The Chief (6 page)

His fingers bit into her shoulder. “What have you done?”

“I…” Her voice caught, not knowing how to explain. “He was going to kill him.”

He drew her close with a growl. “And you decided to interfere in a battle between men?” His face was only inches from hers. She could feel the heat of his wine-laden breath on her cheek. “You idiot! Do you know who that is?”

She shook her head, her heart pounding erratically, knowing she'd made a huge mistake.

“Tor MacLeod,” he spat. “The man one of you is to marry.”

Christina gasped, horror washing over her. Marry
him?
That muscle-bound giant? She'd seen more emotion in a rock. Good lord, he looked like the kind of savage Viking who collected heads on necklaces and sacrificed virgins for fun.

For a moment she thought she might faint. But Beatrix did it for her.

Tor was aware of MacDonald's amused gaze on him throughout the meal. Apparently, his host found Tor's uncharacteristic display of mercy humorous.

He could guess why.

But MacDonald was wrong. It had nothing to do with the lass—not in the way he thought, at least. A plea for mercy assumed he had some. Her cry had simply cleared the haze long enough for Tor to reconsider. It wasn't the look of horror in the girl's wide eyes that stayed his hand, but the realization that he'd been baited.

He'd like nothing better than to sink his blade into Lachlan MacRuairi, but hell if he'd be the instrument in some half-crazed death wish.

MacRuairi's crude remark about Tor's sister had been calculated for one purpose. He had been prevented from
seeing it earlier only because he'd been caught off guard by his enemy's sudden appearance.

He tore a piece of meat off the rib with his teeth and chewed slowly, washing it down with a long swig of
cuirm
, before turning to his host. “I assume you heard what happened today.”

The older man's gaze narrowed, his blue eyes darkening. Though approaching his fifth decade, MacDonald was still a formidable warrior and to many a king. “Aye, you and my bastard cousin ignored the truce and broke the peace.”

Tor didn't argue; it was the truth. The summons to the chiefs had been done under a vow of truce. Men of lesser rank could be chained in irons for such a breach. By all rights MacDonald could seek to exact retribution from them both—more from Tor, who'd struck the first blow.

“You're fortunate the lass prevented you from doing something I wouldn't be able to overlook,” MacDonald said. “Lachlan may be a provoking bastard, but he's still my cousin. His sister would have my bollocks if you'd killed him.”

It was hard to believe a black-hearted whoreson like Lachlan and Tina MacRuairi, the Lady of the Isles, could share the same father—a father who'd left three male bastards and only a lass as his legitimate heir.

MacDonald's sudden loyalty was strange given Lachlan's past. Not long ago MacRuairi had been allied with MacDougall—MacDonald's enemy.

“The girl didn't prevent me from doing anything,” Tor said. “If your cousin wants to die, he'll have to find someone else to do the killing—I'm sure he won't have to look too far.”

MacDonald gave him a look that suggested he didn't believe him about the lass, but apparently chose not to press his point. He shrugged. “One can only guess what goes on in that devious mind. Lachlan has always been an enigma. I'll admit goading the best swordsman in the Isles wasn't one
of his more prudent moments, but you aren't exactly known for losing your temper.” MacDonald smiled at the understatement, and then asked, “What did he say?”

“Something I couldn't ignore.”

Too bad you don't have any more sisters. My brother can't seem to get enough of his bride and my sword could use a good oiling
. The crude reference to Tor's sister sucking Lachlan's brother's cock had been the last straw in an already heated exchange.

Lachlan's brother Ranald had kidnapped Tor's sister Muriel nearly three years ago during a raid. He'd never know whether his sister went willingly. She claimed so now, but that was because she fancied herself in love—apparently, a recurring deficiency with his siblings.

He couldn't imagine having the time or inclination to pursue such folly. In a world where death was a daily occurrence—where men died in battle, women died in childbirth, and children died of disease or were sent out to be fostered at a young age—it was wise not to get too attached. To make decisions under pressure, a warrior had to learn to control his emotions and not think about killing or dying. As chief, he had the same responsibility to his people.

