The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(108)

As the other men had done, Campbell had fallen into a rhythm. He easily caught MacGregor’s spear but wasn’t ready for Tor’s. Without time to get his targe in position, at the last minute he leaned to the side just enough to evade a spear in the chest. But it grazed his arm, sticking in the ground a few feet behind him.

After a shocked pause, Tor heard a collective sigh go around. “That was close,” MacGregor said.

MacSorley answered with a sad shake of his head.

Tor didn’t say anything. He, like the others, was watching the arm of Campbell’s cotun stain with blood.

Campbell’s gaze locked on his. “I’m sorry, lad,” Tor said quietly.

Campbell looked away and nodded his head. He knew the rules. “I’ll gather my things.”

Without another word, he pulled himself out of the hole and made his way to the broch. The other men watched him go in stunned silence.

It was Seton who turned on Tor first. “You can’t seriously mean to let him go. We need him. There’s not another scout like him in Scotland—or anywhere, for that matter.”

“He failed the test,” Tor replied, though no explanation was necessary.

Seton’s face turned florid with outrage. “Because you cheated.”

The blast of silence was deafening. The Highlanders knew what this English knight did not. “If I subscribed to the code you are referring to, you’d be dead for what you just said.” Seton’s jaw clenched; he’d realized his mistake. “In war there is no such thing as cheating, and if you want to be of part of this team you’d better learn that fast. This guard needs to be ready for anything and Campbell got complacent. Complacent will get us all killed.”

MacSorley gave him a strange look and Tor realized his slip—he was not part of “us.”

“The captain is right,” MacGregor said. “We all got complacent. Campbell should not be the only one to suffer. I’ll take the test again with him.”

Tor gave him a long look, impressed by the depth of the bond that had developed between these two former feuding clansmen. They might argue like enemies, but beneath the clan rhetoric was friendship. He swore at the injustice of the situation but betrayed none of his thoughts when he spoke. “Campbell had his chance. We will have to make do without him. Boyd and Lamont are excellent scouts; they can take over.” He looked around the angry circle of men so there could be no mistake. “It’s done. I’ve made my decision.”

Knowing it was futile to argue, the men dispersed. They weren’t happy about his decision but accepted it with varying levels of outrage. Not surprisingly, MacGregor avoided him for the rest of the day.

Campbell said his solemn good-byes and when it was time, Tor alone walked him to the galley that would take him back to the mainland.

“You have everything?” he asked.

Campbell nodded.

“I’m sorry about this, lad. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

Campbell’s face was a mask of stony acceptance. “Aye, captain, I understand.”

“How is your arm?”

“It’s fine.” Campbell instinctively grabbed the top of his arm—not the left that had been injured by the spear, but the right where Tor had secretly tattooed a mark deep into his skin late last night. The other men might not know the truth, but Campbell was one of them.

“If you ever get in trouble.”

Campbell nodded. “I know what to do.”

Tor clasped him by the arm, giving him a firm shake. “Bas roimh geill.”

“Death before surrender,” Campbell replied fiercely. With one last look at the broch, he jumped into the boat and sailed away.

Tor watched him go.

Now there are ten.

Twenty-Three

Tor had been gone a few days when Christina’s restlessness began to catch up with her. As she’d suspected, Lady Janet wasn’t interested in striking up a friendship. She was polite, but Christina was certain the other woman’s lingering feelings for Tor prevented anything more. Christina could hardly blame her.

With little to occupy her time, she’d taken to long walks around the perimeter of the barmkin. In addition to her morning walk with Brother John, she’d started to walk after the evening meal.

She loved to look up at the sky on a clear night—admittedly a rarity in the winter on the “Isle of Mist.” The stars were so close here, it almost seemed as if she could reach out and grab one. Tonight was such a night, and despite the colder-than-normal temperatures—even for January—she lingered on the battlements, gazing first at the sky and then at the sea. There was something so mesmerizing and haunting about watching the shimmery black waves crested with white froth crash against the rocky cliff below.

She glanced down at the jetty and stilled. A chill swept through her. The terrifying birlinn with the hawk-carved prow sat docked among the other boats.

All of a sudden she remembered that day when she’d seen Rhuairi at the dock. Could the seneschal be the spy?

Her suspicions were bolstered when the very man she was thinking about hurried out of the Great Hall across the courtyard and down the sea-gate stairs. Lost in the shadows of darkness, he didn’t notice her presence. She leaned over the wall but was unable to see what was happening below. A short while later, however, Rhuairi rushed back up the stairs and retraced his steps into the Hall.