The Chief Read online

  The group dispersed slowly. MacGregor and Campbell started to peel off with the rest of them, MacGregor alone and Campbell following the larger group.

  “Wait,” Tor said, stopping them. “I’m not done with you two.” He strode over to a leather bag of supplies that he’d brought with him and retrieved a three-foot length of iron chain. At each end was a manacle. Though he hoped he wouldn’t need it the first day, he’d come prepared. The device had proved effective when there had been the occasional discord in the ranks, but it would prove invaluable here.

  For the next few days these men would be bound together whether they wished it or not. He hoped they enjoyed running because they were about to take an extended tour of Waternish.

  Both men watched him suspiciously as he approached, the chains clanging as he walked. But it was MacGregor who asked, “What’s that?”

  Tor smiled, recalling MacGregor’s earlier words. “Your cold day in hell.”

  Christina watched Tor dress in the darkness. The quick, precise movements that had become achingly familiar to her in the past two weeks seemed a little slower, a bit less purposeful and determined. Her gaze went to the window as she tried to gauge the hour. A few hours past midnight? Was it wishful thinking, or was he lingering longer each time?

  “Gone for a few days” had become a regular occurrence. She saw very little of her husband—other than at night, shrouded in a veil of darkness. Since their delayed wedding night, Tor had spent just a handful of nights at Dunvegan. When he was at the castle, he came to her bed without fail—always late—but never slept by her side. She wanted him to stay. To hold her in his arms. To talk. He was still essentially a stranger to her, and she was desperate to get to know him better. But no matter how hot the passion flared between them, when it was over he returned to his men in the Great Hall. And no matter how many times she told herself it didn’t matter, it did.

  But tonight she refused to allow disappointment to shadow the glow of their lovemaking. She could still feel the warmth of his hands on her body. The fullness of him between her legs. The weight of him on top of her as he thrust into her. His spicy masculine scent still lingered in the air, in her nose, and on her skin. Her limbs were still weak from the power of her release.

  The promise of their wedding night had been more than fulfilled. The passion between them was more wonderful than she had ever dreamed possible.

  For now, it was enough.

  She closed her eyes, wanting to hold on to the feeling of contentment. If she looked at him, she knew she would say something to ruin the moment. Tonight there would be no questions about his plans for the day or when he would be back, and therefore no increasingly curt responses to dull her happiness.

  She expected to hear the sound of the door clicking shut. Instead, she heard footsteps approach the bed. She had to fight to keep her breath even and her eyes from opening to see what he was doing. It was almost as if she could feel the weight of his gaze on her. He stood there for a long time. She would give anything to know what he was thinking.

  The air shifted. His dark, masculine scent grew stronger. She could hear the steady sound of his breath as he leaned down over her.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. It took everything she had not to jump when his lips brushed the top of her head.

  The gentleness of the gesture made the curse that followed seem somehow amusing. He strode—nay, stomped disgustedly—to the door. Only when she heard it shut behind him did she allow her mouth to curl into a big grin.

  He might not like it, but her husband wasn’t as indifferent to her as he seemed.

  A little patience was all she needed.

  Christina was still smiling after breaking her fast. Tor had not joined her—she assumed he’d gone wherever it was that he went all the time—but she wasn’t at a loss for company today. It seemed she had gained a retinue of her own.

  Since she’d first caught them staring at her from the kitchen storeroom a few days ago, they’d followed after her like a pack of hounds. Right now they were watching her arrange the last of the autumn flowers in a glazed pottery vase at the head table on the dais, doing their best to be patient (which was clearly killing them) and not to get in her way (which, as they were practically glued to her heels, was impossible).

  When she stepped back from the vase, Deidre could wait no longer. “We did like you said, my lady,” the little girl said expectantly.

  Christina gazed down at the three pleading faces, to a one their cheeks smudged with the special berry preserves the cook had made them, and smiled at their eager expressions.

  The cook’s daughter was visiting from the Isle of Harris and had brought her three children—Ewan, age eight; Deidre, age seven; and Anna, who had just turned five.

  “You washed your hands and faces?”

  All three fair heads bobbed up and down. “Aye, my lady.”

  She pursed her lips together to keep from smiling.

  “Mother said we weren’t to bother you,” Deidre said. She caught the edge of her bottom lip in her tiny teeth, then turned a worried face to hers. “We aren’t bothering you, are we?”

  “Of course we’re not bothering her,” Ewan said indignantly. “The lady said we could watch her, and then when she was done with the morning chores, she would tell us the rest. Didn’t you, my lady?”

  “I did indeed, Ewan.”

  He turned back to his sister, folded his small arms across his chest, and gave her a superior nod of his head.

  “Are you done yet, my lady?” little Anna asked.

  Christina smiled, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I just finished,” she lied, ignoring the wax that still needed to be scraped from the tablecloths, the candles that needed to be replaced, and the silver candelabra that needed to be polished. All of that could wait.

  Besides, it wasn’t as if Tor noticed anyway.

  Patience, she reminded herself. If the rustic state of the Hall when she’d arrived was any indication, it had been a long time since anyone had seen to his comfort. Eventually, he would notice her efforts to create a cozy home, a place he’d want to stay and be eager to return to.

  Turning her thoughts back to the children, she said, “Now where did I leave off?”

  “The evil Meleagant has stolen the queen from Arthur and has taken her to his horrible castle in…”

  “Gorre,” Christina provided.

  “Why do Lancelot, Sir Kay, and Sir Gawain go after the queen and not King Arthur?” Deidre asked.

  Good question, Christina thought. But how to say that King Arthur’s failure to fight for his lady is what justifies Guinevere’s unfaithfulness? She was saved from having to answer by another question. “Is Lancelot going to kill Meleagant and save Queen Guinevere?”

  Ewan snorted. “Of course he is, silly. Lancelot is the greatest warrior of his time—just like the ri tuath. The chief would never let anyone steal you, would he, my lady?”

  Christina grinned. “I should think not, Ewan. But if you are so certain of Lancelot’s victory, perhaps you do not need to hear the rest?”

  They practically jumped on her in their enthusiastic responses to the contrary. Once the chorus of “no’s” had died down, Christina grabbed the candlestick and picked up the story where she’d left off the day before.

  —

  Tor left the seneschal and his clerk in the solar. Going over the correspondence and accounts had taken much longer than he expected; he’d hoped to be at the broch sometime ago and was eager to return to the men. Their training was progressing—better in some places than in others. It would take time to break down the barriers among them. Time he didn’t have. Another week and then he’d chain them all together if he had to.

  He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the stiffness that extended down his back. God, what a wretched night. He hadn’t been able to get comfortable. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. Compared to the soft, silky bed linens and warm furs that he’d left behind, the plaid and rush-s