The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(14)

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 c**k 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.