The Chief (26 page)

Disbelief. Fear. The possibility of betrayal. The divergent threads of emotions wound together, twisting and swirling inside him in a torrential storm just waiting to be unfurled. Every inch of his body strained against the pressure. His blood pounded, his skin flared hot, his heart hammered in his ears. Only the softness of the body pressed against his and the knowledge of how easily he could crush her held him in check.

Tor met Campbell's gaze, saw him shake his head, and knew that at least she was alone. With a sharp nod, he gave the silent order for his men to leave.

When they were gone, he flipped her around and, holding her shoulders, forced a deep breath from his lungs. He stared into her dark eyes, trying to ignore the tinge of guilt he felt to see the white imprint of his hand on her mouth and the fear in her wide gaze.

She should be scared. Very scared.

“You'd better have a damned good excuse for spying on me.”

Her eyes widened even more. “I wasn't spying on you. How could you think that?”

He didn't want to, but damn it, he couldn't ignore the possibility. “Maybe it's the fact that I find you hiding in a tree watching me. Or the fact that you followed me. Or that I instructed you to stay out of matters that do not concern you.” His jaw hardened and his gaze sharpened. “Or maybe it's that I recall the treachery that brought us
together.” She flinched as if he'd struck her. She tried to pull away, but he wasn't done. He leaned closer, forcing her gaze to his. “Did someone ask you to follow me, Christina?”

Despite the obvious threat, her little chin jutted up. He stood a hand over six feet and outweighed her by at least double, had killed hundreds of men on the battlefield, and was one of the most feared warriors in the land, but she looked at him as if he were smaller than a midge for the mere suggestion.

“Of course not. I would never betray you.” Everything about her voice and expression said that she told the truth. “I hoped you knew by now—no matter how our marriage started—that you could trust me.”

He trusted few, and none completely. Trust got people killed. “If you are not spying for someone, then explain how you came to be here alone in a tree.”

She bit her lip, color staining her pale cheeks. “I was in the village, taking some of Cook's honey cakes to wee Iain, who's sick—they're his favorite, you know”—he didn't—“when I saw Lady Janet and decided to follow her.”

The tic at his temple throbbed. She acted as if she'd done nothing more than gone for a pleasant stroll rather than ignored every instruction he'd given her. He took a step toward her, tightening his fists, fighting for patience. “So am I to understand that the reason I find you here is because in a fit of jealousy you decided to follow the woman you thought I was bedding, even after I told you that I was not, into the countryside…
alone?”
His voice shook with anger. When he thought of what could have happened to her…it made him damned near lose his mind. “God's wounds, Christina, do you know the danger you could have been in?” Many of the possible consequences flashed through his head, including an image of her with that torn gown. “You promised me you would not leave the castle without a guard.”

He'd backed her up against a tree, and because she had nowhere left to retreat with him looming over her, she nodded with an apologetic wince.

She was too close. He could smell her sweet, flowery scent, and it stirred his anger hotter. Did she always have to smell so damned good? It must be some cruel test of restraint intended to drive him half-crazed.

“You make it sound so foolish, but what else was I to think? You tell me nothing about where you are going for days on end, yet it was clear that you had confided in your leman.”

Because he was trying to protect her, damn it. He didn't want her anywhere near this. It chilled his blood to think what danger any inadvertent knowledge of Bruce's guard could put her in. This was treason, and the fact that she was a woman would not stop Edward of England. “Janet cooks for us, that is all. I asked her and she agreed—without asking questions.”

But Christina ignored the jibe. “What is going on out here anyway?” she asked, wrinkling her tiny nose. He shot her a warning glance that she did not heed. “Who are these men, and why are you training them in secret?”

The cold in his bones could only be described as fear. “You will return to the castle, forget everything you have seen, and never come here again. Do you understand?” He was shouting. No one made him lose control like this. She shrank back, but he took her arm and forced her to look at him. The pounding in his heart would not subside. He wanted to shake her until she listened to him. “You are to never ask me about this again.”

Only inches separated them. He'd never tried to intimidate a woman with his size, but if it made her see the seriousness, then he would do whatever he had to. By all that was holy, she should be terrified. But it seemed his wee wife trusted him more than she should. Right now, he didn't trust himself.

