Christina leaned back against Tor’s chest, the leather folio resting on her naked stomach and the rumpled bed linen twisted around her legs. Bright morning sunlight poured through the open shutter, giving her plenty of light from which to read.
Or at least try to read—if her infuriating husband would stop interrupting. She got to the part about Lancelot lowering himself to ride in a cart to save his lady, and she heard the unmistakable sound of a snort.
She put down the book and turned around to give him a sharp look. “If you are going to ruin the story, I’m not going to read anymore.”
“These knights and their foolish codes,” he said with unconcealed disgust. “The gravest dishonor just for consenting to ride in a cart?” He shook his head. “Hell, I’d crawl through a dung heap to save you.”
Christina’s mouth twitched. It was hard to stay angry when he said something like that. Who would have thought that a dung heap could be so romantic?
She scooted up to give him a swift kiss. “That’s sweet.”
“Sweet?” His eyes darkened. “I don’t have a sweet bone in my body.”
And to prove it he dragged her up his chest and kissed her much more thoroughly. The book fell between them as she took advantage of their position, and his sizeable erection, by rolling around on top of him.
Straddling him on her knees, she impaled herself onto him, her body sighing with pleasure as he filled her. And how he filled her! Big and thick, she loved the feeling of him inside her. Aye, she’d learned to appreciate his size, and now understood the look that maid had given her those months ago at Finlaggan.
Groaning, he cupped her breasts in his big, rough hands, squeezing and pinching her nipples between his fingers as she began to ride him. Slowly at first, then faster, finding her rhythm.
She arched her back into his palms, letting her head fall back as she lifted off him, pulling up as high as she could go before sinking back down on top of him with a sensual circle of her hips.
Their bodies moved together so easily—fluidly. In bed, there was nothing left between them. No awkwardness or embarrassment, just the perfect union of lovers.
When she neared her release, he reached down between them and caressed that deliciously sensitive spot with his finger, intensifying her pleasure exactly the way he knew she liked.
She shuddered, crying out, as the spasms wracked her. She was still tingling when he took her by the hips and thrust high and deep, finding his own release.
Gently, he cupped her face and kissed her again. “Was that sweet enough for you?”
“Aye, I’ll ride you over a cart any day.” She giggled and snuggled back against him, retrieving the book from the sheets. With a scolding look, as if he was a bairn who’d misbehaved, she said, “Now do you want me to finish the chapter or not?”
His mouth quirked. “I suppose you might as well.”
She wasn’t fooled by his indifferent attitude. Despite his obvious scorn for the knightly code, she knew he was enjoying the tale.
She managed to get through the rest of the chapter without any further interruptions. But when she finished, he rolled out of bed (reluctantly, she thought) to get dressed.
She watched him with unconcealed interest. Two weeks of waking up in his arms had not dimmed her eagerness any. After that first time, he’d slept beside her every night. Yule had passed a week ago, but each day felt like a gift. She didn’t think she’d ever get tired of waking up next to him or of looking at his magnificent body as he went through his morning ablutions, knowing that only minutes before she’d been in his arms.
Her husband had softened toward her—of that she had no doubt. He no longer seemed quite so distant and indifferent, and he was making an effort to open up to her more as he’d promised, though it wasn’t easy for him. Given the brutality of his life and the circumstances of his parents’ death, she understood why.
Waking up in his arms every morning gave her some of the closeness she’d yearned for, but there was something missing. The divide between them was still there. It seemed he had two lives—one with her and one with everyone else.
She was as much in the dark about what he was doing as before. But she told herself to be patient. She just needed to give him a chance.
He dressed quickly; cleaned his teeth with a wash of white wine, a fine cloth, and a mint-and-salt paste; ran a comb through his hair, splashed water on his face from the urn on the table, and dragged the drying cloth over his face to wipe away the excess. But the cool water did not wash away the signs of worry etched on his face.
