Christina was wrenched from a deep sleep by a chill at her back. Instinctively, she snuggled toward the heat of her husband, only to find emptiness and cold linen.
He was gone for some time if the icy sheets were any indication.
Her brow furrowed. Perhaps she’d slept longer than she realized? But when she dragged her eyes open, it was to find herself gazing into the early gray light of dawn filtering through the spaces in the wooden shutter.
As she could barely move, she wondered what could have caused him to wake so early. If it wasn’t for the freezing morning, Christina could have slept for another few hours. But winter was coming, and in the North it took a particularly frigid turn. Eilean a Cheo, the Isle of Mist, the Gaelic name for Skye, did not bode well. Shades of gray would probably be the only color to paint the sky for some time.
She stretched lazily, but even that took some effort. Every muscle in her body was stiff and weak with exhaustion. Heat flooded her cheeks as she remembered why.
Never could she have imagined acting with such wanton abandon. But in truth it had seemed the most natural—the only—thing to do. Her body had responded with a mind of its own.
He’d known exactly how to touch her. How to make her shake with pleasure until she soared into sensual oblivion. It was so much better than in her books!
A contented smile curled her lips. For all his cool indifference, her husband’s passion did not lie. Last night she’d seen a different side of him—a wild, passionate side, but also a gentle and considerate one. He’d not merely taken pleasure but given it.
He cared for her—he had to. She’d felt it in the tenderness of his touch, in the sounds of his pleasure, and in the frantic beating of his heart.
And when they’d collapsed in sated bliss, he’d been just as exhausted as she—the heaviness of his breathing and the boneless limbs gave proof that it had affected him.
Those long nights at the hearth seemed much closer.
But where had he gone?
She tossed the covers off and bounded out of bed, barely noticing the bracing chill in her eagerness to find him. Last night had broken down a barrier between them and she couldn’t wait to see him—to talk to him. A new day had dawned in their marriage.
She called for Mhairi, who slept in the adjoining mural chamber, and quickly washed and dressed. As she passed the lord’s solar on the way to the Great Hall, she noticed the door was slightly ajar. Hoping to find Tor there, she gently pushed it open to peek inside. Her attempts at quiet, however, were ruined by the squeak of the iron hinges.
The clerk startled, dropping the stack of parchments he’d been flipping through.
“My lady!” he exclaimed with surprise, moving back away from the table where he’d been standing.
Christina smiled, thinking that his voice squeaked louder than the door. “Good morning, Brother John,” she said cheerily. “You are up early this morning.”
He seemed to collect himself and returned her smile. “As I am every day. Matins at dawn, you know.”
She nodded, unable to prevent the wave of relief at the monotonous life she’d narrowly avoided. She hoped that Beatrix was happy. Word had arrived her first day at Dunvegan that her sister had made it safely to Iona. MacDonald’s charming scoundrel of a henchman had proved true to his word. Somehow MacSorley had caught up to the travelers and escorted Beatrix the rest of the way to the nunnery. The Islanders were reputed to be excellent seafarers, courtesy of their Viking forebearers. Her husband certainly gave proof to the characterization, but MacSorley’s extraordinary feat seemed incredible even for an Islander.
“Is there something you wanted, my lady?” the clerk asked.
Christina shook her head, bending down to pick up a piece of parchment that had landed near her feet. She glanced at it, seeing that it was a letter, and handed it back to him. “I was hoping to find my husband. Have you seen him this morning?”
“Nay, but he’s probably in the Great Hall with his men, breaking his fast.” He started to put away the documents. “I was just on the way myself. Perhaps I can accompany you?”
“I would like that,” she said. “But I do not want to take you from your work?”
He shook his head, his long, straight hair cut in a semicircle around his face quickly sliding back into place. “It’s nothing that can’t wait. Some correspondence, that’s all.”
They walked to the Hall together, chatting about the worsening weather and the long winter ahead of them. The young clerk, it turned out, had arrived at Dunvegan not much before her, and Christina was delighted to discover that he had spent quite a bit of time at a monastery near her home in Stirlingshire. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised to discover that the only person who’d been friendly toward her was also an outsider.
“We shall have much to talk about,” she said.
