The Chief (7 page)

Her rescuer twisted the gasping man around to face him. “I just made it my business.” He threw her attacker up against the keep, much as the other man had done to her. His head collided with a sickening thud, followed by the sound of teeth rattling. Pinned by the neck, her attacker uttered an oath, his eyes widening with fear.

“You're one of MacRuairi's men?” her rescuer said.

Her attacker tried to nod, but he couldn't move his head enough.

“I know your face. And if I so much as hear of you touching an unwilling woman again, mine will be the last you ever see.” He sniffed as if he'd just gotten a scent of something vile. “I don't care how drunk you are. Do you understand?”

The attacker nodded mutely, obviously too scared to speak. He looked as if he'd seen a ghost—or the grim reaper himself.

“Then go,” her rescuer said, releasing him. “Before I change my mind.”

The guardsman, who'd seemed so overpowering to her, scampered away like a frightened mouse. When her rescuer turned his face out of the shadow to face her, Christina smothered a startled gasp with her hand, knowing why her attacker had fled in terror.

With still no sign of Nicolson, Tor had decided to seek out MacDonald and was making his way back to the keep when he heard grunting and caught sight of the shadowed figures against the wall. Though he preferred less public displays himself, privacy was a privilege afforded very few, and it wasn't uncommon to see a guardsman take his pleasure with a lass anywhere that would accommodate.

He ignored them as he usually did, until he heard a cry. His gaze sharpened, this time seeing the signs of struggle that hadn't been apparent with a glance.

The flash of anger struck him hard. Mistreatment of women did not sit well with him, but rape held a particular abhorrence since he'd learned of his mother's fate. Men under his command knew he had no tolerance for abusing women in such a foul manner. Punishment would be swift and severe.

The lass was putting up an impressive fight, but it was no contest—a fact that added to his irritation. Grabbing the man by the neck, he pulled him off her, threw him against the hard stone, and pinned him to the wall by his throat. He saw the moment of recognition and knew the man would not put up a fight. Too bad. He would have welcomed the excuse.

His already dark mood had turned black.

Once the guardsman had vanished into the night, Tor turned to the lass. She'd backed away during his exchange with the guardsman and stood just beyond the reach of the torchlight, huddled in the darkness. She was a tiny thing
and he felt a fresh rush of anger, thinking of the size of the man who'd attacked her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I'm f-fine,” she said haltingly. She seemed to be fighting to control her shaking. Shock. He'd seen enough men experience such a reaction after battle. “Thank you,” she said, gathering herself together. “I don't know how to thank you.”

He frowned. Something wasn't right. Her voice. Soft and sweet, the gently modulated tones were not of the area and were unmistakably refined. A well-spoken serving girl? He stared hard at the trembling figure in the shadows, able to make out just enough to send a prickle of disquiet running along the back of his neck. “Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “I won't hurt you.”

She hesitated, then slid her hand into his. He felt a shock, an odd jarring sensation. Her fingers were icy cold, but soft. Too soft, he thought with a spur of irrational anger.

By Thor's hammer, it couldn't be
.

But even before he pulled her forward into the pool of light, he knew.

She lifted the smooth oval of her face to his, the shadows caressing her lovely features, and recognition struck with another fierce jolt. Those eyes were unforgettable—dark and slanted, framed by the black slash of perfectly arched brows and long, thick lashes.

Fraser's daughter
.

He dropped her hand.

With one glance he took in the rest of her appearance. The mussed hair, the sinful mouth swollen and bruised, the smooth ivory skin marred by the scratch of the other man's beard.

He saw red, the rush of anger nearly uncontrollable.
I should have killed him
.

Then his gaze dropped further, and he went stone still. Her cloak had slid back around her shoulders, revealing the torn gown underneath.

His mouth clamped down tight enough to make the muscle in his jaw jump. That wasn't all that jumped as his body reacted with a primal force. His gaze burned hot on one very large, very beautiful, and very naked breast. Full and round, the creamy ivory flesh tipped with a rosy pink nipple tight with cold.

