The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(64)

“That’s impossible.” He’d retreated into his chief’s façade, and she realized her mistake, feeling as if she’d run headlong into a stone wall.

She struggled to hide her disappointment, not wanting to ruin the moment but fearing that in her eagerness she’d done just that. “Perhaps another time,” she said airily. Trying to recover, she added quickly, “But you still haven’t told me your preferences.”

He waved it off. “Whatever you decide is fine.”

“All right,” she said softly. The moment was gone. Why did she have to push? Why couldn’t she just take what he was willing to give?

He must have noticed her crestfallen expression. “Beets,” he said.

She looked up at him. “What?”

“I don’t like beets. Or parsnips, for that matter.”

She brightened. “I don’t either. Anything else?”

“Sweet sauces on meats. Sugar belongs in desserts.” He gave her an amused look. “And on dried figs.”

She blushed, realizing he must have noticed her penchant for sugary treats. “Wine or ale?” she asked.

“Whisky, then ale.” He grimaced. “None of that syrup you like.”

He’d noticed her preference for wernage as well? It seemed he’d noticed far more than she’d realized. She wanted to ask him hundreds more questions, but sensing he was anxious to leave, she didn’t want to delay him any longer. “Thank you.”

He nodded and started to leave, but stopped himself. “I will be gone—”

“For a few days,” she finished evenly, her tone giving no hint of her disappointment.

He gave her a sharp look, and she feared he’d seen it anyway. “Aye, for a few days.”

She forced a non-demanding-wife smile on her face. “I will see you when you return then.”

He gave her a long look and seemed as if he wanted to say something, but turned on his heel and left without another word. She watched him cross the yard from the window, wondering what it was that took him away for so long.

She was just about to turn away when she froze. It felt as if she’d just been doused with a bucket of icy water.

Lady Janet was walking toward him with a large basket. The kind of basket to carry food on a picnic.

She appeared to have been waiting for him. Tor said something, and they descended the sea-gate stairs together.

Christina’s heart was beating so fast she couldn’t breathe. She was sure it didn’t mean anything. But why was he leaving with Lady Janet and not with her?

Fourteen

Winter roared in like a lion, bringing frigid temperatures, icy winds, short days, and endless swaths of gray mist and clouds. As the sun slumbered, the skies poured.

All Saints’ Day came and went, as did St. Martins. Soon Christina would begin the preparations for Yule and Hogmanay. The cook’s grandchildren had gone. There was little cheer between these somber stone walls, but she intended to do her best to change that.

She was discouraged but not defeated. Patience, she reminded herself.

The wind howled and the rain pelted against the Hall’s narrow shutters. What a horrible night! She finished arranging the ferns—the only thing that was still growing in abundance around the castle other than heather—and stepped back to admire the varying shades of orange and brown.

She took a quick look around the room, satisfied that everything was ready for the evening meal, and started back to her chamber to change. She never knew when Tor would join her, but she tried to look her best for the few occasions on which he did.

The days had taken on a certain rhythm. Most days he left the castle at dawn, returning well after dark—and sometimes not at all. But he always kept his promise and told her when he would be away “for a few days.” She no longer bothered to ask him where he was going, knowing she would only get the same reply that he was attending to clan matters—single-handedly, it seemed.

She couldn’t help noticing that Lady Janet was often gone as well.

She didn’t want to think it was anything but a coincidence. But it was getting harder and harder to convince herself that her husband might harbor a special feeling for her.

In truth, she didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that anything was wrong … precisely. She had nothing to complain about. But her marriage was not progressing the way she’d hoped, and she didn’t know what to do about it.

She’d been at Dunvegan for well over a month now, but in many ways she was no closer to knowing her husband than the day she arrived.

She’d learned what he liked to eat and drink; that his clan revered him as a living legend, a godlike king and warrior hero rolled into one; that he kept his household ordered and running with military precision; that he rarely relaxed; that in addition to a brother he had a sister (this she learned from the clerk), and that he could make her fall apart with a touch.

She knew the hot feel of his skin on hers, the way the pine scent of his soap intensified as his body heated with passion, the rough scrape of his jaw against her skin, the small “v” of silky-soft hair on his chest, the press of his lips on her breast, and the exquisite sensation of his hands covering her body.

She stepped into her chamber, her eye going to the bed—the one place they connected. Heat washed over her with the visceral memories.