“We shall, indeed.” Echoing her thoughts, he said, “I hope you don’t mind my saying that I’m glad you are here, my lady. Yours is the first smile I’ve seen in quite some time. The chief’s marriage took the clan by surprise, but it’s easy to see why he fell in love with you.”
Christina froze, stopping a few feet from the entry to the Hall. “What?” She croaked. Her breath seemed lodged in her throat.
The clerk turned as red as an overripe beet. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t repeat the servants’ gossip.”
Christina didn’t mind at all. But trying to appear nonchalant, she twisted the thick gold bracelet at her wrist and said idly, “What exactly are they saying?”
The clerk shuffled uncomfortably, looking down at his feet. “That the chief took one look at you and decided he had to have you. One of the lads heard it from the chief’s personal privy counselor himself.”
Christina flushed to her roots with pleasure. She knew there could be no truth in the story, even if it had come from her husband’s closest confidant … could there?
“There has been much speculation because it happened so suddenly,” he explained. “And the chief had given no indication that he intended to remarry. An alliance with the house of Fraser was even more unexpected, given the current climate.”
Christina was confused. “What do you mean?”
He lowered his voice. “War.”
The word stopped her heart. “Have you heard something?”
He shook his head. “Nay, but there are rumors that pockets of rebellion are springing up around Scotland with the capture of Wallace. The chief has been careful to maintain his neutrality till now. But your family is well known for being in the thick of the patriotic cause. Marriage to a Fraser …”
He didn’t need to finish. Marriage to her put that neutrality in question. It was what her husband had alluded to on the boat—the reason he’d refused the marriage with her initially.
“Our marriage had nothing to do with politics,” she said adamantly. “An alliance with my father is the last thing he wanted.” She couldn’t hide the wry note in her voice. “Anyone who thinks differently would be wrong. Very wrong,” she emphasized.
But a little voice at the back of her head wondered whether there was perhaps a wee bit of truth to the rumor of his caring for her. Tor MacLeod was not a man to be forced into anything. He wouldn’t have married her if he didn’t want to, particularly given the political objection.
The clerk’s easy talk of treason concerned her. Though she did not know Edward of England personally, she knew well enough the danger of defying him. “This talk of war is dangerous. Skye is a long way from London, but King Edward has ears everywhere. I hope you’ll put a stop to any rumors of this sort if you hear them. I don’t want our marriage to cause my husband unnecessary trouble.”
He nodded understandingly. “Certainly, my lady. You are wise as well as beautiful.”
Christina accepted the gallantry with a smile, refusing to allow the black cloud of war and politics to put a damper on the day. Last night had been a dream come true—a night to build a future on—and nothing could temper the happiness in her heart.
Or so she thought.
The clerk and Christina entered the Hall unobserved. For so early in the morning, the number of people milling about surprised her. Her gaze instinctively went to the large thronelike chair on the dais, and she stilled. The happiness that she thought so entrenched drained out of her like water through a sieve.
Sitting beside her husband on the dais, in the seat that belonged to her, was the beautiful woman she’d noticed the first night she’d arrived. Their heads were bent close together, their shoulders touching. The intimacy between them was evident in their ease with each other.
“Is something wrong, my lady?”
Knowing her emotions were far too easy to read, Christina cursed her fair complexion and willed color back to her cheeks. But she had to know. “The woman,” she said without looking, “seated next to my husband. Who is she?”
The clerk looked in the direction of the dais and his face turned as red as before. Like hers, his emotions were easy to read on his face, and right now his discomfort could not be more clear. “Lady Janet MacKinnon, my lady. The widow of the chief’s former henchman.”
Widow. Her heart sank further. “They are close?” she asked in a whisper.
The kind young churchman didn’t pretend to misunderstand what she was asking. Nor did he patronize her with a lie. “Aye, I believe they were.”
Christina’s newfound confidence crumbled into dust. Despair squeezed her chest. The woman had been his leman. But was she still?
Tor had just finished laying out what he wanted from her when Janet suddenly straightened. “I’d better go,” she said, nodding toward the entry.
