Tor saw the first plumes of smoke from the village about a mile away, just as Campbell and MacGregor returned with a report.
Their expressions were grim. “At least a hundred and fifty men—mostly mercenaries, by the looks of them,” Campbell said. “I counted four galley warships in the harbor, but I think more must be at the castle to prevent additional men from reaching the village.”
She’s safe, he reminded himself. He forced his mind to lock down, knowing he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. Mercenaries, Campbell had said. This was not a raid, but a full-scale war. He’d stationed a guard to protect the village, but his score of men would be heavily outnumbered. “Casualties?”
“A few dozen,” MacGregor replied. “Mostly theirs. Two of your men. Your guardsmen have set up a shield wall where the path from the harbor leads into the village.”
Tor nodded, not surprised. His men were well trained, used to facing larger forces. It was a favorite tactic of his. As King Leonidas had done at the Battle of Thermopylae, they’d chosen to fight at the narrowest part of the village, taking away some of their enemies’ advantage in size. For a time. But they would not be able to hold out forever against such odds. And like what doomed the fabled stand of the three hundred Spartans at the pass of Thermopylae, there was more than one way into the village.
“The villagers?” he asked.
MacGregor’s mouth thinned. “Three men, a woman, and a child that I could see. The rest must have found shelter, but the attackers are showing no mercy.”
Tor’s fists clenched with barely repressed rage. He honed the anger surging through him into a steely sword of retribution. Whoever his unknown enemies might be, they were about to pay.
He wasn’t the only one eager to fight. Though the team had been marching all night across miles of rugged landscape, Campbell and MacGregor’s news acted like a lightning rod. Nothing invigorated a warrior like the promise of battle. And these warriors had been held at bay for too long.
But this was not their war.
The men had gathered round him in the trees. Despite the rigorous training they’d endured the past week and the nightlong journey without sleep, the elite guard looked intense and deadly. Their ragged, unkempt appearance only added to the fearsomeness of their grizzled, battle-hard faces. He met each man’s gaze. “You joined to fight for Bruce, not for me. You’ve heard what Campbell said: They have at least a hundred and fifty men; I have eighteen, maybe less.”
“Nineteen,” MacSorley said, stepping forward. “No way in hell I’m letting you have all the fun.” The big Viking smiled. “Let’s give the skalds something to sing about.”
The other men stepped forward behind him—except for one. “Time to put all that training to the test, captain,” Boyd said.
Tor looked to the man who’d stayed back. MacRuairi slumped lazily against a tree. He shrugged and uncrossed his arms. The dual hilts of his swords rose behind his shoulders menacingly—like the smile that curved his mouth. “Someone needs to watch MacSorley’s back.”
Tor nodded, moved by the unanimous show of support.
Knowing they had to move quickly, he set out the plan. Half the team would move in to bolster the men at the shield wall; the other half would move around and try to outflank them, attacking from both sides. “Are you ready?”
“Aye, captain,” they said in unison, determination and anticipation in their fierce visages. Beneath the metal mask of his helm, Tor smiled—a terrifying curl of the mouth that promised no mercy. “Then let’s give them a surprise before we send them to the devil.” He lifted his dirk in the air. “Death before surrender!”
“Death before surrender!” they repeated in unison.
Knowing they would only weigh them down, they left their packs behind and ran. In a little more than five minutes, they’d reached the outskirts of the village.
The distant clamor of battle mixing with the desolate quiet of the shuttered stone houses was eerie. Some of the attackers’ flaming arrows had found their mark on the thatched roofs. Heavy in the smoke-filled air was the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.
As they drew near, Tor swore, realizing they were too late to implement his plan to outflank them. Heavily armored attackers were pouring through the village. The shield wall had broken.
He quickly changed tactics. It wouldn’t be a carefully orchestrated surprise attack, but an all-out brawl of strength and skill.
The odds were against them. If he were alone, he knew he wouldn’t have had a chance. But he wasn’t alone. And he never worried about odds. He fought to win.
