The Chief (16 page)

One day earlier and he would have been here to prevent it from happening. If he hadn't been delayed at Finlaggan, he would have returned in time. This marriage wasn't off to the most promising of beginnings.

He and his men had given chase, almost catching up with the attackers near the Isle of Lewis, but lost them again during a storm. Not many men could outmaneuver him on a boat. MacSorley was one, and possibly the MacRuairis, if the damned pirates were having a lucky day. So who were they? It could be the Nicolsons, but if they decided to attack he did not think it would be in the dark of night to raid cattle. It had the mark of the MacRuairis, but why would they attack Dunvegan when Lachlan had just agreed to fight under him? It didn't make sense.

As much as he wanted to pursue them farther, he knew
he had to get back. The warriors from Bruce's secret guard would be arriving soon.

Tor strode up the sea-gate stairs, greeting his clansmen as he passed. He was tired and hungry, but also aware—painfully aware—of the bride awaiting him. Every passing minute of the return journey, his heart seemed to beat a little harder and his blood rushed a little hotter as his body anticipated the pleasure to come.

The delay had only increased his hunger for her. Now that he was home, he was anxious to see her. He frowned, knowing that was not quite true. It wasn't just because he was home. Oddly, he'd thought of her while he was away.

He'd regretted having to leave so suddenly, but there had been no time to waste. Every minute was precious. Knowing she would be safe at Dunvegan, his only thought had been to get to the village.

As he approached the Great Hall, he sent his
An Leincchneas
, privy counselor, Fergus, to inform her of his arrival. With the stench of his journey heavy on him, he decided to take a detour to the kitchens for a soothing hot bath. A warm pottage and bread would do much to improve his black mood before he greeted his bride.

Though more spirited than he'd initially given her credit for, she reminded him of a frightened bird. Treading gently, however, did not come naturally to a man who had spent most of his life surrounded by the harsh brutality of the battlefield. It was one of the reasons he'd initially rejected the alliance; he did not think they would suit each other. She needed someone to comfort and care for her. He was a man hardened by war and death who knew nothing but the duty to his clan.

Stopping outside, he heard the sounds of laughter and frowned. He didn't think he'd ever heard Cormac, the old cook, laugh, and the deep, jolly sound took him aback.

No one noticed him as he entered the dark building. Which was understandable when he saw five people on
their knees with their heads in the oven, backsides raised in the air.

From the amount of laughter, they were obviously enjoying themselves. Not wanting to interrupt, his gaze slid over them, trying to figure out what was so damned funny. All of a sudden he stilled.

It wasn't the gown that gave her away, but something far more elemental. His entire body jumped with awareness as he recognized one of those raised backsides. Heat flared inside him. His gaze honed, gorging on every inch of that round, sweetly curved bottom. He remembered the soft lushness of it naked against him, the velvety skin pressing against the thick column of his erection.

His body tightened and every muscle flexed, knowing how easy it would be—how he had every right—to walk over there, lift up her skirts, run his hands over every inch of that creamy skin, and sink into her from behind. He wanted to watch her breasts move as he thrust into her, slowly at first, then faster and harder. He wanted to reach around and tease her with his fingers until she broke apart around him.

His cock strained, knowing how good it would be. Knowing how her body would grip him like a tight, warm fist. Knowing how wet he could make her.

He hardened his jaw, annoyed by the force of his lust for her. The things he wanted to do to her had no place in his thoughts about his innocent wife, even if she did have a body built to arouse a man's pleasure. He'd never fantasized about a woman like this. But the long days and nights at sea, thinking about the new bride that waited for him, had made him more beast than man.

The cook noticed him.
“Ri tuath,”
he said with a start. “You've returned.”

The others turned at the sound of the cook's voice, and Tor had to stop himself from laughing out loud.

His bride wore a white cap low over her head, but it and
the rest of her were covered head to toe in ash and soot. She'd obviously made an attempt to wipe her face but had only succeeded in streaking a thin layer of black over the entire area. Only the whites of her eyes peered back at him in horror from the darkened corner of the kitchen.

Instinctively, he schooled his features to hide his amusement. Somehow he didn't think his new wife would appreciate his enjoyment at discovering her in such a state.

“You're back!” she exclaimed, getting to her feet. She took a step toward him, and for a moment he thought she might catapult herself into this arms. He frowned—more surprised than anything else—and she stopped herself.

What would he have done if she had? Would he have stood stiffly, or drawn her against him? Tor wasn't used to such overt displays of emotion, but his young wife seemed to wear hers plainly on her face and in her natural exuberance. It was both refreshing and disconcerting.

“Aye,” he answered. “We've only just returned. I sent word for you in the Hall.” He looked back and forth at them all. “But it appears that I'm interrupting something?”

