Winter roared in like a lion, bringing frigid temperatures, icy winds, short days, and endless swaths of gray mist and clouds. As the sun slumbered, the skies poured.
All Saints’ Day came and went, as did St. Martins. Soon Christina would begin the preparations for Yule and Hogmanay. The cook’s grandchildren had gone. There was little cheer between these somber stone walls, but she intended to do her best to change that.
She was discouraged but not defeated. Patience, she reminded herself.
The wind howled and the rain pelted against the Hall’s narrow shutters. What a horrible night! She finished arranging the ferns—the only thing that was still growing in abundance around the castle other than heather—and stepped back to admire the varying shades of orange and brown.
She took a quick look around the room, satisfied that everything was ready for the evening meal, and started back to her chamber to change. She never knew when Tor would join her, but she tried to look her best for the few occasions on which he did.
The days had taken on a certain rhythm. Most days he left the castle at dawn, returning well after dark—and sometimes not at all. But he always kept his promise and told her when he would be away “for a few days.” She no longer bothered to ask him where he was going, knowing she would only get the same reply that he was attending to clan matters—single-handedly, it seemed.
She couldn’t help noticing that Lady Janet was often gone as well.
She didn’t want to think it was anything but a coincidence. But it was getting harder and harder to convince herself that her husband might harbor a special feeling for her.
In truth, she didn’t know what to think. It wasn’t that anything was wrong … precisely. She had nothing to complain about. But her marriage was not progressing the way she’d hoped, and she didn’t know what to do about it.
She’d been at Dunvegan for well over a month now, but in many ways she was no closer to knowing her husband than the day she arrived.
She’d learned what he liked to eat and drink; that his clan revered him as a living legend, a godlike king and warrior hero rolled into one; that he kept his household ordered and running with military precision; that he rarely relaxed; that in addition to a brother he had a sister (this she learned from the clerk), and that he could make her fall apart with a touch.
She knew the hot feel of his skin on hers, the way the pine scent of his soap intensified as his body heated with passion, the rough scrape of his jaw against her skin, the small “v” of silky-soft hair on his chest, the press of his lips on her breast, and the exquisite sensation of his hands covering her body.
She stepped into her chamber, her eye going to the bed—the one place they connected. Heat washed over her with the visceral memories.
She knew the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed when he held himself above her to push inside. She knew how hard those muscles felt bulging under her hands. She knew the weight of him on top of her, the fullness of him inside her, the rhythm of his lovemaking as he moved in and out of her. She knew the way his stomach muscles clenched into tight bands right before he cried out his release. She knew the sound of that release—the sharp grunt and deep groan echoed in her ears long after he’d gone. And gone he was, every time, no matter how much she hoped he would want to stay. To wake up in his arms just once …
Her chest tightened as she turned away from the bed.
She knew his lovemaking, but she knew nothing of the man. He kept his thoughts to himself. No matter how hard she tried to break through the wall he’d erected around himself, nothing worked. Perhaps she should ask King Edward to borrow his infamous siege engine “Warwolf,” she thought ruefully.
Tor was so used to being alone, to keeping his burdens to himself, that she didn’t even think he knew what he was missing. Or that his efforts to keep her out hurt. On the rare occasions that he joined her for a meal, her attempts at more intimate conversation were politely, but definitively, rebuked. Her attempt to make the household more cheery and bring a little warmth to the dreary Hall had been for naught. She tried to be helpful. To do nice things for him, like having the cook prepare his favorite meals or keeping his clothes spotless and freshly laundered. But he seemed too busy to notice.
She’d begun to feel like one of his dogs. An adoring pup, following him around at his heels, looking for any show of affection. A tender touch. A look. Anything to show he might care. Even another kiss on the head would give her hope.
It wasn’t that he was cruel. Cruelty would require some flare of emotion. Perhaps that would be easier. At least then, she would know where she stood.
She had thought she’d sensed something special between them, but what if she was wrong? What if there were no cozy nights before the fire? What if this was it?
Tor seemed to have two emotions when it came to her: polite indifference during the day and passion at night. The latter gave her hope. The passion between them had only grown as she’d gradually become more comfortable with her body’s desires and started to let go.
At least it had for her. She wanted to think it was mutual, but then again, she didn’t have anything to compare it to. Not the way he did.
But even in bed, she couldn’t help feeling that something was wrong. That he was holding back. She felt a sharp pang in her chest, fearing that she was a disappointment to him. I must be doing something wrong.
Desperately, she wanted to please him. But how? Impressing him with her wifely skills certainly wasn’t working. He’d taught her passion, how to sense the desires of her own body, but she still knew so little of his. What did he like?
He always seemed so under control, except for—
That was it! The first time. There was something raw and real about the first time. Maybe that was how he liked it?