Reaching behind his back, he slid his two-handed great sword claidheamh da laimh from its scabbard and gave the sign they’d been waiting for. With a fierce war cry, the team attacked.
MacGregor let go a rapid stream of arrows, fired with perfect aim and angled trajectory to pierce any armor—mail or leather. Six men fell before Tor had even swung his sword.
In one deadly swoop he added two more. Spinning around, he fended off the blade of an attacker. Steel clanged against steel. Despite the full-bodied attack of the other man, Tor’s blade barely moved, his muscles flexing as hard as stone.
No mercy. With an angry growl, he pushed the man back, lifted his sword over his head, and brought it down full force on his enemy’s head, splitting his skull like a gourd.
He felt nothing. Only cold purpose.
Hacking, swinging, and thrusting, Tor forged a path of blood and destruction through the startled attackers with his sword. Like the thunderbolt the sword was named for, bheithir struck down all in its path. Battle lust roared through his veins. His senses flared—heightened—as the strange euphoria washed over him. His mind cleared of everything but the only truth that mattered in war: Kill or be killed.
Death surrounded him. But in the face of mortality, he’d never felt more alive. With every stroke he felt stronger. Harder. More invincible.
And he wasn’t alone.
Together they were a terrifying sight. Eleven of the greatest warriors let loose in one violent charge. They were wild and fearsome, yet even more awe-inspiring working in tandem. It was a deadly medley of expertly wielded swords, battleaxes, hammers, and spears.
The enemy had never seen anything like it.
Instead of helpless villagers, they’d run headlong into a phantom army of seemingly indestructible warriors. It was clear this wasn’t what the mercenaries had expected or signed up for. Not a quarter of an hour passed before they were in retreat. As Tor’s guardsmen had done, the attackers formed a shield wall at the head of the path, enabling them to fall back to the harbor and ready their galleys.
Tor and the team fought through, but the warships were already pulling away.
“Go after them,” he shouted to MacSorley and MacRuairi. The two Norse-blooded kinsmen didn’t hesitate, jumping into a small birlinn that was used as a ferry from the castle, and with a handful of men, giving chase to the departing galleys.
A few attackers had been unable to reach the ships in time. Wanting to question them, Tor attempted to take them alive. It was a mistake.
MacGregor had put down his bow and was seeing to one of Tor’s wounded guardsmen when one of the remaining attackers unfurled a spear.
Tor cut him down and shouted a warning, but MacGregor turned too late. The spear sliced through the air on a deadly path right for his head.
If Tor hadn’t seen what happened next he wouldn’t have believed it.
Campbell reached out and snagged the spear with his hand, catching it only inches from MacGregor’s face. In one smooth movement he brought it down hard on his knee, snapping the thick wood in two and tossing it at his partner’s feet.
A hush descended over the battlefield.
It took MacGregor, who’d been looking death in the eye, a moment to recover. “Hell, Campbell, where did you learn how to do that?”
The quiet Highland ranger shrugged. “It was a game my brothers and I used to play.”
“Bloodthirsty family you have there,” MacGregor said wryly.
Not missing the hidden jab, Campbell smiled, giving his feuding-clansman-turned-partner a provoking look. “Never say a Campbell didn’t lift a hand to save a MacGregor.”
Instead of snapping back as he usually did, MacGregor threw his head back and laughed.
Now Tor knew he’d seen it all. Unless he was mistaken, Campbell and MacGregor had started to see beyond the feud. The camaraderie among the team was growing—even he was not immune. Perhaps there was hope for Boyd and Seton yet?
He wouldn’t hold his breath.
Shaking his head, Tor turned back to finish securing the prisoners, only to realize it was too late: All the attackers had been slain. He cursed, knowing that discovering who was behind the raid from one of the regular mercenaries would have been a long shot anyway. Perhaps if MacSorley and MacRuairi caught up with the boats, he would learn more.
