The Chief Read online

  She sensed this was all she was going to get out of him for now. The fact that he’d opened up even just a little bit was quite an achievement—a miracle, really. Seeing him struggle and get all prickly, she was hard-pressed not to throw her arms around him—he looked so adorable. But the world was not made in a day, and neither would her husband change a lifetime of silence.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I was so focused on you confiding in me, I never stopped to think about what I was really asking for. I wish you could confide in me, but I understand why you cannot.”

  “I am trying to protect you, Christina, not hurt you.”

  “I know that.”

  “I don’t want you interfering because it is dangerous. I need you to trust me on this.” His eyes fixed on her intently. “Can you do that?”

  She nodded, though she wished the trust were mutual.

  He seemed to consider something. When he spoke it was very carefully, as if the words did not come easily. “I would like to suggest a compromise.”

  Her eyes widened to exaggerated proportions. “Compromise? I didn’t think you knew that word.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “It’s not one I’ve used very often, but for you I’m prepared to make an exception.”

  He was teasing her. She couldn’t believe it. “I’m duly honored,” she said with an exaggerated bow of her head.

  He flashed her a roguish grin, and it felt as if the sun had broken through the clouds. It changed his whole face, making him look years younger. “How old are you?” she blurted.

  A puzzled look creased his brow. “One and thirty.” Ignoring her strange question, he went back to what he’d been about to say. He cleared his throat. “If you can agree to accept when I cannot tell you something, then I shall endeavor to be more…”

  He seemed to be having considerable difficulty finding the right word.

  “Forthcoming,” she offered, trying to bite back a smile.

  One side of his mouth curved in a wry grin. “Aye, forthcoming.”

  She grinned. “I should like that.” It was enough. For now. But she still hoped that eventually he would make her more a part of his life. After her experience with organizing the books, she knew he could use her.

  He smoothed her hair back from her face, studying her for so long with those implacably clear ice-blue eyes that a self-conscious flush rose to her cheeks. “I must look a fright,” she said, lowering her gaze.

  His eyes darkened with heat. “You look beautiful.”

  The simply spoken words startled her with their sincerity. Warmth spread through her. She’d heard the words before, but never had they mattered. “You’ve never said so.”

  He looked surprised. “Haven’t I? I’ve thought it hundreds of times.”

  “My mind-reading skills aren’t what they used to be.”

  He laughed, and Christina thought it was the most wonderful sound in the world. This was exactly the kind of moment she’d dreamed of. She wished she could hold on to it forever.

  His laughter died, and their eyes met.

  The air sparked between them. The heat of a different kind of fever sent a flush spreading over her skin. It had been too long. Her body craved his on an elemental level—like water, food, and air, she needed him.

  She was deeply conscious of him beside her on the bed, of his broad shoulders and powerful arms. Of his spicy, masculine scent. Of his gorgeous mouth.

  He leaned down.

  Her breath caught in anticipation.

  But instead of kissing her, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You need to rest,” he said.

  “I feel fine,” she insisted, sounding not unlike a child deprived of a toy. Her very favorite toy.

  But her effort to change his mind fell on deaf ears. He stood up. “I’ll be back to check on you later. If you need anything, just tell Morag.”

  A bath. First thing. But sure that he would have other ideas about that, she decided not to mention it. “Morag was here? I thought she would be busy tending the wounded.”

  “Among the men there were only a few bruises and scratches.”

  She was relieved to hear it. A shadow of the ones who weren’t so fortunate passed over her.

  He stood up and she watched him walk to the door. “Get some rest. I’ll send Mhairi to watch over you.”

  “It isn’t necessary—”

  But the door had already closed shut.

  It was late afternoon when Tor returned to the castle. As much as he would have liked to stay by his wife’s sickbed, once he’d been assured of her well-being, he had matters to attend to that could not be delayed any longer.

  It was the first time he could recall ever resenting the call of duty. But in addition to trying to ferret out a possible spy, he’d also received a disturbing message from MacDonald requiring action. It would likely upset the hard-won balance of the team, but it could not be avoided.

  Besides, if he’d stayed in that room one more minute he was liable to forget how ill she’d been and show her exactly how much she’d frightened him.

  The moment when she’d collapsed to the ground was not one he wished to remember—ever. For one agonizing moment, he’d thought she was dead. He’d been able to breathe only when he’d felt the flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers and her faint but steady breath on his cheek. The panic subsided a bit more when the healer examined her and informed him that she had only a fever.

  Only. There was no “only” when it came to his wife. When the old woman had made that mistake, he’d scared her out of half the years she had left—and she didn’t have many to spare.

  He’d never felt like this before. Christina roused a fierce protectiveness in him of which he didn’t know he was capable. It was his duty as her husband to keep her safe, but what he felt went beyond duty.

  He’d always been able to cut himself off from emotion, closing his mind like a steel trap. But with her it wasn’t so easy. Something about her called to him. Penetrated. She was gentle, kind, and giving, with a quick mind and an infectious excitement and joy for life, but with more depth and spirit than he’d initially given her credit for. She stood up to him, challenged him…cared for him.

  She was softness to a man who’d known only strife. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep her out.

  He trudged up the stairs and instinctively scanned the area. The guardsmen were posted in their positions along the stone parapets and in the bretache overhanging the gate—a small wooden box built into the castle wall. A few women were gathering water from the well. Servants were carrying platters and dishes back from the Hall, and Christina was—

  The bottom fell out of his stomach as his gaze shot back to the figure walking along the battlements. His temper—something he was becoming too familiar with lately—exploded. What the hell was she doing outside? She should be resting, not traipsing around outside in the cool air with—heaven help him—damp hair. Didn’t she know she could catch a chill?

  She turned and waved, her hand slowly dropping when he drew near.

  She’d seen his expression. Biting her lip, she took a few steps back. But the placating look on her face didn’t do one damned thing. “You’re back,” she said with exaggerated brightness. “I didn’t see you approach.”

  He didn’t say a word, didn’t break his stride, as he stormed right up to her and swept her up in his arms.

  She gasped her surprise, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, not trusting himself to look at her. As it was, his control was hanging by a very thin thread. His chest burned.

  “You’re overreacting,” she said gently, as if soothing an angry beast. “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t,” he growled through clenched teeth, emotion boiling too close to the surface. “Don’t.”

  With a heavy sigh of resignation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and placed her cheek on his chest. A huge swell of warmth cut through the anger. He felt an unbelievable sense of…tenderness. What the hell was happe