The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(126)

Her heart was near bursting. She wanted nothing more than to bury her head against his chest and surrender to the hope he was offering. But her head refused to allow her to be swayed so easily. She could not endure another cold retreat like last time.

“How do I know that you won’t do exactly the same thing the next time I do something to upset you?”

He gave her a wary look. “Are you planning on upsetting me a lot?”

She pursed her mouth and stuck up her chin. “I just might. I can’t be content only being your wife in the bedchamber. I’m afraid you might find me quite demanding.”

“How demanding?” he asked as if he were having a tooth pulled.

“Very. If I agree to come back, I’m afraid that things are going to be different.”

He gave her a pained look. “You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?”

“I’m afraid not.” He inclined his head for her to continue. “Occasionally, I might wish you to show me affection before your clansmen.”

Now he winced. “Surely, that isn’t necess—”

“A tender look, maybe a brief kiss. Nothing that should be too difficult.”

“You won’t be the one listening to MacSorley around the campfire.”

“I’m sure you are man enough to handle it,” she said unsympathetically. Fearsome warriors shouldn’t whine. “And at times I might wish to offer my opinion about subjects you are discussing.”

“As long as you agree with me.”

“Even when those opinions don’t agree with yours.”

His mouth twitched. “In private you may contradict me all you like.”

She nodded. “That seems reasonable.”

“Is that all?” he asked, looking like a man who was being walked to the executioner’s block.

She shook her head and gazed up at him, hoping she didn’t sound as vulnerable as she felt. “I must demand your heart as well.”

“You have it,” he said without hesitation. She forced herself not to move. He made a pained face. “I’m going to have to say it, aren’t I?” he asked.

She nodded. “Afraid so. I really must hear it if I am to believe it.”

“You are a cruel woman.”

“Not cruel. Ruthless.” She grinned impishly. “I learned from the best.”

Then he did something she’d never thought to see him do, something that she would never forget for the rest of her life. Her husband, the proud chief, king to his clan, the greatest warrior of his age, took her hand and knelt on one knee before her.

“I love you, Tina. I may not be the knight you wished for, but come back to me and I vow that I shall strive to prove my love to you every day for the rest of our lives.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Do you mean it?”

A wry grin spread across his handsome face. “Considering my current position you have to ask?” He grinned. “Aye, love, I mean it. I love you with all my heart.” She knew he’d never said those words to anyone in his life. “Will you give me another chance?”

She nodded.

He let out a groan of relief, pulled her into his arms, and didn’t let go until he’d proved it to her. Over and over again.

Twenty-Six

A! Fredome is a noble thing!

—John Barbour, The Brus

Near Scone Abbey, Perthshire, March 27, 1306

The first rays of dawn broke above the horizon. As if God were raising his hand to bless the ceremony himself, beams of bright orange light shot like fingers through the circle of stones. The dramatic effect was only heightened by the eerie sound of the pipes floating through the crisp spring air. It didn’t seem to matter that the stones themselves were pagan; their haunting majesty transcended such considerations. They were a link to Scotland’s ancient past, a symbol of strength and continuity, and as mysterious as the men who were about to kneel before the newly crowned King of Scotland to pledge their service—and their lives.

As one of a handful of witnesses to the secret ceremony taking place among the pagan stones, Christina could not think of a more fitting backdrop. Her husband, of course, had hoped to keep her tucked safely away on Skye. But she would not have missed this for anything. She’d more than earned the right to be here and wouldn’t let him forget it.

Her discovery had led to the final reckoning between Bruce and Comyn, and ultimately, to this day. A little over seven weeks ago, Bruce had killed his nemesis the Red Comyn before the altar in Greyfriars church. The fiery cross had spread across the land, calling the Scots to Bruce’s banner, and just two days ago at Scone Abbey, the historic crowning place of Scotland’s kings, Robert Bruce was crowned King of Scotland—albeit without the ancient Stone of Scone stolen by King Edward ten years ago.

The witnesses to the coronation were fewer than Bruce had hoped. Three of the nine bishops were present—including the most influential, Lamberton—and of the thirteen earldoms, only the earls of Atholl, Menteith, Lennox, and Mar had answered the call. Especially noticeable was the absence of the young Earl of Fife, who had the hereditary right and duty to crown Scotland’s kings. Without Fife’s presence, some would question the validity of the ceremony. But the young earl was still in England, a ward of King Edward, and the attempt to bring him here had failed.