There were only a few men who could raise this large a force of mercenaries, but one came to mind: MacDougall.
Could the news of his marriage have done this? This attack wasn’t like the others. These men had come to destroy and slaughter.
His blood chilled when he looked down at the dead body of a woman and her child. The lad was no older than three. The mother had obviously tried to protect him with her body, but the sword had sliced through both of them. Anger, regret, and bitterness soured in his mouth.
This was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid.
He turned away from the bodies, but the image would be burned in his mind.
Cognizant of the danger, he ordered the team back to the broch before too many people saw them. Their work was done here.
He owed them much, knowing he would never have been able to do it without them. It was an odd position for him—relying on others. Fighting with them had been a unique experience. He’d trained plenty of men before, but none like these. These men were his equals, with skills that surpassed his own. As the leader, he was used to being apart. The irony of his job was that he was to foster camaraderie but could never be just one of the team. But today had been different.
Slowly, the village came back to life. Doors opened and shaken clansmen emerged from their homes. He was surprised to see Colyne and a handful of guardsmen coming toward him from the chapel.
“What are you doing here? Why weren’t you fighting with the others?”
“Thank God you came when you did, ri tuath.”
“Why—”
But Tor’s question strangled in his throat when he glanced past the guardsmen at the person emerging from the chapel door.
He went stone still. His face drained, as what could only be described as blood-curdling fear rushed through him. It wasn’t possible.
But it was. His wife stood before him. Her big, tear-filled eyes locked on his, dominating her pale, heart-shaped face. For a moment time seemed to stop. They stared at each other, something big and powerful passing between them. An emotion so foreign Tor didn’t even know how to describe it, except that it filled his chest with a hot ball of pain and horror.
She could have been killed.
He wanted to let out a primal roar, but what she did next stopped him cold. Heedless of anything around them, or the blood and gore that stained the ground and him, she catapulted herself into his arms.
His heart slammed against his ribs. Something shifted inside him. Something warm and powerful.
Holding her tight in his arms, he murmured soothing words, comforting not only the sobbing woman in his arms, but also himself.
Through her tears, Christina gazed up at the filthy, bloodstained man holding her. She’d never been happier to see anyone in her life. Her eyes widened, noticing the large cut on his face and the bruise near his eye. “You’re hurt,” she cried, reaching up to cup his face.
But he shook her off. “I’m fine,” he said gruffly.
Christina frowned. He could play big, invincible warrior with his men, but once she got him back to the castle she would see to that wound whether he wanted her to or not. “I’m so glad you are safe. There were so many galleys.”
They couldn’t see the fighting from the church, but when they’d heard the roar go up, she knew it was her husband.
Tor was dumbstruck. “Me?” She could see his incredulity slip into anger. He held her by the shoulders and seemed to be fighting not to shake her. “Are you daft? What about you? Do you know what would have happened had I not arrived?”
He’s scared. Worry for her was making him angry. Why had she never realized it before? It shed an entirely new light on his blasts of temper. “I was safe in the sanctuary of the church with some of the others. Brother John thought of it.” She smiled at the clerk, who’d come up behind her.
Tor looked mildly annoyed to see him. “Not all men heed the sanctuary of the church.”
“Which was why your men insisted on guarding the door rather than joining the others. I was in no danger, truly.” She’d been terrified, but given his present mood, she decided to save that information for later. “Even if they violated sanctuary, Brother John had me hidden under the seat of the confessional. They never would have found me.”
Tor turned to the clerk, and though it looked as if it pained him, he said, “It seems I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
The praise flustered the young churchman. An embarrassed flush rose to his thin, freckled cheeks. “I only wish that we’d been able to return to the castle in time. I can’t tell you how happy we were to hear you and your men arrive. It sounded like you had an army with you.” He looked around and frowned. “Where did they go?”
“I returned early and was able to gather men from the castle,” Tor explained. “They’ve gone after the attackers.”