His gaze lingered only an instant, but it hadn't gone unnoticed. She gasped and wrapped the cloak around her chest to cover herself.

His mind closed like a trap and his gaze shifted back to her face. Even in the darkness he could see her cheeks heating with embarrassment. Or perhaps it was the heat radiating from him as the simmering anger whipped into a maelstrom.

“What are you doing out here?” he snapped. “Dressed like this?” It wasn't difficult to see why she'd been mistaken for a serving girl.

Her eyes widened at his tone, but he was too furious to stop. He took a step closer, looming over her. The soft scent of flowers wafted through the air, and he had to fight against the sudden urge to inhale. She smelled incredible, fresh and innocent. Making what had just nearly happened ever more outrageous.

His fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to shake some sense into her, which she was clearly lacking. “Do you realize the danger you were in? Do you know what could have happened?”

She nodded furiously, seeming to shrink away from him.

Damn
. He was scaring her.

What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn't recall ever losing his temper with a woman before. Even with his sister Muriel, and that headstrong termagant would try the patience of a saint—and he was far from a saint.

He stepped back, dragged a hand through his hair, and fought to control his anger. Anger that didn't make sense. The lass was no concern of his.

He stripped the rage from his face, schooling his features into their usual cool implacability. “You know who I am?” he asked in a far more even tone.

She nodded and ventured another quick glance from under those long lashes—the coy, womanly gesture made all the more seductive by its utter innocence. Her blush intensified.

“Why are you out here alone?” he repeated. “Where are your attendants?” She could ask the same thing of him. It was rare for a chief to be without his large retinue, but Tor had left his men at the hall to find MacDonald.

“I—I had to run an errand.” Her hands twisted nervously. “It took longer than I expected.”

She was lying.

“Dressed like that?” Tor knew little of women's fashion, but even he could tell the difference between the fine ensemble she'd worn earlier and what she had on now. She'd also removed the jeweled headpiece she'd worn to the feast, as well as the expensive pearl earrings and necklace. Clearly, she was attempting to disguise herself. The question was why.

“I didn't want to get my good clothes dirty.” She pointed to the damp hem of her gown, where he could see the tip of one dainty foot covered in mud.

“You expect me to believe that?” He crossed his arms and gave her a long, penetrating stare, waiting.

She squirmed guiltily, but to her credit didn't yield. He knew men who had withered under less. The fear she'd shown earlier seemed to be forgotten.

“What errand to the village could be so important?” he asked, noticing the sand that was mixed with the mud.

Her eyes avoided his and the hand twisting intensified. The lass was a horrible liar. “Please,” she beseeched, “it's a personal matter.”

He studied her a moment longer, wanting to question her further. She was up to something and he was curious—too
curious. But, he reminded himself, it wasn't any of his concern, nor did he want to get involved. Her actions tonight proved what he already knew: A girl like this was trouble. Naïve and vulnerable, despite her sensual appearance. She was the kind of woman a man would have to keep an eye on. He was glad she wasn't his responsibility, but
someone
should be watching her more carefully. “Does your father know you are out here?”

She blanched, fear returning to her delicate features. “Please.” He was surprised when she placed her hand on his arm. “I beg of you not to say anything.”

She looked very young, very innocent, and very scared. It was a surprisingly powerful combination.

He gazed down into those softly imploring eyes and felt a strange discomfort near his lungs that made him wonder if he'd eaten too much at the feast.

“Please,” she begged again, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

He stiffened, every muscle, every nerve ending reacting to her gentle touch. He'd felt the blade of a sword less intensely.

As if just realizing what she was doing, she yanked her hand back and dropped her gaze to her toes.

Clearly, she was embarrassed to have touched him so familiarly. In truth, he didn't know what to make of it. He cleared his voice and said, “Your father can see to it that the man is punished for what he tried to do.”

I would kill him
.

