The Chief (37 page)

She waited for some reaction to her heartfelt declaration, but he stood in stony silence—aloof, distant, imperious as a king. The only evidence that he'd heard her was the slight whitening around his mouth.

She hadn't expected him to return her sentiment…had she?

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. Her throat was so tight it was hard to talk. Why was he acting like this? This was the way he acted with everyone else, not with her. Where was the man she'd read stories to in bed? “Don't do this to me. Don't pull away. I don't deserve being treated as if I mean nothing to you.” She tried to swallow, but it hurt. “This isn't you.”

His gaze shifted to hers, silently challenging her words. If there had been anger in his eyes she would have held out hope, but the cool, steady gaze that met hers was ice-blue, without a flicker of emotion. She stepped back, as if seeing him for the first time.

“This is me. I'm not your damned Lancelot. This isn't some romantic fantasy, and nothing you do—or no matter how helpful you try to be—is going to change that.”

She gasped, feeling as if he'd just plunged a dirk into her heart. The blood leached from her face. He'd just shined a light on her deepest, darkest dreams only to stomp on them. Was she so transparent? Had he seen her attempts to please him as some pathetic attempt to gain his heart? She cringed, wondering if he was right. Pride made her say, “I don't know what you mean.”

Please don't let that be pity in his gaze
.

“You think I don't see the way you look at me? What you want from me? But I can't give you what you want. You are young and full of dreams of knights and romance. I'm a battle-hard Highland chief whose sole devotion is to his clan.”

“And there is no place for me?”

“Not in the way you want.”

“It doesn't have to be that way.”

His face didn't move a muscle. “Aye, it does.”

“I think you want it that way,” she said angrily. “You want to be alone—so that it doesn't have to hurt if you lose someone and you don't have to rely on anyone else. You've started to believe what they say about you. But you aren't invincible. You are a man. People need one another—even if they make mistakes. Your father was wrong to make you think differently.”

She saw the pulse below his jaw and wondered if she'd gone too far.

“You don't know what you are talking about,” he said. “I knew this was a mistake.”

Her stomach turned, realizing what he meant. Their marriage was the mistake.

He didn't mean it. He must have wanted to marry her a little bit…didn't he? No one forced him to do anything. No matter how much it hurt, she had to know the truth. “Why did you marry me?”

He turned, and she could see from his hesitation that he didn't want to tell her.

Her chest was so tight she could barely breathe. “What difference does it make now?” she asked hollowly. “Why keep any more illusions between us?”

He shot her a hard look, not liking her sarcasm. “It was part of the bargain I made with MacDonald. Marriage to you was the price I paid for peace. Although after what has happened today, it may have just cost me exactly that.”

Her heart felt like it was breaking into a million little
pieces, scattering across the floor at her feet. Big, hot tears poured down her cheeks. “And the men you've been training are part of it?”

Curtly, succinctly, emotionlessly, he told her what she'd wanted to know for so long, letting her see exactly what her actions may have cost him. She listened as he explained the terms of his bargain with MacDonald. How they'd asked him to lead the men and how he'd initially refused, but then MacDonald had made him an offer her couldn't refuse.

He never wanted to marry me
. It wasn't honor or any special feelings for her that had changed his mind, it was his duty to his clan.

And she'd done the one thing he could never forgive: putting herself between him and his clan. She felt ill, realizing the danger she'd unwittingly unleashed. Because of her, the safety of his clan and everything he'd fought to achieve since his parents' death was at risk.

He would never trust her again. She knew how hard it had been for him to relax his guard just a little, and he would see this as a personal failure. She'd fulfilled his worst fear—that allowing himself to get close to someone would hurt his clan. The promise of the past few weeks was gone. He'd distanced himself from her, this time for good.

“And now?” she asked. “Do you feel the same way now?”

She thought his gaze flickered, but it was just the candlelight. “What difference does it make? You are my wife.”

It was the final blow. Her fantasy had prevented her from seeing the truth. For the first time, she saw things clearly. He was right: He would never be able to give her what she wanted. He would always keep part of himself detached from her. Even if he did care for her, he would never admit it. He didn't love her and never would. She'd been deluding herself. Making excuses. Convincing herself
that beneath the icy shell he cared for her. That the shell was only to protect himself. That he just didn't know how to show his feelings.