A dubious frown wrinkled the clerk’s forehead. Christina feared Tor’s explanation had not satisfied him. “I see,” Brother John said.
“Who were they?” Christina asked. “Why would they attack us like that?”
“I don’t know,” Tor said grimly. “But I intend to find out.”
From the merciless look on his face, Christina almost pitied the man responsible when he did. She’d carefully avoided looking at the ground behind him but could not escape the horror completely. The sickly scent of death hung in the air. She didn’t need to look at the bodies to know they were there.
Tor seemed to remember their surroundings at the same time. Taking her by the arm, he attempted to steer her away. “Come—”
She jerked back, her eye catching something that made her look down.
God, she wished she hadn’t.
“Don’t.” He tried to pull her away, but she yanked her arm from his hold.
“No,” she gasped. Her stomach curdled, bile rising up the back of her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth, as if she could hold back the nausea that threatened. She took a few steps forward and dropped to her knees, horror and despair washing over her.
The body of a woman lay facedown across the body of a small boy. She knew them both. The reeve’s wife and son. Trembling, she reached out and smoothed her hand over the child’s blond, silky hair. It was still warm from the sun. Tears burned her eyes. She looked up to her husband, stacked with muscle and armor, a looming shadow against the sun. How could he do this? How could he surround himself with death all the time? How did he not die from the horror of it? “What kind of monster would do such a thing? Who could harm a child?”
He shook his head grimly.
All of a sudden she had a horrible thought. One that made the pressure in her chest burn. God, was this her fault? “Could it have been MacDougall?”
Tor’s jaw hardened as if he knew what she was thinking. Had he thought it, too? “Possibly. But there are others as well.”
She looked back to the mother and child, tears sliding down her cheeks, praying that this had nothing to do with her.
“Come.” Tor carefully drew her away. “Don’t think about it.”
She turned on him, outraged, staring into that brutally handsome face. Not one flicker of emotion traversed his stoic expression. Surely, he could not look at the body of an innocent child and remain so unaffected. “How can I not think about it? What is wrong with you? Does nothing affect you?”
He gave her a hard look, his blue eyes glacial. “I can’t let it. But just because I don’t show emotion doesn’t mean I am incapable of feeling.”
The truth smacked her. This was how he functioned. For the first time, she understood why he might need to be so cold. How burying emotion could protect you in such hideous, brutal conditions.
She barely knew the woman and child before her yet she was stricken with overwhelming grief, sadness, and horror. What would it be like to see friends, men you’d fought beside for years, brutally killed before your eyes?
She shuddered. Ice was a protective shield he needed to survive.
Her heart went out to him. He might not show compassion, but he felt it. That he’d kept emotion inside was hardly surprising given his past. She just needed to be more patient with him.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly.
He nodded. She allowed him to lead her away, but the ground seemed to be moving under her feet as if she was walking down the deck of a ship in a storm. Her stomach rolled and heaved. Perspiration dampened her forehead.
She didn’t feel well.
“Why did you leave the castle?” he asked. “What were you doing in the village?”
She swayed.
“Tina, what’s wrong?”
She heard the alarm in his voice even though it sounded distant, as if he was underwater. Her head spun, and when she looked up at him he looked fuzzy, unfocused.
“I don’t …” she managed before everything went black.
She woke the first time to darkness. Her eyelids fluttered, but they felt so heavy she kept them closed. And why was it so hot? She felt as though she was sleeping atop a fire. She tossed off the sheets, writhed around, and tried to find elusive comfort.
She was aware of a big, soothing hand on her head. Of deep murmuring. The covers were over her again. She mewled a complaint, settling only when the voice started again. She sighed, contended, before darkness pulled her under again.
When Christina woke the second time it was morning. Her eyes opened more easily this time, lids fluttering a few times before settling open. She stretched, feeling refreshed after a deep sleep.
