The Chief Read online

  Stopping outside, he heard the sounds of laughter and frowned. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Cormac, the old cook, laugh, and the deep, jolly sound took him aback.

  No one noticed him as he entered the dark building. Which was understandable when he saw five people on their knees with their heads in the oven, backsides raised in the air.

  From the amount of laughter, they were obviously enjoying themselves. Not wanting to interrupt, his gaze slid over them, trying to figure out what was so damned funny. All of a sudden he stilled.

  It wasn’t the gown that gave her away, but something far more elemental. His entire body jumped with awareness as he recognized one of those raised backsides. Heat flared inside him. His gaze honed, gorging on every inch of that round, sweetly curved bottom. He remembered the soft lushness of it naked against him, the velvety skin pressing against the thick column of his erection.

  His body tightened and every muscle flexed, knowing how easy it would be—how he had every right—to walk over there, lift up her skirts, run his hands over every inch of that creamy skin, and sink into her from behind. He wanted to watch her breasts move as he thrust into her, slowly at first, then faster and harder. He wanted to reach around and tease her with his fingers until she broke apart around him.

  His cock strained, knowing how good it would be. Knowing how her body would grip him like a tight, warm fist. Knowing how wet he could make her.

  He hardened his jaw, annoyed by the force of his lust for her. The things he wanted to do to her had no place in his thoughts about his innocent wife, even if she did have a body built to arouse a man’s pleasure. He’d never fantasized about a woman like this. But the long days and nights at sea, thinking about the new bride that waited for him, had made him more beast than man.

  The cook noticed him. “Ri tuath,” he said with a start. “You’ve returned.”

  The others turned at the sound of the cook’s voice, and Tor had to stop himself from laughing out loud.

  His bride wore a white cap low over her head, but it and the rest of her were covered head to toe in ash and soot. She’d obviously made an attempt to wipe her face but had only succeeded in streaking a thin layer of black over the entire area. Only the whites of her eyes peered back at him in horror from the darkened corner of the kitchen.

  Instinctively, he schooled his features to hide his amusement. Somehow he didn’t think his new wife would appreciate his enjoyment at discovering her in such a state.

  “You’re back!” she exclaimed, getting to her feet. She took a step toward him, and for a moment he thought she might catapult herself into this arms. He frowned—more surprised than anything else—and she stopped herself.

  What would he have done if she had? Would he have stood stiffly, or drawn her against him? Tor wasn’t used to such overt displays of emotion, but his young wife seemed to wear hers plainly on her face and in her natural exuberance. It was both refreshing and disconcerting.

  “Aye,” he answered. “We’ve only just returned. I sent word for you in the Hall.” He looked back and forth at them all. “But it appears that I’m interrupting something?”

  He swore he could see a blush rise beneath the black soot on her face. It was great cover, he realized, tucking the idea away for later when hiding in darkness might prove useful.

  She attempted to put some order to her gown by shaking out the skirts and wiping off the loose ash with her hands. “I was just going over the stores with the cook and then, well, there was so much smoke I realized the chimney must be blocked, so I decided it should be cleaned before it caused a fire.”

  He lifted a brow. “And you volunteered for the job?”

  She bit her lip. “I’m afraid I was the only one who could fit. Apparently, I didn’t move fast enough,” she said wryly.

  “Apparently not,” he agreed. He smiled then; he couldn’t help it, and was surprised to see her grinning back at him. He liked that she could laugh at herself without self-consciousness. It spoke of a refreshing lack of vanity.

  The cook started barking out a few orders to the servants who’d been standing there gaping at him. “You and the men will be wanting some food,” he said.

  “And a bath,” Tor added, remembering the reason he’d come in the first place.

  The cook and Christina exchanged a look. He thought she winced a little, and when she turned back to him, she was biting her lip again. “About the bath,” she hesitated. “I’m afraid that might be a problem right now.” Her hands twisted before her. “You see, I didn’t know you were returning and we had to put out the fires to clean. We were attempting to relight them when you came in, but everything got rather wet.”

  “I see,” he said evenly. So much for a warm bath. “And the meal?”

  The cook gave her a look that said “I told you so.” She peeked out at Tor from under her long lashes. “I told Cormac we could have a cold meal this evening.”

  When he frowned, she straightened a little and looked him in the eye. “Perhaps if you send word of your arrival next time, we will be better prepared.”

  The cook’s eyes widened in horror. Unconsciously, he angled his body in front of hers as if he might protect her from Tor’s displeasure.

  Tor lifted his brows in surprise, both at Cormac’s show of protection and at Christina’s words. His wee wife had just taken him to task, and she’d found herself an unexpected protector.

  He thought he probably should reprimand her, as Cormac obviously expected him to, but he couldn’t help but be amused. He was chief. No one criticized him, except perhaps for his brother and sister, on occasion. And now this tiny lass. He was used to women being intimidated—even scared. He liked that she seemed neither.

  He would allow her to get away with it this one time. But next time he would correct her.

  “I’ll remember that,” he said dryly, holding her gaze. He felt it again. That strange connection. The intense desire to possess. It wasn’t a slow building, but a fierce primal reaction.

  Despite the mask of soot on her and the layer of grime that covered him, he wanted to lift her up in his arms and carry her to bed. In the middle of the day, for Christ’s sake.

  How did she do it? How did she make his body flare with desire just by looking into his eyes?

  He was too damned hungry for her and didn’t like it. He wasn’t used to errant—hell, preoccupied—thoughts or being unable to control his body’s reactions. The lack of discipline annoyed him, but it would be over soon. Once he bedded her, everything would be back to normal.

  He looked away sharply, addressing the cook. “The men will be hungry. Whatever you can arrange will suffice.”

  He turned to leave. “Wait,” she said. “Where are you going?”

  “The loch,” he answered on his way out. A cold bath suddenly sounded like an excellent idea.

  For a horrible moment, Christina thought he meant to leave again. But when the cook ordered one of the serving boys after him to fetch soap and a drying cloth, a sigh of relief went through her. He only meant to bathe.

  She’d feared that her peevishness had angered him. She hadn’t meant to upbraid him, but perhaps the sting of his leave-taking had not waned as much as she’d thought.

  It was just her luck that he would return when she was on her hands and knees, covered in ash and soot. She must have looked a fright. A comical fright. Her mouth twisted, thinking of his expression when he’d seen her. He’d tried to cover up his laughter, but she could see it dancing in his eyes. So much for entrancing him with her feminine charms when he returned; a more un-entrancing welcome she could not imagine.

  She hurried back to the solar to clean up as best she could until enough water could be heated for her bath later. She couldn’t wait to see what he thought of her efforts to lighten up the Great Hall and wanted to be there to observe his reaction when he saw it for the first time.

  Mhairi helped her out of her soiled gown and used a wet cloth and soap to wash the soot and ash from h