A mutinous look crossed her delicate features. “Perhaps I shall ask Sir Alex,” she said, meeting his black gaze without flinching.
Hell, she'd recognized the bloody Englishman
. “Or Lachlan MacRuairi.” She gave him a coy smile. “He said if I ever needed—”

Tor snapped. He pulled her hard against his chest, a dark emotion washing over him. “MacRuairi is a viper. Stay away from him.”

Eyes wide, she nodded. Whatever that black emotion was, she saw it—or heard it in his voice—and fear quieted any thoughts of argument.

“I didn't mean it,” she said, her mouth trembling. “I will never mention it again, if that is what you wish.”

He froze. What was he doing? She was looking at him as if he might strike her. God's wounds, not all men were like her father. He would never hurt her, he only wanted to protect her. It was just that she'd made him…
jealous
.

But he didn't get jealous.

His chest was so tight he couldn't breathe. He pulled her toward him, knowing it was the only way to get relief. He couldn't fight it. She was too close, and the temptation was too strong.

Their eyes met; he was drowning. “God, what do you want from me?”

Her eyes widened at the raw emotion in his voice. But before she could answer, he bent his head and did what he'd longed to do since almost the first moment he'd met her. With a groan, he covered her mouth with his.

He smothered her gasp of surprise with his mouth. Christina's heart slammed into her chest at contact. It was incredible—nothing like before. The perfunctory brush of his lips on their wedding day could hardly compare to this fierce onslaught. To this possession.

The exquisite pressure, the incredible sensation, the closeness. It felt perfect. So right. As if her mouth had been made for this.
Only
for this. With him.

She felt as if she'd just plunged into a dark pool and was drowning in sensation. The heat. The hard strength of his body. His sultry scent. The dark, spicy taste of him. He overwhelmed her senses with the sheer force of his raw masculinity.

And his mouth…sliding, tasting, moving over hers. Pure heaven! His lips were firm and every bit as soft as they looked, coaxing—nay, demanding—her response.

So she surrendered. Willingly. Sinking into his fiery embrace, returning his kiss with all the eager enthusiasm that her inexperience could manage.

He groaned, drawing her closer, fitting her body to his. She could feel his desire hard against her stomach. Warmth rushed through her, concentrating between her legs. At the sensitive tips of her breasts. Her skin flushed tight.
Closer
,
her body demanded. She melted against him, dissolving deeper in to the kiss. Into him.

The kiss intensified. Grew harder. Faster. More insistent. She moaned, opening her mouth against his, feeling the warm sweep of his tongue.

She gasped. The raw, carnal passion of it momentarily stunned her. But he gave her no quarter and no time to think, assailing her shock with the dark sensations wrought by his wicked kiss.

He probed. He plundered. Taking more and more with each sensual stroke. Deeper. Hotter. Wetter. Until her heart fluttered wildly in her chest and heat washed through her in heavy, quivering waves.

She breathed him in, never imagining a kiss could be like this. So powerful. It wasn't just lust that she felt in his kiss. There was an edge of something far deeper. Something that grabbed her heart and tugged. In his kiss, she felt the yearning, the raw emotion, he'd always held back. It was tender and erotic, yet with a fierceness that took her breath away.

His tongue swirled against hers, demanding more. Tentatively, she joined him. Circling, twining, sliding her tongue against his in a warm, delicious dance that penetrated right to her toes.

He kissed her as if he couldn't get enough of her. As if he was desperate for her. As if he could claim her soul with his mouth and tongue. His fingers threaded through her hair, angling her mouth more fully against his. She could feel the warm pressure of his fingers at the back of her head. The scrape of his stubbled jaw on her skin. The heavy pounding of his heart against hers.

He groaned, sinking deeper into her mouth, sinking deeper into her. The weight of his body pressed down on her. His hand squeezed her breast, his hips rocked against hers, in the same sensual rhythm as his tongue thrusting in her mouth.

She moaned, her fingers digging into his broad, muscled shoulders. She felt weak, boneless, her body aching for him to give her the release that she craved.