But she was wrong. Trying to wring emotion from him was like trying to squeeze water from a stone. She hadn't sought a full cup, only a few drops. But he couldn't even give her that.

And she was done trying. She'd given him everything she had to give and it wasn't enough—it would never be enough.

She wiped the tears from her eyes. This was how it would be between them. Always. There had never been anything special. It all had been her imagination getting carried away. He wasn't her Lancelot; he was a ruthless Highland chief who belonged to his clan.

There was a knock on the door and MacSorley said, “We're ready, captain.”

Tor made his way to the door.

“I'm so sorry,” she said one last time.

“It's too late for apologies,” he said stonily. “If you want to help, pray that I find your friend before he brings Edward's wrath down on us all.”

Her chest squeezed as she watched him go, trying to burn every detail to memory, her heart knowing what her head had yet to realize.

“Good-bye,” she whispered, as the door closed behind him.

She realized she meant it. Perhaps it was inevitable. A marriage forged in treachery was doomed from the start. But she could not go on like this. Pretending. Banging her head against a stone wall. He may have relaxed the boundaries between them, but they were still there—would always be there. His world and hers. It wasn't good enough.

She wanted—nay,
deserved
—more. He wasn't the only one who deserved happiness.

Ironically, he was the one who'd helped her see it. She was no longer the frightened girl who'd cowered under her father's hand or the adoring pup who begged for whatever meager scrap of affection her husband wanted to dole out. She had a lot to give. She could read and write, calculate complex figures in her head, turn a dark hovel into a home, and most of all, love someone with all her heart. If he couldn't see that, it was his loss.

Father Stephen was right. She deserved someone who could see what she had to give and would love her for it. Who wouldn't turn away from her every time she made a mistake. She wanted to be important to someone. Perhaps it was unrealistic, but the alternative was far worse. What Tor offered would not only break her heart, but her spirit. She could live with a broken heart, but not at the expense of her soul.

She took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her eyes. There was only one thing to do.

As Christina sat huddled in the
birlinn
and watched the menacing stone walls of Dunvegan Castle fade into the haunting morning mist, her broken heart crumbled a little more. Over the past few months she'd come to love the old pile of rocks that made up the forbidding castle and the taciturn occupants that filled its Hall. She would miss them desperately.

She would miss
him
desperately. Eyes that she thought incapable of any more tears filled again, but she wiped away the dampness determinedly. She'd made her decision, and now she had to live with it.

It was over. She was leaving him. The man she loved. She would hold her husband to his vow to let her retire to the nunnery on Iona, a vow she knew he'd never thought to honor. She hated running off like this, but she wasn't completely sure he would keep his vow if she gave him the chance to object.

When she'd discovered that there was already a
birlinn
preparing to go to the Isle of Mull, she'd asked for them to take her to Iona first. It was a little out of their way but easier than arranging a separate boat. There had been no time to pack. She'd boarded with little more than a change of clothes and a few personal items. Mhairi would pack
the remainder of her belongings and send them to Iona before returning to her family in Touch Fraser. Her precious folio she left behind. The story only gave young girls false hopes and dreams.

She'd told the guardsmen who accompanied her that she was going to visit her sister, but she knew that they did not fully believe her. Unlike them, she didn't have a steel helm to hide her swollen eyes and tear-stained face.

The journey was a rough one across choppy seas. Christina sat alone on a bench near the prow, wrapped in a cloak and furs, more miserable than she'd ever felt in her life—and it wasn't from the wind and cold.

More than once she thought about telling the guardsmen to turn around, but she quieted any qualms she had in leaving by telling herself that severing the bond between them would be best for Tor as well. The marriage he hadn't wanted had caused him nothing but problems. Perhaps her leaving would help him work his way out of the mess she'd brought down upon his head.

But knowing she was doing the right thing didn't make it any easier. Part of her wished that she could be satisfied by half a life, but she knew she could never be content with what he could give her and wouldn't stop pressing him for more. And he would grow colder and colder until eventually she hated him—and herself.

Nay, it was better this way. Her misery and despair would eventually fade. Though it certainly hadn't dulled any so far, growing worse as the day progressed, as she sailed farther and farther away from the place that had become more of a home than she'd ever known.

