The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(23)

Her fantasies might have run away with her for a moment, but Tormod MacLeod’s refusal had cured her of any other options.

“Very well,” her father said, as if he was granting her a great concession, “you can do it.” He smiled, and she realized that this had been his intention all along. He’d never intended for Beatrix to go; it had always been her. She’d been played handily.

Beatrix made a sound as if she was going to object, but Christina stopped her with a look, silently telling her it would be all right. They would go to Iona. It would never come to this.

“Ready yourself,” her father said. “I will come for you a few hours after he’s retired.”

Her heart stopped. Tonight? The boat didn’t leave for two days! “B-but,” she stuttered, “I thought I might have a few days to prepare.”

Her father shook his head. “It must be tonight. There’s no time to waste. Nicolson is not coming and there is nothing to hold him here.”

She had no idea who Nicolson was, but it didn’t matter. “I can’t,” she said, trying to find a reason to delay. “Not tonight. I’m not ready.”

His eyes narrowed as if he suspected something, though she knew it was impossible. “I said tonight. There is nothing for you to do.” He pointed to her chemise. “What you have on should suffice. If you aren’t ready when I return, it will be your sister who pays for your defiance.”

“But what if he wakes up?” she asked desperately, her mind racing. Would he hurt her?

Her father shrugged. “Find a way to distract him.” He looked her up and down. “I’m sure you can think of something for a few minutes.”

The blood drained from her face, his meaning clear.

All she could do was watch the door close behind him in horror and despair. He’d won. Though it had never been much of a battle. Her father had known all along that she would do anything to protect her sister. Even something as dishonorable as tricking a man into marriage who didn’t want her.

She shuddered. Her father had no concern for his own honor, so why should he worry about an insignificant daughter’s?

“Oh, Chrissi,” Beatrix said, throwing herself into her arms. “What are we going to do?”

Huddled beside her on the bed, Christina stroked her sister’s head as she cried into her shoulder. Only when the shock faded into numbness did she reply. “What he asks. What other choice do we have?”

Her stomach turned and bile rose in the back of her throat at the thought of what she had to do. Every instinct in her body rejected the idea of doing something so dishonorable. The man had saved her, and this was how she would repay his gallantry?

“He’s gone mad with his hatred,” Beatrix said. “Forcing a man into marriage this way, it’s wrong. Such a marriage would be doomed.”

Beatrix was right. The MacLeod chief would despise her—and rightly so. If the idea of sneaking into his bedchamber wasn’t terrifying enough, she also had to fear his reaction. But there would be no lasting harm. It would not come to marriage.

Christina shook her head. “I will do what father asks tonight, but we will leave the day after tomorrow as planned.” The worst the MacLeod chief would suffer would be a day’s delay in his travel. But he wouldn’t be forced into marriage. That must give her courage.

Tor tossed off the fur coverlet, swung his legs out of bed, and followed the sliver of moonlight peeking through the wood shutters to the sideboard. The slap of cool evening air on his naked skin was a welcome reprieve. He was hot. And restless.

He felt like he was jumping out of his damned skin.

Not for the first time, he regretted refusing MacDonald’s offer of a lass to share his bed this evening. What the hell had he been thinking?

His jaw hardened, knowing the answer. One woman was as good as another, he reminded himself.

Reaching for the jug of uisge-beatha, he said a silent thanks to MacDonald for his prescient hospitality and took a long drink, not bothering to pour it into a cup. The potent whisky burned a trail down his throat and chest, and after a moment spread through his limbs like a warm blanket, dulling the blade of edginess.

When the jug was considerably lighter, he looped his finger through the small handle at the neck and carried it over to the side table. Dropping back onto the bed, he raked his hair back from his face, disgusted with himself.

God’s blood, what was the matter with him?

He liked his whisky—as any Islander did—but he did not usually use it to dull his senses. But the wall that he’d erected in his mind was proving to be confoundingly weak.

He’d been damned close to kissing the lass earlier and knew it. For a man who prided himself on control, the lapse was unfathomable.

He should be focusing all his thoughts on Nicolson. Tor had learned from MacDonald that Nicolson was not heeding the summons to Finlaggan. Nicolson had sent his regrets, but pressing matters required his attention.

Aye, Tor thought, pressing matters like mounting an attack against the MacLeods.

MacDonald had sent another messenger to Nicolson, demanding his immediate presence, but Tor dared not wait. He needed to return to Skye immediately to begin preparations for war.

But it was not the prospect of war that invaded his thoughts, stiffened his cock, and made him feel like a lion penned in a very small cage.

He was distracted. By a woman, of all things.