Her cheeks heated at the wicked memory of how he’d entered her from behind.
Warmth settled low in her belly. She had a plan. It required boldness, but modesty would not deter her. To knock down the wall of distrust and isolation that he’d built up around himself, she would need to strike hard. Warwolf was nothing compared to what she had planned.
The wave crashed over him, dragging Tor down and holding him under for long enough to make most men panic. Lungs on fire, he broke back through the surface of the water, sucking in air in big gulps.
“Anyone ready to quit?” he yelled, his voice dulled by the roar of the wind and the hammer of the rain.
His question was greeted by a chorus of exhausted but determined men: “Nay, captain.”
But after more than an hour in the icy waters of the loch during the worst storm to hit Skye this season, even MacSorley was showing signs of weakening.
Only a madman would be caught out in the water on a night like tonight. But it was just the night he’d been waiting for. He couldn’t have devised more challenging conditions if he’d divined the storm himself.
Thor had unleashed his vengeance in a mighty torrent. Water crashed against the craggy rocks that lined the loch in huge, pounding waves.
They’d swum out to the mouth of the loch, perhaps a quarter mile from shore, through five-foot swells and a current intent on driving them back. Treading water since, they’d been doing their best to stay afloat as the black seas and sleet swirled mercilessly around them.
On a calm summer day, he could stay out here indefinitely. But the freezing winter waters and fierce seas sapped a man’s strength in minutes. His teeth had stopped chattering, and his legs and arms had stopped burning long ago. He didn’t feel anything. He knew the signs of danger but pushed on, pushing through pain and fear that would defeat all but the most elite warriors.
Strength. Endurance. Never surrender. Toughness of body and mind is what made his men the best.
When other men stood on the shore shaking, his men plunged in.
Given that he was one of the best swimmers of the group—as good as MacRuairi, if not quite as inhumanly strong as MacSorley—he could imagine how some of the other men must be suffering.
But quitting wasn’t an option. Ever. Best if they find out whether they had what it took now, when it risked the loss of one and not the entire team.
Most of the men were good swimmers, but Seton and MacKay were not as comfortable as the others in the water—Seton because he was English, and MacKay because he came from the mountain country deep in the Highlands.
The team was only as strong as its weakest link. And this exercise, along with many of the others he’d subjected them to the past few weeks, was intended to demonstrate the importance of working together, along with the need to be prepared in whatever environment they encountered—both physically and mentally. To defeat a much larger and better-equipped army they needed to be quicker, smarter, stronger, and able to move around in the most unwelcoming terrain with ease, including water.
“Call out,” he ordered. It was too dark and choppy to see all the men, so he had to rely on periodic checks to make sure everyone was accounted for.
He’d paired them off that first day and instructed them to never stray far from their partner—in the water, that meant no farther apart than arm’s length. They wouldn’t always work together in teams—big or small—but he needed to prepare them to do so.
“Team one, ready, captain.”
MacSorley and MacRuairi. The seafarer and the pirate. The cousins and descendants of the mighty Somerled were both excellent swimmers, but MacRuairi’s special skill lay in extraction. He was said to be able to get in and out of anywhere. A useful skill not only in retrieving men, but also in cutting throats.
An assassin—now that Tor could see.
He’d paired the good-humored MacSorley with his dour, black-hearted cousin to keep an eye on him. The fact that MacSorley’s constant needling annoyed MacRuairi was incidental, but not an unrewarding benefit. Used to working alone, MacRuairi chaffed at the partnership—another benefit.
“Team two, ready.”
Campbell and MacGregor. The scout and the archer. Campbell was also highly skilled with the throwing spear, and the two men had taken to increasingly ridiculous challenges of marksmanship as the days progressed.
After a week chained side by side, the antagonism had only grown between the two enemies, but they’d learned to work together and get the job done. It was enough for now.
Their pairing had been more appropriate than he realized. Both men avoided group conversation. MacGregor was a loner and Campbell an observer, content to stay on the periphery—not that their similar temperaments had eased their antagonism any.
“Team three, ready, captain.”
MacKay and Gordon. Another apt pairing. The braw, rugged mountain man and the lean alchemist couldn’t appear more outwardly different, but it turned out that MacKay was also something of an inventor and experimenter. Unlike the strange black powder that Gordon used to create thunder and flying fire, MacKay experimented with weapons, forging terrifying instruments with gruesome but descriptive names like the “eye plucker” or the “skull crusher.”
“Team four, ready, captain.”
Lamont and MacLean. The hunter and the attacker. Lamont was known as the hunter of men—able to track any trail, no matter how faint. MacLean wielded a formidable battle-axe and was said to have led a series of bold raids against the English in Carrick.
The Lamonts had also been engaged in a long-running feud with the Boyds. Had Tor known of it before, he might have made a different pairing.
