The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(30)

But Beatrix had only given voice to her deepest girlish dreams. The alternative, a lifetime of “what ifs,” spread out before her like a path without end. Like the endless tolls of bells sounding the “Liturgy of the Hours” from Matins to Compline.

Her sister was right. It was worth the risk. She wouldn’t be the first bride to seek refuge in a nunnery to escape a terrible marriage. The reverse, however, was not possible. If she took the veil, there would be no going back.

And truth be told, after what she’d experienced tonight, she didn’t know if a life of chastity would be possible. Her desire had been awakened. No longer was she innocent. And though it was certainly wicked to think such things, she was glad of it. She’d liked how it felt when he touched her. She bit her lip. Well, except for when he’d entered her. But pain was to be expected the first time. At least that was what she’d heard.

Something about Tormod MacLeod called to her in a way that she could never have expected from such a fierce and terrifying warrior. The very first time their eyes met she’d felt it—that strange current of awareness running through her. And when he’d pulled that man off her like some dark avenging angel, it seemed like destiny—as if he’d been drawn from the pages of her stories.

She wanted him. But did he want her?

Six

Tor waited until dawn before descending the stairs to ready his men for departure. He’d not had the benefit of sleep—it having eluded him completely—to take the edge off his anger and he was anxious to leave.

He didn’t like the feeling pricking at him. About an hour before sunrise he’d identified it: guilt. But God’s blood, they’d tricked him. He had nothing to feel guilty about.

Not unexpectedly, his host was waiting for him. “You’re up early,” MacDonald said. “Though from what I hear, you had a long night.”

Apparently, Fraser hadn’t lost any time in appealing to MacDonald. Not that it would make any difference. The “King” of the Isles held no authority over him. “I sail with the tide,” Tor replied, ignoring the reference to what had occurred.

“You still have a few hours, then. Join me in my solar. I think we can have this matter settled to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“It’s already settled.”

The old warrior quirked a bushy gray brow. “Is it?”

Tor held the other man’s gaze, clenched his jaw, and followed him into the small room off the Great Hall. His host deserved an explanation.

He assumed the less formal setting of the solar, rather than the council chamber, was an attempt by MacDonald to avoid the appearance of judgment. Tor wasn’t surprised to see the other men already seated around the small table. It was the same group who had tried to persuade him to join with Bruce: Lamberton, Campbell, MacSorley, and, of course, Fraser.

“In light of recent events,” MacDonald started once he’d sat down, “I hope you will consider our original offer.”

Tor turned a cool, challenging gaze on Fraser. “Nothing has happened to change my mind.”

Fraser struggled to control his temper. “Nothing except that you’ve ruined my daughter,” he sputtered.

Lamberton frowned. “Is this true?”

Though Tor knew that under the circumstances an explanation was in order, he wasn’t used to being questioned—or being put on the defensive. It was a position he found he did not enjoy. “I took her maidenhead. It’s her father, however, who did the ruining.”

Fraser flushed angrily.

Campbell gave Fraser a puzzled look. “What’s he talking about?”

When the other man didn’t say anything, Tor said, “Why don’t you ask him how his daughter came to be in my room?” He was interested in hearing that himself.

Lamberton’s eyes narrowed on Fraser. “What’s he suggesting, Sir Andrew? Did you send your daughter to his room?”

All eyes were on Fraser now, and it was clear he didn’t like it. “How my daughter came to be in his room is immaterial. Anyone could see that he wanted the lass. I merely gave him the opportunity; I did not force him to ravish her.”

The other men stared at Fraser with varying levels of disgust, but Lamberton was outraged. He was a churchman not just in office but also in conviction—which wasn’t always the case. “Your own daughter? How could you have used the lass like that? The poor girl must have been terrified.”

Tor didn’t like hearing that any more than Fraser did.

“None of this matters,” Fraser said angrily. “If he had any honor he would offer for her, accept the alliance, and join forces with us. A knight would—”

Tor leaned forward and grabbed the man by the throat. He’d had about enough of Sir Andrew Fraser. “I’m not a damned knight,” he said in a deadly voice. “That’s the very reason you want me to lead your team. I don’t play by your rules or codes. I do what needs to be done to win. Kill or be killed—that’s my code.”

He held Fraser like that for a long moment, then tossed him away with a grunt of disgust.

Only the sound of Fraser’s sputtering broke the silence. It was the truth, and they all knew it. After a moment, MacDonald turned to the other men and said, “Leave us.”

Fraser looked as if he wanted to argue, but Lamberton stopped him. “I think you’ve said enough.”