The Chief Read online

  Seeing nothing, he turned back to Janet, who’d already stood up. “We will finish this later,” he said in a low voice.

  She nodded and hurried away.

  A moment later, his wife took the seat Janet had just vacated. She looked beautiful and regal in her blue velvet cote-hardie, but also unusually reserved. She sat down without a word.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”

  Though there was nothing provocative in his tone, her cheeks flushed. She peered out from under her lashes at him. “Aye, very well.” She lifted her gaze to his. “And you?” She tilted her head. “You were gone so early. I hope there wasn’t something wrong?”

  The concern in her gaze made him wary—as did the implication. Clearly, she expected him to sleep by her side. He didn’t want to disappoint her, but that would not be happening. “Nothing wrong,” he said. “I slept in the Hall with my clansmen, as I do every night.” Where he belonged.

  He steeled himself against her reaction, but it was not enough. The shimmer of hurt in her gaze pierced right through his hard-won defenses. “I see,” she said.

  She looked down at her trencher to avoid his gaze, and he was glad of it. But it did not lighten the discomfort in his chest or the weight on his conscience, knowing he’d bruised her tender feelings. She couldn’t help her weakness—women were emotional creatures. He felt the strangest urge to fold her hand in his and give it a comforting squeeze. But he shook off the strange thought, knowing he had no cause to feel guilty. He always slept in the hall with his men—it had nothing to do with her personally. His clan came first.

  It was wrong of her to put such demands on him, of course. But she was a new bride. She would learn. Obviously, she had some illusions about this marriage, and the sooner she realized it wasn’t going to be some romantic bard’s tale, the better. He was a Highland chief, not a lovesick knight schooled in the art of courtly love.

  He certainly wasn’t going to lose his head over a lass.

  He took a last swig of ale and pushed back from the table. More of the men would be arriving today, and he wanted to be there when they did.

  “You’re going?” she asked.

  He tried to ignore the disappointment in her voice. “Aye.” Remembering his promise, he added, “I’ll be gone for a few nights, so I bid you farewell until then.”

  Her face fell. “But you’ve only just returned. Where are you going?”

  He wanted to tell her that a wife shouldn’t question her husband, but she looked like a kicked kitten. And he felt like a damned beast. The discomfort in his chest grew tighter. He didn’t want to lie to her, but neither could he tell her the truth. “I’ve many things that require my attention. I’m often away, visiting my holdings.” The broch on Waternish qualified, though he was being misleading.

  “Of course. I’m sorry. It is all so new to me.” She looked up at him expectantly. “Good-bye.”

  Her lips parted in innocent invitation. He stared at her pink, succulent mouth for a long moment, tempted beyond measure. With a grunt that was half curse, half pain, he tore his gaze away and locked his jaw. “Good-bye,” he said, and left before he did something foolish like pull her into his arms and kiss her until the coiling in his chest unraveled.

  —

  The best of the best had gathered on Skye.

  By late the following afternoon, all ten warriors had arrived at the ruined ancient fortress of Dun Hallin Broch. Located in a remote area of the Waternish Peninsula—the finger of land that abutted Dunvegan—the broch and the surrounding settlement had been abandoned since well before Tor’s Norse ancestors landed on Skye.

  The broch was a circular stone fortress of perhaps twenty-five feet in interior diameter with ten-foot-thick walls, situated on a small rise in rocky moorland. At one time the walls had stood thirty feet high, but the upper part of the tower and the roof had been lost long ago. Still, with some wood for a new roof and peat for a fire, it would provide sufficient shelter from the worst of the winter wind and rain. It wouldn’t be comfortable by any means, but it was luxurious compared to what these men would be experiencing in the months to come.

  The location was ideal. It was close to Dunvegan, but the difficult surrounding terrain made it not easily accessible and sparsely populated. Like the strange standing stones and cairns that peppered the landscape, the ancient brochs were avoided by the Islanders, who thought them inhabited by fairies and other spirits. Superstition would work in their favor to keep people away.

  Though they were unlikely to be discovered here, Tor would exercise extreme caution. Too much was at stake. And with the recent attacks on Dunvegan, until he discovered who was responsible he couldn’t take any chances.

  Though he would not hesitate to put his life in the hands of any of his personal guardsmen—and had on more than one occasion—he followed his usual practice of only telling his men what he had to. Right now, with his henchman still chasing after his brother, that meant Fergus, his privy counselor; Rhuairi, his seneschal; and his an gille mor, sword bearer, Colyne. Starting tomorrow, Colyne would accompany Janet back and forth from the castle to bring food and provisions to the men.

  If there was a woman he could trust, it was Janet. They’d known each other since childhood. He’d danced at her wedding to his foster brother and henchman, and mourned with her at his death a few years later. Their shared grief had taken an unexpected, but not unwelcome, turn when they’d become lovers. The arrangement had suited them both, and were it not for his recent marriage, probably would have continued indefinitely. She was comfortable and placed no demands on him.

  That the relationship was at an end, however, he knew—though he didn’t wish to examine why. Marriage didn’t need to end it, there was nothing unusual in keeping a leman. Janet had accepted his change of circumstance with the same practicality that had drawn them together in the first place. If she regretted the end to their liaison, she did not show it—would that his wife would learn to hide her feelings so easily. His relationship with Janet had shifted easily before and it did so again, back to friendship.

  As each of the ten warriors arrived, Tor put them to work gathering wood to repair the roof and cutting peat.

  It was a test of sorts. The physical labor was not meant to humble, but to put each of the elite warriors on equal footing and to start them working together as a single unit—a team. He knew some of the men well, and some not at all, but he could already tell it was going to be a team like no other.

  Preferring to work alone and keep his own counsel, Tor was used to operating on his own. These men were not. Most of the men were chieftains or leaders in their own right, accustomed to giving, not taking, commands and having a large retinue of men around them. He couldn’t be sure what motivated them to agree to be trained and put under his command. He suspected they all had their reasons for being here. He knew some of the men had close ties to Bruce, and undoubtedly the premise of the team had proved as intriguing as it had to him. His reputation as a trainer of men probably played a part. But following orders was going to be a challenge for some of them.

  He suspected it had been a long time since Lachlan MacRuairi had wielded a spade to cut earth or an axe to cut down a tree (rather than a man), but the proud chieftain—who were it not for his bastard birth could challenge his cousin MacDonald as heir to the ancient Kingdom of the Isles—did not bat an eye. But the ready obedience did not fool Tor. MacRuairi would bear watching.

  That only one man balked at his order surprised him. Who it was, however, did not. Sir Alex Seton was the younger brother of Bruce’s close companion and brother-in-law, “Good Sir Christopher,” but the last time Tor looked, Yorkshire—from where the Setons hailed—was still in England. And no matter what side of the border he resided on now, Alex Seton had all the trappings of his countrymen, from the fine chain mail, plumed helm, and finely embroidered tabard to the haughty superiority. But at least the arrogant Englishman was a quick study. If he thought cu