The Chief Read online

  That most of the men had lasted even two days in these harsh surroundings was unusual. The challenge was designed to be nearly impossible: hide anywhere between the three lochs that framed Sgurr an Lagain—“peak of the little hollow,” the highest peak in the range—for seven nights without being found. No small feat given that the barren, rocky terrain provided virtually no cover or shelter. Most of the men he’d brought here before lasted only a few hours—one night at the most. Tor knew all of the caves, and even if you could manage to scavenge enough brush or wood to light a fire, it would be easily spotted.

  He’d given the guardsmen an hour’s head start and then hunted them down one by one. Each man found was added to the pack of hunters until, as now, only one remained.

  Tor gazed at the fearsome warriors who surrounded him, right now a haggard and miserable-looking group. “Fan out,” he ordered. “We’ll make our way up to the summit from all directions and flush him out that way.” If MacRuairi was alive, they would find him.

  And he was alive. Out there, watching them. Tor could feel it. It was almost as if they were waging a private battle of skills—the hunter and the hunted. Chief to chief. Leader to resentful pupil. Normally, it was a challenge he would relish, but right now he just wanted it done.

  He positioned most of the men in rough intervals around the base of the mountain. He, Campbell, MacKay, and Lamont would ascend to the main ridge of the summit from all of the possible approaches.

  And so they climbed, methodically scrambling their way up the mountain. Tor had taken the most difficult route from the southeast, requiring a steep climb up a craggy cliffside.

  A short while later, he stopped to catch his breath on a narrow scree ridge high on the mountainside. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he scanned the peaks above him shrouded in mist, looking for any sign of movement or an incongruity in the landscape.

  Nothing. It was eerily still. All he could see through the fog was shards of black rock laced with thin ribbons of white. After taking a fortifying swig of uisge-beatha, he resumed the strenuous climb up the mountain. Moving with the light, sure-footed grace of a mountain lion, nimble and fast, he scaled the treacherous terrain with the ease earned from rigorous training.

  Being conditioned, however, did not mean he was impervious to nature’s weapons. He could barely feel his fingertips beneath the thick leather gauntlets, or his toes in the leather boots he’d wrapped with fur. The exposed skin of his mouth and cheeks beneath his helm were burned red with cold, his unshaven jaw was heavy with ice, and his muscles ached with the exertion of four days of climbing up and down these mountains trying to find a ghost.

  If it were anyone else, Tor would have put an end to the challenge. But if a man could survive out here it would be the cold-blooded bastard MacRuairi—the devil took care of his own.

  But grudgingly—very grudgingly—Tor had to admit that his enemy turned temporary brother-in-arms had impressed him over the past weeks. Lachlan MacRuairi was a skilled and fearless warrior who tackled whatever obstacle Tor threw in his path—and he threw plenty of them—with unwavering determination and grit. MacRuairi epitomized the only code Tor admired: Never give up, never surrender.

  But no matter how skilled a warrior or how cooperative he appeared, Tor did not trust him. MacRuairi was like a sleeping snake waiting to strike. He had a mercenary heart; his only loyalty was to himself. He could never fully become part of a team. So why had he agreed to fight for Bruce? Money? Revenge? A death wish, or a complicated plan to go out in a blaze of glory?

  Tor could read most men, but MacRuairi was an utterly impenetrable hole of blackness. Maybe that’s what bothered him. It was hard to understand your enemy—brother, he reminded himself—when you didn’t know what motivated him.

  Where the hell was he?

  Tor’s uncharacteristic impatience did not stem solely from the cold or even from the desire to best MacRuairi, but from the desire to finish the job he’d set out to do so that he could return to Dunvegan. Not to his castle, but to his wife.

  Damnation, he missed her. He couldn’t stop seeing her face. Even high in the rocky peaks of the mighty Cuillin she haunted him. Maybe it was the very desolation of his surroundings—the harsh, bitter isolation—that made him think of her. She was warmth and light to a man who’d been living in a barren wasteland for too long. Hell, he was starting to sound like one of those bard’s tales she loved.

  Reaching the top of the narrow ridge just below the summit, he scanned the mountain again in the fading daylight, catching sight of Campbell opposite him, who’d climbed the “easier” route up the great stone shoot. Tor motioned with hand signals to check the other side of the peak before heading down, making sure there wasn’t an opening they’d missed.

  He wasn’t looking forward to another night on this mountain, but time was running out. It would be dark soon.

  Christina would be sitting by the fire with her needlework…

  He had to stop this. He couldn’t focus. His thoughts kept shifting back to his wife. She had him all twisted up in uncertain knots. He couldn’t stop replaying in his mind the scene in the solar with her before he’d left. Her excitement. His initial shock over her learning, and then the fear that made him lash out in anger when he learned she’d read his private correspondence. He couldn’t shake the memories of her crestfallen expression and her hurt, tear-filled eyes.

  For some reason the accounts were important to her and his reaction had disappointed her—badly. Fear had made him react harshly. He realized it now. Misguided though it might have been, she’d only been trying to help him. She’d been so eager to surprise him, and all he’d been able to think about was how her attempt to help might put her in danger.

  Worse, he’d been too damned close to telling her why. And if he’d stayed, he knew he might have done so. Restraint. Resistance. It seemed he had neither when it came to his lovely wife. The spurious good-bye kiss had proved that well enough.

  Under his skin? Hell, she was in his blood—his bones—and he didn’t know what to do about it. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to turn into just as big of a fool as his brother—acting on emotion, and not on what was best for the clan. What kind of leader would he be to dance to a woman’s whims.

  It was almost dark by the time he started back down. Not concentrating as he should, he took an ill-placed step, causing his foot to slide out from under him and sending a slab of ice tumbling down the steep hillside below him, setting off a small avalanche of rock and snow. He caught his balance without difficulty but berated himself for the lapse. He’d better focus on what he was doing or he was going to end up dead.

  Then he saw it.

  At the base of the steep cliff below him, perhaps five hundred feet straight down, nearly buried by the snow, was the carcass of a deer. Not in the corrie as it should be if it had fallen to its death, but on a narrow ridge.

  That’s how MacRuairi had done it. The mini-avalanche had uncovered his hiding place.

  Tor’s blood heated with the rush of the hunter who’d finally sighted his prey. With a burst of renewed energy, he made his way swiftly down. There was just enough light to navigate.

  Nearing a narrow scree ledge, he slowed his step, landing each footfall with care, all of his senses honed on his surroundings.

  He was about halfway along when disaster struck.

  The ground gave way beneath his foot. He slipped. His body slammed hard on the rock, face first, and he began to slide over the ledge. He fought to grab onto something, but the snow and rock fell along with him as he careened sharply toward the edge of the cliff.

  He was going too fast. Wind roared in his ears. He clawed with his hands and kicked with his feet. Momentum was starting to take him backward into the air when he slammed into a jagged rock, slowing him down just enough to dig his fingers into a crack in the rock face.

  He kicked at the wall, finding nothing for his feet to latch on to. Heart racing, he tried to pull himself up, but it was u