The Chief (30 page)

MacRuairi shrugged as if the answer wasn't important to him. “Now we're even.”

For sparing his life at Finlaggan. Tor nodded, but he knew it wasn't that simple. Lachlan MacRuairi's reasons for being here just might be more complicated than he'd realized.
MacRuairi
might be more complicated than he'd realized. It jarred him. He'd been seeing black for so long, the sliver of gray was a shock.

But one thing he knew with certainty: Tor owed Lachlan MacRuairi his life.

With the days beings so short—the sun (such as it was) not rising until almost nine, only to set a scant seven hours
later—time should have gone by fast. But the hours passed by like a dirge: slow, monotonous, and droning.

Not even a week had passed, and yet it seemed like a month since Tor had left. Though he'd spent time away before, this was the longest Christina had gone without seeing him, and patience was proving an elusive virtue.

What a fool she'd been. Life married to a knight wasn't about days filled with thrilling tournaments, watching him joust with her veil on his sleeve and long nights spent cuddled before the hearth while he composed verse about his love for her. It was about months, maybe even years, of war and loneliness.

There was nothing romantic about being left alone to fret and worry.

Was he in danger? Because he'd refused to tell her where he was going, she didn't know. But because he'd left his entire personal guard at the castle, she suspected he'd not gone off to fight and had instead gone somewhere with the men she'd seen him training.

Who were those men?

She pushed the curiosity from her mind, recalling only too well his admonition. Not her concern. Not her business. Not her place.

So she attended to her duties as the lady of the castle and helped Brother John when Rhuairi was not around, having care not to read any of what passed before her. But even with the preparations for the Yule celebration, there was surprisingly little for her to do behind the dungeon like walls of the castle. The
barmkin
she walked around in the morning had started to feel like a cage.

And now she didn't even have the ledgers to keep her busy. She'd been so certain that it would work, that organizing his accounts would be the way to show him that she could be an important part of his life. Perhaps it was that certainty that made the disappointment so much more acute.

Admiration…respect…pride? Hardly. Her attempt to impress him with her skills had failed as resoundingly as it had with her father.

She was furious with the way that he'd reacted—at first patronizing and then lashing out in anger. Perhaps she'd overstepped by reading the missives, but what else was she to do? How else could she possibly break through to him? She'd shown him everything she had to offer and it still wasn't enough.

She had no place here. Not in his life, not in his heart. If this was the rest of her life, she couldn't bear it.

For a moment she'd thought about leaving. But she still had hope. She'd pinned her happiness on a kiss, holding on by that one glimpse of tenderness, the first crack in his stony façade.

Was she a fool to ascribe so much meaning to a kiss?

Fastening her cloak around her neck, Christina closed the door behind her and started down the corridor, nearly bumping into Brother John as he was coming out of the solar.

She'd startled him, and it took him a moment to compose himself. Noticing her cloak, he asked, “Where are you off to this morning, my lady?”

“I thought I would go to the village. The tanner's youngest bairn has fallen ill and the cook has prepared some poulet broth for me to take to him.” Seeing that he was dressed for the cold weather as well, she asked, “And what about you?”

“To the village as well.” He frowned. “Are you sure it is wise to leave the castle, my lady? The fever seems to be spreading. Perhaps it would be best if you waited for the chief to return; he's due back any day.”

Her foolish heart jumped. “Have you heard from him then?”

He shook his head. “Nay, but given that he was supposed to be gone for only a few days—”

“Not a few days,” she said morosely, “two weeks.”

His eyes widened. “Oh, I see. Perhaps I misunderstood the seneschal.” Christina was not surprised; Rhuairi had seemed less than forthcoming of late. He'd been watching her with an odd look in his eye. When he did not forbid her from helping Brother John, she realized Tor had not spoken to him, but she wondered if he knew what she had done. Brother John was watching her intently. “I do not think the chief would wish for you to put yourself in danger.”

