The Chief Read online

  The lid of the wooden chest squeaked as she raised it to replace the book in its hiding place beneath a thick stack of linen towels and extra bedclothes.

  Before she could close it, she startled at the sound of a splintering crash as the door to her chamber was thrown open.

  Her gaze shot to the doorway and her heart crashed to the floor.

  Andrew Fraser, dirty and still reeking of sweat from his day on the practice yard, stood in the doorway. Though not a tall man, he was thickly built, and in the six months since he’d returned, a single-minded determination to fight had restored most of the muscle he’d lost while imprisoned. But the other changes wrought by imprisonment were not so easy to repair. His face had aged well beyond his five and forty years, and gray had leached the brown from his hair. The broken bones and scars of battle on his face that she’d once thought so distinguished now served only to emphasize the coldness in his eyes.

  Eyes that were now pinned on her with suspicion. She wanted to crawl under the bed or disappear into the woodwork, but there was nowhere to hide.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  He can’t find the book. A cold trickle of fear dripped down her spine, but she forced herself to calm. Like any predator, he would smell it. Instead, she stood up slowly and shook out her skirts with apparent disconcern, but her knees were shaking. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Putting away some clothing that has just been cleaned and folded. Was there something you wanted?” She winced inwardly; even her voice had turned weak and submissive.

  “Where is your sister?”

  Her heart jumped. “Beatrix?” she squeaked, the high pitch completely erasing the attempt at nonchalance.

  His face turned a splotchy, angry red. He took a step toward her, and instinctively she cowered. “Of course, Beatrix, you stupid girl. What other sister do you have?”

  Christina cursed her fair skin. She could feel the heat of panic rising up her cheeks. “I’m-m s-sure she’s in the kitchens,” she stumbled out.

  Please don’t let her be where I think she is. Beatrix tried to hide it from her, but Christina suspected her sister still snuck away to the abbey when she could. The call to God was stronger than the reality of their father’s iron fist.

  He took another step toward her, his expression no longer simply angry but menacing. “You’re lying,” he growled, grabbing her by the arm. His strong fingers tightened around her like a steel clamp.

  Her heart fluttered wildly. Fear clutched her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his other hand lift. Her insides curled. She tried to pull away. “Please, don’t—”

  “Where is she?” he demanded, giving her a violent shake.

  The last shard of sun from the fading daylight caught the gold of his ring on his open hand. No! She turned her face away, anticipating the strike. Tears blurred her eyes. “I don’t know,” she sobbed, hating this feeling of helplessness. Hating that she could be reduced to a trembling mass in a matter of moments by a man she’d once revered.

  “Here she is, Father.”

  The sound of her brother’s voice filled her with relief. At eight and ten, three years her junior, Alex already showed incredible promise on the battlefield. He was also the one bright light in her father’s dark existence. Her three other brothers were too young, still away being fostered, but in Alex he saw something special.

  “Beatrix was down in the kitchens, helping to ready the evening meal,” Alex said, his smooth, easygoing voice having the intended effect of soothing her father’s violent temper.

  Alex had been home for only a few weeks, but Christina knew they’d found an ally. He would protect them as much as he could. If only he weren’t so young.

  Her father released her arm, enabling Christina to see Beatrix slide past Alex and step into the room.

  Christina nearly sighed with relief to see her.

  Her sister stood before their father like a penitent, hands crossed before her and head bowed beneath a long, pale-blue veil secured by a circlet of gold. Tall and feathery thin, Beatrix’s delicate features looked as if they’d been carved from the finest marble—except for the yellowish brown shadows marring her cheek. The sight of them filled Christina with rage. How could he hit her? How could anyone strike someone so lovely? It wasn’t just her sister’s angelic face, but the beauty inside. She was innocent. Pure. And achingly fragile.

  “You wished to see me, Father?” Beatrix asked, keeping her eyes lowered. Even her voiced sounded like an angel’s, soft and musical, with an ethereal breathiness.

  But her sister’s sweetness seemed only to further annoy her father, as if he couldn’t believe such weakness came from him. “Pack your things.” He looked to Christina almost as an afterthought. “Yours as well. We leave on the morrow.”

  “Leave?” Christina repeated, dumbfounded. “But where are we going?”

  Her father’s gaze hardened at the impertinence. They were to follow orders, not question them. Thus, she was surprised when he answered her. “Finlaggan Castle on Islay.”

  She would have been less shocked if he’d said London.

  It took even Alex aback. “The Western Isles?”

  It was like another world. Barbarian lands, full of…well, barbarians. Ferocious warlords and Norse-blooded pirates who ruled over the western seaboard with virtually unfettered authority. It must have been the sheer shock that gave Christina the courage to ask, “But whatever for?”

  Her father’s hard, black gaze narrowed on her menacingly, as if he’d like nothing more than to grind her under his heel. So when he smiled instead of striking her, she knew the answer was going to be bad. Very bad.

  “To forge an alliance.”

  “But why do you need us?” Christina was surprised to hear her sister’s voice. Beatrix rarely found the courage to address their father directly.

  “Why do you think?” he challenged. “One of you will marry him.”

  The three siblings gasped in unison. Marriage? To some brutish warlord? God have mercy! The color drained from Christina’s face. She shook her head mutely; she couldn’t do it.

  Her father drew up as if he intended to inform her otherwise, but then apparently reconsidered. “It will probably be Beatrix because she is the elder.”

  A wave of relief swelled over her. Thank God.

  Then she looked at her sister.

  “No,” Beatrix whispered, terror choking her voice. She started to swoon, but Alex caught her around her tiny waist and held her against him.

  Something twisted in Christina’s chest seeing them like that, her frail, innocent sister sagging against a big, mail-clad warrior. Though still young, Alex was dark-haired like her, but tall and broad-shouldered. Next to him, Beatrix looked painfully vulnerable. Like a butterfly in an iron claw.

  Beatrix would die under some vile brute. Christina knew it with certainty that could not be avoided.

  Without thinking, Christina stepped forward. Her stomach tossed, but she fought back the panic. “No, Father. I’ll do it. I’ll marry him.”

  Her father looked back and forth between the two girls, appraising them as if they were two horses at market. For once he seemed pleased with what he saw. “You’ll both come, and he will choose which of you pleases him more.”

  Without another word he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving both girls reeling in his wake.

  Christina grabbed the wooden bedpost to steady herself. Beatrix was still plastered to her brother’s side like a floppy poppet of rags. Alex stroked her head as she wept softly against his shoulder.

  Over their sister’s veiled head, their eyes met. Christina read the compassion in her brother’s gaze. They both knew he could do nothing to stop their father. That the girls had not been betrothed before this was only because their father had been imprisoned and King Edward had not gotten to them yet. Marriage was what was expected of them. She’d known it. Ignored it, perhaps, but in the back of her mind she always knew this day would come.