They'd been at sea for a few hours, reversing the journey she'd made only a few short months ago. She recognized some of the small islands that had been pointed out to her on the journey north: Rum, Eigg, and Muck. Although the skies were cloudy and gray, the fog had rolled back and she could catch glimpses of the Scottish coast on her left. Soon
they would be sailing between Coll and Mull, and just to the south of that lay Iona. Assuming the wind held, it wouldn't be long before she was safely ensconced in the walls of Iona's famous nunnery with Beatrix. The safety and security she'd sought, without the illusions.

Lost in her own misery, it took her a while to notice that something was wrong. Murdoch's, Tor's henchman and captain of the guardsmen, brusque commands rang out with increasing urgency.

“What is it?” she asked the young warrior on the bench opposite her.

“I'm sure it's nothing, my lady.” He pointed behind them, and she could just make out the striped sails of two boats in the distance. “Those galleys have been following us for an hour or so. The captain is going to make a quick jog around the Isle of Staffa and we should lose them.”

“They look to be rather
large
galleys,” she said cautiously.

“Attacks at sea are rare, my lady. We travel this route all the time and rarely encounter trouble.”

Attacks? Despite his assurance that it was probably nothing, Christina felt her heartbeat quicken, stirring from its lethargy. A few minutes later, Murdoch shouted to hold on, and the boat made a sharp turn left to swing around the small island with its strange rock formations. She'd never seen anything like the hexagonal columns of black rock, but she didn't take the time to study them, instead watching anxiously, hoping to see the sail behind them continue on and trying not to panic when it did not.

She knew that the warrior beside her was occupied rowing, but she had to observe, “It seems they're still following us.”

He hadn't missed the apprehension in her tone. She could see that he didn't want to scare her, but neither would he minimize the seriousness of what was happening. “We'll try to outrun them.”

Try
. But she knew as well as he that it was only a matter of time before the larger boats caught up to them. In a strong wind the smaller boat was faster, but the galley had nearly double the oars of the
birlinn
.

“Are they pirates?”

His mouth was grim. The boats were getting closer—to within a few hundred yards at most. “Worse,” he said. “One of them looks to be English.”

“What do they want?”

He shook his head. “I don't know, my lady.”

All of a sudden Murdoch shouted, “Cover!”

Christina was shoved to the ground and a ceiling of targes was raised above her head, only seconds before she heard the sickening thump of arrows raining down on them. She was in such a state of shock that it took her a moment to realize what was happening.

“Why are they attacking us?” she asked, but the men were too busy trying to evade their pursuers and retaliate with arrows of their own to answer her.

“Surrender,” she heard voiced from a distance and knew it must be from one of the boats.

She didn't need to hear Murdoch's crude reply to know what Tor's men would do. These men lived to fight. Even now she could see their eagerness. Surrender wasn't in their blood. They'd rather die.

But she couldn't let them. Not if she could prevent it. She had to do something.

“Nay,” she said, pushing through the targes to catch the captain's gaze. “Do what he says, Murdoch. At least try to find out what they want.”

Murdoch's face was a mask of fury. It was clear he'd never been ordered by a woman before and wanted to ignore her. It went against his warrior's nature to run from a fight, but he also knew his duty to protect his lady. She was relieved when he turned away from her and shouted
at the closest boat to them—still some distance away—doing as she asked.

“What are you hiding, sons of Leod?” came the reply.

They know who we are
, she thought. They must have recognized the banner—the three legs clad in mail flexed into a triangle, denoting the clan's descent from the Kings of Man, and a black
birlinn
harkening to their Norse ancestry, against a red and azure background.

“Give us half and we shall let you go in peace,” another man added.

Dear God, they think we are carrying riches! They are nothing more than English pirates
.

“We've nothing that would be of any interest to you,” Murdoch replied. “We carry no coin or goods on board.”

It was clear that their pursuers didn't believe them when they answered with another hail of arrows. Christina was forced back down under the canopy of targes and didn't try to interfere again. It would do no good, as they were intent on piracy. She'd heard enough of English atrocities from her father, so why did it surprise her?

She felt the boat shift again as the men worked to find the gust of wind that would enable them to outdistance the arrows and escape.

From under the shields she heard a man near her groan and knew that one of the attackers' arrows had found its mark.

