The Chief (34 page)

“Come here,” he ordered, not recognizing his own voice. It was rough with an intensity he'd never heard before.

She did as he bid, moving to stand right before him. He could see she was embarrassed, but he was ruthless. He gave her a hard look. “I need to assure myself that you are well first.”

She gazed at him uncertainly. “You do?”

He nodded. “You are going to need to lie down so I can examine…” unable to resist touching her for a moment longer, he slid his hand over the velvety curve of her hip…“every inch of you.”

Her eyes widened, then heated with anticipation.

She lay down on the bed, a sensual feast for the eyes.

He moved over her, straddling her with his knees so he could roam freely up and down. He started at her mouth, brushing his lips over hers as he trailed a path down across her jaw to her ear, flicking his tongue along the way. He
kissed her neck, burying his face in the silky-softness of her still damp hair, the thick, dark tresses rich with lavender.

She squirmed under him and he ached to press his hot skin on hers, to feel the exquisite shock of contact.
Not yet
. Like a penitent, he tortured himself. He was going to take this slowly and savor every minute of it.

He continued his study, examining every inch of baby-soft skin with his mouth and tongue—her throat, her arms, the pulse at her wrist…her incredible breasts.

He lingered there for a while. Licking and sucking her deep into his mouth, rolling the taut tip between this teeth and tongue until she arched her back and cried out in desperation.

He left her wanting, sliding his mouth down the soft plane of her stomach, to her hips, and down the insides of her legs. Her scent drove him mad, rousing every primal instinct in him.

She was shaking with something she didn't even know she wanted. But he would show her.

His cock grew even bigger.

He eased her legs apart with his kisses, wrapping them around his shoulders. His face was only inches away.

He heard the sharp hitch of her breath when she realized what he intended. Instinctively, she tried to close her legs, but she succeeded only in bringing him closer.

He drew circles with his tongue on her inner thigh until her body relaxed again. Then he nuzzled, teased, and blew his breath over her dampness until she trembled.

Enough self-flagellation. He couldn't wait any longer. “Look at me, Tina,” he ordered, forcing her gaze to his. “I want you to watch me as I taste you.”

She made an anxious sound, well past the point of protest. Her body was trembling for him. Holding her gaze, he swept her with his tongue—the lightest, most feathery touch. She bucked at the contact, but he cupped her bottom and held her firm. “You taste so good, my
sweet.” He licked her again. Harder this time, letting her feel the full stroke of his tongue. “Like the most delectable cream. And I'm going to lap you all up.”

Christina felt as though she'd died and gone to wanton heaven. He'd driven her half crazed with his kisses on her body, but when she'd looked down to see his golden head between her legs and realized what he intended…

Her pulse had leapt with erotic anticipation—with wonder that he would want to kiss her in the most intimate of places. Every muscle froze. Waiting. Sensing that she was about to experience something new and wonderful.

She had no idea.

The jolt of pleasure at the first sweep of his tongue made her jump. The second made her shudder.

Oh God
.

She cried out his name over and over, unable to contain the force of the powerful sensations wrought by his wicked kiss.

He licked her again, stroking her with his tongue. Circling, delving inside with long, loving strokes until she thought she would die from pleasure.

It was incredible. All she could think about was his mouth and tongue, and the sensuous thing he was doing to her.

The pulse between her legs quickened. She moved her hips against his mouth, wanting more pressure, more friction.

And he gave it to her. He lifted her to him and pressed his wickedly talented mouth more fully against her. She could feel the abrasive scratch of his jaw as he feasted on her with his ravenous kiss and tongue. It was too much.

The spasms took hold, and she started to break apart in white-hot shards of blistering ecstasy. But he didn't let her go, holding her to him, taking her pleasure deep into his mouth.

Her body was still rippling when he released her. He held
her half-lidded gaze to his as he moved over her, cradled her against him, and slowly pushed into her, her still sensitive flesh achingly aware of every thick inch.

When he was fully inside her, he didn't move, but just held her to him—more tenderly then he'd ever done before—tucking her into the broad shield of his chest as if just the contact was enough.

It was.

She melted against him, savoring the sensation of all those hard muscles surrounding her and of his fullness inside her.

And of his heart beating against hers.

Emotion tightened her chest. It was the most poignant moment of her life. She hadn't known she could ever feel this close to anyone.

They stayed like that for a long time, staring into each other's eyes, silent except for the heavy pounding of their hearts beating together.

