The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(67)

MacSorley swam up beside him. “Do you see him?”

“Nay,” Tor replied. It was as dark as the bowels of Hades out here. He turned around and saw the rest of the men behind them. “Fan out. Keep your eyes straight ahead and wait for the waves to—”

“There!” MacRuairi pointed about twenty feet ahead of him. His ability to see in the dark was uncanny. Tor could just make out the flash of light breaking above the surface. Luckily for Seton, he had fair hair.

Tor just hoped to hell they were in time.

MacSorley reached him first. His speed in the water had not been exaggerated; Tor had never seen anyone swim so fast.

With Tor’s help, MacSorley dragged Seton back to shore and pulled his limp body up the rocky beach.

They bent over the younger man’s body. “He’s not breathing,” MacSorley said.

Tor swore. Without hesitation, he flipped the lad over and slammed the heel of his hand on his back. Nothing happened. He swore again and repeated the thump, harder this time.

It worked. Water spewed from his lungs. Seton made a choking sound as his body convulsed in a fit of watery coughs and spasms.

Tor felt the tension ease from his back and shoulders.

After a few minutes, Seton’s body had purged itself of the seawater, and he tried to sit up. But MacSorley held him down. “I think you’d better lie flat. You’ve had a wee bit too much to drink tonight.”

Seton managed a smile, but it quickly turned into a grimace. “Did I finish the challenge?” he asked, looking at Tor.

Tor nodded. “Aye, lad, you finished.” His anger returned full force. Boyd hadn’t said a word, standing aside as the other men had attempted to revive his partner. From his grim expression Tor knew he realized his mistake, but it was too bloody late.

He wrapped a hand around Boyd’s thick neck, ice-cold fury running through him. “What is the one rule I gave you?”

Boyd met his gaze unflinchingly. “Stay with your partner.”

Tor squeezed, bringing the other man closer to him. Face to face, he bit out each word. “These men are counting on you to stand by them, to do your part, to be part of this team, and you just let every one of us down. If you have to carry a man through the pits of hell you’ll do it because they’ll do it for you. Do you understand?”

Shame washed over the steely warrior. He nodded. “I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

Tor pushed him away. “Damn right it won’t.” Only because it was partly his fault as well did he not send Boyd packing right away. It wasn’t that Tor thought he’d pushed the men too far—pushing past the point of where you thought you could go was what it took to be an elite warrior. You either had what it took or you didn’t. Harsh, perhaps, but Tor’s duty was to the group, not one man. He knew exactly how far to push, which was one of the things that made him a good leader.

But darkness or not, ultimately these men were his responsibility. He should have known Seton was missing. “Do something like that again and you’re out. I don’t care how strong or extraordinary you are. This is a team. If you want to fight alone, go home.”

The men were subdued after that, returning to the broch to eat the meal Janet had waiting for them. There was less conversation than usual, although MacSorley couldn’t resist prodding Seton a few more times about his penchant for seawater, offering to fetch him a cup if he’d rather drink that than cuirm.

It wasn’t the way Tor had hoped it would happen, but tonight it felt as if something had changed. Not because Seton had nearly died. Death held no fear for these men. To a Highlander, death in battle was the ultimate reward—which perhaps explained the wild, no-holds-barred fighting style that struck fear in the heart of their enemies.

What changed was that the men were no longer just listening to his words about the importance of working together; the words had finally penetrated. Change would not come in one night—they were too used to fighting alone for personal glory—but it would come.

After weeks of hammering, the disparate guard had turned a corner, and for the first time, success seemed possible. He might not need to chain them together after all.

He left them talking quietly by the fire to return to Dunvegan.

The storm had abated, but Tor could have navigated the slippery stone stairs of the sea-gate without the hazy glow of moonlight. The guardsmen along the wall greeted him as he entered the barmkin.

Not for the first time, he cursed the promise he’d made to his wife. Bone cold and exhausted, he’d been tempted to stay the night at the broch, but he hadn’t left word for her that he wouldn’t be returning tonight. He wasn’t used to being beholden to anyone for his actions, and it chaffed.

Why was he allowing her to distract him from his duties? He should be with his men, getting drunk and listening to MacSorley’s incessant boasting and needling, Gordon’s stories of his grandfather’s exploits on the last crusade fighting alongside the Knights Templar, Boyd’s regaling of the English injustices along the borders, or the favorite topic among warriors far away from home: women.

But a part of him—a part that was growing larger every day—didn’t want to disappoint her. Christina was doing her part, attending to the castle and her duties in a manner that gave him no cause for complaint. But the way she looked at him pecked at his conscience.