She smothered a horrified cry in her fist. She was so scared that she didn't know what to do. Resting her face on her knees, she tried to block out the excruciating sounds around her, nearly falling over when their boat was rammed from the opposite side. The sounds were getting louder—more shouting, more arrows, the sound of a metal grappling hook as the boats were tied together, the rocking of men moving, and then the crash as the sword battle began in a cacophony of clattering steel and death. She
could see the wall of men's legs surround her and knew that they would die protecting her.

Her husband's guardsmen were some of the best warriors in the Isles, but they were a score against nearly four times that, judging from the sizes of the boats.

The sounds were horrible. Pained grunts, bones crunching, death screams. Bile rose in her throat as the men fell around her. Men she knew. The horror nearly overwhelmed her. It was too much.

She wanted to fall apart, but she would not shame these men who were dying while trying to protect her. Instead she strove for numbness.

Every minute that passed was excruciating. The MacLeod guardsmen gave a valiant effort, but eventually they were overwhelmed. The warriors around her started to fall. She caught Murdoch's gaze as he landed on top of her and understood, trying not to scream as she hid beneath the shield of his bloody body.

Even worse than the sounds of the battle was when it stopped, knowing that they were all dead.

“Pull them away,” she heard a man say, “let's see what they were so anxious to protect.”

Murdoch's last efforts had been for naught. A moment later, she found herself roughly pulled from her hiding place.

“It's a lass,” the man said, pulling back her hood. “And a pretty one at that.”

The thick, coppery smell overwhelmed her. She took one glance at the carnage around her—at the faces she knew—and threw up all over the steel chausses and sabatons of the man holding her.

He swore and clapped her across the face with the back of his hand. “Stupid bitch!”

“What is your name, gel?”

She wiped her mouth and looked up at the man who'd spoken. Beneath the steel visor of his helm, his eyes stabbed her like two black daggers. From the fine quality
of his mail and the fine tabard worn over his chest, she guessed he was the English leader.

She thrust up her chin, and met his gaze. “Christina, wife of the MacLeod chief.” The name of the feared chief made no impression on the haughty Englishman. The disdain on his cruel, leathery face didn't prevent her from adding, “Under what authority do you attack this ship and murder these men?”

From his expression, she could tell he didn't like her challenging tone. “Edward by the grace of God, King of England and Scotland, Lord of Ireland, Prince of Wales, and Duke of Aquitaine. Your men resisted,” he lied boldly. Dismissing her, he addressed the soldier who held her arm. “Be quick about it.” The English leader looked around to his other men. “And anybody else who wishes to share in the spoils. There is nothing here. When you are done, burn it all.”

Christina fought back another wave of nausea, realizing what they intended. They would rape her and then kill her, leaving no witnesses to their crime. The wife of a Highland chief meant nothing to them.
Fools!
Tor would hunt them down when he learned what had happened here today.

The second ship had pulled along the other side of the
birlinn
. From their clothing and armor she could tell the occupants were Highlanders. She scanned the hard, brutal faces, looking for mercy but finding none. Suddenly, a man stepped forward. Her gaze sharpened. He looked familiar.

“I believe the lass can be of use to us, captain.”

The English leader turned to him with only slightly less contempt than he'd shown her. “And who are you?”

“Arthur Campbell.”

“Campbell? Isn't your brother one of Bruce's companions?”

Undoubtedly, that's why she'd recognized him. She remembered Sir Colin Campbell from Finlaggan. Arthur, though a score of years younger, bore the look of his distinguished brother.

“Aye, and myself and two other brothers are loyal to the Lord of Badenoch.”

The Red Comyn
.

Divided families were not uncommon. The English captain accepted his explanation, and Campbell continued, “The lass is only recently married to the MacLeod chief—a love match I hear.” She smothered the hysterical sharp laugh that rose to her throat. “He will be anxious to get her back. Perhaps the chit can help persuade him to the righteousness of our cause.” The captain didn't look impressed. Like most Englishmen, he made the mistake of dismissing the “barbarian” Highlanders. “She is also the daughter of Andrew Fraser,” he added.

That perked up his ears. The captain's gaze narrowed on her. “Is this true, gel?”

She nodded, deciding it prudent not to mention that threatening her father with her safety wasn't much of a threat.