Tor had been gone a few days when Christina’s restlessness began to catch up with her. As she’d suspected, Lady Janet wasn’t interested in striking up a friendship. She was polite, but Christina was certain the other woman’s lingering feelings for Tor prevented anything more. Christina could hardly blame her.
With little to occupy her time, she’d taken to long walks around the perimeter of the barmkin. In addition to her morning walk with Brother John, she’d started to walk after the evening meal.
She loved to look up at the sky on a clear night—admittedly a rarity in the winter on the “Isle of Mist.” The stars were so close here, it almost seemed as if she could reach out and grab one. Tonight was such a night, and despite the colder-than-normal temperatures—even for January—she lingered on the battlements, gazing first at the sky and then at the sea. There was something so mesmerizing and haunting about watching the shimmery black waves crested with white froth crash against the rocky cliff below.
She glanced down at the jetty and stilled. A chill swept through her. The terrifying birlinn with the hawk-carved prow sat docked among the other boats.
All of a sudden she remembered that day when she’d seen Rhuairi at the dock. Could the seneschal be the spy?
Her suspicions were bolstered when the very man she was thinking about hurried out of the Great Hall across the courtyard and down the sea-gate stairs. Lost in the shadows of darkness, he didn’t notice her presence. She leaned over the wall but was unable to see what was happening below. A short while later, however, Rhuairi rushed back up the stairs and retraced his steps into the Hall.
Her heart thumped. She stayed huddled in the darkness for a while longer, not sure what to do. What she’d just witnessed could be completely innocent. But why had he acted so strangely before and denied receiving a message?
Her first impulse was to follow him, but Tor’s admonition came back to her. He didn’t want her involved. If Rhuairi was the spy and she was discovered, it could be dangerous. She would have to wait until her husband returned and tell him her suspicions then.
She just hoped it wasn’t too late.
Lady Christina didn’t realize she was being watched.
Brother John MacDougall, nephew and namesake of John of Lorne, couldn’t be sure of what she was thinking, but he had to take a chance. An innate sense of self-preservation had taken hold the past few days, and he’d arranged for his departure. If he was going to find out what MacLeod was involved in it must be now, and the seneschal’s secret messenger had given him an idea.
He’d suspected for some time that she knew how to read, suspicions that were confirmed when he’d noticed that someone had corrected the books. He didn’t want to involve her in this but told himself he was doing her a favor. He didn’t like MacLeod. The harsh, ruthless brute clearly didn’t recognize the jewel he had for a wife. But it was equally clear that his young wife idolized him. Maybe this would force Christina to see him for what he really was.
He hoped.
He wished he hadn’t let his uncle talk him into this—spying should be left to those with the stomach for deceit. Not that he’d had much choice. Like MacLeod, his uncle was not a man to defy.
Two more days passed, and Tor had not returned. In the meantime, Christina’s suspicions were eating away at her. Yesterday, she’d entered the solar with Brother John and Rhuairi had jumped, a guilty flush staining his face as he gathered his papers and left. The clerk had noticed the seneschal’s strange behavior as well, commenting on Rhuairi’s increased agitation.
Mindful of her promise to her husband, Christina responded that she hadn’t noticed. She hated not being able to confide in her friend. Though Brother John seemed like the last person to be a spy, Tor had warned her not to trust anyone.
She’d debated sending her husband a note but didn’t have any proof. She also wouldn’t be able to do so without Rhuairi knowing about it. With no other choice, she waited—until the following evening.
Christina was in her usual place after the evening meal, walking around the barmkin, when she noticed Rhuairi once again rushing out of the Great Hall. Instead of meeting another messenger, however, he climbed into a waiting birlinn and headed out toward the sea—not toward the village.
Thinking it odd, she started back inside when she was very nearly run over by a flushed-face Brother John.
He apologized distractedly. “Have you seen the seneschal by chance?”
She nodded. “Aye, he left a few minutes ago.”
“Nettles!”
