The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(57)

The clerk looked in the direction of the dais and his face turned as red as before. Like hers, his emotions were easy to read on his face, and right now his discomfort could not be more clear. “Lady Janet MacKinnon, my lady. The widow of the chief’s former henchman.”

Widow. Her heart sank further. “They are close?” she asked in a whisper.

The kind young churchman didn’t pretend to misunderstand what she was asking. Nor did he patronize her with a lie. “Aye, I believe they were.”

Christina’s newfound confidence crumbled into dust. Despair squeezed her chest. The woman had been his leman. But was she still?

Tor had just finished laying out what he wanted from her when Janet suddenly straightened. “I’d better go,” she said, nodding toward the entry.

He turned and saw Christina approaching the dais. Janet was right. He had no wish for his wife to overhear what they were talking about—she seemed prone to asking unwanted questions. He frowned, noticing the glasslike stiffness in Christina’s expression and the high color on her cheeks. She looked upset about something. He quickly scanned the room to see whether there was some new womanly touch he was supposed to have noticed.

Seeing nothing, he turned back to Janet, who’d already stood up. “We will finish this later,” he said in a low voice.

She nodded and hurried away.

A moment later, his wife took the seat Janet had just vacated. She looked beautiful and regal in her blue velvet cote-hardie, but also unusually reserved. She sat down without a word.

“Good morning,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”

Though there was nothing provocative in his tone, her cheeks flushed. She peered out from under her lashes at him. “Aye, very well.” She lifted her gaze to his. “And you?” She tilted her head. “You were gone so early. I hope there wasn’t something wrong?”

The concern in her gaze made him wary—as did the implication. Clearly, she expected him to sleep by her side. He didn’t want to disappoint her, but that would not be happening. “Nothing wrong,” he said. “I slept in the Hall with my clansmen, as I do every night.” Where he belonged.

He steeled himself against her reaction, but it was not enough. The shimmer of hurt in her gaze pierced right through his hard-won defenses. “I see,” she said.

She looked down at her trencher to avoid his gaze, and he was glad of it. But it did not lighten the discomfort in his chest or the weight on his conscience, knowing he’d bruised her tender feelings. She couldn’t help her weakness—women were emotional creatures. He felt the strangest urge to fold her hand in his and give it a comforting squeeze. But he shook off the strange thought, knowing he had no cause to feel guilty. He always slept in the hall with his men—it had nothing to do with her personally. His clan came first.

It was wrong of her to put such demands on him, of course. But she was a new bride. She would learn. Obviously, she had some illusions about this marriage, and the sooner she realized it wasn’t going to be some romantic bard’s tale, the better. He was a Highland chief, not a lovesick knight schooled in the art of courtly love.

He certainly wasn’t going to lose his head over a lass.

He took a last swig of ale and pushed back from the table. More of the men would be arriving today, and he wanted to be there when they did.

“You’re going?” she asked.

He tried to ignore the disappointment in her voice. “Aye.” Remembering his promise, he added, “I’ll be gone for a few nights, so I bid you farewell until then.”

Her face fell. “But you’ve only just returned. Where are you going?”

He wanted to tell her that a wife shouldn’t question her husband, but she looked like a kicked kitten. And he felt like a damned beast. The discomfort in his chest grew tighter. He didn’t want to lie to her, but neither could he tell her the truth. “I’ve many things that require my attention. I’m often away, visiting my holdings.” The broch on Waternish qualified, though he was being misleading.

“Of course. I’m sorry. It is all so new to me.” She looked up at him expectantly. “Good-bye.”

Her lips parted in innocent invitation. He stared at her pink, succulent mouth for a long moment, tempted beyond measure. With a grunt that was half curse, half pain, he tore his gaze away and locked his jaw. “Good-bye,” he said, and left before he did something foolish like pull her into his arms and kiss her until the coiling in his chest unraveled.

The best of the best had gathered on Skye.

By late the following afternoon, all ten warriors had arrived at the ruined ancient fortress of Dun Hallin Broch. Located in a remote area of the Waternish Peninsula—the finger of land that abutted Dunvegan—the broch and the surrounding settlement had been abandoned since well before Tor’s Norse ancestors landed on Skye.

The broch was a circular stone fortress of perhaps twenty-five feet in interior diameter with ten-foot-thick walls, situated on a small rise in rocky moorland. At one time the walls had stood thirty feet high, but the upper part of the tower and the roof had been lost long ago. Still, with some wood for a new roof and peat for a fire, it would provide sufficient shelter from the worst of the winter wind and rain. It wouldn’t be comfortable by any means, but it was luxurious compared to what these men would be experiencing in the months to come.