Christina pressed her lips together. Let “the chief” try to object. Attending to the villagers was her
duty
as Lady of the Castle. He'd reminded her of her place enough. “I appreciate your concern, but the risk is small. The fever seems to be mild.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Besides, if I have to stay another day locked behind these walls, I believe I shall go mad.”

He returned her smile. “I understand completely. Perhaps you would not mind company? If you will wait a moment, there is something I forgot in the solar.”

“I would love the company. Why don't I meet you by the gate; I have to fetch the pot of broth from the cook.”

She
was
glad for the company. If Brother John seemed oddly anxious at first, by the time he returned from his errand the anxiety was gone. He spent the rest of the day with her visiting not just the tanner's son, but a few of the other stricken children as well. The cook had given her enough broth to feed an army, and it did not go to waste. She also slid the children the last of her cherished figs for when they were better.

A handful of her husband's guardsmen insisted on accompanying her as well. At first she did not think it necessary, but later she was grateful for their protection. The moment she walked outside the castle gates, she felt her husband's absence sharply. She hadn't realized how safe he made her feel. Without the shield of his presence, the world suddenly seemed more ominous. Silly, she knew. She
did not fear an attack—not during the day at least—but the memory of MacDougall's visit was fresh in her mind.

Tor had taken precautions, however, and a permanent guard was positioned in the village.

In any event, the satisfaction of doing something useful more than made up for any apprehension she might feel. As she sat on the
birlinn
beside Brother John to return to the castle, she was glad she'd gone and vowed to do so again in the coming days.

The light was fading and the mist sinking as they neared the jetty to the sea-gate. It wasn't until they were a few lengths away that she realized another boat was moored on the jetty.

The fearsome-looking hawk carved in the prow sent a shiver running down her spine. “Do you recognize the boat?” she asked the clerk.

He shook his head. “Nay, I've never seen it before.”

Tor's guardsmen didn't seem concerned.

The other boat appeared to be about ready to depart. Two men were standing on the dock. She recognized one as Rhuairi. She thought the other man handed him something before he quickly jumped in the boat and removed the rope moorings. Brother John had noticed it as well. “Perhaps it's just a messenger,” he said.

She relaxed a little, realizing he was probably right. It wasn't until the other boat had pulled away, however, that she heaved a sigh of relief.

Rhuairi greeted them as they disembarked, holding his hand out to help her from the boat. “Did you have a pleasant day, my lady?”

“Aye,” she said. “I did. Was that a messenger we saw leaving?”

His expression went blank. “Nay, my lady. Just some local clansmen wishing to see the chief.”

She exchanged a look with Brother John. Local clansmen? Those had been warriors.

She didn't think much about the strange exchange until later.

Hours after he'd nearly slid off the mountain, Tor sat back against a low boulder, his legs stretched out toward the glowing embers of the fire, listening to the guardsmen argue. It was strangely relaxing. Comfortable in its predictability. Not unlike the squabbling he'd done with his siblings around the dais when they were young. As usual, the talk was of the looming war with England and when—and if—Bruce would make his move.

It had to be near midnight, and with the day he had planned for them tomorrow, he should be abed. But he was still too restless from what had happened earlier to sleep.

When the others had seen him and MacRuairi coming down the hill, they'd assumed that Tor had found him. MacRuairi—full of more surprises—made no effort to correct them, but Tor quickly explained what had happened. The men seemed just as surprised as he'd been—with the possible exception of Gordon. MacRuairi kept to himself, and for the most part the rest of them were happy to keep it that way. But Gordon, the gregarious young alchemist, seemed not to notice the menacing cloud surrounding MacRuairi, and the two had formed a friendship of sorts—if you called Gordon talking and MacRuairi listening a friendship.

MacLean's deep voice broke through the din of his thoughts. “Wallace's mistake was thinking he could repeat his success at Stirling Bridge and best Edward in a pitched battle—army to army. He should have stuck to raids; that was his strength in leadership. After the loss at Falkirk he was done. Only his scorched-earth tactics prevented Edward from taking Scotland right then.”

The more Tor listened to him, the more he recognized MacLean's keen mind for battle tactics and strategy.
Something he had every intention of taking advantage of later. Or rather, he corrected himself, something MacSorley would take advantage of.