She smiled at his appropriation of her favorite oath. “Is there a problem?”
He held out a folded piece of parchment. “Rhuairi dropped this, and from the way he was hurrying I thought it might be important. But I’m supposed to go to the village tonight and see Father Patrick.”
“You don’t know what it is?”
He shook his head. “Nothing I transcribed.”
Christina’s heart beat a little faster and all her instincts flared. She held out her hand, not quite able to control the high pitch in her voice. “There’s no need for you to delay your visit to the village. I’ll give it to Rhuairi when he returns.”
The clerk hesitated. “Are you sure? He probably should get it right when he gets back and it could be late.”
“I don’t mind,” she answered him. “I’m not tired.”
“I do hope it’s nothing serious, but Rhuairi did seem even more anxious than usual tonight.” A small smile turned the young clerk’s mouth, and whatever hesitation he had fled. Handing it to her, he said, “But I did promise Father Patrick, and I suppose it’s safe enough with you.”
Christina knew what he was referring to and was glad he could not see the guilty flush staining her cheeks. She’d been waiting for her husband’s lead and had yet to tell anyone that she could read. Knowing the way Tor’s mind worked, she supposed he thought it safer to keep that piece of information to himself until he found the spy.
“I wonder what is going on with Rhuairi,” Brother John said absently. “He’s been so secretive of late.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Christina lied, trying not to feel guilty. She hoped Brother John would forgive her, but she could not take a chance in voicing her suspicions.
“Thank you, my lady. If you don’t mind, I should be going.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and watched him walk through the sea-gate down to the jetty.
Resisting the urge to tear open the note right there, she tucked it in the folds of her cloak and fled to the privacy of her chamber. There, by candlelight, she carefully unfolded the small piece of parchment.
Her heart raced. This could be the proof she’d been looking for. She felt a prickle of guilt and quickly shook it off. If the note turned out to be nothing, Tor would never know. But if it was something, he would thank her for it. He could forbid her from interfering, she rationalized, but not from observing what was right before her.
She recognized the crude style of Rhuairi’s lettering right away, though the note was not signed. It was short and succinct, but it caused her heart to freeze with an icy blast of fear. She’d found her proof, but it was so much worse than she’d thought.
“Confirmed MacLeod’s location. Bring men. Attack at midnight.”
Dear God, what time was it now? Seven? Eight? Her heart raced wildly. What was she going to do? She had to find a way to warn him, before it was too late.
Tor sat on a large, flat stone outside the entry to the broch, a flagon of cuirm in his hand, watching the last pink wisps of daylight sink over the horizon.
Campbell had been gone for nearly a week, but the team had yet to recover from the loss of one of their own. He knew it should please him—serving as proof that his training had been a success—but it did not. The loss of one of the team, no matter how it occurred, rankled.
He uttered an oath and took a long swig of the strong ale, slamming the cup down hard on the stone when it was empty.
“Ouch,” MacSorley said, coming out of the broch to take a seat beside him. “The ale a little bitter perhaps, or is that the taste of regret?”
“Leave it,” Tor warned. “I’m not in the mood for your sharp tongue tonight.”
MacSorley took a drink from his own cup. They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again. “They’ll forgive you. Give them time.”
Since Campbell had left, the gap between Tor and the men had widened. Once again, he was firmly ensconced in the role of leader—the man forced to make the tough, unpopular decisions. Part of the team but detached. That, however, wasn’t what was bothering him. He just wanted this damned thing over with.
“Are you going to tell them soon?” MacSorley asked quietly. “There are only two weeks left.”
Tor’s jaw hardened. This time the other man’s aim was true. “Nay, not yet.”
MacSorley’s expression lost all sign of joviality, hardening into a forbidding mask of anger. “They deserve to know before we are sailing away that you will not be leading them when we’re done here.”
His words were too close to Tor’s thoughts, and he didn’t want to hear them right now. His eyes narrowed on McSorley dangerously. “Have care, Norseman. You aren’t in charge yet.”
