The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(44)

Mhairi had awakened, and Christina was doing her best to keep her calm. A young guardsman suddenly appeared to help them off the boat. “Don’t worry, my lady,” he said kindly, noticing her horror-struck expression. “You’ll be safe here. No one can take Dunvegan.”

Gazing up the steep staircase carved into the rock that led to the sea-gate, she could see why. The only entry in the massive curtain wall was through an iron gate in a small arched entry. It was well protected by a small guardhouse box built directly over it and a long curtain wall manned by dozens of arrow slits from every direction. An attempt to charge the steep, slippery stairs that led to the entry would be foolish, more likely to lead to falling to one’s death on the rocks below.

Despite the harrowing circumstances, a small smile crossed her lips. With those stairs, being carried across the threshold for her wedding night was probably unlikely, though if anyone could do it, it would be her impressive husband.

She turned to look for him and felt the warmth rush out of her.

Her chest pinched. Her husband was … leaving. All she could see was a streak of gold blowing in the wind beneath his steel bascinet, and the broad lines of his muscled shoulders and back as the boat pulled away from the jetty.

Her lips parted, but no sound emerged as she watched him disappear into the black, soupy mist. Disappointment burned in her chest. He hadn’t even said good-bye.

Not once did he look back.

It was hard to convince herself that he hadn’t forgotten all about her.

A man stood on the battlements watching the boats approach and leave again.

MacLeod was back.

The chief was too late, but the man shuddered nonetheless. Though he did not fear discovery—yet—betraying a man like the Chief of MacLeod was a terrifying prospect. If he were caught, the best he could hope for was a quick death. More likely the ruthless warrior would rip off his head and feed him to his dogs for a snack.

His face paled and bile crept up his throat. Despite the cold wind, he dabbed a sheen of sweat from his brow. Dear Lord, he wasn’t cut out for this. What had his uncle been thinking?

He consoled himself that at least for now, the MacLeod chief was looking in the wrong direction.

“The Greatest swordsman in the isles,” they called him. MacLeod’s chief’s increasing power in the isles had not gone unnoticed, earning him many enemies. Enemies eager to see him fall. First, however, he had to find proof.

Nine

The first day was the worst. Never had she felt so alone. Abandoned by her new husband at the gate to a castle of clansmen stunned by the news of their chief’s sudden marriage, Christina felt like she’d been dropped on the other side of the world.

The MacLeods of Skye spoke the same language, wore the same clothes, ate the same food, and lived in similar structures as she did, but everything was different. Subtle variations made even the familiar feel strange and new.

The two days that followed were marginally better, if only because she’d decided to keep herself busy by making the Great Hall feel more welcoming. The Hall wasn’t as primitive as she’d feared on arrival, but neither did it have those additional touches, the small luxuries, that she was used to. Everything about the Great Hall of Dunvegan, the principal building of the castle—its structure, furnishings, and decorations—were basic, practical, and undeniably masculine. It looked like what it was: a shelter for warriors when not on the battlefield.

Nothing close to the cozy haven she’d imagined.

At first she feared she would have to sleep communally by the fire, but she was relieved to discover that behind the long wall of the hall were three private partitioned chambers. She was led to the middle of the three—a small room with a bed, a table, a chair, and a small ambry for storing clothes.

She now stood before the largest of the three chambers. Christina knocked softly on the door to the lord’s—or king’s, as they called it here—solar, entering when bidden. Ri tuath. King of the tribe. That’s what they called her husband. At first she thought she’d heard it wrong, but if there was anything she’d learned since she’d arrived, it was that these people revered their warrior chief. To them, Tor was what he’d been before Skye had been annexed to Scotland: an island king. The fact that he was considered the greatest warrior of the age only added to the clan’s pride. The poems recited by the Sennachie at the meals seemed almost mythic in their lauding of their chief. Surely, her husband couldn’t have defeated a score of men surrounding him by himself?

Rhuairi, the humorless seneschal, looked up from his seat at the table beside the clerk. The young churchman gave her a welcoming smile, which she returned gratefully. Most of the familiar faces of Tor’s personal guard had sailed with her husband, and the clerk was the sole friendly face in a sea of taciturnity. If Christina had wondered where her husband came by his cold, remote expression, she need look no farther than his clansmen. She feared it was an island trait.

“Good day, my lady,” the clerk said. “You are up early this morn.”

She returned his smile. “Aye, Brother John, I’ve quite a few things I would like to attend to today.”

Though he made no sound, the seneschal appeared to groan.

Christina tucked her hair behind her ear and squared her shoulders, refusing to be deterred. This was her home now. She was the lady of the keep, and if she wished to make a few changes, it was well within her rights to do so.