Something was weighing on him. She knew him better now and had learned to decipher the nearly imperceptible signs: a slight tightening of the mouth, heaviness in the brow, and distance in his gaze.
“What is it?” she asked. “What is bothering you?”
Was it the rumors of the growing rift between Bruce and Comyn, and the looming threat of war between Scotland and England? After learning of his struggle to rebuild his clan from the ashes of destruction, she understood his reasons for wanting to avoid the war and maintain his neutrality.
He smiled and shook his head, her clue that he had no intention of telling her. She fought back the wave of disappointment. It wasn’t just the lack of trust—or that he’d confided in others—but the fear that he still saw her as a fragile plaything who needed to be cosseted and protected.
It will take time, she reminded herself. And they had a lifetime.
“Just something I’ve been putting off.” He turned to meet her gaze. “I might not be back for the rest of the week.”
This time she couldn’t prevent the disappointment, though she did her best to hide it. She knew she should be grateful for the weeks they’d had together, but it wasn’t enough. She’d become greedy. The more time she spent with him, the more she wanted.
She didn’t ask him where he was going, not wanting to dull her mood any further when he refused to tell her.
But all of a sudden a possibility struck her. Dear God, was this the day she’d feared? The day he would sail off to war?
Christina’s perceptiveness about his mood no longer surprised him, though it bothered him how easily she could read him. Something was bothering him. He could no longer put off MacDonald’s orders.
Unfortunately, he could also read her and knew that his reticence was hurting her. Their carefully constructed compromise was foundering. As much as she pretended to understand why he could not explain what he was doing, the closer they became, the bigger the hole grew between them.
What surprised him the most was that he actually wanted to tell her. For years he’d kept everything bottled up inside. Loosening the top had made years of built-up pressure ready to explode. Probably, he never should have made an exception. But he couldn’t deny that talking seemed to help clear his head.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and drew her feet up, wrapping the bedsheet around her knees. “Have you found out who was responsible for the attack?” she asked evenly.
Tor wasn’t fooled by the nonchalant question; he knew what was behind it. She no longer asked him where he was going, but that didn’t mean she had stopped wanting to know.
His mouth fell in a hard line. “Nay.”
MacSorley and MacRuairi had returned a few days after giving chase, severely undermanned against four warships they had followed at a distance, waiting until one of the galleys had fallen back from the rest. They’d taken the single galley easily, but not even MacRuairi’s considerable talents at extracting information had revealed the name of the man who’d hired them.
“Not yet,” he amended. “But I will. Once I find the leak—”
He stopped, feeling as if he’d been poleaxed. He’d never made a slip like that in his life. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Right.
She gasped. “You think there is a spy?”
“It seems probable,” he replied slowly, furious with himself. “The attacks have all been when I was—or was supposed to be—away. Too great of a coincidence to be left to chance.”
“Do you know who the spy is?”
“Nay, not yet. It could be anyone. Anyone,” he repeated.
“When I leave the castle is not exactly a secret. But my men are watching for anything suspicious, and precautions are being taken.” All messages were being screened and anything suspicious brought to him. They were watching the guardsmen—the newer recruits in particular—and the household staff, including the clerk and Rhuairi. Although after how the clerk had protected Christina, his initial suspicions seemed unfounded.
He could almost see her mind working. Perhaps the slip had been for the best, he told himself. Drawing the asp out had to be done with care so as to not make him run, and it could be dangerous. She needed to be on guard. “Only a few of my closest guardsmen know about this, Christina. I trust I do not need to impart upon you the seriousness—or the potential danger—of the situation. I hope I have not misplaced my trust in you.”
She shook her heard violently. “Of course not.” She smiled. “Thank you for telling me.” She tilted her head. “Is that why you are going away?”
“Partly. My men will be watching the castle for anything unusual. Although I doubt they will try anything again so soon after the last attack. But I don’t want you to leave the castle while I’m gone—and remember your promise.”
He didn’t need to explain to her to stay out of his business. “I will be bored,” she complained.