The recent truce had been at Muriel's urging. He'd welcomed an end to the feuding, for his clan's sake, but the MacRuairis were still his enemies.

MacDonald turned to Lamberton on his other side, and Tor found his gaze slipping to the lass. It wasn't the first time. She sat beside another girl—the angelic fair-haired lass she'd been with earlier—at a table close to the dais, meaning that she had to be of some importance. A relative of MacDonald's, perchance? He couldn't get a good look at her face, despite her nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear. She kept her sable head averted each time he glanced in her direction. But he remembered well enough what she looked like.

Beautiful. Not in the classical fashion of the blond beauty
beside her, but in a much more visceral, cock-hardening way. It wasn't just the lush, well-curved body, evident even beneath the modest green silk cote-hardie that she wore, but the wide, red mouth and the exotic tilt of her dark eyes.

He frowned. But she was small and young. And despite her seductive beauty, obviously an innocent—she had that wide-eyed, startled look of a girl raised in a convent and brought out into the world for the first time. She'd probably shake with fear if he whispered “boo.” Not the kind of woman to typically catch his eye.

At that she had surprised him, but the desire pooling full and heavy in his groin was proof enough. The reaction was understandable. Though he had a leman to take care of his needs, it had been some time since he'd felt the urge to bed her. The oversight was obviously making itself known.

He'd have to do something about it.

He turned his gaze from the lass, only to find his host watching him again. “They are both very beautiful, aren't they?” MacDonald asked, not expecting an answer. “But I think it's the delectable dark-haired morsel on the right who has caught your eye.” The older man shook his head. “I can't fault your taste; she's stunning.”

“Who is she?”

MacDonald arched a brow. “She's the one who interrupted the fight, isn't she?”

“Aye.” That smile that was beginning to annoy the hell out of him. “And you find that amusing?”

MacDonald laughed and shook his head. “Nay,
that's
not what I find amusing.”

It was becoming harder and harder to remember that he was MacDonald's guest. Tor had always respected the older warrior, but at times Angus Og could be as provoking as his bastard of a cousin. He was done playing games. “Then what is it?”

MacDonald shrugged. “If you want her, she can be yours.”

Tor frowned. A harlot? Could it be she wasn't as innocent as she looked? His gaze slid back to her. Nay, it had to be something else.

All of a sudden he understood his host's amusement.

His mouth fell in a hard line. “Fraser's daughters?”

MacDonald nodded. “I thought you might wish to reconsider.” He lowered his voice. “Say the word and she could be in your bed before the week is out.” Tor clenched his jaw, his body responding to the thought as his head could not. “The lass is a prize,” MacDonald urged. “Not only a beauty but rich in land and the daughter of an important nobleman. You would be hard pressed to find a better match.”

Tor's jaw hardened. He was angry not only because he'd allowed his interest in the lass to show, but because in doing so he'd given MacDonald what he thought was an opening. But MacDonald didn't know him at all if he thought he could be so easily turned. “Except that it comes at too much of a cost.” He gave his host a long look. “I told you before, I'll not be drawn into Scotland's war; I've enough troubles of my own. If you thought a beautiful lass would sway me, you were mistaken. If I want a lass in my bed, one will do as well as any other. I don't need to jeopardize my clan to have that one.”

MacDonald sat back, folding his arms across his great barrel chest, the smile fading from behind his long gray beard. “You surprise me, MacLeod. Frankly, I thought you'd jump at the opportunity—not because of the lass, but because of the challenge. Nothing like this has ever been conceived before. Just think what these men will be able to do with the right training and the right leadership. This will be the best team of warriors in the world. Better even than Finn MacCool's Fianna.”

It had intrigued him for precisely those reasons, but his duty was clear. Rising against Edward was of no benefit to his clan. More likely the treasonous rebellion would lead to harsh reprisal. “I've made my decision.”

