The Chief (22 page)

By time the men dragged themselves out of the water, Tor was ready to collapse naked on the rocky shore. Bending over to catch his breath, he noticed that a handful of the men were doing just that.

“Good work,” he said when he had caught his breath, giving his rare praise.

The wind and sleet had let up just enough for him to be able to make out the forms in the dark. The hairs on the
back of his neck rose on end—and not from the cold. The
nine
forms. He'd done the tally without thought—it was something he did instinctively. He needed to know that all of his men were accounted for.

He swore. His gaze shot to Boyd. “Where is Seton?”

Boyd startled, looking around. “He was right behind me—”

Tor didn't wait another instant. He jumped back in the water, rage giving him a fresh burst of strength.

He was going to kill Boyd with his own hands, strongest man or not. Tor hated losing a man for any reason. But not looking out for your partner was inexcusable. He had no intention of explaining to Bruce how he'd managed to allow his young brother-in-law to drown.

MacSorley swam up beside him. “Do you see him?”

“Nay,” Tor replied. It was as dark as the bowels of Hades out here. He turned around and saw the rest of the men behind them. “Fan out. Keep your eyes straight ahead and wait for the waves to—”

“There!” MacRuairi pointed about twenty feet ahead of him. His ability to see in the dark was uncanny. Tor could just make out the flash of light breaking above the surface. Luckily for Seton, he had fair hair.

Tor just hoped to hell they were in time.

MacSorley reached him first. His speed in the water had not been exaggerated; Tor had never seen anyone swim so fast.

With Tor's help, MacSorley dragged Seton back to shore and pulled his limp body up the rocky beach.

They bent over the younger man's body. “He's not breathing,” MacSorley said.

Tor swore. Without hesitation, he flipped the lad over and slammed the heel of his hand on his back. Nothing happened. He swore again and repeated the thump, harder this time.

It worked. Water spewed from his lungs. Seton made a
choking sound as his body convulsed in a fit of watery coughs and spasms.

Tor felt the tension ease from his back and shoulders.

After a few minutes, Seton's body had purged itself of the seawater, and he tried to sit up. But MacSorley held him down. “I think you'd better lie flat. You've had a wee bit too much to drink tonight.”

Seton managed a smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace. “Did I finish the challenge?” he asked, looking at Tor.

Tor nodded. “Aye, lad, you finished.” His anger returned full force. Boyd hadn't said a word, standing aside as the other men had attempted to revive his partner. From his grim expression Tor knew he realized his mistake, but it was too bloody late.

He wrapped a hand around Boyd's thick neck, ice-cold fury running through him. “What is the one rule I gave you?”

Boyd met his gaze unflinchingly. “Stay with your partner.”

Tor squeezed, bringing the other man closer to him. Face to face, he bit out each word. “These men are counting on you to stand by them, to do your part, to be part of this team, and you just let every one of us down. If you have to carry a man through the pits of hell you'll do it because they'll do it for you. Do you understand?”

Shame washed over the steely warrior. He nodded. “I made a mistake. It won't happen again.”

Tor pushed him away. “Damn right it won't.” Only because it was partly his fault as well did he not send Boyd packing right away. It wasn't that Tor thought he'd pushed the men too far—pushing past the point of where you thought you could go was what it took to be an elite warrior. You either had what it took or you didn't. Harsh, perhaps, but Tor's duty was to the group, not one man. He knew exactly how far to push, which was one of the things that made him a good leader.

But darkness or not, ultimately these men were his
responsibility. He should have known Seton was missing. “Do something like that again and you're out. I don't care how strong or extraordinary you are. This is a team. If you want to fight alone, go home.”

The men were subdued after that, returning to the broch to eat the meal Janet had waiting for them. There was less conversation than usual, although MacSorley couldn't resist prodding Seton a few more times about his penchant for seawater, offering to fetch him a cup if he'd rather drink that than
cuirm
.

