The Chief (5 page)

That realization made her all the more certain that what they were doing was right. She couldn't just sit back and wait, while her father offered them up like two juicy lambs to the slaughter. If there were a chance to avoid that fate for herself and her sister, she would take it.

“I know you are only doing this because you are trying to protect me. But I'm older—I'm the one who should be protecting you.” Beatrix drew up her slender shoulders. “I'm stronger than I look. I could…” She fought back tears through a wobbly smile. “Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad.”

Christina stopped in her tracks, grasping hold of her sister's shoulders to turn and face her, taking care not to clasp her too hard. Beatrix bruised as easily as a rose petal. Her sister might be taller than her by nearly half a foot, but her delicate build made her seem much smaller. Christina was all round curves to Beatrix's fine lines.

Despite the cloudless sky, a cold shadow swept over her as she looked at her sister. Pale, ethereal, fragile. Unbearably fragile. Not just in appearance but in her life's breath. Sometimes it seemed as if Beatrix had one foot in heaven already—that each moment with her was a precious gift that could be taken at any time.

The thought of losing her sister made Christina's chest
burn. For as long as she could remember, there had been only the two of them. Their mother had died not long after the birth of their youngest brother, and their brothers had been sent away when they were very young. Beatrix was all she had, and Christina would do anything to protect her.

Her throat swelled with emotion, knowing that her sister would do the same. She could only imagine what those brave words had cost her. “I'm not doing this just for you, but for both of us.” She read the uncertainty in her sister's gaze. Realizing that giving voice to her own fears might help, she swallowed and said softly, “I'm just as scared as you are, Bea. I've no wish to marry one of these men any more than you do.”

“You're certain?” Beatrix asked hesitantly.

Christina nodded with a smile. “Positive.” She lifted up on her toes and placed a kiss on her sister's cheek. “Now, if we are to have time to change before the feast, we'd better hurry.”

They resumed walking, continuing their way along the slippery rock pathway and onto the big island. Finlaggan was uniquely situated, spread out between two small islands on an inland loch, connected to the mainland by stone causeways. Located about fifty feet from shore and surrounded by tall wooden fortifications,
Eilean Mor
, the big island, housed most of the castle buildings, including the Great Hall, St. Findlugan's Chapel, and the armory, smith, and barracks. At the far end of
Eilean Mor
was another stone causeway, this one much longer, perhaps a hundred yards in length, connecting the big island to a small crannog—a man-made island—which housed the council chamber and MacDonald's new tower house. The mist that had cloaked the morning had slowly dissipated, though it had yet to dry completely from the ground. But she could just make out the formidable keep in the distance.

Christina had to admit that despite the fearsome appearance
of the men, there was nothing crude or barbaric about Finlaggan. The castle and its outer buildings were as fine as anything she might find in the Lowlands. The Great Hall with its lime-mortared stone walls, arched windows, and beautifully beamed ceilings could rival the recently renovated Great Hall at Stirling Castle. Indeed, the massive fireplace was the largest she'd ever seen, and the faces on the stone corbels were so lifelike they could only have been carved by a master craftsman.

The food was also a surprise. Half fearing that they would be eating nothing but herring and oatcakes, she was impressed by both the variety and the skilled preparation of the meal they'd enjoyed upon arrival the previous night. In addition to fish, they'd found a selection of game, stewed lampreys, root vegetables, dried fruits—including her favorite (and very expensive) figs—warm brown bread with slabs of cool butter, exotic spiced sauces, marzipan, and sweetened almond milk, all eaten off pewter trenchers. Even her father had been much impressed by the French wine that flowed abundantly from large pottery jugs, enquiring from their host the name of the merchant who'd sold it to him.

If that was all for a “light” supper, the feast at the midday meal today should be lavish indeed. Her stomach made a sharp sound of anticipation.

She frowned, remembering another incongruity. For a culture so obviously consumed by war, the Islanders also had a deep appreciation for music. When the enormous gray-haired warrior sat down to play the
clarsach
, Christina had been shocked by the sweet sounds that poured from his big, battle-scarred fingers along the harp strings. Indeed, the prestige accorded the poet who composed the verse—the Islanders called him the
filidh
—along with the
seanachaidh
bard who performed it, the piper, and the harpist among the clan was clear from their position at the table near the chief. Only the chief's henchman
took precedence. It made her wonder whether there was something more to these people.

But the thought barely had time to form before it was quickly disproved.

As they approached the Great Hall, she noticed a group of warriors gathered near the entrance. Her pulse spiked. If possible, they appeared even more formidable than those she'd encountered previously.

Two men stood at the center. She couldn't see their faces, but both were tall and extremely muscular. That, however, was where the similarities ended. Though one had golden hair and the other's was so dark as to be almost black, it wasn't the hair color that separated them so sharply, but the way they carried themselves. The golden-haired man stood as proud as a king, with a predatory stillness in his rigid stance. In contrast, the dark-haired man's stance was lazy—almost taunting—but equally threatening.

Something about the situation set warning bells clamoring, making the hair on Christina's arms stand on edge. The instinct to fade into the background that she'd learned since her father's return took hold.

She wrapped her arm around Beatrix's shoulders, tucking her against her. “Keep your head down and walk faster.” The urgency in her voice must have alerted her sister to the danger.

Beatrix looked at her with wide eyes. “What is it?”

“Something is going on over there and I don't like the look of it.”

Unfortunately, they had to go past the Great Hall to reach the second causeway that would take them to the castle, but she hoped they could slide by without being noticed.

As they drew closer, the charge in the air intensified. With each step, her heartbeat raced faster. Her sister felt it, too. The quickening of Beatrix's breath matched her own.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see the men not
ten paces from her. She fought the urge to shudder, realizing how much larger and more daunting they were up close.