He turned and saw Christina approaching the dais. Janet was right. He had no wish for his wife to overhear what they were talking about—she seemed prone to asking unwanted questions. He frowned, noticing the glasslike stiffness in Christina’s expression and the high color on her cheeks. She looked upset about something. He quickly scanned the room to see whether there was some new womanly touch he was supposed to have noticed.
Seeing nothing, he turned back to Janet, who’d already stood up. “We will finish this later,” he said in a low voice.
She nodded and hurried away.
A moment later, his wife took the seat Janet had just vacated. She looked beautiful and regal in her blue velvet cote-hardie, but also unusually reserved. She sat down without a word.
“Good morning,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”
Though there was nothing provocative in his tone, her cheeks flushed. She peered out from under her lashes at him. “Aye, very well.” She lifted her gaze to his. “And you?” She tilted her head. “You were gone so early. I hope there wasn’t something wrong?”
The concern in her gaze made him wary—as did the implication. Clearly, she expected him to sleep by her side. He didn’t want to disappoint her, but that would not be happening. “Nothing wrong,” he said. “I slept in the Hall with my clansmen, as I do every night.” Where he belonged.
He steeled himself against her reaction, but it was not enough. The shimmer of hurt in her gaze pierced right through his hard-won defenses. “I see,” she said.
She looked down at her trencher to avoid his gaze, and he was glad of it. But it did not lighten the discomfort in his chest or the weight on his conscience, knowing he’d bruised her tender feelings. She couldn’t help her weakness—women were emotional creatures. He felt the strangest urge to fold her hand in his and give it a comforting squeeze. But he shook off the strange thought, knowing he had no cause to feel guilty. He always slept in the hall with his men—it had nothing to do with her personally. His clan came first.
It was wrong of her to put such demands on him, of course. But she was a new bride. She would learn. Obviously, she had some illusions about this marriage, and the sooner she realized it wasn’t going to be some romantic bard’s tale, the better. He was a Highland chief, not a lovesick knight schooled in the art of courtly love.
He certainly wasn’t going to lose his head over a lass.
He took a last swig of ale and pushed back from the table. More of the men would be arriving today, and he wanted to be there when they did.
“You’re going?” she asked.
He tried to ignore the disappointment in her voice. “Aye.” Remembering his promise, he added, “I’ll be gone for a few nights, so I bid you farewell until then.”
Her face fell. “But you’ve only just returned. Where are you going?”
He wanted to tell her that a wife shouldn’t question her husband, but she looked like a kicked kitten. And he felt like a damned beast. The discomfort in his chest grew tighter. He didn’t want to lie to her, but neither could he tell her the truth. “I’ve many things that require my attention. I’m often away, visiting my holdings.” The broch on Waternish qualified, though he was being misleading.
“Of course. I’m sorry. It is all so new to me.” She looked up at him expectantly. “Good-bye.”
Her lips parted in innocent invitation. He stared at her pink, succulent mouth for a long moment, tempted beyond measure. With a grunt that was half curse, half pain, he tore his gaze away and locked his jaw. “Good-bye,” he said, and left before he did something foolish like pull her into his arms and kiss her until the coiling in his chest unraveled.
The best of the best had gathered on Skye.
By late the following afternoon, all ten warriors had arrived at the ruined ancient fortress of Dun Hallin Broch. Located in a remote area of the Waternish Peninsula—the finger of land that abutted Dunvegan—the broch and the surrounding settlement had been abandoned since well before Tor’s Norse ancestors landed on Skye.
The broch was a circular stone fortress of perhaps twenty-five feet in interior diameter with ten-foot-thick walls, situated on a small rise in rocky moorland. At one time the walls had stood thirty feet high, but the upper part of the tower and the roof had been lost long ago. Still, with some wood for a new roof and peat for a fire, it would provide sufficient shelter from the worst of the winter wind and rain. It wouldn’t be comfortable by any means, but it was luxurious compared to what these men would be experiencing in the months to come.
The location was ideal. It was close to Dunvegan, but the difficult surrounding terrain made it not easily accessible and sparsely populated. Like the strange standing stones and cairns that peppered the landscape, the ancient brochs were avoided by the Islanders, who thought them inhabited by fairies and other spirits. Superstition would work in their favor to keep people away.