It wasn't the way Tor had hoped it would happen, but tonight it felt as if something had changed. Not because Seton had nearly died. Death held no fear for these men. To a Highlander, death in battle was the ultimate reward—which perhaps explained the wild, no-holds-barred fighting style that struck fear in the heart of their enemies.

What changed was that the men were no longer just listening to his words about the importance of working together; the words had finally penetrated. Change would not come in one night—they were too used to fighting alone for personal glory—but it would come.

After weeks of hammering, the disparate guard had turned a corner, and for the first time, success seemed possible. He might not need to chain them together after all.

He left them talking quietly by the fire to return to Dunvegan.

The storm had abated, but Tor could have navigated the slippery stone stairs of the sea-gate without the hazy glow of moonlight. The guardsmen along the wall greeted him as he entered the
barmkin
.

Not for the first time, he cursed the promise he'd made to his wife. Bone cold and exhausted, he'd been tempted to stay the night at the broch, but he hadn't left word for her that he wouldn't be returning tonight. He wasn't used to being beholden to anyone for his actions, and it chaffed.

Why was he allowing her to distract him from his duties?
He should be with his men, getting drunk and listening to MacSorley's incessant boasting and needling, Gordon's stories of his grandfather's exploits on the last crusade fighting alongside the Knights Templar, Boyd's regaling of the English injustices along the borders, or the favorite topic among warriors far away from home: women.

But a part of him—a part that was growing larger every day—didn't want to disappoint her. Christina was doing her part, attending to the castle and her duties in a manner that gave him no cause for complaint. But the way she looked at him pecked at his conscience.

He was hurting her, and it bothered him. She'd pinned hopes on him that he couldn't possibly fulfill. Her vision of marriage was a romantic bard's tale—like the one he'd overheard her telling the children of the knight devoted to his lady. He would clothe, shelter, and protect her—give his life for hers without a thought—but the kind of closeness she wanted from him wasn't possible.

Even if he didn't have a duty to his clan, he wasn't capable of those emotions. He'd been a chief and a warrior for too long. Surrounded by death and gore for most of his life, he'd seen things that would make her toes curl. Early on he'd learned not to get attached to anyone. He'd seen too many people die: his parents, friends—hell, even his first wife.

Detachment gave him the edge he needed for his clan to survive and prosper, to be able to make life-and-death decisions, to achieve victory on the battlefield. He could not afford to be any other way. He was what war and duty had made him—cold and ruthless.

He could still see the light blazing in the Hall as he approached, though the evening meal must have ended some time ago. He muttered an annoyed curse. Even half dead with exhaustion, he still felt the unmistakable stirrings in his groin, knowing he would see her soon.

The newness wasn't wearing off. He was beginning to wonder whether he would ever get enough of her. Night
after night, he couldn't stay away. Even when he forced himself to sleep at the broch for a few nights—proving to himself that he could—he thought of her. She'd invaded his thoughts, his dreams, even his damned senses at the most inopportune times. He'd been in the middle of a sword fight with MacRuairi yesterday when he'd lifted his arm to swing his sword and caught a whiff of her flowery scent on his skin. He'd taken a blow on the shoulder for the lapse.

It wasn't working. No matter how many times he took her, his lust for his wife was not dying. It was only getting fiercer. More intense. Drawing him back to her, no matter how hard he fought the pull.

But not tonight. Tonight he was just too bloody tired. No matter how entrancing she looked curled up on the bed, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders and her soft cheek pressed against the pillow, he would bid her good night and collapse around the fire with the rest of his men. Where he belonged.

He entered the Hall, inhaling the rich, spicy scent that mixed with the peat from the fire. Cloves and nutmeg, he realized. Warmth settled over him. Despite his exhaustion, he felt his body relax. A memory buried in the farthest reaches of his mind teased. Stewed fruits. The scent reminded him of his childhood. Of his mother. Of another time.

What was it about his young wife that roused these strange memories in him?

Though Rhuairi had assured him that Christina wasn't burning extra peat, it still felt warmer in here. He couldn't put his finger on it, but Dunvegan felt different. The air was softer, the aura more comfortable. He noticed it more each time he returned. He feared he was beginning to like it too much.

