The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(36)

She swallowed the hot ball in her throat. Saying goodbye to Beatrix this morning not knowing if she would ever see her again had been horrible. But it had to be done.

She was grateful for the warm, steady pressure of the MacLeod chief’s strong fingers; they gave her a shot of much-needed courage.

He gazed down at her. “Are you ready?”

She peered up into his piercing ice-blue eyes, and for a moment thought she detected a glint of concern, or maybe even tenderness. But it was gone so quickly that she wondered if she’d only imagined it. She nodded. “Aye.”

I hope.

Together, they turned to face the bishop. The short ceremony passed in a blur. Yet through it all, like a fiery beacon in the mist or a rock in a sea of tumult, she was aware of the powerful man at her side. His heat. The spicy, masculine scent of him seemed to enfold her in a dark embrace. He dwarfed her by a foot, outweighed her in sheer steely muscle by at least double, and seemed every inch the battle-hard warlord, but instead of feeling threatened, she felt safe. Protected. With him at her side, no one would dare to harm her.

He might not be the charming, gallant knight she’d dreamed of—like MacDonald’s devilish henchman, she thought with a laugh. That one had a smile in his forbidding visage that spoke of pure mischief. Nay, the MacLeod chief was too fierce and imposing for that. But she did not doubt that at his core he was every bit as honorable and chivalrous as Lancelot himself.

And he was devastatingly handsome. Her cheeks flushed, aware of how she’d stared at him when he’d entered the chapel. He’d looked unreal. Like some bronze sun god. The fearsome expression and power of his warrior’s body often made his handsomeness seem almost an afterthought—but not today.

They crossed their right hands, binding a swath of wool around their wrists, and repeated their vows. It was of the same soft blue pattern he wore in the plaid around his shoulders fastened with a big silver brooch. He’d thankfully left his enormous sword at the door, but even for his wedding day he wore his war coat. The metal-studded cotun gleamed like armor in the beam of sunlight coming through the window above the nave, the same light that caught the shimmering strands of gold in his silky hair. The bronze locks curled a little around his ear, making her think he’d washed it, and she longed to reach up and wrap it around her finger.

She blushed at her errant thoughts as the bishop handed him the cup of wine. He took a sip and then passed it to her.

It was almost over. Except for …

He bent down, lowering his mouth toward hers.

Instinctively, she sucked in her breath. He must have heard her because his eyes went to hers. He hesitated for a minute, his clear blue eyes darkening. She could smell the faint tinge of mint on his breath and feel the gentle warmth sweep over her cheek. Her skin prickled with awareness. With anticipation.

Her heart pounded in her throat. Would his mouth be as soft as it looked?

Her eyes closed and her lips parted as she waited for the press of his lips on hers. For their first kiss.

But the light brush of his mouth could hardly be described as a kiss. Their lips barely touched. It was swift. Chaste. Perfunctory.

Her eyes flew open, but he’d already turned away.

Disappointment rushed through her. She didn’t know why, but she’d been expecting … more. Not the formal, impatient gesture that made it seem as if he couldn’t wait to get it over with.

Then it was over, and she was married.

As she accepted the felicitations of the men who’d gathered to witness the ceremony, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sadness. When she’d dreamed of this day, she’d always thought it would be different. Romantic. Not terse and businesslike. She’d dreamed of love.

But under the circumstances, what did she expect? Their courtship had been sown in treachery. It wasn’t exactly the most promising of beginnings.

Beatrix’s premonition came back to her. Such a marriage would be doomed. But before she could chase the spell of darkness away, one of her father’s guardsmen came rushing to his side, driving all other thoughts from her mind.

“Gone?” her father said loudly. “What do you mean she’s gone?”

Nettles! Her time was up. Unconsciously, Christina looked around for her new husband, but he was in deep conversation with Lamberton and MacDonald at the rear of the chapel with the other guardsmen who made up his large retinue.

The guardsman mumbled something to her father that she couldn’t hear.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” her father said, coming toward her. He grabbed her elbow and jerked her around to face him. “Your sister is missing. Do you know anything about this?”

She felt the familiar wave of fear crash over her but forced herself to meet his gaze.

“Beatrix is gone,” she said softly.

“Gone?” He went white with anger, his fingers biting into her arm. “What do you mean, gone? Where?”

“Somewhere safe.”

His dark eyes blackened with rage. He lifted his hand. “You’ll tell me where she’s gone or I’ll—”

All of a sudden her husband was at her side. He grabbed her father’s arm, wrenching it behind his back with such force she heard a sickly pop. Her father yelped in pain.

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you. Your daughter belongs to me now. Do you understand?”