The Chief Read online

  Tor frowned. MacSorley had jumped to the same conclusion as Christina. “I’ve no claim on the lass; Janet is free to do as she pleases.” Tor thought back to earlier in the day, when he and Janet had spoken in the Hall. He’d told her to take the day off, but she’d insisted on coming. “It will help me keep my mind off it,” she’d said. “Today is a difficult day,” he explained. “Janet’s husband was killed five years ago this day.”

  “Ah,” MacSorley said. “I see.”

  They had turned to head toward the broch when Tor noticed that Campbell had not moved. His senses seemed fixed on something. Watching him, Tor felt a chill sweep over him. Though useful, Campbell’s uncanny ability to sense things took a bit of getting used to.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Campbell met his gaze. “We’re being watched.”

  —

  From her perch high in the tree, Christina moved a branch aside to try to get a better view over the wide stretch of brown moorland to the ancient broch a few hundred yards away. She wished she could get a little closer, but not wanting to risk discovery, she’d been forced to stay back in the copse of trees for cover.

  When she’d made the spur-of-the-moment decision to follow Lady Janet, she hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this. Rather than a secret love bower, she’d apparently stumbled on to some kind of training camp.

  She should have been relieved. Her fears about her husband and Lady Janet appeared to be unfounded. And at first she was, but the longer she watched, the more certain she became that something odd was going on here.

  Most of the warriors were armored for war in the Highland fashion—instead of mail, wearing simple leather war coats studded with metal, leines, and terrifying Norse-looking steel nasal helms that hid most of their face. One man, however, wore a habergeon of mail, a tabard, and a more typical steel helm with a visor. She frowned. The wyvern crest looked familiar.

  Though she had grown accustomed to being surrounded by tall, well-muscled men, even for Islanders this group seemed…extreme. Yet despite the helms and the plethora of prime male specimens, she’d picked out her husband right away. It wasn’t just the noble bearing that gave him away, but the authority and command emanating from him.

  As she watched the men go through various training exercises from archery practice, to spear throwing, to tossing boulders, to using ropes to climb to the top of the broch, Christina began to sense that something was odd. These were no ordinary warriors.

  During the boulder toss, one of the men had lifted an enormous stone that must have weighed hundreds of pounds over his head as if it were hollow. Even Tor had strained to get it off the ground. When the other warrior laughed, her husband hadn’t seemed to mind and had laughed along with him.

  Although Tor was clearly in charge, depending on the task a different man would take the lead. She’d first noticed it during the archery practice, when the man who was clearly better than the others moved to the forefront and started issuing instructions.

  She’d been watching for an hour or so when the men broke off into smaller groups. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized she probably should be getting back. It wasn’t that long a walk back to the village, but the terrain wasn’t easy, especially in the damp.

  But then she saw Tor lift his sword from the scabbard at his back and decided to stay for a while longer.

  The contest started out civilly enough—as civil as swinging heavy, razor-sharp steel blades at one another can be. It was brutal, and her heart still pounded, but without the deadly edge of the battle she’d witnessed with MacRuairi, she was able to watch it without feeling as if her knees were about to buckle.

  It was almost like a dance, with each man taking turns attacking and evading the two-handed swings of the blade. She squinted into the distance, thinking that there was something vaguely familiar about his opponent. But with the steel helm on, she couldn’t make out his face.

  After a few minutes, Christina’s heart started to beat a little faster. The exchange of blows grew more intense, the sound of steel crashing against steel louder. Suddenly, the practice didn’t look quite so friendly. She scooted forward and had to catch herself, forgetting that she was sitting on a branch.

  She gasped and blinked when, in one smooth move, Tor wrapped his leg around the other man’s, grabbed the arm that had been moving forward in a strike, and flipped him over onto his back.

  In the blink of an eye, Tor had his blade at the other man’s neck. For a horrifying moment she thought he meant to run him through. It was just like before. And just like before she made a small, involuntary sound. This time, thankfully, he didn’t hear her.

  She sighed with relief when he reached down to help the other man to his feet.

  Eyes glued to the drama unfolding on the practice yard, she hadn’t realized that a few of the other men had gathered around to watch as well.

  But she did now.

  She smothered the gasp of surprise with her hand. They’d removed their helms, and even from the distance, she recognized two of the men right away. Though perhaps she should have recognized Lachlan MacRuairi before from his distinctive lazy stance. If seeing her husband’s most reviled enemy wasn’t confusing enough, it was even harder to explain the presence of an Englishman. She’d met Sir Alex only once, a few years before her father was imprisoned, but the handsome young squire was not one a young girl would soon forget. Why was her husband training one of Edward’s knights?

  The man who’d been fighting Tor took off his helm. MacSorley. She should have guessed. She’d almost forgotten how MacDonald’s henchman had followed Tor’s orders to sail after Beatrix without question.

  Her gaze caught on another man and it took her a moment to catch her breath. Good gracious, what a face! He was masculine perfection—a bronzed Apollo with golden caramel hair and divinely chiseled features—easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen. He looked like he belonged on a pedestal.

  The men started to move off toward the broch and Christina figured they were breaking for the midday meal. Tor lingered for a few moments, speaking with MacSorley and another man.

  What was going on here?

  Her husband’s warning came back to her. Was this the trouble he spoke of? She bit her lip, suddenly having second thoughts about following Lady Janet.

  Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea. She’d known he might be angry but at the time hadn’t cared. Pleasing him certainly hadn’t worked, so what did she have to lose?

  “Do not leave the castle unprotected.” She chewed on her lip. A little late to remember her promise now.

  Suddenly anxious to return to the castle, she ventured a look toward the yard, seeing that the rest of the men had gone inside. She breathed a sigh of relief and started down the tree. It was an easy climb and she jumped down the last few feet, landing softly on the muddy, leaf-spattered ground.

  Her nose scrunched up and she wished she’d worn an older pair of sturdy boots. Her light leather slippers were not made for gallivanting across the rugged Highland landscape in the winter—summer either, for that matter.

  She retraced her steps through the trees, feeling better about her adventure with each stride. She might not have all the answers, but at least she knew her husband was not leaving to be with another woman. And assuming no one paid undue attention to her absence, he would never know about her wee excursion.

  As she picked her way through the trees, Christina felt a prickle of disquiet. A prickle she attributed to the eerie stillness of the forest. Quickening her step, she could just make out the edge of the tree line when the hairs at the back of her neck stood on end. Someone was…

  Before she could turn around, she was grabbed from behind and pulled harshly against a rock-hard chest. Icy panic washed over her. She opened her mouth to scream, but he clasped a hand over her mouth and whispered in her ear, “I wouldn’t advise it, wife. Not when I have my hands so close to that lovely neck of yours.”