The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(50)

His mouth twitched. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” He leaned down to ruffle Bran’s head, his strong, battle-scarred fingers rippling through the soft, clean fur. “I’d forgotten what color they were.”

His hands were big and powerful, just like the rest of him. She remembered the feel of his callused palms caressing her bare skin. Of his hands on her br**sts, his fingers teasing her ni**les. Heat rose to her cheeks and she shifted her gaze. What was the matter with her? Could she think of nothing else?

He gave her an appraising look over his goblet, and as he took a long drink of ale, heat simmered in the dark blue depths. She squirmed a little in her seat, wondering whether he could read her mind.

“I almost hesitate to ask, but other than cleaning ovens and brightening my Hall, how else did you keep yourself busy while I was gone?”

Her mouth curved in a small smile, grateful for the distraction. “That’s all, I’m afraid. It was only a few days.”

He laughed. “I guess I should be glad I was not away longer.”

Her voice grew more serious. “I heard what happened in the village. Were you able to find the men who attacked?”

He shook his head. “Nay, I needed to return to Dunvegan. But they will not be able to hide forever. I will find them, and when I do, they will pay for what they have done.”

The dead certainty in his voice left her little doubt that he would do as he said. She almost pitied those men when he caught up to them. She thought about something he had said. “Why did you need to return?” She didn’t dare hope that it was to get back to her.

“Some business I must attend to,” he waved his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing.” She felt his gaze on her again. “You were well taken care of in my absence?”

She nodded. “Aye, Rhuairi did as you instructed.”

He looked at her as if he knew there was something she was not saying. “It’s not the welcome I would have wished for you.”

Her eyes lifted to his. “Or the good-bye.” She hadn’t meant to say anything; the words just slipped out.

His brow furrowed in genuine masculine confusion. “There wasn’t time.”

“To say good-bye?”

“Every second I delayed made catching them more difficult. I had to go.”

“I know that,” she said, studying the tablecloth and feeling suddenly silly for the hurt she’d unintentionally revealed.

She chanced a sidelong glance at him from under her lashes, seeing that he was frowning.

“Saying good-bye is important to you?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Then I will endeavor to remember to do so in the future and let you know when I leave.”

She smiled up at him brightly. “Thank you.” Buoyed by the way their conversation was proceeding, she decided to apologize herself. “I’m sorry if I overstepped my bounds with the tapestries.” His mouth fell in a flat line, and she hurried to explain. “I found them in a trunk and thought they were too beautiful to be packed away. I can remove them if you wish.”

His gaze shuttered. “How you decorate the Hall makes no difference to me. Do as you like.”

He acted as if he didn’t care, but she knew something had caused him pain. “It was thoughtless of me not to realize that they would bring back painful memories. You must have cared for your wife a great deal.”

“Wife?” He shook his head. “They did not belong to my wife; they were my mother’s.”

She paused, digesting the information. She knew so little of his family. “Your mother, she died?”

“Many years ago. With my father in a raid on Skye.”

He said it without any hint of emotion. He could have been talking about the weather. But she knew there was something he was not saying. Something terrible had happened. “How old were you?”

His fingers tightened around his goblet, and there was a guarded look in his eye. “Ten.”

Only a child. Her heart went out to him. All she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and comfort the boy who still missed his mother. It was clear he did not want to talk about it, but she couldn’t help saying, “You must have loved her a great deal.”

But her gentle tone was a mistake. This fierce Island warlord did not want comfort from her. He was like a big, angry lion with a thorn in his paw.

His gaze met hers, cold and impenetrable. “I barely remember her,” he said flatly. “I was seven when I left to be fostered.”

But Christina was not fooled by his harsh response. She was getting used to his blunt talk and brusque manner—it was just his way. He might think himself without emotion, but she knew that it was there, buried deep inside. She’d seen his reaction to the tapestry. He had loved his mother.

And if he’d loved once, he could love again. He just needed someone to remind him how, someone to care about him. Tenderness lurked beneath the hard, icy shell, and she intended to be the one to uncover it.

There it was again, Tor thought. The expectant look in her eye that made his defenses flare.

He was used to people looking at him as if they wanted something from him, but with her it was different. Christina Fraser was the only one who’d ever made him feel lacking for not giving it.

He’d never felt beholden to anyone, but this tiny girl made him feel like a churl for not saying good-bye or noticing the changes she’d made in the Hall. The first had never occurred to him and the second was something he didn’t concern himself with—a warrior didn’t care that the room was bright, clean and smelled fresh.