The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(92)

Hell. He’d always thought he’d die on a battlefield, not dropping off a cliff.

His arms were burning, the weight of his body pulling him down. He gritted his teeth, fighting to hold on. He did not fear death, but neither would he welcome it.

All of a sudden he felt something hit his hand from above. At first he thought it was a rock, but then he realized what it was: a rope.

A disembodied voice called out from above. “Grab it, I’ll pull you up.”

MacRuairi. If the situation weren’t so dire he would laugh. Lachlan MacRuairi would sooner send him to the devil than save him. “How do I know you won’t let the rope go as soon as I grab it?”

For a moment there was only silence. “You don’t. But from where I stand, it doesn’t look like you have much choice.”

Tor swore. MacRuairi was right. It went against every instinct, every bone in his body, but he had to trust the black-hearted viper. “Are you ready?” Tor shouted.

“Aye.”

Taking a deep breath, he released one hand and grabbed for the rope.

It held.

Still expecting to be grabbing air, he released the other hand and latched his fingers around the rope. It took about a quarter of an hour, but slowly and with considerable agony, Tor was pulled up the side of the cliff. A few feet from the ridge, MacRuairi tied the rope around the rock that he’d used to lever him up and reached down his hand.

In the darkness, their eyes met. Without hesitating, Tor let go of the lifeline with his right hand and clasped him around the arm and forearm. Seconds later his feet were on solid ground.

He bent over, catching his breath and letting the blood pool back into his arms. His mind was spinning in a thousand different directions. Straightening, he met his rescuer’s gaze. Malevolent. Ruthless. With the morals of a snake. More likely to cut his throat than save his neck. They’d faced each other too many times in battle for Tor to doubt that MacRuairi wanted him dead. “Why?” he asked.

MacRuairi shrugged as if the answer wasn’t important to him. “Now we’re even.”

For sparing his life at Finlaggan. Tor nodded, but he knew it wasn’t that simple. Lachlan MacRuairi’s reasons for being here just might be more complicated than he’d realized. MacRuairi might be more complicated than he’d realized. It jarred him. He’d been seeing black for so long, the sliver of gray was a shock.

But one thing he knew with certainty: Tor owed Lachlan MacRuairi his life.

With the days beings so short—the sun (such as it was) not rising until almost nine, only to set a scant seven hours later—time should have gone by fast. But the hours passed by like a dirge: slow, monotonous, and droning.

Not even a week had passed, and yet it seemed like a month since Tor had left. Though he’d spent time away before, this was the longest Christina had gone without seeing him, and patience was proving an elusive virtue.

What a fool she’d been. Life married to a knight wasn’t about days filled with thrilling tournaments, watching him joust with her veil on his sleeve and long nights spent cuddled before the hearth while he composed verse about his love for her. It was about months, maybe even years, of war and loneliness.

There was nothing romantic about being left alone to fret and worry.

Was he in danger? Because he’d refused to tell her where he was going, she didn’t know. But because he’d left his entire personal guard at the castle, she suspected he’d not gone off to fight and had instead gone somewhere with the men she’d seen him training.

Who were those men?

She pushed the curiosity from her mind, recalling only too well his admonition. Not her concern. Not her business. Not her place.

So she attended to her duties as the lady of the castle and helped Brother John when Rhuairi was not around, having care not to read any of what passed before her. But even with the preparations for the Yule celebration, there was surprisingly little for her to do behind the dungeon like walls of the castle. The barmkin she walked around in the morning had started to feel like a cage.

And now she didn’t even have the ledgers to keep her busy. She’d been so certain that it would work, that organizing his accounts would be the way to show him that she could be an important part of his life. Perhaps it was that certainty that made the disappointment so much more acute.

Admiration … respect … pride? Hardly. Her attempt to impress him with her skills had failed as resoundingly as it had with her father.

She was furious with the way that he’d reacted—at first patronizing and then lashing out in anger. Perhaps she’d overstepped by reading the missives, but what else was she to do? How else could she possibly break through to him? She’d shown him everything she had to offer and it still wasn’t enough.

She had no place here. Not in his life, not in his heart. If this was the rest of her life, she couldn’t bear it.

For a moment she’d thought about leaving. But she still had hope. She’d pinned her happiness on a kiss, holding on by that one glimpse of tenderness, the first crack in his stony façade.

Was she a fool to ascribe so much meaning to a kiss?

Fastening her cloak around her neck, Christina closed the door behind her and started down the corridor, nearly bumping into Brother John as he was coming out of the solar.

She’d startled him, and it took him a moment to compose himself. Noticing her cloak, he asked, “Where are you off to this morning, my lady?”