamberton insisted. “The Isles are part of Scotland now, and you are Scottish subjects, despite what some of you may choose to think.” The bishop's sly observation earned a few chuckles around the table. Most of the local men felt as Tor did—he was an Islander, not a Scot. Lamberton gave him a pointed look. “Eventually, you will have to pick a side.”

Tor lifted a brow. “Whereas you and Bruce change sides so frequently it's hard to keep up.”

The bishop prickled, his round face growing flush with indignation. “I fight for Scotland.”

“Aye, and Bruce fights for whatever side Comyn does not, and MacDonald here fights for whatever side MacDougall does not. I understand the intricacies of Scottish politics well enough. What I don't see is any benefit or reason for
my
clan to choose sides right now. Nor is it clear—despite your secret army—that your side would not be the losing one.” He ignored the burst of angry rumbling that followed. With the treasonous journey these men were about to embark on, they needed to hear the truth. “I've no love of the English king or John MacDougall, but they make powerful enemies.”

“Aye,” MacDonald agreed. “And getting more powerful by the minute.” He leaned toward Tor, his goblet coming down hard on the table. “Do nothing and you will feel the squeeze of Edward's iron fist soon enough even on Skye. Edward might be far away, but his new minion MacDougall is not.”

“All the more reason not to anger him.” Though Tor's sympathies lay with Angus Og MacDonald, he'd carefully avoided taking sides in the feud between the kinsmen. He didn't need John MacDougall breathing down his neck; he had more pressing concerns. But unfortunately, Nicolson had yet to arrive.

“We will make it worth your while,” Lamberton insisted, changing tactics and trying to dispel the growing tension. “Fraser here has two unmarried daughters, both of whom are very beautiful and come with rich tochers of land.”

“Which won't be worth anything if you lose,” Tor said bluntly. “Edward will dispossess all who fight against him of their land and titles—after he divests them of their heads. I'm rather attached to mine.”

“He has you there,” MacSorley said with a good-natured laugh. “Edward has quite a growing collection of Scottish ornaments adorning the gates of his castles.”

MacDonald gave his henchman a glowering look, but MacSorley just shrugged with an unrepentant grin.

The offer of marriage did not tempt Tor. He'd been married before and felt no urgency to take another wife. He had sons. His wife had died almost eight years ago while giving birth to their second son. Murdoch and Malcolm were being fostered on the Isle of Lewis.

If
he married again, it would be to seek an alliance with the western seaboard—Ireland or the Isle of Man—to increase his clan's power and prestige, not with the daughter of a Scottish noble. But not wishing to give offense, he turned to Fraser. “I thank you for your offer. I'm sure your daughters are very beautiful”—as all ladies of noble birth were in marriage negotiations—“but I've no wish to take a wife.”

Fraser nodded, but Tor could see his cursory dismissal had angered the proud nobleman. Something about the old warrior bothered him. In a room full of battle-hardened warriors, Fraser's eyes burned too hotly. Emotion like that was dangerous; it had no place on the battlefield—or in the council chamber. Cool and controlled were the mark of a shrewd leader and warrior.

MacDonald leaned back and gave Tor an amused look, some of his earlier anger fading. “Perhaps you will change your mind when you meet them?”

Tor shook his head. “My mind is made up.” Unlike his brother, no woman—no matter how beautiful—would ever make him lay aside his duty. “You'll have to find someone else to lead your secret band of Highlanders.”

Over the long journey from Stirlingshire to Islay, Christina had almost succeeded in convincing herself that it wouldn't be that bad. Maybe Tormod MacLeod—she'd
learned the name of the Island chief her father sought to wed her to—wasn't a brute at all but a gallant and chivalrous knight.

The moment she arrived at Finlaggan, however, she knew her imagination had run away with her again. It was worse than she'd originally feared.
Much
worse. Never had she seen so many terrifying-looking men in one place. Nay, not men, but warriors. These Islanders looked as if they did nothing but fight. It was in their blood and bred into their bones—from the fierce, battle-scarred visages locked in perpetual scowls to their extraordinary size.

The latter proved truly disconcerting.