A frown pinched her brows. Sleep? How had she gotten back to her chamber? The last thing she remembered was …
Hearing a sound, her gaze shot across the room. Tor was shifting in a wooden chair, a blanket wrapped around him, trying—unsuccessfully, it appeared—to get comfortable. He swore, and something about his angry, flustered expression made her giggle.
Tossing the plaid to the floor, he jumped to his feet and was at her side in a heartbeat. “You’re awake.”
She smiled at the obvious. He, on the other hand, looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week. He’d changed and washed the stains of battle away, but the lines of strain and fatigue were not so easily erased. His dark, golden hair was mussed, looking as if he’d raked his hands through it repeatedly; his clothes were rumpled, and his jaw was shadowed by more than a week’s worth of stubble. Yet he still managed to look heartbreakingly handsome.
Her gaze flickered back to the chair and her nose wrinkled. “Did you sleep there?”
He frowned. “You were ill.”
Really? She felt fine. Though she did remember feeling strange and lightheaded right before she’d blacked out. The first time they’d shared the night together and she didn’t remember any of it. “For how long?”
“Two days.” He shot her an angry glare. “You are never to be ill again.” He crossed his arms, looking very chiefly. “I won’t permit it.”
She blinked and realized he was actually serious. He’d been worried about her. A bubble of happiness burst inside her. She started to smile, but seeing him glower, she quickly smothered it. “I shall do my best,” she said soberly.
His eyes narrowed as if he knew she was teasing him. He sat down on the edge of the bed, studying her intently, as if to assure himself that she was really recovered. “Why would you go to the village when you knew there was a fever?”
She lifted her chin, not liking his tone. “I wanted to help, and it was not a serious one. Besides, it is my duty as Lady of the Castle to tend the villagers. You made it quite clear that I was to restrict myself to certain tasks.”
He winced. “I might have spoken harshly—”
“Might have?” she interrupted, arching a brow.
He frowned at her again, but she was becoming quite immune to those black looks. Who would have thought that the girl who cowered in the shadows a couple of months ago would be standing up to the most feared warrior in the Highlands?
“I’m used to speaking bluntly, and I was angry,” he said. “I’m also not accustomed to someone ignoring my orders.”
“Are you trying to apologize?”
He frowned as if the notion surprised him. “I suppose I am. You were right in some of what you said. Not everything is about my duty to my clan, but I’ve grown so used to keeping my thoughts to myself, I’m not sure I know how to be any other way.”
Christina was shocked that her words had made an impact. “Haven’t you ever wanted to have someone to talk to? Someone to listen to? Being responsible for so many people, it must be an incredible burden to shoulder alone. Having someone to talk to might make it easier.”
He looked thoughtful. “Perhaps.”
She tilted her head, studying him curiously. “Why is sharing your thoughts so difficult for you?”
He held her gaze. From his silence, it appeared he was waging some kind of internal debate. She was pleased when he answered her. “Because it is my duty as chief to keep my own counsel. I know only too well the harm that can come when I do not.”
“What happened?”
“I told you of the raid on Dunvegan that killed my parents?” She nodded. “My father was betrayed by a man he thought a friend—a kinsman. The Earl of Ross used information he’d tricked from my mother to order the attack that killed my parents and nearly destroyed my clan. Women, children—no one escaped the bloodletting. It was a slaughter.”
She covered her mouth with her hand, horrified. She hadn’t realized when he’d told her before. “You were there.”
He nodded, his eyes bleak. “Aye. Hidden in the chapel with my brother and sister. My father lived long enough to tell me what happened.” He paused. “My mother was not so fortunate by the time Ross’s men had finished with her.”
She gasped, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”
But Christina was not fooled. He lived with the legacy of that day even today. It was why he kept himself detached. Alone. Her heart went out to him. To the little boy who’d seen his parents killed and his clan nearly destroyed, and was burdened with the weight of putting it all back together. “And afterward, you were left to pick up the pieces?”
He looked at her as if it should be obvious. “I was chief.”
“But you were only ten,” she said, appalled. It was far too much responsibility for any one person, let alone a child so young. He wouldn’t have stayed a child for long.