Most of his clansmen were still enjoying their drink, but a few had already rolled up in their plaids to sleep. Rhuairi walked with him to apprise him of the goings-on around the castle that day, including more problems with the rents. By the time Tor left the hall he was even more exhausted,
weighed down by the demands of his dual responsibilities. Training the men was putting a strain on his duty to his clan.

But he couldn't lie to himself: He liked training them. They were different than any other team he'd ever trained before. Usually, he felt the divide between captain and soldier, but these men were his equals. Not just in rank, but in skill. He felt like he was part of something significant.

Seeing the sliver of light coming from under the door, he knocked. He heard a gasp and shuffling before he opened it. Christina was on her knees, putting something away in the trunk when he entered. Snapping the lid down closed, she turned to him with an unmistakably guilty stain on her cheeks. He saw the empty dish by her bed, noticing the sugary residue. What was she doing? Squirreling away figs for the winter?

They were costly enough. Still, when he'd noticed how much she'd liked sugared plums and figs, he'd told Rhuairi to purchase extra for Yule. Perhaps that would bring a smile to her face. He liked it when she smiled.

“You came!” she exclaimed, leaping to her feet and rushing toward him.

As much as he liked the enthusiastic welcome, he got the feeling she was trying to distract him. His gaze shot to the chest and then back to her. “Did I disturb you?”

She shook her head. “Nay, I was just putting away some
leines
that needed mending.”

His brow shot up. “While eating figs?”

Her cheeks pinkened adorably, and he felt the familiar swell in his chest. Her sable hair was loose and had fallen across her face in a thick, satiny veil. Without realizing what he was doing, he reached out and gently tucked it behind her ear. Something he'd seen her do often enough.

She sucked in her breath and their eyes locked. He didn't know which one of them was more surprised by the gesture. It was just like that time he'd kissed her on the head. Unfortunately, this time she wasn't asleep.

Quickly, he dropped his hand and shifted his gaze.

The strange feelings for his young wife disarmed him. He'd never met anyone like her—sweet, kind, thoughtful, and too damned eager to please. She was always touching him—a light touch on his arm, a gentle squeeze. Not since his mother had anyone touched him so freely. Something about her invited closeness.

He should be in the broch with Bruce's guard, not here in this room alone with her, wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and cradle her soft, naked skin against his and inhale her fresh scent like it was ambrosia to a dying man.

The sexual craving he understood. This craving to be near her he did not, particularly when it came at the expense of his duties. He was getting soft, and he better damn well do something about it.

He stepped back, straightening his back. “I've come to bid you good night.”

Her face fell. “Aren't you—”

He ignored the stab in his chest. “It's been a long day.”

She looked as if he'd just stomped on her favorite puppy. “Oh,” she said, twisting her hands, “it's just that I…”

She looked down, avoiding his gaze, but he could see the soft rush of color to her cheeks.

So beautiful
, he thought, the tightness in his chest rising to his throat. Sometimes it hurt just to look at her. Her sweet vulnerability called to him in a way he'd never felt before. His hand lifted to touch her cheek, but it quickly fell back to his side.

He forced his gaze away. This was crazy. He needed to get a hold on himself. She was a distraction he couldn't afford. He'd started to bid her good night, but her next words stopped him cold.

“I was hoping we could try something different tonight,” she blurted.

His gaze shot to hers, his body jumping immediately to
life. “Different?” His voice strangled in his throat. He told himself she didn't mean what he thought. She didn't know how provocative that sounded. Or did she? He'd sensed the burgeoning struggle inside her: her natural passionate curiosity warring with the deeply ingrained maidenly modesty. His innocent young bride was growing in boldness. Heaven help him when she finally gave free rein to her passion.

She came closer to him, close enough so that the ripe swell of her breasts brushed the linen of his shirt. He damned near jumped out of his skin, the hard points of her nipples pinning him. She placed her hands on his chest, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. The sensual look in those exotic dark eyes left no question as to what she wanted.