Then he began to move. Slowly. Not letting go of her gaze, holding her with an intensity that made her heart tug hard against her ribs.

He thrust with long, languid strokes. As if they had all the time in the world. As if they
were
the world. He sank in and out, holding himself at the deepest point and startling a gasp from her lips when he pushed even deeper.

Slowly, he began to quicken the pace. Thrusting a little harder. Sinking a little deeper. Skin to skin, their bodies slid together in perfect rhythm.

She felt the sensations building again. Different this time. Not so frantic, but more intense and powerful, claiming not just the place between her legs, but her entire being.

She could see his face tighten. His jaw clench. The muscles in his shoulders bunch. His skin was hot; a band of sweat had gathered on his brow.

Their bodies rocked. He circled his hips, pumping faster. Grinding against her until her breath quickened. Until her
heart raced. Until the pulse between her legs grew frantic and tight.

Still he held her gaze, his crystal-clear blue eyes fierce with an emotion she'd never seen before. Not lust, but something deeper—more meaningful. She dared not hope.

“Come with me, Tina,” he said savagely.

God, she was. Her breath hitched, her back arched, and she started to break apart. Not in a violent explosion, but in a slow shattering that started from deep inside and radiated out in a shimmering wave of sensation.

And he came along with her, riding the wave of her climax with his own.

At that moment her dreams seemed so close, she could almost reach out and grab them.

Long after the last ebb of their climax had faded, Tor lay in bed, Christina sleeping soundly against him. He was having trouble putting what had just happened in the proper perspective.

Intense
. That didn't even begin to describe it.
Cataclysmic. Earth-shattering
. Those came closer.

He didn't realize mating could be like that.

His chest burned with tenderness for the tiny lass curled up against him like a bairn. After the deaths of his parents and the long intervening years of constant war and death, he thought himself impervious to these kinds of feelings. His control and lack of emotion were what made him excel as a chief and a warrior. But he felt the layers of ice melting under the warmth of her…love.

His brother was right: She loved him. He could see it in her eyes. Feel it in her touch. Taste it in her kiss.

And he could not deny that he felt a special tenderness for the lass, which troubled him. Could he care about her and still put his clan first? He'd never thought so before. Feelings only complicated—weakened—and that was something no chief or warrior could risk. He'd had a taste
of it when MacDougall had confronted them, and when he'd seen her in the village. No matter what happened, he knew he could not allow his weakness for his wife to interfere with his duty.

She made a soft, contented sound in her sleep. He sighed, pressing his cheek against her warm, silky hair and inhaling her sweet, feminine scent. Contentment washed over his exhausted limbs. She was so small and soft. Delicate and easily hurt. Not hurting her was going to be a challenge, but he vowed to do his best to make her happy.

Christina leaned back against Tor's chest, the leather folio resting on her naked stomach and the rumpled bed linen twisted around her legs. Bright morning sunlight poured through the open shutter, giving her plenty of light from which to read.

Or at least
try
to read—if her infuriating husband would stop interrupting. She got to the part about Lancelot lowering himself to ride in a cart to save his lady, and she heard the unmistakable sound of a snort.

She put down the book and turned around to give him a sharp look. “If you are going to ruin the story, I'm not going to read anymore.”

“These knights and their foolish codes,” he said with unconcealed disgust. “The gravest dishonor just for consenting to ride in a cart?” He shook his head. “Hell, I'd crawl through a dung heap to save you.”

Christina's mouth twitched. It was hard to stay angry when he said something like that. Who would have thought that a dung heap could be so romantic?

She scooted up to give him a swift kiss. “That's sweet.”

“Sweet?” His eyes darkened. “I don't have a sweet bone in my body.”

And to prove it he dragged her up his chest and kissed
her much more thoroughly. The book fell between them as she took advantage of their position, and his sizeable erection, by rolling around on top of him.

Straddling him on her knees, she impaled herself onto him, her body sighing with pleasure as he filled her. And how he filled her! Big and thick, she loved the feeling of him inside her. Aye, she'd learned to appreciate his size, and now understood the look that maid had given her those months ago at Finlaggan.

Groaning, he cupped her breasts in his big, rough hands, squeezing and pinching her nipples between his fingers as she began to ride him. Slowly at first, then faster, finding her rhythm.

She arched her back into his palms, letting her head fall back as she lifted off him, pulling up as high as she could go before sinking back down on top of him with a sensual circle of her hips.

