The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(7)

For the last six months since his return, Christina felt as if she’d been living on the edge, in a constant state of fear. Fear that she’d say the wrong thing or appear at the wrong time. She’d learned to slink through the corridors, to hide in the shadows, and to avoid drawing attention to herself.

She forced herself to stay calm. He never came to the small chamber room in the garret that she shared with her sister and their serving woman.

Still, an abundance of caution made her hurry.

She turned onto her knees and, despite the frantic pace of her heart, carefully wrapped the precious volume in a swathe of ivory linen. The book had been a parting gift from Father Stephen. He’d assured her that despite its value, no one would miss it. Chrétien’s romances with their lustful adultery between Lancelot and Arthur’s queen had lost favor, replaced by tales of Arthur more in keeping with church doctrine.

She missed Father Stephen horribly. He’d opened up an entire new world for her.

“One day someone will see how special you are, child.” His parting words came back to her. She desperately wanted to believe him, but it was getting harder and harder in the face of her father’s cruel disregard.

For the first time in her life she’d been good at something. She couldn’t sing or play the lute, and her needlework was atrocious—all accomplishments that came so easily to her sister—but she’d learned to read and write faster than anyone Father Stephen had ever seen. Not just Latin, but Gaelic and French as well. He’d told her she had a gift that should not be wasted. He’d given her something she’d never had before: a purpose.

The lid of the wooden chest squeaked as she raised it to replace the book in its hiding place beneath a thick stack of linen towels and extra bedclothes.

Before she could close it, she startled at the sound of a splintering crash as the door to her chamber was thrown open.

Her gaze shot to the doorway and her heart crashed to the floor.

Andrew Fraser, dirty and still reeking of sweat from his day on the practice yard, stood in the doorway. Though not a tall man, he was thickly built, and in the six months since he’d returned, a single-minded determination to fight had restored most of the muscle he’d lost while imprisoned. But the other changes wrought by imprisonment were not so easy to repair. His face had aged well beyond his five and forty years, and gray had leached the brown from his hair. The broken bones and scars of battle on his face that she’d once thought so distinguished now served only to emphasize the coldness in his eyes.

Eyes that were now pinned on her with suspicion. She wanted to crawl under the bed or disappear into the woodwork, but there was nowhere to hide.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

He can’t find the book. A cold trickle of fear dripped down her spine, but she forced herself to calm. Like any predator, he would smell it. Instead, she stood up slowly and shook out her skirts with apparent disconcern, but her knees were shaking. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Putting away some clothing that has just been cleaned and folded. Was there something you wanted?” She winced inwardly; even her voice had turned weak and submissive.

“Where is your sister?”

Her heart jumped. “Beatrix?” she squeaked, the high pitch completely erasing the attempt at nonchalance.

His face turned a splotchy, angry red. He took a step toward her, and instinctively she cowered. “Of course, Beatrix, you stupid girl. What other sister do you have?”

Christina cursed her fair skin. She could feel the heat of panic rising up her cheeks. “I’m-m s-sure she’s in the kitchens,” she stumbled out.

Please don’t let her be where I think she is. Beatrix tried to hide it from her, but Christina suspected her sister still snuck away to the abbey when she could. The call to God was stronger than the reality of their father’s iron fist.

He took another step toward her, his expression no longer simply angry but menacing. “You’re lying,” he growled, grabbing her by the arm. His strong fingers tightened around her like a steel clamp.

Her heart fluttered wildly. Fear clutched her throat. Out of the corner of her eye she could see his other hand lift. Her insides curled. She tried to pull away. “Please, don’t—”

“Where is she?” he demanded, giving her a violent shake.

The last shard of sun from the fading daylight caught the gold of his ring on his open hand. No! She turned her face away, anticipating the strike. Tears blurred her eyes. “I don’t know,” she sobbed, hating this feeling of helplessness. Hating that she could be reduced to a trembling mass in a matter of moments by a man she’d once revered.

“Here she is, Father.”

The sound of her brother’s voice filled her with relief. At eight and ten, three years her junior, Alex already showed incredible promise on the battlefield. He was also the one bright light in her father’s dark existence. Her three other brothers were too young, still away being fostered, but in Alex he saw something special.

“Beatrix was down in the kitchens, helping to ready the evening meal,” Alex said, his smooth, easygoing voice having the intended effect of soothing her father’s violent temper.

Alex had been home for only a few weeks, but Christina knew they’d found an ally. He would protect them as much as he could. If only he weren’t so young.

Her father released her arm, enabling Christina to see Beatrix slide past Alex and step into the room.