MacDonald heaved a sigh of resignation. Tor's uncompromising tone had left no room for argument. “Bruce will be disappointed, but if you will not agree, someone else will. The lass would tempt the devil himself.”

Something in MacDonald's expression made Tor's instincts flare. He followed the direction of the other man's gaze and his entire body went rigid.

The lass had raised her head and he could finally see her face. A delicate pink flush had spread over her rosy cheeks, and an embarrassed smile was playing upon her wide red lips.

But it was the man standing before her who sent the flood of angry fire surging through his blood.

Aye, the devil himself: Lachlan MacRuairi.

Tor stared for a long moment, his stony expression giving no hint of his strangely intense reaction to the thought of his enemy winning such a prize.

But nothing would change his mind. His will was forged of iron, hard and unbending.

When at last he turned his gaze from the girl, he didn't look back.

Christina tugged the huque tighter around her chest in an effort to ward off the sudden chill sweeping over her, but the thick wool cloak felt as thin as linen against the penetrating mist. Glancing up at the darkening sky, she shivered and hurried her step.

She'd slipped away to the village after the feast, and though the autumn days were still long, her task had taken longer than she'd anticipated. If she didn't hurry she'd be late for the evening meal, and she still needed to change.

After gifting her maidservant with a gently used cotte from her trunk, she'd secretly borrowed the girl's old gown. It was still finer than the clothing worn by the serving women here, but worn and plain enough not to cause undue suspicion.

Thankfully, most of the guests, including her father, were housed in the old hall and barracks on the main island. Only a handful were staying in MacDonald's new tower house, so she didn't incur as much risk of running into someone who might recognize her.

She picked her way along the second causeway toward the smaller island, the shadow of the castle looming before her. The growing darkness made her uneasy, but it could not completely dampen her spirits. A smile curved her
mouth as the swell of success rose inside her: She'd done it. Her crazy plan just might work.

In truth, convincing someone to take them had been easier than she'd expected. Whether because of simple disinterest or the gold necklace she'd offered in payment, the boatswain had been happy to agree to take them to Iona without question. He was traveling to Mull the day after tomorrow and would drop them off on the way.

Christina did not fool herself. Their plan was fraught with difficulties. Even if they managed to get away her father would certainly follow them, and there was a chance the nunnery would not give them sanctuary, but she could not think of that now. They had to take a chance. After what happened earlier today, she knew there was no time to waste.

Though she'd been careful to avoid catching the MacLeod chief's gaze, she was acutely aware of his glowering stare on her during the meal—especially when Lachlan MacRuairi had come over to introduce himself and thank her for the timely interruption. The dark-haired warrior with green eyes was even more handsome up close—despite the scar that ran along his cheekbone—but he did not affect her in the same way that the other warrior did. He frightened her. She sensed a blackness in him that ran deep.

The greatest swordsman in the Isles, they said about Tor MacLeod. A long shiver ran through her as she recalled the intensity of MacLeod's gaze. Like her father, he was probably furious with her for interfering in his fight.

Why
had
he stopped?

It was just the kind of thing Lancelot would do for Guinevere. She smiled at the ridiculousness of the comparison. This fearsome half-Norse, half-Gael,
Gall-Gaedhil
warlord was nothing like her Lancelot.

She thought of Lancelot atop his horse, his striking ice blue eyes, handsome features, and golden hair shining in
the sun like some gorgeous sun god…She bit her lip. Actually, the MacLeod chief fit her image quite well, except that he was much taller and more heavily muscled than she'd imagined Lancelot.

Lancelot would lose
.

She put her hand over her mouth, as if the unbidden thought might somehow emerge from between her lips. It was practically heresy. Lancelot had been the greatest knight in Christendom. There was no comparison.

Or was there? What if it
had
been chivalrous instinct that caused the MacLeod chief to spare the other man's life? Had he stopped because of her?