Their bodies moved together so easily—fluidly. In bed, there was nothing left between them. No awkwardness or embarrassment, just the perfect union of lovers.

When she neared her release, he reached down between them and caressed that deliciously sensitive spot with his finger, intensifying her pleasure exactly the way he knew she liked.

She shuddered, crying out, as the spasms wracked her. She was still tingling when he took her by the hips and thrust high and deep, finding his own release.

Gently, he cupped her face and kissed her again. “Was that sweet enough for you?”

“Aye, I'll ride you over a cart any day.” She giggled and snuggled back against him, retrieving the book from the sheets. With a scolding look, as if he was a bairn who'd misbehaved, she said, “Now do you want me to finish the chapter or not?”

His mouth quirked. “I suppose you might as well.”

She wasn't fooled by his indifferent attitude. Despite his
obvious scorn for the knightly code, she knew he was enjoying the tale.

She managed to get through the rest of the chapter without any further interruptions. But when she finished, he rolled out of bed (reluctantly, she thought) to get dressed.

She watched him with unconcealed interest. Two weeks of waking up in his arms had not dimmed her eagerness any. After that first time, he'd slept beside her every night. Yule had passed a week ago, but each day felt like a gift. She didn't think she'd ever get tired of waking up next to him or of looking at his magnificent body as he went through his morning ablutions, knowing that only minutes before she'd been in his arms.

Her husband had softened toward her—of that she had no doubt. He no longer seemed quite so distant and indifferent, and he was making an effort to open up to her more as he'd promised, though it wasn't easy for him. Given the brutality of his life and the circumstances of his parents' death, she understood why.

Waking up in his arms every morning gave her some of the closeness she'd yearned for, but there was something missing. The divide between them was still there. It seemed he had two lives—one with her and one with everyone else.

She was as much in the dark about what he was doing as before. But she told herself to be patient. She just needed to give him a chance.

He dressed quickly; cleaned his teeth with a wash of white wine, a fine cloth, and a mint-and-salt paste; ran a comb through his hair, splashed water on his face from the urn on the table, and dragged the drying cloth over his face to wipe away the excess. But the cool water did not wash away the signs of worry etched on his face.

Something was weighing on him. She knew him better now and had learned to decipher the nearly imperceptible signs: a slight tightening of the mouth, heaviness in the brow, and distance in his gaze.

“What is it?” she asked. “What is bothering you?”

Was it the rumors of the growing rift between Bruce and Comyn, and the looming threat of war between Scotland and England? After learning of his struggle to rebuild his clan from the ashes of destruction, she understood his reasons for wanting to avoid the war and maintain his neutrality.

He smiled and shook his head, her clue that he had no intention of telling her. She fought back the wave of disappointment. It wasn't just the lack of trust—or that he'd confided in others—but the fear that he still saw her as a fragile plaything who needed to be cosseted and protected.

It will take time
, she reminded herself. And they had a lifetime.

“Just something I've been putting off.” He turned to meet her gaze. “I might not be back for the rest of the week.”

This time she couldn't prevent the disappointment, though she did her best to hide it. She knew she should be grateful for the weeks they'd had together, but it wasn't enough. She'd become greedy. The more time she spent with him, the more she wanted.

She didn't ask him where he was going, not wanting to dull her mood any further when he refused to tell her.

But all of a sudden a possibility struck her. Dear God, was this the day she'd feared? The day he would sail off to war?

Christina's perceptiveness about his mood no longer surprised him, though it bothered him how easily she could read him. Something
was
bothering him. He could no longer put off MacDonald's orders.

Unfortunately, he could also read her and knew that his reticence was hurting her. Their carefully constructed compromise was foundering. As much as she pretended to understand why he could not explain what he was doing,
the closer they became, the bigger the hole grew between them.

What surprised him the most was that he actually
wanted
to tell her. For years he'd kept everything bottled up inside. Loosening the top had made years of built-up pressure ready to explode. Probably, he never should have made an exception. But he couldn't deny that talking seemed to help clear his head.

She tucked her hair behind her ear and drew her feet up, wrapping the bedsheet around her knees. “Have you found out who was responsible for the attack?” she asked evenly.

Tor wasn't fooled by the nonchalant question; he knew what was behind it. She no longer asked him where he was going, but that didn't mean she had stopped wanting to know.

His mouth fell in a hard line. “Nay.”