“You weren't there,” Boyd argued angrily. The fierce patriot tolerated no criticism of Wallace, whom he'd fought beside for years. “It wasn't Wallace, but the traitorous Comyns who caused the defeat at Falkirk when they retreated and left the spearmen in their schiltron formations open to Edward's longbows.”

MacRuairi usually avoided any talk of politics, but he liked to stir up trouble between Seton and Boyd—not that they needed his help. “Sir Dragon, you look like you have something to say,” he said, the nickname referring to the coat of arms on the tabard Seton insisted on wearing.

Seton's jaw clenched. “It's not a Dragon, it's a Wyvern, you damned barbarian,” he gritted out. MacRuairi knew full well what it was. “Wallace lost because he couldn't control his men in a pitched battle. He knew how to set fires and attack at night. Falkirk proved that unorganized and undisciplined foot soldiers—no matter how brave—are no match against trained
knights.”

Boyd looked like he wanted to tear off the young Englishman's head, but after the near disaster at the loch he'd kept a tight rein on his anger toward his partner. “If that's what you think, then why the hell are you here?”

Seton gave him a look of haughty disdain. “Bruce is my liege lord.”

“And his liege lord is King Edward,” Boyd pointed out. “So shouldn't you be fighting for him?”

Seton's face flushed angrily. “Why are
you
here? It wasn't that long ago that you were fighting alongside Comyn.”

“I fought for the Lion,” Boyd said through clenched teeth, referring to Scotland's symbol of kingship. “Always for Scotland, and right now that means Robert Bruce. I'd sooner see
you
on the throne than Comyn. He lost his claim to the crown when he deserted us on the battlefield.”

Seeking to defuse the tension, MacLean said, “Bruce has learned from Wallace's mistakes. The very fact that we are here attests to that. He will not meet Edward army-to-army until he is ready. And Bruce is a knight—one of the best in Christendom. When the time comes, he will know how to command an army.”

Seton turned to MacRuairi, proving he knew exactly what he'd done to instigate the argument. “And what about you. Why are you here? Something as noble as lining your coffers?” he sneered, not bothering to hide his disdain.

MacRuairi's expression was unreadable. “Of course I wouldn't risk my head for something as fleeting as patriotism or duty. What better reason than wealth?”

He spoke matter-of-factly, but Tor knew it wasn't the truth. Not all of it anyway.

“How about a lass?” MacSorley said with a grin aimed at Tor. “I can think of no better reason to lose my neck than the promise of a sweet lass in my bed.”

“Getting tired of your hand, MacSorley?” Lamont said dryly.

The big Norseman shook his head woefully. “Many more weeks of this and I'll have to propose.” The men chuckled. Practicality borne of necessity. War and moving around so much sometimes made women scarce for weeks. “As soon as we finish here, I'll be making a quick stop on Mull where I've got a lusty, wee lass with the biggest, sweetest pair of breasts just waiting for me. Creamy, flawless skin. Nipples the lightest pink and the size of two tiny pearls.” He sighed longingly. “A strong wind, a full belly, and a comely lass. It doesn't take much to make me a happy man.”

MacSorley wore his devil-may-care attitude well—it was part of what made him so popular and good at defusing tension in the ranks. It even followed him on the battlefield. Tor remembered how shocked he'd been to see the big Viking smiling as he wielded his fearsome battle-axe in the heat of battle.

But Tor didn't mistake MacSorley's affability for weakness or softness. Beneath that smile was a core of steel. Only once had Tor seen him lose that roguish grin, but it had been a memorable sight. And people said he was cold and ruthless.

“You going to marry this lass, MacSorley?” Seton asked.

The Viking practically choked on his
cuirm
. “God's blood! Why the hell would I do that, lad? Unlike our patron saint over there,” he motioned to MacKay, “one pair of breasts, no matter how fine, for the rest of my life?” He shuddered. “Besides, wouldn't want to deprive the rest of the lasses of my expertise.”