She shook her head. There she went again, letting herself get carried away. Did a superficial resemblance to the knight of her dreams make her forget the cold ferocity in his glacial gaze? He'd looked at her for only an instant and his expression had never changed. She would not find kindness or chivalry from an Island warlord.

She trembled a little just thinking about it. Good gracious, she'd be terrified to say two words to him!

Stepping off the long causeway, she was relieved to have almost reached her destination. Christina didn't like being out alone in the dark. What might be an everyday occurrence for a servant was a rarity for a lady.

She was about ten feet from the forestairs that led up to the entry to the castle when she heard the sound of voices above her. She glanced up and felt her heart slam to a sudden stop.

Father!
With MacDonald and at least a half dozen other men. They stepped out of the keep and started down the stairs.

What can I say? How can I explain?

Knowing she was only moments from disaster, she looked around for somewhere to hide. With only a split second to react, Christina did the only thing she could and ducked under the wooden stairs. Back plastered to the cold
stone of the castle, she held completely still. Not one whisper of air escaped her lips as the men stomped down the stairs right over her head. They were laughing and joking as if they'd been drinking the entire time since the feast—which they probably had.

Her heart pounded in her ears.
Please, don't look down
.

She dared to exhale only when the last men stepped off the stairs and the boisterous voices trailed off toward the nearby roundhouse. Forcing herself to wait until it was completely silent, she stepped out of the shadows.

Her body sighed with relief.

A moment too soon. Someone grabbed her from behind and spun her around. She gasped as her body collided with his massive chest.

“What have we here?” the man slurred, the drink as heavy in his voice as it was on his breath.

Christina looked up into the black eyes of a brutish-looking warrior who towered above her by at least a foot. A guardsman, by the looks of him. He was as big as a bear, his features thick and crude, with a thick mass of wiry black hair that spread from his head to his chin and limited neck in a seamless bushy stream. Instinctively, she recoiled, sinking deeper into the folds of her hooded cloak and keeping her face hidden in the shadows.

“Where did you come from?” he leered, revealing a chipped-off front tooth.

For a moment, Christina was too stunned to reply. Despite her father's recent treatment, it was still a shock to be manhandled so roughly. Knights didn't accost ladies.

But she wasn't dressed as a lady.

And he wasn't a knight.

She would have to set him aright. “How dare you!” she said in her haughtiest voice. “Let go of me.” She tried to pull away, but his hand on her arm gripped her like a vise.

Her attitude didn't discourage him; rather it only served to anger him. “Ye're an uppity bitch, aren't you?” He
jerked her a little closer, close enough for her to see the spittle at the corner of his mouth, dampening his beard. Her stomach turned. “I've not seen you before. You must be with those Scot ladies,” he sneered.

She didn't think it was the time to point out that the Isles were part of Scotland, too.

He was drunk, really drunk. Panic bubbled up inside her, but she fought to tamp it down. It was clear this man was not to be reasoned with, not in his current state.

There was nothing left to do. Even if it meant trying to explain to her father what she was doing out alone dressed like a servant, she had to reveal her identity. Once this ruffian knew the truth, he would let her go.

She tossed back her hood dramatically. “I'm not with the Scots ladies, I
am
Lady Christina Fraser, Sir Andrew Fraser's daughter.”

As she was expecting him to let go of her arm, what he did next took her by complete surprise. He grabbed a pile of her hair in his fist and turned her face into the soft glow of torchlight beaming from the entry above.

She cried out at the burst of pain in the back of her head.

His eyes were glassy and unfocused as he examined her face, but it was clear from the way he smiled that he liked what he was able to see. “A real lady, are you? And I'm the King of England, ol' Longshanks himself.” He laughed at his own joke. “God, would ye look at that mouth. I hope you know how to use it.”

Blood drained from her face as fear and outrage turned to icy panic.
He doesn't believe me
. The possibility had never occurred to her. Christina had a sinking feeling that her naïveté and inexperience had just caught up with her. Suddenly, her short outing seemed ill conceived, foolhardy, and dangerous—very dangerous.