He tried not to smile at her piqued expression. “I thought you were working on a new banner for the Hall.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know very well that it’s a mess. I’m horrible with a needle.”
He chuckled. “I’m sure you will find something to occupy your time.”
“If you hadn’t sent your brother and his bride off into exile, I would have someone to talk to.”
It was a sore subject. She didn’t understand his insistence on punishing his brother—even though he wasn’t. It didn’t surprise him. She was too soft-hearted and not used to making the hard decisions that he was faced with every day as chief.
“Janet will be here.” With a potential spy in their midst, he’d decided it was too risky for her to be going back and forth between the castle and the broch. The men had been cooking on their own—and complaining.
She arched her brow. “You wish me to be friends with your mistress?”
“Former mistress,” he corrected. “But still a friend. Give her a chance; you will like her.”
She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “Men don’t understand anything. I doubt very much she wants to be my friend.”
He had no idea why, but didn’t pretend to understand the intricacies of a woman’s mind.
He bent down and gave her a soft kiss, lingering longer than he should have. But when he lifted his head it was worth it. Crushed red lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dazed, soft pink cheeks—damn, he loved the way she looked when he kissed her. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Christina had managed to take Tor’s mind off his troubles, but not for long. Damn Bruce. To hell with MacDonald. He hated deception of any kind. These men were a team and deserved to know the truth. For a covert guard like this to work, ultimate authority for team decisions had to rest with the team leader. If this were his command, he’d tell Bruce and MacDonald exactly what they could do with their “orders.” But in a little less than three weeks, MacSorley would be the leader and it would be his decision to make. Not even the big Norseman, however, knew what was about to happen.
It was the final test of “Perdition,” delayed by their early return to Dunvegan.
The men gathered around as he explained their task. It had taken more than two months, but Tor had finally managed to silence them.
“You can’t be serious.” Seton was the first one brash enough to say what the others were thinking.
The look Tor shot him said otherwise. “It was the final challenge for Finn MacCool’s Fianna.”
“But that’s only a legend,” MacGregor said. “No man could defend himself against so many spears while buried up to his waist naked with only a targe to defend himself.”
Tor smiled. “You’ve nothing to worry about, I’m modifying the test from Finn’s. You can wear your war coat and helm, and not all the spears will be thrown at once.”
He heard a few snorts. His modification didn’t seem to have impressed them.
“It can be done,” Campbell interjected. “An accomplished warrior can easily catch ten or more spears. It’s more about controlling your fear.”
“Easy for you to say,” MacGregor said. “You’ve grown up having spears lobbed at your head. We’ve all seen what you can do with them.”
Campbell met Tor’s gaze and he nodded his approval. “I’ll show you,” he offered.
The men spent the next few hours practicing, Campbell throwing the sticks—which they were grateful for after a few well-placed misses—and then, as the men got the hang of it, he progressed to a spear wrapped with a piece of leather over the sharp steel tip. Finally, each man faced the real thing. Other than Seton taking a hard blow on the shoulder, they all managed to catch a succession of at least ten spears—some of the men quite a few more. Campbell was right: Once you controlled your fear, there wasn’t much to it. And to a man, they were fearless.
Tor dug the hole while the men practiced. Given the challenge he’d given them, he figured it was the least he could do. Waist deep and about two feet in diameter, the hole was tight, but big enough for them to turn around in—barely.
MacSorley climbed in first as the others gathered in a circle around him, about twenty paces out. He’d removed all the weapons he wore strapped to his massive chest but still had his cotun, helm, and targe.
Tor raised his hand to signal the start. “Any blood and you fail the challenge.”
MacSorley nodded. “I understand.”
“Ready?”
“Aye.”
Tor motioned to Lamont, the man on his right, and the spears began to fly around the circle. One by one, waiting a few seconds in between, the men heaved them at the live target in the middle. MacSorley quickly found his rhythm, alternating by catching and using his shield to block. Tor threw last, his spear coming closest, but it was deflected at the last minute by MacSorley’s targe. Like his birlinn, there was a fearsome-looking sea hawk painted on the face of the leather-wrapped wood.
