The Chief Read online

  “I believe the lass can be of use to us, captain.”

  The English leader turned to him with only slightly less contempt than he’d shown her. “And who are you?”

  “Arthur Campbell.”

  “Campbell? Isn’t your brother one of Bruce’s companions?”

  Undoubtedly, that’s why she’d recognized him. She remembered Sir Colin Campbell from Finlaggan. Arthur, though a score of years younger, bore the look of his distinguished brother.

  “Aye, and myself and two other brothers are loyal to the Lord of Badenoch.”

  The Red Comyn.

  Divided families were not uncommon. The English captain accepted his explanation, and Campbell continued, “The lass is only recently married to the MacLeod chief—a love match I hear.” She smothered the hysterical sharp laugh that rose to her throat. “He will be anxious to get her back. Perhaps the chit can help persuade him to the righteousness of our cause.” The captain didn’t look impressed. Like most Englishmen, he made the mistake of dismissing the “barbarian” Highlanders. “She is also the daughter of Andrew Fraser,” he added.

  That perked up his ears. The captain’s gaze narrowed on her. “Is this true, gel?”

  She nodded, deciding it prudent not to mention that threatening her father with her safety wasn’t much of a threat.

  A slow smile spread across his cruel face. “Bring her along,” he ordered to the man still holding her. “Perhaps she can be useful after all. And if she can’t…” He shrugged.

  She knew what that shrug meant.

  Though undoubtedly his motivation hadn’t been to help her, she shot Arthur Campbell a look of gratitude, but he’d already disappeared into the crowd of guardsmen manning the second galley. But his timely intervention was only a temporary reprieve; her father would not lift a finger to help her. And Tor…

  She did not doubt that he would come after her. He did not love her, but he would see it as his duty to protect her. But would he discover what had become of them in time?

  —

  Success should feel better than this. Once again the team’s skills had proved invaluable—from Lamont’s tracking, to MacSorley’s seafaring, to MacRuairi’s instincts that led them to head toward Dunstaffnage. Tor doubted he would have been able to do it without them. But throughout the entire journey—even when they’d caught up with Brother John and MacRuairi had “persuaded” him to divulge who he worked for—Tor couldn’t shake the heaviness that surrounded him like a black cloud.

  Christina’s interference could have destroyed everything. But she was only trying to help. He couldn’t blame her. She’d been tricked and had only tried to do the right thing. It was his fault for telling her too much. He couldn’t let that happen again. He’d done what needed to be done. Or so he told himself countless times. But why couldn’t he stop seeing her crushed face?

  He adjusted his cotun, trying to relieve the nagging discomfort in his chest.

  He wanted to put the past behind them. When the men left, he hoped to do just that and return to some state of normalcy—if such a thing existed with Christina. Nothing had been normal since the first moment he’d set eyes on her.

  Two nights after he’d left, Tor strode up the sea-gate stairs, his mission an unqualified success. He’d prevented the clerk from passing on the information and learned who was responsible for the recent attacks on Dunvegan. John MacDougall of Lorne had earned himself a powerful enemy, and Angus Og MacDonald had a new ally against his treacherous kinsman. Tor would no longer stand to the side in the feud between the two powerful Island clans.

  As he approached the Hall, he was thinking about what he could say to his wife to ease the discord between them, but right away he sensed that something was wrong. It was too dark. Too quiet. A funereal pall had been cast over the place.

  Rhuairi and Colyne rushed out to meet him. From their expressions he knew it was bad. “What is it?” he demanded.

  They looked uneasily back and forth, but it was Colyne who spoke first. “It’s the lady, ri tuath.”

  A chill ran down his spine. He forced himself to speak calmly, though every muscle inside him tensed on high alert. “Is she ill?”

  Colyne shook his head. Rhuairi said, “Nay, chief, she’s gone.”

  His head rang as if he’d just been clabbered on his helm with a sword. It took him a moment to realize what the seneschal had said. He grabbed Rhuairi by the clasp of his plaid brat. “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

  Tor listened to the seneschal explain that she’d left with the men going to Mull with a mixture of disbelief and rising panic as the truth sunk in. She’d taken him up on his foolish vow to permit her to retire to a nunnery. He’d never dreamed that she’d actually do it, though why he didn’t know. He’d given her a way out; why was he surprised that she’d used it?

  Lord knew he’d given her no reason to stay. She’d done nothing but try to please him since he’d married her. She’d given him her heart, and he’d given her nothing in return. He’d been a cold-hearted bastard, driving her away.

  Alone. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To feel nothing but emptiness? But it wasn’t emptiness that he felt at all but raw, searing pain. He felt as if he’d just had a blade plunged into his chest and had his insides ripped apart.

  A lifetime of loneliness stretched out before him. A lifetime of nothing but war and duty to his clan. A lifetime of misery.

  God, what had he done?

  He should be furious that she’d dared leave him. Highlanders were known for their pride, and he was no different. But all he could think of was how badly he must have hurt her for her to do this. He felt ill just thinking about it. He had to get her back. Not because she was his wife—his possession—but because this was where she belonged. Here. By his side.

  Why he felt so strongly he didn’t know. But he would have to make her see it. No matter what it took.

  He continued into the Hall, the two men hustling after him. A few clansmen were sleeping around the fire, but most sat quietly at the long tables. The room was just the way he’d left it, but different. Somber. As if all of the joy had been extinguished. His dogs lifted their heads as he entered. Instead of rushing to greet him, they gave him a disappointed look and laid their heads back on their paws.

  “Where’s Murdoch?” he demanded.

  Both men looked grim. Colyne shook his head. “He is with the men who were traveling to Mull. They’ve not returned.”

  “What do you mean they haven’t returned?” Tor exploded. “Even with the added travel time to Iona, they should have been back yesterday.”

  Neither man responded. His stomach took a sudden turn as if he’d just swallowed a mouthful of rancid beef. Panic welled up inside him, but he tamped it down. She was fine. There had to be some explanation. But Rhuairi hadn’t finished. “This arrived for you not an hour ago. The messenger said it was for your eyes only.”

  Tor unfolded it, the premonition of doom suffocating him.

  His heart stopped and the blood drained from his face as he read the crudely written words on the scrap of parchment. Words that changed his life. “Men killed. English took your lady. Dumfries. Do not delay.”

  Do not delay. They’d murdered his men and meant to kill her as well.

  The loss of his men enraged him. He wanted to kill someone. But the thought of Christina in danger…

  Bile rose up the back of his throat. He thought himself fearless, but fear unlike anything he’d ever known consumed him—black, soul-eating fear that tore like acid through the steel encasing his heart. He felt raw. Exposed. And more terrified than he’d ever been in his life.

  If the news of her leaving him had jolted him from his emotional stupor, the news that she was now a prisoner of the English was like a lightning rod of clarity, forcing him to acknowledge the truth.

  He loved her.

  Too late, he realized what a fool he’d been. Stubborn pride in the belief that he was impervious to emotion had blinded him fro