He swore he could see a blush rise beneath the black soot on her face. It was great cover, he realized, tucking the idea away for later when hiding in darkness might prove useful.

She attempted to put some order to her gown by shaking out the skirts and wiping off the loose ash with her hands. “I was just going over the stores with the cook and then, well, there was so much smoke I realized the chimney must be blocked, so I decided it should be cleaned before it caused a fire.”

He lifted a brow. “And you volunteered for the job?”

She bit her lip. “I'm afraid I was the only one who could fit. Apparently, I didn't move fast enough,” she said wryly.

“Apparently not,” he agreed. He smiled then; he couldn't help it, and was surprised to see her grinning back at him. He liked that she could laugh at herself without self-consciousness. It spoke of a refreshing lack of vanity.

The cook started barking out a few orders to the servants who'd been standing there gaping at him. “You and the men will be wanting some food,” he said.

“And a bath,” Tor added, remembering the reason he'd come in the first place.

The cook and Christina exchanged a look. He thought she winced a little, and when she turned back to him, she was biting her lip again. “About the bath,” she hesitated. “I'm afraid that might be a problem right now.” Her hands twisted before her. “You see, I didn't know you were returning and we had to put out the fires to clean. We were attempting to relight them when you came in, but everything got rather wet.”

“I see,” he said evenly. So much for a warm bath. “And the meal?”

The cook gave her a look that said “I told you so.” She peeked out at Tor from under her long lashes. “I told Cormac we could have a cold meal this evening.”

When he frowned, she straightened a little and looked him in the eye. “Perhaps if you send word of your arrival next time, we will be better prepared.”

The cook's eyes widened in horror. Unconsciously, he angled his body in front of hers as if he might protect her from Tor's displeasure.

Tor lifted his brows in surprise, both at Cormac's show of protection and at Christina's words. His wee wife had just taken him to task, and she'd found herself an unexpected protector.

He thought he probably should reprimand her, as Cormac obviously expected him to, but he couldn't help but be amused. He was chief. No one criticized him, except perhaps for his brother and sister, on occasion. And now this tiny lass. He was used to women being intimidated—even scared. He liked that she seemed neither.

He would allow her to get away with it this one time. But next time he would correct her.

“I'll remember that,” he said dryly, holding her gaze. He felt it again. That strange connection. The intense desire to possess. It wasn't a slow building, but a fierce primal reaction.

Despite the mask of soot on her and the layer of grime that covered him, he wanted to lift her up in his arms and carry her to bed. In the middle of the day, for Christ's sake.

How did she do it? How did she make his body flare with desire just by looking into his eyes?

He was too damned hungry for her and didn't like it. He wasn't used to errant—hell, preoccupied—thoughts or being unable to control his body's reactions. The lack of discipline annoyed him, but it would be over soon. Once he bedded her, everything would be back to normal.

He looked away sharply, addressing the cook. “The men will be hungry. Whatever you can arrange will suffice.”

He turned to leave. “Wait,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“The loch,” he answered on his way out. A cold bath suddenly sounded like an excellent idea.

For a horrible moment, Christina thought he meant to leave again. But when the cook ordered one of the serving boys after him to fetch soap and a drying cloth, a sigh of relief went through her. He only meant to bathe.

She'd feared that her peevishness had angered him. She hadn't meant to upbraid him, but perhaps the sting of his leave-taking had not waned as much as she'd thought.

It was just her luck that he would return when she was on her hands and knees, covered in ash and soot. She must have looked a fright. A comical fright. Her mouth twisted, thinking of his expression when he'd seen her. He'd tried to cover up his laughter, but she could see it dancing in his eyes. So much for entrancing him with her feminine charms when he returned; a more
un-entrancing
welcome she could not imagine.

She hurried back to the solar to clean up as best she could until enough water could be heated for her bath later. She couldn't wait to see what he thought of her efforts to lighten up the Great Hall and wanted to be there to observe his reaction when he saw it for the first time.

Mhairi helped her out of her soiled gown and used a wet cloth and soap to wash the soot and ash from her face and hands. Thankfully, the cap had kept her hair reasonably
free from falling ash. In no time, Mhairi had her on her way back to the Hall, her hair tangle free and tumbling down her back in loose waves, gowned in a fresh emerald-green cotte.

She just made it. Not five minutes after she entered the Great Hall from the small corridor that led to the chambers, her husband entered from the main door opposite the dais.

A crowd of his clansmen immediately surrounded him to welcome him back, including Rhuairi, who started to lead him toward the dais. Though the evening meal was not for some time yet, word had spread of the men's return, and a few dozen clansmen had come to the Hall to welcome them as they partook of their impromptu meal. Their
cold
meal, she thought with chagrin.

