The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(4)

Lamberton echoed the words in the same resigned tone, translating, “The die has been cast.”

God save us all.

One

The “greatest hero of his race”

—I. F. Grant, on Tormod MacLeod

Dunvegan Castle, Isle of Skye,

Michaelmas, 1305

He was going to kill him. Slowly.

A sharp hush fell over the hall, like the expectant quiet following a loud crack of thunder, as the clerk finished reading the missive. The score of warriors gathered around the great hall of Dunvegan Castle stood stone still, awaiting his response. In their fierce visages he saw the outrage and shock that he shared but masked beneath a stony façade.

Alone on the dais, Tormod MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, leaned forward in his seat, his gaze piercing the unfortunate man before him. “He did what?” The dead calm of his voice did nothing to dispel the tension.

The clerk startled, emitting what could only be described as a squeak. The missive flew out of his hand and floated through the smoky air to land on the rush-strewn floor. Tor clomped his foot down on the offending scrap of parchment. As he reached down to pick it up, beneath his heel he could just make out the familiar scrawl: Torquil MacLeod, his younger-by-two-minutes twin brother.

Barely had the fires died from the recent attack on the village, and now his brother did this? Slowly, he vowed again, crumpling the missive into a tight ball.

The clerk managed to find his voice, though it shook as he answered Tor’s question. “Y-y-your b-brother states that he cannot ab-b-ide the Nicolson chief’s refusal of his daughter’s hand in marriage and has been forced to take matters into his own hands.” The young churchman paused, wiping the sweat beading from his brow with the back of his hand. “He s-says his love—”

“Enough!” Tor’s fist landed with a resounding thud on the arm of the carved wooden throne, in a rare break of temper. His eyes blared red as rage surged through his veins. “I’ve. Heard. Enough.”

Love. Of all the most asinine justifications for acting like an idiot. He would rather Torquil use the excuse that Margaret Nicolson was a great heiress—which she was—and that he’d carried her off for the betterment of the clan; at least then Tor might attempt to comprehend this egregious lapse in judgment.

With one rash act Torquil was going to start a war, jeopardizing all that Tor had fought to achieve over the past twenty years. Twenty years ago, his clan had been on the brink of destruction—first from the massacre that had claimed the lives of many of his clansmen, including his parents, and then from years of famine. But with hard work and determination he’d brought them back. The clan was once again strong and prosperous. The last thing he wanted was to see it all destroyed by war. An odd position for a man who knew nothing else—who’d made his name and fortune from it—but his clan deserved peace and he intended to give it to them.

The recent spate of attacks was bad enough. Twice in the last year men had come at night to reive cattle, plunder the crops, and burn the fields. It was just the kind of cowardly act favored by the MacRuairis. If they’d broken the truce, Tor would make sure they paid.

But he had to deal with the more immediate threat first. Somehow he’d have to find a way to appease Nicolson and stave off a war. His mouth tightened into a grim line. He was half tempted to drag his brother in chains to Nicolson himself. That might appease him.

He’d be damned if he’d be Hector to Torquil’s lovesick Paris and allow his clan to suffer the fate of the Trojans. There were many reasons to fight a war, but a woman was not one of them.

He and his brother were much alike—or so he’d thought. Where in Hades was Torquil’s sense of duty and loyalty to his clan? He made a sound of disgust. Forgotten in the rush of blood between his legs, no doubt.

Tor forced his anger to cool. He didn’t lose control. Not that you would know it by the shaking of the obviously terrified man before him.

Tor’s gaze narrowed beneath the heavy weight of his brow, taking in the young churchman. John, he thought, was his name. The clerk wasn’t the type of man to make much of an impression. Of medium height and slight build, with straight brown hair cut in an arch around a smooth, unscarred face, and regular if nondescript features, he appeared perfectly suited to his profession. His thin arms were built for lifting a quill, not a sword.

Tor reserved his fighting for worthy opponents on the battlefield. Torquil would feel the lash of his anger, not this whelp. What satisfaction was there in stomping a mouse? Men who beat the weak—be it servants, children, or women—only shamed themselves.

As the clerk was new, Tor would forgive him the offense. This time. “Stop shaking, man,” he snapped. “I’m not going to cut out your tongue for being the bearer of ill news.”

Rather than looking reassured, however, the clerk seemed to turn an even sicklier shade of gray. Churchmen, Tor thought with disgust. For all their learning, they were delicate creatures. But he had no patience for subtlety. The clerk had best toughen his hide. And if he didn’t, he could be replaced.

“Where is my brother now?”

The clerk shook his head, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t know, Chief. The messenger left before anyone could question him.”

If Torquil had one wit of sense he had taken his stolen bride and sailed to perdition—which was about the only place Tor would not follow him.