Even without chain mail—they wore shockingly little armor—the men from the Isles seemed taller and broader than their Lowland counterparts. Everywhere she looked stood men well over six feet tall, stacked with layer upon layer of bulky muscle. Their arms in particular—thick and ripped with rock-hard muscle—seemed built for wielding the terrifying two-handed swords, war hammers, battleaxes, and other instruments of warfare they wore strapped to their bodies. And it wasn't just the men; the women, too, were tall and strong. A veritable race of giants, or at least it seemed so to her. Unlike her tall and willowy sister, if Christina stood on her tiptoes she was lucky to reach a hand over five feet.

They probably would have drowned her at birth.

The men wore their hair to their shoulders, some with braids at the temple, and a disproportionately large number were fair-headed.

Probably all that Viking blood, she thought with a shiver, feeling a sharp pang of empathy with her forebears. How terrifying it must have been to see those longships appear on the horizon and know that these fierce barbarians were bearing down on them to wreak havoc and destruction in their pillaging wake.

Christina felt that same helplessness and an overwhelming
sense of impending doom. She knew she had to protect her sister, but her plan to entice the MacLeod chief to choose her and not her sister was a far more terrifying proposition now that she was here.

On the final leg of their journey by sea, however, another possibility had occurred to her. She realized how fast the sea roads were compared to their land counterparts. With favorable winds, long distances could be covered in hours rather than days. When one of the oarsmen had mentioned that he'd recently come from the holy Isle of Iona, the spark of an idea took hold: She and Beatrix could flee to Iona and take refuge at the famous nunnery.

It was a crazy plan—fraught with risk at every turn—but it was something.

This morning after breaking their fast, she and Beatrix had headed to the village to make initial inquiries, but Christina would have to return later at night to attempt to secure passage. A pilgrimage to St. Columba's holy isle would not seem out of the ordinary, assuming no one discovered who they were.

The wind whistled through the reeds that grew along the stone causeway as they made their way back to the castle, the eerie sound utterly in keeping with the haunting majesty of this ancient stronghold but doing nothing for her frayed nerves.

Beatrix must have sensed her unease. Looping her arm through Christina's, she drew her closer as they walked. “Are you sure about this, Chrissi? If father discovers what we are planning—”

“He won't,” Christina assured her with far more confidence than she felt. The idea of defying her father terrified her. “We're not doing anything out of the ordinary. There is no reason for him to be suspicious.”

It would be later at night, when she actually sought to arrange passage, that the real danger would come. But she dared not voice her fears to her sister. As it was, deception
was utterly foreign to Beatrix; adding fear to the mix would be disastrous. They could do nothing to arouse their father's suspicions.

“But if anything goes wrong—”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Christina said firmly. She hoped. It was a simple plan, but neither of them had ever attempted anything like this before and they couldn't take the chance of involving anyone else. If Alex had traveled with them they might have asked him to help, but he'd been sent to join their cousin Simon, one of Robert Bruce's closest companions. She looked into her sister's troubled face. “You want to go to Iona, don't you?”

Beatrix's entire expression changed, her face transformed by a heavenly light that took Christina's breath away. “Of course I do. It's an answer to a prayer, except that never even in my dreams did I imagine it would be possible.” Beatrix sighed. “Just think, the nunnery at Iona. Surely, it must be the most holy place in all of Scotland?”

“We shall find out,” Christina said with a smile. Though she did not share her sister's religious devotion, it was impossible not to get swept up in the excitement. They would be safe. That was all that mattered. For two young women, there were precious few options available. If the choice was between marriage to a barbarian and a nunnery, it was an easy decision.

But part of her wondered…

“Are you sure
you
want to do this, Chrissi?” Her sister's pale blue eyes slid over her face. “This is my dream, not yours. I've no wish to marry, but can you say the same?” Christina slammed her mouth closed; at times Beatrix had an uncanny ability to read her mind. “What about your knights?” she added softly.

Christina kept her eyes fixed on the path in front of them. She'd regaled her sister with too many romantic stories to even attempt to feign ignorance at what she was getting at. “They're stories, Bea. Just stories. I never thought
of that for myself.” Dreaming didn't count. “Marriage for women in our position is to secure alliances, not for love. I'd rather spend my life reading about romance than locked in marriage to a man…” Her voice fell off.

“To a man like father,” Beatrix finished gently.

Christina nodded. Aye, the man who thought her no better than a dog to kick. She hated the fear that her father had instilled in her. Fear that came not only from pain but also from powerlessness. Never had she felt the fate of being a woman so cruelly. If her father—or her husband—wanted to thrash her senseless, no one would gainsay his right to do so.