Though they were unlikely to be discovered here, Tor would exercise extreme caution. Too much was at stake. And with the recent attacks on Dunvegan, until he discovered who was responsible he couldn’t take any chances.
Though he would not hesitate to put his life in the hands of any of his personal guardsmen—and had on more than one occasion—he followed his usual practice of only telling his men what he had to. Right now, with his henchman still chasing after his brother, that meant Fergus, his privy counselor; Rhuairi, his seneschal; and his an gille mor, sword bearer, Colyne. Starting tomorrow, Colyne would accompany Janet back and forth from the castle to bring food and provisions to the men.
If there was a woman he could trust, it was Janet. They’d known each other since childhood. He’d danced at her wedding to his foster brother and henchman, and mourned with her at his death a few years later. Their shared grief had taken an unexpected, but not unwelcome, turn when they’d become lovers. The arrangement had suited them both, and were it not for his recent marriage, probably would have continued indefinitely. She was comfortable and placed no demands on him.
That the relationship was at an end, however, he knew—though he didn’t wish to examine why. Marriage didn’t need to end it, there was nothing unusual in keeping a leman. Janet had accepted his change of circumstance with the same practicality that had drawn them together in the first place. If she regretted the end to their liaison, she did not show it—would that his wife would learn to hide her feelings so easily. His relationship with Janet had shifted easily before and it did so again, back to friendship.
As each of the ten warriors arrived, Tor put them to work gathering wood to repair the roof and cutting peat.
It was a test of sorts. The physical labor was not meant to humble, but to put each of the elite warriors on equal footing and to start them working together as a single unit—a team. He knew some of the men well, and some not at all, but he could already tell it was going to be a team like no other.
Preferring to work alone and keep his own counsel, Tor was used to operating on his own. These men were not. Most of the men were chieftains or leaders in their own right, accustomed to giving, not taking, commands and having a large retinue of men around them. He couldn’t be sure what motivated them to agree to be trained and put under his command. He suspected they all had their reasons for being here. He knew some of the men had close ties to Bruce, and undoubtedly the premise of the team had proved as intriguing as it had to him. His reputation as a trainer of men probably played a part. But following orders was going to be a challenge for some of them.
He suspected it had been a long time since Lachlan MacRuairi had wielded a spade to cut earth or an axe to cut down a tree (rather than a man), but the proud chieftain—who were it not for his bastard birth could challenge his cousin MacDonald as heir to the ancient Kingdom of the Isles—did not bat an eye. But the ready obedience did not fool Tor. MacRuairi would bear watching.
That only one man balked at his order surprised him. Who it was, however, did not. Sir Alex Seton was the younger brother of Bruce’s close companion and brother-in-law, “Good Sir Christopher,” but the last time Tor looked, Yorkshire—from where the Setons hailed—was still in England. And no matter what side of the border he resided on now, Alex Seton had all the trappings of his countrymen, from the fine chain mail, plumed helm, and finely embroidered tabard to the haughty superiority. But at least the arrogant Englishman was a quick study. If he thought cutting peat beneath him, he hid his disdain when Tor ordered him to dig the latrines instead.
Half expecting Seton to jump in a boat and sail right back to the borders, Tor was surprised to find him still digging an hour later, his fine chain mail and richly embroidered tabard of the Wyvern and shield with three crescents and royal double tressure folded neatly in a pile beside him.
“You won’t find much use for that here,” Tor said, digging his shovel into the earth a few feet away to start a second pit.
“I’m a knight,” Seton answered proudly. “I will look like one.”
Given that Seton couldn’t be much older than one and twenty, Tor would wager he hadn’t had his spurs for long. “You were a knight. Here you are just one of my men—unproven until otherwise. Your knightly code has no place here.” Tor gave him a hard look. “You understand what will be required of you? What you have signed up for?”
The younger man’s mouth tightened until his lips turned white, but he nodded. He might say “aye,” but disapproval exuded from every pore.
“Wear it as you will,” Tor said with a dismissive wave, “but you’ll find the mail too cumbersome and heavy for the kind of training and fighting we will do.” And he suspected the lad was going to have a hard enough time of it proving himself to the others—not just because of his English blood but also because of his youth. MacGregor and MacLean were young as well, but even they had a handful of years on Seton. The rest of the men were near his own one and thirty.
