The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(110)

She recognized the crude style of Rhuairi’s lettering right away, though the note was not signed. It was short and succinct, but it caused her heart to freeze with an icy blast of fear. She’d found her proof, but it was so much worse than she’d thought.

“Confirmed MacLeod’s location. Bring men. Attack at midnight.”

Dear God, what time was it now? Seven? Eight? Her heart raced wildly. What was she going to do? She had to find a way to warn him, before it was too late.

Tor sat on a large, flat stone outside the entry to the broch, a flagon of cuirm in his hand, watching the last pink wisps of daylight sink over the horizon.

Campbell had been gone for nearly a week, but the team had yet to recover from the loss of one of their own. He knew it should please him—serving as proof that his training had been a success—but it did not. The loss of one of the team, no matter how it occurred, rankled.

He uttered an oath and took a long swig of the strong ale, slamming the cup down hard on the stone when it was empty.

“Ouch,” MacSorley said, coming out of the broch to take a seat beside him. “The ale a little bitter perhaps, or is that the taste of regret?”

“Leave it,” Tor warned. “I’m not in the mood for your sharp tongue tonight.”

MacSorley took a drink from his own cup. They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again. “They’ll forgive you. Give them time.”

Since Campbell had left, the gap between Tor and the men had widened. Once again, he was firmly ensconced in the role of leader—the man forced to make the tough, unpopular decisions. Part of the team but detached. That, however, wasn’t what was bothering him. He just wanted this damned thing over with.

“Are you going to tell them soon?” MacSorley asked quietly. “There are only two weeks left.”

Tor’s jaw hardened. This time the other man’s aim was true. “Nay, not yet.”

MacSorley’s expression lost all sign of joviality, hardening into a forbidding mask of anger. “They deserve to know before we are sailing away that you will not be leading them when we’re done here.”

His words were too close to Tor’s thoughts, and he didn’t want to hear them right now. His eyes narrowed on McSorley dangerously. “Have care, Norseman. You aren’t in charge yet.”

MacSorley did not shrink from his warning—not that Tor had expected him to. The Viking was nearly as reckless as he was glib. “You know what I think?” Tor acted as though he hadn’t heard him, staring out over the clearing to the edge of the trees. “I think you don’t want to tell them because you want to lead them, and it’s bothering the hell out of you that you think you can’t. But you can’t sit on the wall forever, MacLeod.” Not “captain.” Tor didn’t miss the slight. “War is coming and one of these days—sooner than you probably think—you are going to have to choose. This team needs you,” he said quietly. “Scotland needs you.”

To hell with Scotland; his duty was to his clan. “You sound like your blasted cousin.”

“Angus Og is a wise man—think about it.” And with that he finally left him alone.

Damn MacSorley to Hades! Tor didn’t need his opinion. He’d done his own analysis—many times over. Even if MacSorley was right, nothing had changed. He still could not justify involving his clan in a war that did not threaten them.

Two more weeks, he thought. Two more weeks and his obligation would be fulfilled. The danger of discovery—and his treasonous training of men for Bruce—would be over. He would have satisfied his part of the bargain by training the men and succeeded in getting Nicolson off his back.

Things would go back to the way they were, even if it killed him to think of his men fighting without him: He would go back to being neutral in Scotland’s war and in the feud between MacDougall and MacDonald.

No matter how much he personally wanted otherwise, his duty to his clan always came first. Always.

If Christina had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to do something important, she knew this was it.

Knowing how adamant Tor had been about her leaving the castle, she searched for Lady Janet or Colyne—both of whom she knew Tor trusted—but was unable to find either. Not daring to involve anyone else, she knew she had to try to find him herself. She wasn’t sure he was at the broch, but given the note it seemed likely.

It was easier than she expected. The only difficulty was in attempting to get on a birlinn to the village. The guardsman at the dock had initially refused to allow her to go. She was at a loss as to what to do until she remembered her husband’s vow. Apparently, he’d kept his word to inform his men of her condition to their marriage, because when she reminded the guardsman that a birlinn was to be at her disposal whenever she wished to go, he relented.

She allowed a handful of guardsmen to accompany her to the church, but then insisted that she would be fine from there. Once they’d left, she’d made her way back to the forest, retracing the steps she’d taken to the broch that first time. It was dark, and she’d not dared bring a torch, but fortunately the moon was nearly full and bright enough to penetrate the gossamer veil of mist that clouded the cool night air. She was too worried to be scared; her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t remember how to get there.

She walked slowly and purposefully, keeping her head down to watch her footing. The ground was uneven and she stumbled more than once. But she was nearly there. A few more minutes and she would be near the place where she’d watched from the woods.