“No, please.” He could hear the panic in her voice. “I just want to forget this happened. If you say something to my father it would only make him angry.” With her, she meant. And the notion clearly terrified her.

His face darkened, guessing why. Did Fraser take his anger out on his daughters? Every instinct in his body recoiled at the idea. “Does he beat you?”

“No,” she said quickly.

Too quickly. He shouldn't have asked. He erected the wall back in his mind.
Not your concern
. This girl was not for him. And he did not need to add to her troubles. “I'll keep your secret, but only if you give me your word that you'll not leave the castle again without attendants.”

He almost reconsidered when he saw her expression. She was looking at him as if he'd just slain a dragon, her dark eyes shimmering with gratitude, her incredible mouth curved into a wide smile. The effect was striking. She wasn't simply beautiful, she was radiant. But that look in her eye made him uneasy.

“Do you mean it?” she said. “You won't say anything?”

“Not if you agree.”

“Oh, I do, I do.” And without realizing what she was doing, she threw her arms around him in a childlike embrace, her soft cheek pressed against the plaid he wore around his shoulders. “Thank you. I swear I won't do anything like this again.”

Tor felt as if he'd just been pole-axed, the spontaneous gesture completely disarming him. A foreign feeling for a man who'd never been defeated in battle.

He caught her to him, instinctively sliding his arm around her waist. He inhaled. Damn, she smelled good.

He heard her sharp intake of breath, and when she gazed up into his eyes, he didn't know who was more surprised.

Overcome with gratitude, not only for saving her from that horrible man but also for agreeing to keep her secret, Christina reacted unthinkingly, embracing him as she would have her sister.

Except that very clearly he wasn't her sister. For a moment she felt a tremor of fear.

His body was big and hard and about as yielding as granite. It felt as if she'd raced headlong into another stone wall. A warm stone wall that smelled not of Beatrix's rose water but of something dark, spicy, and definitively masculine.
The warmth and heady scent engulfed her senses. She couldn't breathe, lost in the depths of the most amazingly blue eyes she'd ever seen.

The fear subsided as her body flooded with heat and awareness. Awareness of how small she felt in his arms and of how closely he was holding her. Awareness of how her breasts tingled against the hard plane of his chest. Awareness of the rocklike bulge of his arm muscles holding her and of the strength of his big hand on her waist. He could crush her without thought, yet he held her with surprising gentleness.

He seemed just as stunned as she was, at first, but then his gaze sharpened—intensified—in a way that should have alarmed her. It felt as if he was burning a hole into her. She couldn't tear her eyes away. The connection was so strong, it seemed as if she'd been caught in a current that was dragging her out to sea. A sea of deep cerulean blue, framed by dark lashes fringed with gold, set in a face far more handsome than she'd first realized.

Brutally handsome, like some bronze Norse god of war—hard, forbidding, and built for destruction. Not just in his towering, muscular physique, but also in the strong angles of his face that might have been hewn from stone.

It was the strangest thing. Despite his ferocity, she had an urge to reach up and trace her finger down the hard lines of his cheek and jaw. His face was so expertly chiseled, it almost didn't look real.

There was nothing refined or classical about his features—from the deep-set eyes hooded beneath the heavy, dark brow, to the strong nose widened at the bridge where it must have been broken, to the high cheekbones that descended in a sharp angle to a square jaw, to the softly sculpted wide mouth—yet the combined effect was raw, masculine perfection.

But clearly that of a warrior. Up close she could see the stamp of battles waged on his face. A thin scar bisected his
right eyebrow, and a longer one ran down his cheek to the top edge of his lip. She thought he had another on his chin, but the slight indentation had come from the thumb of God, not a weapon.

His skin was darkly tanned except for the tiny white lines etched around eyes and mouth. He was relatively clean-shaven, the dark shadow of a day-old beard emphasizing the hard, implacable jaw, and his hair, worn shorter than most of the men, fell in soft, uneven waves to his chin. It should be brown, but for the bleaching by the sun.