His hand skimmed her bottom, cupping her and lifting her so that he was wedged right where she needed pressure.

God, it felt so good. She moaned into his mouth, rubbing against the thick column of steel at her apex until her breath sharpened.

With a harsh sound, he tore his mouth from hers and pulled away. “Enough!”

Her body startled at the harsh curtailment of pleasure. Instinctively, she reached for him, but he held her forcibly at arm's length.

She blinked. The haze of passion slowly lifted and she met his shocked, accusatory gaze. He was staring at her as if she'd just grown another head. As if she frightened him. Her eyes widened.
She
frightened
him
.

Because she made him feel something he didn't want to. He cared about her. Though the stubborn, thick-headed man didn't realize it. But he would. Her bruised, swollen mouth tugged to a smile. It was really rather sweet.

He recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. “I'm taking you back to the castle,” he said, grabbing her hand. “Now!”

Christina let him drag her along, not caring one bit about the sudden surly turn of attitude or the unmistakably grim set of his jaw.

None of it mattered. For nothing could take away the certainty of her newfound knowledge.

She'd penetrated the icy shield. It was the sign she'd been waiting for. He cared for her. The proof was in his kiss.

Tor didn't know what in Hades had come over him. One minute he was furious, the next he was kissing her like he'd never kissed another woman before. Like he was
ravenous in his need of her. The passion didn't bother him; the sharp tugging in his chest, however, was a different matter.

Unconsciously, he'd held back from kissing her, as if instinctively realizing the danger. Now he knew why. The connection was too strong. The feelings were too powerful. Too intense. And trying to bottle them back up would be a Herculean—if not Pandoran—task.

Now that he'd tasted the honey sweetness of that mouth he would think of nothing else. He cursed and shoved a branch out of the way so hard it cracked.

He could hear her breathing hard behind him and slowed his step, realizing he was walking too fast. He gave her a sharp look. She was being quiet. Too quiet. Following along meekly beside him with nary a complaint.

And he didn't like that look on her face. The slight upward curve of her mouth could almost be characterized as smug. What did she have to smile about? He'd nearly ravished her in the middle of the day against a tree, for God's sake.

“We're almost there,” he said brusquely.

“That's nice.”

That's nice?
His eyes narrowed. What was she up to?

“Will you be attending to more clan business today?” she asked politely.

“Aye,” he said.

“Why have you never kissed me before?” He nearly tripped over a rock at the unexpected change of subject.

“I don't know,” he said gruffly. “I suppose I never thought of it.”

She lifted a brow as if she knew he'd lied. “Well, I rather liked it.”

Good thing he wasn't eating or he would have choked.

“Rather a lot,” she said. “I'm afraid I must insist upon it from now on.”

Insist
upon it? Tor was incredulous. Was his wee wife
issuing him orders? He was chief. No one else would dare speak to him with such insolence. He really should correct her. But before he could form a reply, she said, “What else have you not thought about?” She peered suspiciously into his horrified gaze. “I hate to think there's anything else I'm missing.”

Her eyes dropped to the substantial bulge beneath his
leine
. The dart of her tiny pink tongue over her bottom lip sent a bolt of lust right to his groin. She sensed his reaction, and this time, there was no mistaking the smile that curved that sensual mouth.

Heaven help him.

With a toss of her long, silky hair, she resumed walking, leaving Tor a little dazed and quite a bit rattled.

A subtle shift had taken place between them, and Tor had a feeling he wasn't going to like it. Not at all.

He was more than a little relieved when the village came into view. Dunvegan village consisted of twenty or so small thatched cottages scattered within a mile of the harbor, a small market where the farmers and fishermen gathered to hawk their wares, the village blacksmith, stables, and an alehouse.

As they drew near, he felt a prickle of disquiet. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Normally, at this time of day the village would be bustling with activity, but it seemed as if everyone had gone indoors.

When they turned toward the harbor it became clear why. Two unfamiliar galleys sat anchored in the water.

He cursed, and was just about to send Christina into one of the cottages until he discovered what was going on when Rhuairi came rushing toward them. “Thank God, you've returned,” he said. “I dared not send word.”

“What's happened? Whom do those ships belong to?”

