The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(32)

Especially Fraser. Despite the obvious benefits of the offer, it went against every bone in Tor’s body to give Fraser what he wanted. Tor sat back in his chair, eyeing the other man carefully. “The alliance isn’t necessary. Marrying the girl doesn’t have to be part of the bargain. You will get what you want—my agreement to train the men—simply by staving off the war with Nicolson.”

“That might have been true before last night,” the older man said. Tor waited for him to continue, but he knew what he was going to say. “You’ve taken the lass’s virginity—no matter the circumstances. Fraser will find many who agree that you are honor bound to marry her. Bruce needs Fraser’s support, and for that he will need to keep him happy. The alliance must be part of the bargain.”

He should refuse. The alliance would only cause him problems. Walk away.

But damnation, he couldn’t.

MacDonald had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t turn it to his advantage. “Call off your dogs.”

MacDonald’s brows gathered in genuine confusion. “Dogs?”

“Your cateran kin, the MacRuairis.”

“Ah …” A long, slow smile spread across MacDonald’s face.

“You find something amusing?” Tor asked.

“You never asked about the warriors who will make up the secret guard.”

MacDonald recited a list of ten names. Tor frowned at a few of them, but when MacDonald reached the last name, Tor returned his smile with one that was much more devious. Lachlan MacRuairi. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Having MacRuairi under his heel alone would almost be worth it. “What’s his special skill, cutting throats?”

MacDonald laughed. “Something to that effect.”

“And you trust him with this?” MacRuairi’s loyalty was suspect at best, nonexistent at worst. “How can you be sure he won’t go running to Edward or MacDougall the first chance he gets?”

MacDonald nodded. “He won’t. You’ll have to trust me.”

It was a lot to ask. He knew the blackguard. After a long pause he nodded.

“Then you agree?”

Tor thought for a moment. Though everything MacDonald said made sense, something about marrying the lass still bothered him. But so did the idea of leaving her to an uncertain fate. “I do, for what it’s worth. But what you ask may be impossible. These men are more enemies than a fighting force.”

Hell, there was even a bloody Englishman among the names.

“They will follow you,” MacDonald said confidently. “Your reputation is well known, even in the borders. Men line up for the opportunity to fight with you despite the knowledge that only a very few of the toughest will survive what is it called … perdition?” Tor nodded, amused by the name given the two-week period of grueling training all his men endured—or, more often, didn’t. “What is it they say? You’re a man who could turn a group of ten-year-old lasses into toughened warriors.” He grinned at the jest. “Why do you think we wanted you so badly?”

One side of Tor’s mouth lifted. Ten-year-old lasses would be easier than this bunch. “I know how to train soldiers, not make miracles.”

MacDonald guffawed and slapped him on the back. “There’s always a first.” He stood and went to the sideboard, pouring a cup of uisge-beatha for each of them. Handing one to Tor, he lifted his glass. “To new alliances.”

Tor returned the gesture and drank. But it did nothing to warm the chill that swept behind his neck. Getting the Nicolsons and MacRuairis off his back was worth the risk for now, but he hoped he didn’t come to regret his decision. He knew well what was at stake if his involvement with Bruce was discovered.

He’d bought peace, but at what cost?

Seven

Christina had been ordered to appear in MacDonald’s solar before the midday meal, uncertain of the fate that awaited her. Meaning that by the time she arrived, she was a tightly coiled bundle of nerves.

Outside the door, she smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from the skirt of her sapphire silk cote-hardie anxiously, took a deep breath, and knocked. Bid to enter, she drew back her shoulders and—attempting to hold her head high—walked into the room.

Her bravado faltered immediately, her frazzled nerves coiling a little tighter. The room was small and dark, and hardly seemed big enough for one man to hold court let alone the four hulking warriors—and one bishop—gathered around a table, all watching her intently. She looked to her father, but his dark, somber expression gave no hint of what was to come.

She managed not to shuffle or fidget, but it was impossible not to be intimidated. She had the distinct feeling of a child being brought before her father for punishment, but instead of one judge, finding a tribunal. And it wasn’t simply punishment for a minor transgression but her future that hung in the balance.

In addition to her father, she recognized MacDonald, his pirate-looking henchman, the bishop, and, of course, the MacLeod chief. Whether his presence was a good or bad sign she didn’t know.

Though she was careful to avoid catching his gaze, she was uncomfortably aware of his scrutiny. Not usually vain, she felt a smidgen of vanity now, aware that she looked horrible. Despite the cold water she’d dunked her face in that morning, the ravages of tears had been wrought on her face in swollen, red-rimmed eyes and splotchy, sallow skin.