Holding back an excited smile, she watched Tor's face expectantly, waiting for the moment when he would notice all the changes she'd made. She was happy to see that some of his weariness had been washed away in the loch. When she'd initially looked up to see him, her first thought—after being horrified to be discovered in such a state—was that he looked as if he hadn't slept in the four days since he'd left her on the jetty. He probably hadn't. Not much, anyway.

Her brow wrinkled in a slight frown as he made his way toward her. It was slow progress, as his clansmen, who were clearly happy to see him, stopped him along the way. They stared at him with a mixture of awe and admiration—sentiments she could well understand.

He looked magnificent. His damp hair was brushed back from his face and curled a little at his ears. He'd shaved the four days of whiskers, revealing the proud line of his jaw. Instead of the leather war coat, he wore a finely embroidered
leine
and a grayish-blue plaid fastened at his neck by a large jeweled pin.

It was the most at ease she'd ever seen him. Here in his castle, amid his clansmen, he could finally let down his considerable guard and relax.

It wasn't his appearance, however, that caused her to frown. He hadn't noticed. He'd walked right over the fresh rushes, past the big vase of flowers, the colorfully clad tables, and the extra candles, but hadn't seen the changes.

Her excitement dimmed a little but didn't go out completely until his eyes flickered to her. He held her gaze for a long heartbeat before finally noticing something she'd done. His eyes lifted to the large tapestry she'd hung behind the dais.

He stilled, looking as if he'd seen a ghost. The color left his face and a flash of acute pain flickered in his eyes before his expression went completely blank. But she knew he was angry. She could see it in the thin white lines etched around his clenched mouth and in his eyes when the heavy weight of his gaze once again fell on her.

Christina paled, all the excitement draining out of her. Her chest squeezed. Had he cared more for his wife than she'd realized? Of course he had, and her thoughtless attempt to liven up the dreary Hall and show him what a good wife she could be had dredged up painful memories.

She cursed her stupidity, but it only got worse. The dogs had been lying around her feet, but when their master drew near, they bounded up to welcome him. The largest of the three, Bran, jumped up on him. Tor took one look at him, sniffed, and shot her a black look. In two long strides he was standing beside her, icy anger radiating from him. “What have you done to my dogs?”

His voice was low and calm, but she was not deceived. He was furious. Christina fought back the tears that threatened to spill. Her chin quivered as she gazed up into his thunderous expression, aware that more than one person was watching the exchange with interest. She'd only been trying to help. “I g-gave them a bath.”

“In rose water?” he demanded through clenched teeth.

She winced, biting her lip. She thought it had been an improvement. “We used the water left over from my bath.”

She could see the tic under his jaw pulse and knew that he was struggling to control his temper. Over her cleaning his dogs?

Nay
, she realized. His anger wasn't about the dogs; it was about the tapestries.

The anger died as quickly as it had sparked. “In the future, you will leave the bathing of the dogs to me.”

He sat down beside her, and the conversation rose around them dramatically to cover up the awkward exchange between the lord and his lady. It was as if everyone realized, as she did, that something else was at work.

Painfully aware of the man at her side, Christina nibbled a crusty piece of bread, trying to cover up how utterly miserable she felt. Instead of impressing him, she'd made a mess of things. He hadn't noticed anything she'd done—except for hanging the offensive tapestries.

She, on the other hand, noticed everything. Right when he sat down, his spicy, masculine scent assaulted her with memories. The clean, fresh scent of his soap reminded her of his arms around her, holding her, touching her, arousing her. The erotic memories of that night washed over her in sharp, visceral awareness. Every time his broad shoulder or heavily muscled thigh brushed against her it grew worse. Even the briefest physical contact made her skin jump and nerve endings flare.

She wanted more contact. Wanted to feel the heat of his body again. To have him touch her in all those wicked ways. Surely, it must be a sin to want such things. But it was as if the anticipation of their wedding night, building since the ceremony, had finally reached its breaking point. Her body felt sensitive, each touch a shock that made her senses explode.

Being this close to him was torture. But he seemed blissfully unaware of her torment. In truth, he hardly seemed aware of her at all.

She didn't want him to be angry with her. “I'm sorry,”
she said when he finished speaking to the man on his left—Gelis, his
Sennachie
. “I didn't mean to interfere. I wanted to surprise you.”

His dark eyebrows drew together. Her heart deflated a little more. It was obvious he had no idea what she was talking about.

Her gaze swept around the room. “The candles, the tablecloths, the flowers, the new rushes.” She paused. “The tapestries.”