She looked around for help, but the place appeared deserted. Where was the guard? Would anyone hear her cries? Would anyone care?

The way he was leering at her made her skin crawl. She could guess his intentions. “Let go of me, you filthy beast!” she shouted. She tried to reach up and claw at him, but he sensed her movement and pinned her arms against her body by wrapping her tighter against his.

She fought to break free, but her struggles seemed to only make him angrier.

“You little hellcat!” he said furiously. “Like it rough, do you?” He dragged her toward the keep, deeper into the shadows, and slammed her back onto the wall of the castle, knocking the breath from her. He had one hand on her head, one around her waist holding her arms, and his body pinning her to the wall, making it barely possible for her to breathe, let alone move.

The sound of men's voices gave her a renewed burst of energy. “Help!” she managed breathlessly, before he clamped a hand down over her mouth.

But they'd heard her. “You over there.”

Her attacker stilled.

It had to be the castle guard. Tears streamed down her cheeks, relieved that this nightmare would soon be over.

“Hurry up, will you?” one of the men said. “The lass is making a lot of noise and there are ladies about.”

Her attacker chuckled. “Aye, she's a real screamer.”

The other men laughed and moved off, leaving her stunned. How could they just leave her? They didn't care. She was nothing to them.

It was up to her. No one would help her.

Releasing his hand from her mouth, his grip on her hair tightened and he forced her face to his, resuming where he'd left off before the interruption. His mouth lowered and she cried out, “No!” She tried to evade him, twisting her head until tears came, not caring if he ripped out all her hair. But the harder she struggled, the harder his grip on her grew.

Their teeth knocked, sending a blast of pain to her nose,
as his mouth came down on hers with crushing force. The pungent scent of putrid ale assailed her senses. She gagged, revulsion rising up in the back of her throat as her stomach threatened to empty. He tried to force his tongue between her lips, but she clamped her jaw tightly closed.

He grunted in frustration, his body grinding harder against hers, as he pressed his slobbery lips against her jaw. When he released her head she thought she'd won, but the victory was short-lived.

She felt his hands tugging at her neck, felt his ragged nails against her bare skin as he held the edge of the neck of her gown and pulled.

She heard the ripping sound of fabric an instant before the cold air blasted her bare breast. He groaned as his hand covered her and squeezed—hard. Horrified, she cried out at the brutal invasion.

“God, would you look at these tits!” He sounded like a man who'd just found a bag of gold. “Big and round, just the way I like them.”

Every ounce of her strength erupted in revolt at the feel of his disgusting hands on her body. “Don't touch me!” she screamed, close to hysteria. Lashing out like a wild woman, she was able to free one of her arms long enough to drag her nails down his cheek.

He howled out in pain and instinctively drew back. But the shock faded and his black gaze narrowed on her with chilling intent. He put his hand on his face, drawing it back to reveal blood. “I'm going to kill you for that, you bitch.”

He came at her again and she darted to the right, trying to evade him. But he was too fast. He caught hold of her cloak and started to reel her in.

Her heart raced as she summoned everything she had to try to get away, twisting, hitting, and kicking. But this time he was prepared. She fought against the feeling of helplessness that threatened to smother her, refusing to give up hope.

She pushed against him one more time, stunned when he seemed to fly back in the air.

Any thought that she might have been responsible was quickly doused when she looked up to see the guardsman who'd attacked her being held off the ground by the scruff of his neck like a pup by another man. It was too dark to see the newcomer's face, but he was tall and broad—even more so than her attacker. For the first time in her life she was glad of brawn and muscles.

“I believe the lass is not interested,” he said coolly.

His voice was deep and razor sharp, holding the unmistakable edge of authority. Something about it made her skin prickle.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” her attacker spat. “The lass is willing enough. An' even if she weren't, it's none of your bloody business.” The guardsman who'd seemed as strong as an ox to her struggled to break free of the man's hold, but he only tightened his grip, cutting off the guardsman's breath.