They dug side by side in silence, but Tor had made a point: He would not ask his men to do anything he would not do himself. When they’d finished, Tor offered Seton a drink of ale from the leather pouch he wore across his chest. Seton accepted it gratefully, wiping the sweat from his forehead before taking a long swig.
Tor eyed him thoughtfully. He was tall, but with the leanness of youth. He carried a regular knight’s sword and a dirk. “So what is your skill?” Tor asked.
Most of the others had been obvious. If their reputations didn’t precede them, their choice of armory or appearance did. One look at Robbie Boyd was all it took to see why he was reputed to be the strongest man in Scotland and an expert in hand-to-hand combat. The man was forged from iron.
Color crept up Seton’s face. “I’m good with a blade.”
Tor frowned. Good? All knights were good with a sword. “Yet you are here?”
“To learn. My brother wished to come, but Bruce wouldn’t hear of it.”
Sir Christopher was married to Bruce’s sister, making Bruce Alex’s brother by marriage.
“So Bruce sent you instead.” Tor almost felt sorry for him. Seton would have much to prove indeed. English, young, and without a superior skill to quiet the jabs. “I’ll not go easy on you—no matter who sent you.”
The arrogant squared jaw returned. “I know that. Nor would I have it otherwise.”
“The others will make it hard for you.”
The younger man met his gaze with fierce determination. “I know that as well.”
Tor nodded and left him to his task, knowing that his determination would be put to the test.
He resumed his progress around the encampment to observe the men. For the most part he was impressed. Bricks of peat lay stacked out to dry, and the men had made quick work of cutting the wood to make beams for the ceiling. MacSorley’s naval skills were not limited to seafaring and swimming. He also knew how to build ships and wield a battle-axe—both of which skills he put to use shaping the wood into planks and beams for the ceiling.
Despite the promising start, however, it didn’t take Tor long to see just how challenging his task would be when a fight broke out in the yard behind the broch.
This group of men was unlike any that he’d ever trained. The very things that bound most men—blood and clan ties—divided them. Making brothers out of enemies would be his toughest challenge.
And none more than the two men he found thrashing each other senseless. To this point it was only with fists, but Tor knew it would not be long before weapons were drawn.
He thought he’d made himself clear when they arrived—he wouldn’t tolerate any fighting among the men. Apparently, they needed a reminder.
Furious, not only at the lack of discipline but at the affront to his authority, Tor picked up a bucket of icy water filled from the nearby burn and dumped it over the two brawling warriors. The temporary shock was all he needed. Both men were sizeable and strong, but he roped MacGregor’s arms behind his back and yanked him off Campbell as if he were a mere stripling. He was tempted to toss them both in the burn to cool them off, but he knew of a far more effective punishment—though in the end, he hoped it would be a lesson.
He threw the famed archer away from him. MacGregor shook the water from his hair and eyed Campbell as if he meant to resume where they’d left off.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” Tor warned icily. “You’re going to need him in the next few months.” They didn’t know it yet, but MacGregor and Campbell had just become partners.
MacGregor spat and wiped the blood from his battered nose and mouth. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before a MacGregor needs anything from the likes of an upstart cur of a Campbell.” The MacGregors were a proud ancient clan with royal lineage, and his voice dripped with condescension.
Neil Campbell’s youngest brother leapt to his feet. Arthur was the best scout in the Highlands, but unfortunately, until recently, he’d been putting that skill to work for the English—at odds with his family. Along with MacRuairi, he would bear close watching. Until now, Tor’s only impression was that he was quiet and seemed to keep to himself.
“Upstart?” Campbell said. “And what are you? The proud Clan Gregor—descended from kings but without power or influence to speak of. How the mighty have fallen. But if you come over here and beg real nice, I might throw you a bone sometime.” His lip curled. “Or are you too scared I might mess up that pretty face of yours some more?”
In addition to being the best archer in the Highlands, Gregor MacGregor was equally renowned among the lasses for his handsome face. Tor felt sorry for the poor bastard. For a warrior, such a ridiculous reputation was surely a bane.
