The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(101)

The air sparked between them. The heat of a different kind of fever sent a flush spreading over her skin. It had been too long. Her body craved his on an elemental level—like water, food, and air, she needed him.

She was deeply conscious of him beside her on the bed, of his broad shoulders and powerful arms. Of his spicy, masculine scent. Of his gorgeous mouth.

He leaned down.

Her breath caught in anticipation.

But instead of kissing her, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You need to rest,” he said.

“I feel fine,” she insisted, sounding not unlike a child deprived of a toy. Her very favorite toy.

But her effort to change his mind fell on deaf ears. He stood up. “I’ll be back to check on you later. If you need anything, just tell Morag.”

A bath. First thing. But sure that he would have other ideas about that, she decided not to mention it. “Morag was here? I thought she would be busy tending the wounded.”

“Among the men there were only a few bruises and scratches.”

She was relieved to hear it. A shadow of the ones who weren’t so fortunate passed over her.

He stood up and she watched him walk to the door. “Get some rest. I’ll send Mhairi to watch over you.”

“It isn’t necessary—”

But the door had already closed shut.

Twenty-One

It was late afternoon when Tor returned to the castle. As much as he would have liked to stay by his wife’s sickbed, once he’d been assured of her well-being, he had matters to attend to that could not be delayed any longer.

It was the first time he could recall ever resenting the call of duty. But in addition to trying to ferret out a possible spy, he’d also received a disturbing message from MacDonald requiring action. It would likely upset the hard-won balance of the team, but it could not be avoided.

Besides, if he’d stayed in that room one more minute he was liable to forget how ill she’d been and show her exactly how much she’d frightened him.

The moment when she’d collapsed to the ground was not one he wished to remember—ever. For one agonizing moment, he’d thought she was dead. He’d been able to breathe only when he’d felt the flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers and her faint but steady breath on his cheek. The panic subsided a bit more when the healer examined her and informed him that she had only a fever.

Only. There was no “only” when it came to his wife. When the old woman had made that mistake, he’d scared her out of half the years she had left—and she didn’t have many to spare.

He’d never felt like this before. Christina roused a fierce protectiveness in him of which he didn’t know he was capable. It was his duty as her husband to keep her safe, but what he felt went beyond duty.

He’d always been able to cut himself off from emotion, closing his mind like a steel trap. But with her it wasn’t so easy. Something about her called to him. Penetrated. She was gentle, kind, and giving, with a quick mind and an infectious excitement and joy for life, but with more depth and spirit than he’d initially given her credit for. She stood up to him, challenged him … cared for him.

She was softness to a man who’d known only strife. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep her out.

He trudged up the stairs and instinctively scanned the area. The guardsmen were posted in their positions along the stone parapets and in the bretache overhanging the gate—a small wooden box built into the castle wall. A few women were gathering water from the well. Servants were carrying platters and dishes back from the Hall, and Christina was—

The bottom fell out of his stomach as his gaze shot back to the figure walking along the battlements. His temper—something he was becoming too familiar with lately—exploded. What the hell was she doing outside? She should be resting, not traipsing around outside in the cool air with—heaven help him—damp hair. Didn’t she know she could catch a chill?

She turned and waved, her hand slowly dropping when he drew near.

She’d seen his expression. Biting her lip, she took a few steps back. But the placating look on her face didn’t do one damned thing. “You’re back,” she said with exaggerated brightness. “I didn’t see you approach.”

He didn’t say a word, didn’t break his stride, as he stormed right up to her and swept her up in his arms.

She gasped her surprise, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, not trusting himself to look at her. As it was, his control was hanging by a very thin thread. His chest burned.

“You’re overreacting,” she said gently, as if soothing an angry beast. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t,” he growled through clenched teeth, emotion boiling too close to the surface. “Don’t.”

With a heavy sigh of resignation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and placed her cheek on his chest. A huge swell of warmth cut through the anger. He felt an unbelievable sense of … tenderness. What the hell was happening to him?

Not knowing, not caring, he bundled her a little closer.

The Great Hall fell silent as he carried her through the entry and across to the corridor. He was aware of the curious stares but didn’t give a damn. If it seemed to the onlookers as though their chief had gone mad, they were probably right.

A few minutes later, he reached her room. He slammed the door behind them with his foot and stood there for a minute, strangely reluctant to set her down. Eventually, he did and took a seat beside her.