He stiffened almost imperceptibly, but then followed the direction of her gaze, noticing for the first time the changes she'd made. Realizing he needed to say something, he said evenly, “It looks nice.”

Nice
. Her shoulders sagged a little. Hardly the enthusiastic reaction she'd been hoping for.

Perhaps sensing her disappointment, he amended, “Very nice.”

Christina pursed her lips together, feeling a spark of anger. First he'd left her without even a good-bye, and now he barely noticed all the hard work she'd done in his absence. A previously unknown streak of sarcasm rose in her voice. “If you wish, I can take the dogs outside and let them roll around in the mud like they've been wanting to do.” She smiled sweetly. “They'll stink just as they did before.”

His mouth twitched. “I don't think that will be necessary.” He leaned down to ruffle Bran's head, his strong, battle-scarred fingers rippling through the soft, clean fur. “I'd forgotten what color they were.”

His hands were big and powerful, just like the rest of him. She remembered the feel of his callused palms caressing her bare skin. Of his hands on her breasts, his fingers teasing her nipples. Heat rose to her cheeks and she shifted her gaze. What was the matter with her? Could she think of nothing else?

He gave her an appraising look over his goblet, and as he took a long drink of ale, heat simmered in the dark blue
depths. She squirmed a little in her seat, wondering whether he could read her mind.

“I almost hesitate to ask, but other than cleaning ovens and brightening my Hall, how else did you keep yourself busy while I was gone?”

Her mouth curved in a small smile, grateful for the distraction. “That's all, I'm afraid. It was only a few days.”

He laughed. “I guess I should be glad I was not away longer.”

Her voice grew more serious. “I heard what happened in the village. Were you able to find the men who attacked?”

He shook his head. “Nay, I needed to return to Dunvegan. But they will not be able to hide forever. I will find them, and when I do, they will pay for what they have done.”

The dead certainty in his voice left her little doubt that he would do as he said. She almost pitied those men when he caught up to them. She thought about something he had said. “Why did you need to return?” She didn't dare hope that it was to get back to her.

“Some business I must attend to,” he waved his hand dismissively. “It's nothing.” She felt his gaze on her again. “You were well taken care of in my absence?”

She nodded. “Aye, Rhuairi did as you instructed.”

He looked at her as if he knew there was something she was not saying. “It's not the welcome I would have wished for you.”

Her eyes lifted to his. “Or the good-bye.” She hadn't meant to say anything; the words just slipped out.

His brow furrowed in genuine masculine confusion. “There wasn't time.”

“To say good-bye?”

“Every second I delayed made catching them more difficult. I had to go.”

“I know that,” she said, studying the tablecloth and feeling suddenly silly for the hurt she'd unintentionally revealed.

She chanced a sidelong glance at him from under her lashes, seeing that he was frowning.

“Saying good-bye is important to you?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Then I will endeavor to remember to do so in the future and let you know when I leave.”

She smiled up at him brightly. “Thank you.” Buoyed by the way their conversation was proceeding, she decided to apologize herself. “I'm sorry if I overstepped my bounds with the tapestries.” His mouth fell in a flat line, and she hurried to explain. “I found them in a trunk and thought they were too beautiful to be packed away. I can remove them if you wish.”

His gaze shuttered. “How you decorate the Hall makes no difference to me. Do as you like.”

He acted as if he didn't care, but she knew something had caused him pain. “It was thoughtless of me not to realize that they would bring back painful memories. You must have cared for your wife a great deal.”

“Wife?” He shook his head. “They did not belong to my wife; they were my mother's.”

She paused, digesting the information. She knew so little of his family. “Your mother, she died?”

“Many years ago. With my father in a raid on Skye.”

He said it without any hint of emotion. He could have been talking about the weather. But she knew there was something he was not saying. Something terrible had happened. “How old were you?”

His fingers tightened around his goblet, and there was a guarded look in his eye. “Ten.”

Only a child. Her heart went out to him. All she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and comfort the boy who still missed his mother. It was clear he did not want to talk about it, but she couldn't help saying, “You must have loved her a great deal.”

But her gentle tone was a mistake. This fierce Island warlord
did not want comfort from her. He was like a big, angry lion with a thorn in his paw.

His gaze met hers, cold and impenetrable. “I barely remember her,” he said flatly. “I was seven when I left to be fostered.”

But Christina was not fooled by his harsh response. She was getting used to his blunt talk and brusque manner—it was just his way. He might think himself without emotion, but she knew that it was there, buried deep inside. She'd seen his reaction to the tapestry. He had loved his mother.

And if he'd loved once, he could love again. He just needed someone to remind him how, someone to care about him. Tenderness lurked beneath the hard, icy shell, and she intended to be the one to uncover it.