“Team five, ready, captain.”
Boyd and Seton. The strongest and the weakest. The Englishman was the weakest link in the chain, and it infuriated him to no end. It wasn’t a judgment of whether he deserved to be there, but simply a reflection of his youth and inexperience. Actually, Seton had rather downplayed his skill with a blade; he threw a dirk with extraordinary accuracy. But it wasn’t Tor’s job to tell him that he deserved to be here; Seton had to figure that out for himself.
Tor attempted to frown, but his face was frozen stiff. If the training didn’t kill Seton, Boyd just might. Despite the obvious difference in strength between the two, Seton refused to back down. Whenever Boyd taunted him, Seton let it get to him. It was eating away at him, and Tor was just waiting for him to snap. His haughty English pride just might be the death of him.
Tor might have erred in this pairing, underestimating Boyd’s hatred of the English. The feuding clansmen—Boyd and Lamont—might have been a better choice. Discord was not difficult to find in this group.
Another wave dragged him under. Enough. Time to head back. He gave the order and sensed the relief, but the men were too drained and cold to cheer.
He was proud of them. He usually saved this test for later in training, but the storm had proved too tempting.
This time the waves and current were with them, and they swam in to shore with considerably more ease than when they’d swum out.
By time the men dragged themselves out of the water, Tor was ready to collapse naked on the rocky shore. Bending over to catch his breath, he noticed that a handful of the men were doing just that.
“Good work,” he said when he had caught his breath, giving his rare praise.
The wind and sleet had let up just enough for him to be able to make out the forms in the dark. The hairs on the back of his neck rose on end—and not from the cold. The nine forms. He’d done the tally without thought—it was something he did instinctively. He needed to know that all of his men were accounted for.
He swore. His gaze shot to Boyd. “Where is Seton?”
Boyd startled, looking around. “He was right behind me—”
Tor didn’t wait another instant. He jumped back in the water, rage giving him a fresh burst of strength.
He was going to kill Boyd with his own hands, strongest man or not. Tor hated losing a man for any reason. But not looking out for your partner was inexcusable. He had no intention of explaining to Bruce how he’d managed to allow his young brother-in-law to drown.
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.
He was hurting her, and it bothered him. She’d pinned hopes on him that he couldn’t possibly fulfill. Her vision of marriage was a romantic bard’s tale—like the one he’d overheard her telling the children of the knight devoted to his lady. He would clothe, shelter, and protect her—give his life for hers without a thought—but the kind of closeness she wanted from him wasn’t possible.
Even if he didn’t have a duty to his clan, he wasn’t capable of those emotions. He’d been a chief and a warrior for too long. Surrounded by death and gore for most of his life, he’d seen things that would make her toes curl. Early on he’d learned not to get attached to anyone. He’d seen too many people die: his parents, friends—hell, even his first wife.
Detachment gave him the edge he needed for his clan to survive and prosper, to be able to make life-and-death decisions, to achieve victory on the battlefield. He could not afford to be any other way. He was what war and duty had made him—cold and ruthless.
He could still see the light blazing in the Hall as he approached, though the evening meal must have ended some time ago. He muttered an annoyed curse. Even half dead with exhaustion, he still felt the unmistakable stirrings in his groin, knowing he would see her soon.
The newness wasn’t wearing off. He was beginning to wonder whether he would ever get enough of her. Night after night, he couldn’t stay away. Even when he forced himself to sleep at the broch for a few nights—proving to himself that he could—he thought of her. She’d invaded his thoughts, his dreams, even his damned senses at the most inopportune times. He’d been in the middle of a sword fight with MacRuairi yesterday when he’d lifted his arm to swing his sword and caught a whiff of her flowery scent on his skin. He’d taken a blow on the shoulder for the lapse.
It wasn’t working. No matter how many times he took her, his lust for his wife was not dying. It was only getting fiercer. More intense. Drawing him back to her, no matter how hard he fought the pull.
But not tonight. Tonight he was just too bloody tired. No matter how entrancing she looked curled up on the bed, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders and her soft cheek pressed against the pillow, he would bid her good night and collapse around the fire with the rest of his men. Where he belonged.
He entered the Hall, inhaling the rich, spicy scent that mixed with the peat from the fire. Cloves and nutmeg, he realized. Warmth settled over him. Despite his exhaustion, he felt his body relax. A memory buried in the farthest reaches of his mind teased. Stewed fruits. The scent reminded him of his childhood. Of his mother. Of another time.
What was it about his young wife that roused these strange memories in him?
Though Rhuairi had assured him that Christina wasn’t burning extra peat, it still felt warmer in here. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Dunvegan felt different. The air was softer, the aura more comfortable. He noticed it more each time he returned. He feared he was beginning to like it too much.
