The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(60)

“It does,” Tor said, looking him straight in the eye. “With what we are about to embark on, it can be no other way. If we succeed, this will be the greatest army the world has ever seen, bringing together the best Scotland has to offer in warfare into one guard. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before.” He looked to each of them. “Each of you is the best at what you do, but your strength and skill in combat will take you only so far. Alone you can defeat twenty, perhaps thirty, men? Fight together and you will defeat armies—hundreds, maybe thousands. Alone you are the best; together you will become legend. But here there are no personal accolades. Honor is in serving together as part of the team.

“The success of this guard, of our lives and those of everyone around us, is only as safe as your trust for the man beside you.” Tor looked back and forth between MacGregor and Campbell. “No longer are you MacGregor and Campbell. This guard is your new clan. These men your brothers.”

He let his words sink in. It was clear they didn’t accept what he was saying, nor did he expect them to; Highland warriors did not trust easily. But they would. For a team like this to work there was no other way.

“I work alone,” MacRuairi said.

“Not anymore you don’t. Not if you want to stay here.” Tor let the threat hang, but MacRuairi—unfortunately—did not rise to the bait. The look MacRuairi gave him, however, was anything but in agreement.

Tor’s gaze slid over each of the men. “From this point on, you will devote everything to the team. Your duty and loyalty are to me and this guard first.”

“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” Seton said. “What of Bruce, our liege lord and rightful king?”

“Let me worry about Bruce,” Tor replied. For this kind of group to operate ultimate authority would have to rest with the group leader, but that discussion would be had another day—and left to MacSorley. “Right now we don’t exist—even Bruce would agree. Secrecy is paramount. Our names. Our purpose. Everything. You can tell no one what we are about. That includes wives and families, if any of you are married.”

The little intelligence he’d garnered from MacDonald and Lamberton before he left did not mention wives. He knew MacRuairi was recently widowed—from a MacDougall, no less. He hoped not many of them were wed; it was less complicated that way. The men were grimfaced and quiet, reflecting on what he’d said and no doubt wondering whether they’d made a mistake. “If any of you want out, say so now.” He didn’t expect anyone to speak—not yet anyway—and none did. “Then get some rest,” he said. “You’ll need it. For tomorrow we begin.”

The group dispersed slowly. MacGregor and Campbell started to peel off with the rest of them, MacGregor alone and Campbell following the larger group.

“Wait,” Tor said, stopping them. “I’m not done with you two.” He strode over to a leather bag of supplies that he’d brought with him and retrieved a three-foot length of iron chain. At each end was a manacle. Though he hoped he wouldn’t need it the first day, he’d come prepared. The device had proved effective when there had been the occasional discord in the ranks, but it would prove invaluable here.

For the next few days these men would be bound together whether they wished it or not. He hoped they enjoyed running because they were about to take an extended tour of Waternish.

Both men watched him suspiciously as he approached, the chains clanging as he walked. But it was MacGregor who asked, “What’s that?”

Tor smiled, recalling MacGregor’s earlier words. “Your cold day in hell.”

Thirteen

Christina watched Tor dress in the darkness. The quick, precise movements that had become achingly familiar to her in the past two weeks seemed a little slower, a bit less purposeful and determined. Her gaze went to the window as she tried to gauge the hour. A few hours past midnight? Was it wishful thinking, or was he lingering longer each time?

“Gone for a few days” had become a regular occurrence. She saw very little of her husband—other than at night, shrouded in a veil of darkness. Since their delayed wedding night, Tor had spent just a handful of nights at Dunvegan. When he was at the castle, he came to her bed without fail—always late—but never slept by her side. She wanted him to stay. To hold her in his arms. To talk. He was still essentially a stranger to her, and she was desperate to get to know him better. But no matter how hot the passion flared between them, when it was over he returned to his men in the Great Hall. And no matter how many times she told herself it didn’t matter, it did.

But tonight she refused to allow disappointment to shadow the glow of their lovemaking. She could still feel the warmth of his hands on her body. The fullness of him between her legs. The weight of him on top of her as he thrust into her. His spicy masculine scent still lingered in the air, in her nose, and on her skin. Her limbs were still weak from the power of her release.

The promise of their wedding night had been more than fulfilled. The passion between them was more wonderful than she had ever dreamed possible.

For now, it was enough.

She closed her eyes, wanting to hold on to the feeling of contentment. If she looked at him, she knew she would say something to ruin the moment. Tonight there would be no questions about his plans for the day or when he would be back, and therefore no increasingly curt responses to dull her happiness.