“It's John MacDougall.”
Damn
. John of Lorne, the MacDougall chief's eldest son and
tanaiste
. And a right bastard. “With the Earl of Ross imprisoned by Edward,
MacDougall has come to collect the rents. When he was denied entry to the castle—the men wouldn't let him in without your permission—he and his soldiers decided to confiscate half the winter reserves. Coll suffered a blow to the head when he tried to stop them from taking half his stores of dried beef.”

Tor uttered a blasphemy and clenched his jaw. So Edward's new sheriff had decided to make his presence felt on Skye by harassing his people?

“How many men did you bring with you?” he asked the seneschal.

“Only a few. I was already in the village when they arrived.”

And Tor was without his retinue. Normally, the difference in numbers wouldn't concern him, but he didn't usually have his wife to consider. Tor had vowed to stay neutral in Scotland's war and had no wish to battle Edward's sheriff, but MacDougall was an arrogant arse and he didn't trust him. “Take the lady back to the castle—”

“I'm afraid it's too late for that.” Christina gestured toward the harbor.

They'd already been seen. MacDougall and at least two score of his men were coming from the opposite direction—near the market—heading to the boats, laden with crates. MacDougall limped slightly as he walked, his crippled leg the source of his epithet as John “Bacach,” or Lame John.

Tor's gaze leveled on hers. “Stay near me at all times.” She nodded. “And let me do the talking,” he added as an afterthought. MacDougall was sure to question the circumstances of their marriage, and Tor didn't want her to inadvertently say anything that would make Edward's new sheriff question his neutrality. He clenched his fists. MacDonald's plan was about to be tested. John MacDougall might be an arse but he was no fool. He doubted that the timing of MacDougall's visit was a coincidence. Edward must have heard of his marriage.

“Ah,” MacDougall said as they approached. “The very man we've been looking for. I've come to collect the taxes, but your guard refused me admittance and claimed that you were away.”

Tor stopped a few feet from him. “As you can see, I've returned.” The two men squared off against each other. Tor towered over him by at least a half foot, but MacDougall was built like a boar—thick and heavily muscled. He also had the benefit of forty men behind him. Tor had Rhuari, a handful of guardsmen, and his wife. Because of Christina's presence, he could do nothing, and they both knew it. Still, it wasn't in his nature to back down. “So you thought to rob my people of their goods?”

MacDougall smiled coldly, reminding Tor very much of his viper of a cousin MacRuairi. The MacDougalls, MacDonalds, MacRuairis, and MacSorleys represented four branches of the descendants of Somerled. The feud and struggle for power between the MacDougalls and the MacDonalds was every bit as virulent—and significant—as that between the Bruces and the Comyns. Both clans wanted to be the dominant force in the Islands, but right now it was the MacDougalls.

“Consider it a deposit on the balance of the taxes that you owe.”

Tor held his temper in check. “The king has already received his payment for the year.”

MacDougall lifted a dark brow. “That is a small pittance compared to what is owed.”

“It was exactly what was owed. Check the books if you like. The recent attacks have resulted in smaller yields this year.”

“The king cares not about your problems. He has been derelict in collecting since Ross was imprisoned, but that has changed. Now he has me.”

“To what king do you refer? The one you bowed to last year or the one you do this year?”

Tor's knife was well aimed. MacDougall flushed angrily, and the big man at his side—his henchman, no doubt—moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. MacDougall's forced allegiance to Edward had been at the expense of his kinsmen King John Balliol and the Comyns, and it still must grate.

“Are you questioning King Edward's claim to the throne? I should warn you—as a friend, of course—that he does not take treason lightly. Your recent marriage has already cast aspersions upon your loyalty.”

His calculating gaze turned to Christina, and Tor had to fight the urge to shove her behind his back. MacDougall didn't hide the flare of lust that would have been a death sentence under any other circumstances. Tor clenched his fists, his hands itching to grab the hilt of his sword. He'd never felt so constrained, but with Christina by his side he might as well be tied down in chains.

“My marriage had nothing to do with politics,” Tor said evenly, his tone giving no hint to the dangerous rage flaring inside him. “I saw her and wanted her.”