When it was over, MacSorley had nine spears lying around him and one still stuck in his targe. But he’d done it. And once the other men saw how it could be done, they quickly followed his lead.
The last man to enter the hole was Campbell. The tension had dissipated with each successful challenger, and as Campbell readied to take his turn, there was even quite a bit of jesting going back and forth.
Tor met his gaze. “Ready?”
Campbell nodded grimly. Tor gave the signal and the spears began to fly. Because this was the last man, the other warriors had gotten used to it and the timing between tosses had fallen into a nice pattern.
A pattern he broke.
When MacGregor, who was standing on his left, released his spear, Tor let his fly at the same time.
As the other men had done, Campbell had fallen into a rhythm. He easily caught MacGregor’s spear but wasn’t ready for Tor’s. Without time to get his targe in position, at the last minute he leaned to the side just enough to evade a spear in the chest. But it grazed his arm, sticking in the ground a few feet behind him.
After a shocked pause, Tor heard a collective sigh go around. “That was close,” MacGregor said.
MacSorley answered with a sad shake of his head.
Tor didn’t say anything. He, like the others, was watching the arm of Campbell’s cotun stain with blood.
Campbell’s gaze locked on his. “I’m sorry, lad,” Tor said quietly.
Campbell looked away and nodded his head. He knew the rules. “I’ll gather my things.”
Without another word, he pulled himself out of the hole and made his way to the broch. The other men watched him go in stunned silence.
It was Seton who turned on Tor first. “You can’t seriously mean to let him go. We need him. There’s not another scout like him in Scotland—or anywhere, for that matter.”
“He failed the test,” Tor replied, though no explanation was necessary.
Seton’s face turned florid with outrage. “Because you cheated.”
The blast of silence was deafening. The Highlanders knew what this English knight did not. “If I subscribed to the code you are referring to, you’d be dead for what you just said.” Seton’s jaw clenched; he’d realized his mistake. “In war there is no such thing as cheating, and if you want to be of part of this team you’d better learn that fast. This guard needs to be ready for anything and Campbell got complacent. Complacent will get us all killed.”
MacSorley gave him a strange look and Tor realized his slip—he was not part of “us.”
“The captain is right,” MacGregor said. “We all got complacent. Campbell should not be the only one to suffer. I’ll take the test again with him.”
Tor gave him a long look, impressed by the depth of the bond that had developed between these two former feuding clansmen. They might argue like enemies, but beneath the clan rhetoric was friendship. He swore at the injustice of the situation but betrayed none of his thoughts when he spoke. “Campbell had his chance. We will have to make do without him. Boyd and Lamont are excellent scouts; they can take over.” He looked around the angry circle of men so there could be no mistake. “It’s done. I’ve made my decision.”
Knowing it was futile to argue, the men dispersed. They weren’t happy about his decision but accepted it with varying levels of outrage. Not surprisingly, MacGregor avoided him for the rest of the day.
Campbell said his solemn good-byes and when it was time, Tor alone walked him to the galley that would take him back to the mainland.
“You have everything?” he asked.
Campbell nodded.
“I’m sorry about this, lad. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”
Campbell’s face was a mask of stony acceptance. “Aye, captain, I understand.”
“How is your arm?”
“It’s fine.” Campbell instinctively grabbed the top of his arm—not the left that had been injured by the spear, but the right where Tor had secretly tattooed a mark deep into his skin late last night. The other men might not know the truth, but Campbell was one of them.
“If you ever get in trouble.”
Campbell nodded. “I know what to do.”
Tor clasped him by the arm, giving him a firm shake. “Bas roimh geill.”
“Death before surrender,” Campbell replied fiercely. With one last look at the broch, he jumped into the boat and sailed away.
Tor watched him go.
Now there are ten.