The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(61)

She expected to hear the sound of the door clicking shut. Instead, she heard footsteps approach the bed. She had to fight to keep her breath even and her eyes from opening to see what he was doing. It was almost as if she could feel the weight of his gaze on her. He stood there for a long time. She would give anything to know what he was thinking.

The air shifted. His dark, masculine scent grew stronger. She could hear the steady sound of his breath as he leaned down over her.

Her heart hammered in her chest. It took everything she had not to jump when his lips brushed the top of her head.

The gentleness of the gesture made the curse that followed seem somehow amusing. He strode—nay, stomped disgustedly—to the door. Only when she heard it shut behind him did she allow her mouth to curl into a big grin.

He might not like it, but her husband wasn’t as indifferent to her as he seemed.

A little patience was all she needed.

Christina was still smiling after breaking her fast. Tor had not joined her—she assumed he’d gone wherever it was that he went all the time—but she wasn’t at a loss for company today. It seemed she had gained a retinue of her own.

Since she’d first caught them staring at her from the kitchen storeroom a few days ago, they’d followed after her like a pack of hounds. Right now they were watching her arrange the last of the autumn flowers in a glazed pottery vase at the head table on the dais, doing their best to be patient (which was clearly killing them) and not to get in her way (which, as they were practically glued to her heels, was impossible).

When she stepped back from the vase, Deidre could wait no longer. “We did like you said, my lady,” the little girl said expectantly.

Christina gazed down at the three pleading faces, to a one their cheeks smudged with the special berry preserves the cook had made them, and smiled at their eager expressions.

The cook’s daughter was visiting from the Isle of Harris and had brought her three children—Ewan, age eight; Deidre, age seven; and Anna, who had just turned five.

“You washed your hands and faces?”

All three fair heads bobbed up and down. “Aye, my lady.”

She pursed her lips together to keep from smiling.

“Mother said we weren’t to bother you,” Deidre said. She caught the edge of her bottom lip in her tiny teeth, then turned a worried face to hers. “We aren’t bothering you, are we?”

“Of course we’re not bothering her,” Ewan said indignantly. “The lady said we could watch her, and then when she was done with the morning chores, she would tell us the rest. Didn’t you, my lady?”

“I did indeed, Ewan.”

He turned back to his sister, folded his small arms across his chest, and gave her a superior nod of his head.

“Are you done yet, my lady?” little Anna asked.

Christina smiled, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I just finished,” she lied, ignoring the wax that still needed to be scraped from the tablecloths, the candles that needed to be replaced, and the silver candelabra that needed to be polished. All of that could wait.

Besides, it wasn’t as if Tor noticed anyway.

Patience, she reminded herself. If the rustic state of the Hall when she’d arrived was any indication, it had been a long time since anyone had seen to his comfort. Eventually, he would notice her efforts to create a cozy home, a place he’d want to stay and be eager to return to.

Turning her thoughts back to the children, she said, “Now where did I leave off?”

“The evil Meleagant has stolen the queen from Arthur and has taken her to his horrible castle in …”

“Gorre,” Christina provided.

“Why do Lancelot, Sir Kay, and Sir Gawain go after the queen and not King Arthur?” Deidre asked.

Good question, Christina thought. But how to say that King Arthur’s failure to fight for his lady is what justifies Guinevere’s unfaithfulness? She was saved from having to answer by another question. “Is Lancelot going to kill Meleagant and save Queen Guinevere?”

Ewan snorted. “Of course he is, silly. Lancelot is the greatest warrior of his time—just like the ri tuath. The chief would never let anyone steal you, would he, my lady?”

Christina grinned. “I should think not, Ewan. But if you are so certain of Lancelot’s victory, perhaps you do not need to hear the rest?”

They practically jumped on her in their enthusiastic responses to the contrary. Once the chorus of “no’s” had died down, Christina grabbed the candlestick and picked up the story where she’d left off the day before.

Tor left the seneschal and his clerk in the solar. Going over the correspondence and accounts had taken much longer than he expected; he’d hoped to be at the broch sometime ago and was eager to return to the men. Their training was progressing—better in some places than in others. It would take time to break down the barriers among them. Time he didn’t have. Another week and then he’d chain them all together if he had to.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the stiffness that extended down his back. God, what a wretched night. He hadn’t been able to get comfortable. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. Compared to the soft, silky bed linens and warm furs that he’d left behind, the plaid and rush-strewn floor had felt as welcoming as a bed of rocks.

Christina’s trunks had arrived, and with them came many luxuries he’d never known before. Linens so soft they felt like silk, and perhaps the most enticing … feather pillows. The first time he’d lain his head on one, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.