The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(76)

MacSorley was still grinning through the grimace. He shook his head. “Not just yet.” His voice was tight, every muscle straining from the effort to keep Tor’s blade from slicing him in two. He pushed back, then in a deft balance relaxed just enough to roll free of Tor’s sword. “This is too much fun.”

Tor cursed, knowing he should have anticipated the move. But he was too mad to think straight. In a battle, not concentrating could get him killed. Worse, MacSorley knew it and was using it to his advantage, taunting him to make him lose focus. Normally, he was immune to such tactics, but he was pulled as tight as MacGregor’s bowstring and the men knew it.

Tor hadn’t lost a challenge in more than ten years, and damned if he’d listen to MacSorley boast about a victory for another ten. He pushed all other thoughts from his mind, refusing to think about the restless energy building and burning inside him like a volcano ready to explode. Refusing to think about the sound of his wife’s laughter as he walked past the solar this morning. Refusing to think about the tender way she’d placed her hand over the clerk’s or how comfortable they’d looked together. A clerk, for God’s sake! For one half-crazed moment he’d actually wanted to smash his fist in the churchman’s boyish face.

MacSorley circled around, sword poised to fend off another attack. “I hope your bride forgives you soon—for all our sakes.”

A black scowl twisted Tor’s face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

From beneath the steel nasal helm, MacSorley smiled goadingly. “You seem a little more … tense than usual after a return from the castle. Seems reasonable to assume that your current charming temperament might have something to do with that beautiful new bride of yours. Because I can’t imagine that sweet girl hurting a midge, I figured you were to blame.”

Tor kept his anger in check—barely. But even hearing another man speak of his wife’s beauty riled him. God, he was losing his grip.

His efforts to bury himself—and his men—in work weren’t working. He couldn’t stop seeing her face when he’d left. He wasn’t used to being pushed or questioned, and he’d reacted badly. Harshly. With the blunt truth that she didn’t want to hear. Though subtlety and softening the truth were foreign to him, if he was going to have any peace of mind, he was going to have to try. Christina managed to get to him like no one else.

Being distracted was bad enough. That the men had picked up on it, and guessed the source, was worse. He attacked again, this time keeping his mind honed on the task at hand—seeing MacSorley on his arse.

The Viking fended off the blows, but Tor could see that he was tiring. He smelled victory. Perhaps MacSorley did as well, for he tried one more time. “If I had a woman like that warming my bed, I wouldn’t be spending so many nights in this cold pile of rocks. I’d be happy to take your place—”

Tor lost it. His mind went black. A fierce pounding sounded in his ears. He had the blackguard on his back, blade to his neck, before MacSorley could finish. For once, the taunting grin had been wiped clean off his face.

Blood pounded through Tor’s veins. After years of battle, the urge to kill had become instinct. They stared at each other, both breathing hard and both realizing just how badly Tor wanted to sink that blade into MacSorley’s throat. MacSorley had prodded the lion one too many times. Every muscle in Tor’s body shook with barely repressed restraint.

He fought for control and slowly found it. Sanity ebbed through the madness. His mouth fell in a hard, unforgiving line. “Anything else you’d like to say?”

For a man on the edge of death, MacSorley appeared surprisingly nonplussed. He arched a brow, but then winced as if even the small movement pained him. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “I see you’ve been practicing with Boyd.” He squinted into the sun. “Bheithir, is it?” he asked, referring to the inscription on Tor’s sword. Inscriptions were meant to enhance the sword’s power. “Never been close enough to read it before. But ‘thunderbolt’ is appropriate. I feel like I’ve been hit by one.”

Tor held perfectly still, as if he’d not yet decided on McSorley’s fate. After a long pause, he pressed the tip of his blade a little deeper, holding the other man’s gaze to his. “One of these days, that glib tongue of yours is going to be your downfall.”

MacSorley grinned—reckless, given his current position. “I do not doubt it.”

Tor tossed his sword aside and reached down his hand. MacSorley grasped his arm at the elbow, and Tor helped him to his feet.

The incident had shaken him. He’d almost killed a man he considered a friend over nothing—a ribald jest the likes of which he’d heard a hundred times before in long nights around a campfire.

A handful of the other men had finished their practice and had gathered round to watch the contest. From their expressions, it was clear they’d seen enough to know that the man reputed to have ice in his veins had lost his cool. It was also clear that they didn’t quite know what to make of it.

Neither did he.

Crossing his arms, he eyed them blankly. “So who wants to go next?”

After a moment of dead silence, MacSorley started laughing. “He’s jesting, lads.” A few of the men smiled hesitantly. Defusing the tension even further, MacSorley inhaled deeply. “Unless I’m mistaken, our beautiful cook is making beef stew. And I, for one, could use a drink to go along with it.”