MacSorley and MacRuairi had returned a few days after giving chase, severely undermanned against four warships they had followed at a distance, waiting until one of the galleys had fallen back from the rest. They'd taken the single galley easily, but not even MacRuairi's considerable talents at extracting information had revealed the name of the man who'd hired them.

“Not yet,” he amended. “But I will. Once I find the leak—”

He stopped, feeling as if he'd been poleaxed. He'd never made a slip like that in his life. Maybe she wouldn't notice.
Right
.

She gasped. “You think there is a spy?”

“It seems probable,” he replied slowly, furious with himself. “The attacks have all been when I was—or was supposed to be—away. Too great of a coincidence to be left to chance.”

“Do you know who the spy is?”

“Nay, not yet. It could be anyone.
Anyone,”
he repeated.

“When I leave the castle is not exactly a secret. But my men are watching for anything suspicious, and precautions are being taken.” All messages were being screened and anything suspicious brought to him. They were watching the guardsmen—the newer recruits in particular—and the household staff, including the clerk and Rhuairi. Although after how the clerk had protected Christina, his initial suspicions seemed unfounded.

He could almost see her mind working. Perhaps the slip had been for the best, he told himself. Drawing the asp out had to be done with care so as to not make him run, and it could be dangerous. She needed to be on guard. “Only a few of my closest guardsmen know about this, Christina. I trust I do not need to impart upon you the seriousness—or the potential danger—of the situation. I hope I have not misplaced my trust in you.”

She shook her heard violently. “Of course not.” She smiled. “Thank you for telling me.” She tilted her head. “Is that why you are going away?”

“Partly. My men will be watching the castle for anything unusual. Although I doubt they will try anything again so soon after the last attack. But I don't want you to leave the castle while I'm gone—and remember your promise.”

He didn't need to explain to her to stay out of his business. “I will be bored,” she complained.

He tried not to smile at her piqued expression. “I thought you were working on a new banner for the Hall.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You know very well that it's a mess. I'm horrible with a needle.”

He chuckled. “I'm sure you will find something to occupy your time.”

“If you hadn't sent your brother and his bride off into exile, I would have someone to talk to.”

It was a sore subject. She didn't understand his insistence on punishing his brother—even though he wasn't. It didn't surprise him. She was too soft-hearted and not used to
making the hard decisions that he was faced with every day as chief.

“Janet will be here.” With a potential spy in their midst, he'd decided it was too risky for her to be going back and forth between the castle and the broch. The men had been cooking on their own—and complaining.

She arched her brow. “You wish me to be friends with your mistress?”

“Former mistress,” he corrected. “But still a friend. Give her a chance; you will like her.”

She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “Men don't understand anything. I doubt very much she wants to be my friend.”

He had no idea why, but didn't pretend to understand the intricacies of a woman's mind.

He bent down and gave her a soft kiss, lingering longer than he should have. But when he lifted his head it was worth it. Crushed red lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dazed, soft pink cheeks—damn, he loved the way she looked when he kissed her. “I'll be back before you know it.”

Christina had managed to take Tor's mind off his troubles, but not for long.
Damn Bruce. To hell with MacDonald
. He hated deception of any kind. These men were a team and deserved to know the truth. For a covert guard like this to work, ultimate authority for team decisions had to rest with the team leader. If this were his command, he'd tell Bruce and MacDonald exactly what they could do with their “orders.” But in a little less than three weeks, MacSorley would be the leader and it would be his decision to make. Not even the big Norseman, however, knew what was about to happen.

It was the final test of “Perdition,” delayed by their early return to Dunvegan.

The men gathered around as he explained their task. It
had taken more than two months, but Tor had finally managed to silence them.

“You can't be serious.” Seton was the first one brash enough to say what the others were thinking.

The look Tor shot him said otherwise. “It was the final challenge for Finn MacCool's Fianna.”

“But that's only a legend,” MacGregor said. “No man could defend himself against so many spears while buried up to his waist naked with only a targe to defend himself.”

Tor smiled. “You've nothing to worry about, I'm modifying the test from Finn's. You can wear your war coat and helm, and not all the spears will be thrown at once.”

He heard a few snorts. His modification didn't seem to have impressed them.

“It can be done,” Campbell interjected. “An accomplished warrior can easily catch ten or more spears. It's more about controlling your fear.”

“Easy for you to say,” MacGregor said. “You've grown up having spears lobbed at your head. We've all seen what you can do with them.”

Campbell met Tor's gaze and he nodded his approval. “I'll show you,” he offered.