MacGregor growled and took a step toward him, but Tor grabbed him by the edge of his cotun and held him back. “Enough,” he said, and then looked to Campbell. “From both of you.” The steely edge in his voice left no doubt of his displeasure.
He glanced around, seeing that the other men had gathered to watch. Good. What he had to say affected them all.
“I warned you, I will not tolerate fighting.” He turned to the rest of them. “From any of you. I don’t care whether your families have hated one another for years, whether your father killed his—none of it matters. Whatever fights or feuds existed before you got here, they end now.”
MacRuairi dug his spade into the ground with a hard thump. His dark eyes were full of menace and challenge. “Does that go for you as well, chief?”
Tor didn’t miss the sarcasm and bit back the impulse to slam his fist into that smug jaw. He wasn’t their chief and never would be. But only MacSorley knew that he would not be the leader of the group when the training was over, and it was best if it stayed that way for now. Although he might not be their leader in the future, for the next few months he was. Until then, the same rules applied. As much as he hated it, for now MacRuairi would be his brother. When it was over, they could go back to being enemies.
“It does,” Tor said, looking him straight in the eye. “With what we are about to embark on, it can be no other way. If we succeed, this will be the greatest army the world has ever seen, bringing together the best Scotland has to offer in warfare into one guard. Nothing like this has ever been attempted before.” He looked to each of them. “Each of you is the best at what you do, but your strength and skill in combat will take you only so far. Alone you can defeat twenty, perhaps thirty, men? Fight together and you will defeat armies—hundreds, maybe thousands. Alone you are the best; together you will become legend. But here there are no personal accolades. Honor is in serving together as part of the team.
“The success of this guard, of our lives and those of everyone around us, is only as safe as your trust for the man beside you.” Tor looked back and forth between MacGregor and Campbell. “No longer are you MacGregor and Campbell. This guard is your new clan. These men your brothers.”
He let his words sink in. It was clear they didn’t accept what he was saying, nor did he expect them to; Highland warriors did not trust easily. But they would. For a team like this to work there was no other way.
“I work alone,” MacRuairi said.
“Not anymore you don’t. Not if you want to stay here.” Tor let the threat hang, but MacRuairi—unfortunately—did not rise to the bait. The look MacRuairi gave him, however, was anything but in agreement.
Tor’s gaze slid over each of the men. “From this point on, you will devote everything to the team. Your duty and loyalty are to me and this guard first.”
“Aren’t you forgetting someone?” Seton said. “What of Bruce, our liege lord and rightful king?”
“Let me worry about Bruce,” Tor replied. For this kind of group to operate ultimate authority would have to rest with the group leader, but that discussion would be had another day—and left to MacSorley. “Right now we don’t exist—even Bruce would agree. Secrecy is paramount. Our names. Our purpose. Everything. You can tell no one what we are about. That includes wives and families, if any of you are married.”
The little intelligence he’d garnered from MacDonald and Lamberton before he left did not mention wives. He knew MacRuairi was recently widowed—from a MacDougall, no less. He hoped not many of them were wed; it was less complicated that way. The men were grimfaced and quiet, reflecting on what he’d said and no doubt wondering whether they’d made a mistake. “If any of you want out, say so now.” He didn’t expect anyone to speak—not yet anyway—and none did. “Then get some rest,” he said. “You’ll need it. For tomorrow we begin.”
The group dispersed slowly. MacGregor and Campbell started to peel off with the rest of them, MacGregor alone and Campbell following the larger group.
“Wait,” Tor said, stopping them. “I’m not done with you two.” He strode over to a leather bag of supplies that he’d brought with him and retrieved a three-foot length of iron chain. At each end was a manacle. Though he hoped he wouldn’t need it the first day, he’d come prepared. The device had proved effective when there had been the occasional discord in the ranks, but it would prove invaluable here.
For the next few days these men would be bound together whether they wished it or not. He hoped they enjoyed running because they were about to take an extended tour of Waternish.
Both men watched him suspiciously as he approached, the chains clanging as he walked. But it was MacGregor who asked, “What’s that?”
Tor smiled, recalling MacGregor’s earlier words. “Your cold day in hell.”