The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(24)

He shook his head. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the company of women. But other than light conversation at mealtimes, he related to them best in bed. In that he understood them well. But in truth he’d never given any one in particular much thought. He hadn’t had the time or attention to spare. Since his parents’ death when he was a lad of ten, he’d been focused on one goal—restoring his clan to prosperity. The better part of the last twenty years he’d spent on the battlefield, returning to Skye when he could.

He’d known his wife, Flora, the daughter of an Irish king, for only a few days when he’d married her, and thinking back, had probably spent less than a few months with her the entire time they were married. Long enough to give him two fine sons, but little else. He attended his duties and she hers. The marriage suited him perfectly.

He frowned, wondering whether the situation had suited her as well as it did him.

Attributing the odd thought to the whisky he’d consumed, he put aside the jug, lay back on the cool sheets, and closed his eyes, allowing the darkness and the drink to soothe the tension from his coiled muscles.

But the drink hadn’t helped. The images burned in his mind were not so easily dislodged. As soon as he closed his eyes it all came back to him. Her lovely face. Her exotically tilted eyes. Her sinful mouth inches from his.

And her bare breast.

He groaned, his c**k jerking hard as the image came to him full force. A generous mound of creamy, untouched ivory skin topped off by a tight pink nipple the size of a pearl. It was the most spectacular breast he’d ever seen, designed for a man’s pleasure. A perfect blend of innocent and erotic at the same time—much like the lass herself.

He was hard as a smith’s hammer. Knowing he wasn’t going to get any sleep like this, he wrapped his hand around himself and gave over to the images—her breast, her face, that wide harlot’s mouth sucking—and released his frustration into a drying cloth. A warrior’s practical solution, if not a particularly satisfying one.

At last he fell into a fitful sleep. But the morning couldn’t come soon enough.

Christina couldn’t stop shaking, shivering uncontrollably not from cold but from fear. She trudged down the corridor and up the stairs one halting step after the other, as if her father had her at the point of his sword.

She couldn’t believe she was doing this. The only thing that kept her feet moving forward was the thought of her father’s rage and the knowledge of what would happen to both her and Beatrix if she didn’t do as he ordered. The more she thought about it, the more her father’s plan seemed fraught with possibilities to go wrong, but what could she do?

Pray.

Her father leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Move your feet and stop that blasted shaking. You’ll wake him the moment you try to climb in bed.”

Her father’s warning stopped her shaking because instead she froze. How was she going to do such a thing?

She wanted to run and hide, but it was too late.

“Here,” her father whispered, pointing to the small door on the right. They’d reached the top floor of the tower keep. Thankfully, the MacLeod chief had been given one of the few private chambers in the castle. Only his status as an esteemed guest had prevented this farce from taking place in the Great Hall or barracks surrounded by pallets of sleeping men.

“Hurry,” her father said impatiently. “Give me your cloak.”

She clutched the folds of wool until her knuckles turned white, not wanting to let go. “I …”

“Now,” he said impatiently.

She wanted to beg him to reconsider, but one look into those hard black eyes flickering in the candlelight and she knew it would be futile.

Fingers trembling, she untied the cloak and handed it to him. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling naked though she still wore a linen chemise.

“Go,” he ordered.

“You won’t leave?” she said, her voice sounding pathetically like that of a child afraid of being left alone in the dark.

“I have to make a show of looking for you, but after I ‘force’ your sister to tell me where you have gone, I’ll return.”

He’d thought of everything. “In a few minutes,” she said.

“In a few minutes,” he assured her. “It will be over before you know it.” He pushed her to the door. “Stay quiet and he’ll never know you’re there.”

Christina put her hand on the latch and took a deep breath, praying for strength.

God forgive me, she murmured and opened the door.

Before she lost courage, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Standing stone still, she listened for any sounds of disturbance but heard only the drum of her own frantic heartbeat pounding in her ears. After a few moments, she could just make out the soft rise and fall of his breathing. She exhaled with relief.

The room was pitch black, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. Even then, it was hard to make out anything other than shadows. But she recognized the large one opposite the door—the bed. And on the bed, rolled to the side, a sleeping man, which was fortunate because although the bed was big, the tall, hulking warrior took up a large portion of it. There would barely be room for her to squeeze in beside him.

Her stomach knifed, and her already frayed nerves seemed tied in tight knots.

It will all be over in a few minutes. Little consolation under the circumstances.