Most of his clansmen were still enjoying their drink, but a few had already rolled up in their plaids to sleep. Rhuairi walked with him to apprise him of the goings-on around the castle that day, including more problems with the rents. By the time Tor left the hall he was even more exhausted, weighed down by the demands of his dual responsibilities. Training the men was putting a strain on his duty to his clan.
But he couldn’t lie to himself: He liked training them. They were different than any other team he’d ever trained before. Usually, he felt the divide between captain and soldier, but these men were his equals. Not just in rank, but in skill. He felt like he was part of something significant.
Seeing the sliver of light coming from under the door, he knocked. He heard a gasp and shuffling before he opened it. Christina was on her knees, putting something away in the trunk when he entered. Snapping the lid down closed, she turned to him with an unmistakably guilty stain on her cheeks. He saw the empty dish by her bed, noticing the sugary residue. What was she doing? Squirreling away figs for the winter?
They were costly enough. Still, when he’d noticed how much she’d liked sugared plums and figs, he’d told Rhuairi to purchase extra for Yule. Perhaps that would bring a smile to her face. He liked it when she smiled.
“You came!” she exclaimed, leaping to her feet and rushing toward him.
As much as he liked the enthusiastic welcome, he got the feeling she was trying to distract him. His gaze shot to the chest and then back to her. “Did I disturb you?”
She shook her head. “Nay, I was just putting away some leines that needed mending.”
His brow shot up. “While eating figs?”
Her cheeks pinkened adorably, and he felt the familiar swell in his chest. Her sable hair was loose and had fallen across her face in a thick, satiny veil. Without realizing what he was doing, he reached out and gently tucked it behind her ear. Something he’d seen her do often enough.
She sucked in her breath and their eyes locked. He didn’t know which one of them was more surprised by the gesture. It was just like that time he’d kissed her on the head. Unfortunately, this time she wasn’t asleep.
Quickly, he dropped his hand and shifted his gaze.
The strange feelings for his young wife disarmed him. He’d never met anyone like her—sweet, kind, thoughtful, and too damned eager to please. She was always touching him—a light touch on his arm, a gentle squeeze. Not since his mother had anyone touched him so freely. Something about her invited closeness.
He should be in the broch with Bruce’s guard, not here in this room alone with her, wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and cradle her soft, naked skin against his and inhale her fresh scent like it was ambrosia to a dying man.
The sexual craving he understood. This craving to be near her he did not, particularly when it came at the expense of his duties. He was getting soft, and he better damn well do something about it.
He stepped back, straightening his back. “I’ve come to bid you good night.”
Her face fell. “Aren’t you—”
He ignored the stab in his chest. “It’s been a long day.”
She looked as if he’d just stomped on her favorite puppy. “Oh,” she said, twisting her hands, “it’s just that I …”
She looked down, avoiding his gaze, but he could see the soft rush of color to her cheeks.
So beautiful, he thought, the tightness in his chest rising to his throat. Sometimes it hurt just to look at her. Her sweet vulnerability called to him in a way he’d never felt before. His hand lifted to touch her cheek, but it quickly fell back to his side.
He forced his gaze away. This was crazy. He needed to get a hold on himself. She was a distraction he couldn’t afford. He’d started to bid her good night, but her next words stopped him cold.
“I was hoping we could try something different tonight,” she blurted.
His gaze shot to hers, his body jumping immediately to life. “Different?” His voice strangled in his throat. He told himself she didn’t mean what he thought. She didn’t know how provocative that sounded. Or did she? He’d sensed the burgeoning struggle inside her: her natural passionate curiosity warring with the deeply ingrained maidenly modesty. His innocent young bride was growing in boldness. Heaven help him when she finally gave free rein to her passion.
She came closer to him, close enough so that the ripe swell of her breasts brushed the linen of his shirt. He damned near jumped out of his skin, the hard points of her nipples pinning him. She placed her hands on his chest, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. The sensual look in those exotic dark eyes left no question as to what she wanted.
The weight in his groin intensified. His blood rushed hotter as her soft, womanly scent washed over him. She had no idea what she did to him. How he hungered for her. How her unabashed desire for him only made it worse.
“I wondered if we might …”
He waited. His heart pounding fiercely under her palm. He could tell she didn’t know how to say what she wanted. “What is it, lass?” he said huskily, unable to stop himself from caressing the velvety curve of her cheek. A fissure of sensation rattled through him, as it always did when he touched her. “Say what it is you want.”
“I wondered if we might try it the way … the first night …”
He froze. But the blood, the blood rushed and pounded inside him like an inferno. The chains of civility had never been pulled so tight. Every animal instinct in him rose like those of a lion ready to break out of a cage. His cock stiffened, rock-hard and aching.
She couldn’t be asking …
But she was. Her eyes locked on his. “From behind.”