The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(81)

Her eyes dropped to the substantial bulge beneath his leine. The dart of her tiny pink tongue over her bottom lip sent a bolt of lust right to his groin. She sensed his reaction, and this time, there was no mistaking the smile that curved that sensual mouth.

Heaven help him.

With a toss of her long, silky hair, she resumed walking, leaving Tor a little dazed and quite a bit rattled.

A subtle shift had taken place between them, and Tor had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it. Not at all.

He was more than a little relieved when the village came into view. Dunvegan village consisted of twenty or so small thatched cottages scattered within a mile of the harbor, a small market where the farmers and fishermen gathered to hawk their wares, the village blacksmith, stables, and an alehouse.

As they drew near, he felt a prickle of disquiet. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Normally, at this time of day the village would be bustling with activity, but it seemed as if everyone had gone indoors.

When they turned toward the harbor it became clear why. Two unfamiliar galleys sat anchored in the water.

He cursed, and was just about to send Christina into one of the cottages until he discovered what was going on when Rhuairi came rushing toward them. “Thank God, you’ve returned,” he said. “I dared not send word.”

“What’s happened? Whom do those ships belong to?”

“It’s John MacDougall.” Damn. John of Lorne, the MacDougall chief’s eldest son and tanaiste. And a right bastard. “With the Earl of Ross imprisoned by Edward, MacDougall has come to collect the rents. When he was denied entry to the castle—the men wouldn’t let him in without your permission—he and his soldiers decided to confiscate half the winter reserves. Coll suffered a blow to the head when he tried to stop them from taking half his stores of dried beef.”

Tor uttered a blasphemy and clenched his jaw. So Edward’s new sheriff had decided to make his presence felt on Skye by harassing his people?

“How many men did you bring with you?” he asked the seneschal.

“Only a few. I was already in the village when they arrived.”

And Tor was without his retinue. Normally, the difference in numbers wouldn’t concern him, but he didn’t usually have his wife to consider. Tor had vowed to stay neutral in Scotland’s war and had no wish to battle Edward’s sheriff, but MacDougall was an arrogant arse and he didn’t trust him. “Take the lady back to the castle—”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.” Christina gestured toward the harbor.

They’d already been seen. MacDougall and at least two score of his men were coming from the opposite direction—near the market—heading to the boats, laden with crates. MacDougall limped slightly as he walked, his crippled leg the source of his epithet as John “Bacach,” or Lame John.

Tor’s gaze leveled on hers. “Stay near me at all times.” She nodded. “And let me do the talking,” he added as an afterthought. MacDougall was sure to question the circumstances of their marriage, and Tor didn’t want her to inadvertently say anything that would make Edward’s new sheriff question his neutrality. He clenched his fists. MacDonald’s plan was about to be tested. John MacDougall might be an arse but he was no fool. He doubted that the timing of MacDougall’s visit was a coincidence. Edward must have heard of his marriage.

“Ah,” MacDougall said as they approached. “The very man we’ve been looking for. I’ve come to collect the taxes, but your guard refused me admittance and claimed that you were away.”

Tor stopped a few feet from him. “As you can see, I’ve returned.” The two men squared off against each other. Tor towered over him by at least a half foot, but MacDougall was built like a boar—thick and heavily muscled. He also had the benefit of forty men behind him. Tor had Rhuari, a handful of guardsmen, and his wife. Because of Christina’s presence, he could do nothing, and they both knew it. Still, it wasn’t in his nature to back down. “So you thought to rob my people of their goods?”

MacDougall smiled coldly, reminding Tor very much of his viper of a cousin MacRuairi. The MacDougalls, MacDonalds, MacRuairis, and MacSorleys represented four branches of the descendants of Somerled. The feud and struggle for power between the MacDougalls and the MacDonalds was every bit as virulent—and significant—as that between the Bruces and the Comyns. Both clans wanted to be the dominant force in the Islands, but right now it was the MacDougalls.

“Consider it a deposit on the balance of the taxes that you owe.”

Tor held his temper in check. “The king has already received his payment for the year.”

MacDougall lifted a dark brow. “That is a small pittance compared to what is owed.”

“It was exactly what was owed. Check the books if you like. The recent attacks have resulted in smaller yields this year.”

“The king cares not about your problems. He has been derelict in collecting since Ross was imprisoned, but that has changed. Now he has me.”

“To what king do you refer? The one you bowed to last year or the one you do this year?”

Tor’s knife was well aimed. MacDougall flushed angrily, and the big man at his side—his henchman, no doubt—moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. MacDougall’s forced allegiance to Edward had been at the expense of his kinsmen King John Balliol and the Comyns, and it still must grate.