We have to get out of here
.

The causeway wasn't far now. Twenty paces or so and they'd be safe.

All of a sudden, she heard a man let out a vile oath, followed by the bloodcurdling crash of steel on steel. Before she could react, the crowd had tightened around them, cutting off their path.

They were trapped.

At first Christina feared that they would be caught up in the melee, but then she realized only two men were fighting—the same two warriors she'd noticed before.

A sword fight in the middle of the courtyard? Goodness, did these barbarians fight everywhere?

She and Beatrix watched in horror as they attacked each other with a viciousness that could mean only one thing—a fight to the death. It was horrible. Violent. Their wild, brutal fighting style was nothing like the “civilized” practicing she was used to on the lists or the tournaments she'd seen as a child.

Neither man wore mail, only the
leine
and padded leather
cotun
studded with metal—woefully inadequate protection against the penetrating steel blades of their swords. They both wore soft leather boots to just below the knees, leaving a gap of bare leg to the lower thigh.

The golden-haired warrior had his back to her, but she could see the muscles in his back flare as he swung the enormous two-handed longsword in a high arch over his head and brought it down with crushing force. The sword seemed a part of him, as if he'd been born with it in his hand.

The dark-haired warrior blocked it with one of his two short arming swords, resulting in a piercing clatter that shattered the peace of the day, making her ears ring and
teeth rattle. He allowed his blade to drop to the ground, pinned beneath the other, but then he spun and whirled the other over his head to return the strike.

The warriors exchanged blow after deadly blow, neither showing signs of tiring, wielding their enormous blades as effortlessly as if they were made of wood and not steel. The ground reverberated with each terrifying stroke.

She should look away. She should attempt to escape. But Christina was as mesmerized as she was horrified by the brutal savageness of the spectacle before her.

Was this what the Romans had felt watching the gladiators?

If the warriors weren't so obviously trying to kill each other, there would be something almost beautiful about their movements. Despite their powerful builds, they moved with leonine grace. In the back of her mind it occurred to her that if they weren't so fearsome looking, the men might be considered handsome. Nor could she ignore that there was something blatantly male and attractive about such brute strength. But the thought was fleeting and quickly forgotten in the heat and clamor of the battle. The clang of steel mixed with the grunts of the combatants and the ebbing and flowing murmurs of the crowd.

At first she thought they were well matched, but as the fight drew on she recognized the superior skill of the golden-haired man. His blade fell harder; his reactions were quicker and his movements more precise. He controlled every aspect of the battle.

Her gaze was drawn to him.

When it became clear that she and Beatrix were not in danger, she grew more bold in her observation, noticing the hard lines of his jaw, the wide mouth, and the forbidding brow. The noble bearing that permeated the air around him. As the fight had started without warning, he wore no helm or bascinet to protect his head. His hair was actually more brown than blond as she'd first thought, but
the sunlight picked up all the golden strands, making it appear much lighter.

She was fascinated by the way his muscles bunched and flexed with each blow of the sword. Looking at him, the idea of Lancelot bending steel bars didn't seem so farfetched. Such power would normally terrify her, but detached like this she felt a strange heat shimmering through her.

But she hardly had time to process the strange reaction before the battle shifted and took on a far more ominous tone.

The change was subtle but marked. The golden warrior attacked with cold purpose and precision, making her wonder whether he'd simply been biding his time.

She glanced at the dark warrior's face and felt a chill so strong it turned her blood to ice. Behind the goading defiance, his eyes were empty. Soulless. And she knew with a certainty that couldn't be explained that he didn't care whether he lived or died.

She gasped when the golden warrior landed a blow to other man's upper arm that drew blood, causing him to drop one of his swords. Her stomach rolled as the
cotun
and
leine
underneath stained a deep, dark red.

Beatrix buried her head in her shoulder, sobbing, but Christina couldn't turn away, unable to believe what was about to happen.

The battle was intensifying now. Going faster. Moving toward a fatal end with each stroke. The scent of well-worked bodies wafted in the breeze. Tension and excitement surged in the crowd.

No one was going to do anything to stop it
.

With blow after ringing blow, the golden-haired warrior moved his opponent back. The dark-haired warrior couldn't last much longer. Christina's heart was pounding so hard she couldn't breathe.

She gasped again when the dark warrior stumbled back
and fell to the ground. Her horror only grew when his mouth curved up in a smile.

The golden warrior raised his sword above his head, poised for the final blow.

“No!” a voice rang out.

His gaze shot to hers. She was riveted to the ground by the most piercing ice-blue eyes she'd ever seen. Eyes that seared her with an intensity she'd never experienced before. Eyes that were hard, cold, and utterly without mercy.

She blanched, as horror dawned: She was the one who'd cried out.

Their gazes held for only an instant before he looked brusquely away.

Disappointment crashed over her. How could she have expected mercy from such a man? Despite her strange fascination with him, he was not a knight but a brutish barbarian warlord.

She couldn't bear to watch. Turning her head, she braced herself for the gasp of the crowd as the golden warrior finished the job. She heard the sword whiz through the air and land with a resounding thud that shook her to her toes.

But the gasp never came.

By the time she'd gathered enough courage to look back, the golden warrior had already started to walk away, and the dark warrior was being helped to his feet by one of his men. The golden warrior's two-handed sword was plunged deep into the ground near where the dark warrior had lain, and one of his men was struggling to pull it from the ground.

She heard the whispers and felt the curious stares of the crowd on her, but she was too stunned to care.

What had just happened? Disbelief mingled with wonder. Had he heeded her plea?

All of a sudden, someone grabbed her arm and jerked her around.

“You stupid girl.”

She froze, her stomach pitching to the floor. “Father.”