The Chief Read online

  She arched her brow. “You wish me to be friends with your mistress?”

  “Former mistress,” he corrected. “But still a friend. Give her a chance; you will like her.”

  She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “Men don’t understand anything. I doubt very much she wants to be my friend.”

  He had no idea why, but didn’t pretend to understand the intricacies of a woman’s mind.

  He bent down and gave her a soft kiss, lingering longer than he should have. But when he lifted his head it was worth it. Crushed red lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dazed, soft pink cheeks—damn, he loved the way she looked when he kissed her. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

  —

  Christina had managed to take Tor’s mind off his troubles, but not for long. Damn Bruce. To hell with MacDonald. He hated deception of any kind. These men were a team and deserved to know the truth. For a covert guard like this to work, ultimate authority for team decisions had to rest with the team leader. If this were his command, he’d tell Bruce and MacDonald exactly what they could do with their “orders.” But in a little less than three weeks, MacSorley would be the leader and it would be his decision to make. Not even the big Norseman, however, knew what was about to happen.

  It was the final test of “Perdition,” delayed by their early return to Dunvegan.

  The men gathered around as he explained their task. It had taken more than two months, but Tor had finally managed to silence them.

  “You can’t be serious.” Seton was the first one brash enough to say what the others were thinking.

  The look Tor shot him said otherwise. “It was the final challenge for Finn MacCool’s Fianna.”

  “But that’s only a legend,” MacGregor said. “No man could defend himself against so many spears while buried up to his waist naked with only a targe to defend himself.”

  Tor smiled. “You’ve nothing to worry about, I’m modifying the test from Finn’s. You can wear your war coat and helm, and not all the spears will be thrown at once.”

  He heard a few snorts. His modification didn’t seem to have impressed them.

  “It can be done,” Campbell interjected. “An accomplished warrior can easily catch ten or more spears. It’s more about controlling your fear.”

  “Easy for you to say,” MacGregor said. “You’ve grown up having spears lobbed at your head. We’ve all seen what you can do with them.”

  Campbell met Tor’s gaze and he nodded his approval. “I’ll show you,” he offered.

  The men spent the next few hours practicing, Campbell throwing the sticks—which they were grateful for after a few well-placed misses—and then, as the men got the hang of it, he progressed to a spear wrapped with a piece of leather over the sharp steel tip. Finally, each man faced the real thing. Other than Seton taking a hard blow on the shoulder, they all managed to catch a succession of at least ten spears—some of the men quite a few more. Campbell was right: Once you controlled your fear, there wasn’t much to it. And to a man, they were fearless.

  Tor dug the hole while the men practiced. Given the challenge he’d given them, he figured it was the least he could do. Waist deep and about two feet in diameter, the hole was tight, but big enough for them to turn around in—barely.

  MacSorley climbed in first as the others gathered in a circle around him, about twenty paces out. He’d removed all the weapons he wore strapped to his massive chest but still had his cotun, helm, and targe.

  Tor raised his hand to signal the start. “Any blood and you fail the challenge.”

  MacSorley nodded. “I understand.”

  “Ready?”

  “Aye.”

  Tor motioned to Lamont, the man on his right, and the spears began to fly around the circle. One by one, waiting a few seconds in between, the men heaved them at the live target in the middle. MacSorley quickly found his rhythm, alternating by catching and using his shield to block. Tor threw last, his spear coming closest, but it was deflected at the last minute by MacSorley’s targe. Like his birlinn, there was a fearsome-looking sea hawk painted on the face of the leather-wrapped wood.

  When it was over, MacSorley had nine spears lying around him and one still stuck in his targe. But he’d done it. And once the other men saw how it could be done, they quickly followed his lead.

  The last man to enter the hole was Campbell. The tension had dissipated with each successful challenger, and as Campbell readied to take his turn, there was even quite a bit of jesting going back and forth.

  Tor met his gaze. “Ready?”

  Campbell nodded grimly. Tor gave the signal and the spears began to fly. Because this was the last man, the other warriors had gotten used to it and the timing between tosses had fallen into a nice pattern.

  A pattern he broke.

  When MacGregor, who was standing on his left, released his spear, Tor let his fly at the same time.

  As the other men had done, Campbell had fallen into a rhythm. He easily caught MacGregor’s spear but wasn’t ready for Tor’s. Without time to get his targe in position, at the last minute he leaned to the side just enough to evade a spear in the chest. But it grazed his arm, sticking in the ground a few feet behind him.

  After a shocked pause, Tor heard a collective sigh go around. “That was close,” MacGregor said.

  MacSorley answered with a sad shake of his head.

  Tor didn’t say anything. He, like the others, was watching the arm of Campbell’s cotun stain with blood.

  Campbell’s gaze locked on his. “I’m sorry, lad,” Tor said quietly.

  Campbell looked away and nodded his head. He knew the rules. “I’ll gather my things.”

  Without another word, he pulled himself out of the hole and made his way to the broch. The other men watched him go in stunned silence.

  It was Seton who turned on Tor first. “You can’t seriously mean to let him go. We need him. There’s not another scout like him in Scotland—or anywhere, for that matter.”

  “He failed the test,” Tor replied, though no explanation was necessary.

  Seton’s face turned florid with outrage. “Because you cheated.”

  The blast of silence was deafening. The Highlanders knew what this English knight did not. “If I subscribed to the code you are referring to, you’d be dead for what you just said.” Seton’s jaw clenched; he’d realized his mistake. “In war there is no such thing as cheating, and if you want to be of part of this team you’d better learn that fast. This guard needs to be ready for anything and Campbell got complacent. Complacent will get us all killed.”

  MacSorley gave him a strange look and Tor realized his slip—he was not part of “us.”

  “The captain is right,” MacGregor said. “We all got complacent. Campbell should not be the only one to suffer. I’ll take the test again with him.”

  Tor gave him a long look, impressed by the depth of the bond that had developed between these two former feuding clansmen. They might argue like enemies, but beneath the clan rhetoric was friendship. He swore at the injustice of the situation but betrayed none of his thoughts when he spoke. “Campbell had his chance. We will have to make do without him. Boyd and Lamont are excellent scouts; they can take over.” He looked around the angry circle of men so there could be no mistake. “It’s done. I’ve made my decision.”

  Knowing it was futile to argue, the men dispersed. They weren’t happy about his decision but accepted it with varying levels of outrage. Not surprisingly, MacGregor avoided him for the rest of the day.

  Campbell said his solemn good-byes and when it was time, Tor alone walked him to the galley that would take him back to the mainland.

  “You have everything?” he asked.

  Campbell nodded.

  “I’m sorry about this, lad. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

  Campbell’s face was a mask of stony acceptance. “Aye, captain, I understand.”

  “How is your arm?”

  “It’s fine.