“I managed.”
She put her hand on his arm. “Quite well, it seems. Your clan is fortunate to have you.” He was an amazing man. She’d known it before, but hearing what he’d gone through made her even more proud of him. And determined. After the selfless devotion to his clan for years, he deserved some happiness for himself.
She sensed this was all she was going to get out of him for now. The fact that he’d opened up even just a little bit was quite an achievement—a miracle, really. Seeing him struggle and get all prickly, she was hard-pressed not to throw her arms around him—he looked so adorable. But the world was not made in a day, and neither would her husband change a lifetime of silence.
“I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I was so focused on you confiding in me, I never stopped to think about what I was really asking for. I wish you could confide in me, but I understand why you cannot.”
“I am trying to protect you, Christina, not hurt you.”
“I know that.”
“I don’t want you interfering because it is dangerous. I need you to trust me on this.” His eyes fixed on her intently. “Can you do that?”
She nodded, though she wished the trust were mutual.
He seemed to consider something. When he spoke it was very carefully, as if the words did not come easily. “I would like to suggest a compromise.”
Her eyes widened to exaggerated proportions. “Compromise? I didn’t think you knew that word.”
He gave her a sharp look. “It’s not one I’ve used very often, but for you I’m prepared to make an exception.”
He was teasing her. She couldn’t believe it. “I’m duly honored,” she said with an exaggerated bow of her head.
He flashed her a roguish grin, and it felt as if the sun had broken through the clouds. It changed his whole face, making him look years younger. “How old are you?” she blurted.
A puzzled look creased his brow. “One and thirty.” Ignoring her strange question, he went back to what he’d been about to say. He cleared his throat. “If you can agree to accept when I cannot tell you something, then I shall endeavor to be more …”
He seemed to be having considerable difficulty finding the right word.
“Forthcoming,” she offered, trying to bite back a smile.
One side of his mouth curved in a wry grin. “Aye, forthcoming.”
She grinned. “I should like that.” It was enough. For now. But she still hoped that eventually he would make her more a part of his life. After her experience with organizing the books, she knew he could use her.
He smoothed her hair back from her face, studying her for so long with those implacably clear ice-blue eyes that a self-conscious flush rose to her cheeks. “I must look a fright,” she said, lowering her gaze.
His eyes darkened with heat. “You look beautiful.”
The simply spoken words startled her with their sincerity. Warmth spread through her. She’d heard the words before, but never had they mattered. “You’ve never said so.”
He looked surprised. “Haven’t I? I’ve thought it hundreds of times.”
“My mind-reading skills aren’t what they used to be.”
He laughed, and Christina thought it was the most wonderful sound in the world. This was exactly the kind of moment she’d dreamed of. She wished she could hold on to it forever.
His laughter died, and their eyes met.
The air sparked between them. The heat of a different kind of fever sent a flush spreading over her skin. It had been too long. Her body craved his on an elemental level—like water, food, and air, she needed him.
She was deeply conscious of him beside her on the bed, of his broad shoulders and powerful arms. Of his spicy, masculine scent. Of his gorgeous mouth.
He leaned down.
Her breath caught in anticipation.
But instead of kissing her, he pressed his lips to her forehead. “You need to rest,” he said.
“I feel fine,” she insisted, sounding not unlike a child deprived of a toy. Her very favorite toy.
But her effort to change his mind fell on deaf ears. He stood up. “I’ll be back to check on you later. If you need anything, just tell Morag.”
A bath. First thing. But sure that he would have other ideas about that, she decided not to mention it. “Morag was here? I thought she would be busy tending the wounded.”
“Among the men there were only a few bruises and scratches.”
She was relieved to hear it. A shadow of the ones who weren’t so fortunate passed over her.
He stood up and she watched him walk to the door. “Get some rest. I’ll send Mhairi to watch over you.”
“It isn’t necessary—”
But the door had already closed shut.