MacSorley did not shrink from his warning—not that Tor had expected him to. The Viking was nearly as reckless as he was glib. “You know what I think?” Tor acted as though he hadn’t heard him, staring out over the clearing to the edge of the trees. “I think you don’t want to tell them because you want to lead them, and it’s bothering the hell out of you that you think you can’t. But you can’t sit on the wall forever, MacLeod.” Not “captain.” Tor didn’t miss the slight. “War is coming and one of these days—sooner than you probably think—you are going to have to choose. This team needs you,” he said quietly. “Scotland needs you.”
To hell with Scotland; his duty was to his clan. “You sound like your blasted cousin.”
“Angus Og is a wise man—think about it.” And with that he finally left him alone.
Damn MacSorley to Hades! Tor didn’t need his opinion. He’d done his own analysis—many times over. Even if MacSorley was right, nothing had changed. He still could not justify involving his clan in a war that did not threaten them.
Two more weeks, he thought. Two more weeks and his obligation would be fulfilled. The danger of discovery—and his treasonous training of men for Bruce—would be over. He would have satisfied his part of the bargain by training the men and succeeded in getting Nicolson off his back.
Things would go back to the way they were, even if it killed him to think of his men fighting without him: He would go back to being neutral in Scotland’s war and in the feud between MacDougall and MacDonald.
No matter how much he personally wanted otherwise, his duty to his clan always came first. Always.
If Christina had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to do something important, she knew this was it.
Knowing how adamant Tor had been about her leaving the castle, she searched for Lady Janet or Colyne—both of whom she knew Tor trusted—but was unable to find either. Not daring to involve anyone else, she knew she had to try to find him herself. She wasn’t sure he was at the broch, but given the note it seemed likely.
It was easier than she expected. The only difficulty was in attempting to get on a birlinn to the village. The guardsman at the dock had initially refused to allow her to go. She was at a loss as to what to do until she remembered her husband’s vow. Apparently, he’d kept his word to inform his men of her condition to their marriage, because when she reminded the guardsman that a birlinn was to be at her disposal whenever she wished to go, he relented.
She allowed a handful of guardsmen to accompany her to the church, but then insisted that she would be fine from there. Once they’d left, she’d made her way back to the forest, retracing the steps she’d taken to the broch that first time. It was dark, and she’d not dared bring a torch, but fortunately the moon was nearly full and bright enough to penetrate the gossamer veil of mist that clouded the cool night air. She was too worried to be scared; her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t remember how to get there.
She walked slowly and purposefully, keeping her head down to watch her footing. The ground was uneven and she stumbled more than once. But she was nearly there. A few more minutes and she would be near the place where she’d watched from the woods.
She stopped, checking behind her again to make sure she wasn’t being followed. All she saw was the tall, menacing shadows of trees. But she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was being watched. It was perfectly quiet—too quiet.
All of a sudden she felt herself wrenched against a steel-clad chest, the unmistakable cold edge of a dirk pressed against her neck.
A voice growled in her ear. “Your name, lass.”
This time it wasn’t her husband. “Lady Christina,” she stammered. “Wife of the Chief of MacLeod.”
He swore, turned her around, and tossed back her hood.
She found herself staring into the angry gaze of Sir Alexander Seton. Taking advantage of his surprise, she curtsied and said, “Sir Alex, it’s been a long time.”
“My lady,” he bowed automatically, always the gallant knight no matter the circumstances. “What are you doing out here?”
“One of my husband’s men has betrayed him and I intercepted a message. An attack is planned for tonight and I had to warn him.”
His expression hardened. “You’re sure about this?”
She nodded.
Sir Alex gave her a long look. “You’d better be.”
On that ominous note, something long and metal—a farming tool, perhaps?—emerged from the shadows behind his head, coming down hard on his steel bascinet. With a pained grunt, he crumpled in a mail-clad heap at her feet.
She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye, seeing a figure in a dark cloak emerge from the shadows. She opened her mouth to scream. Too late. Something hard hit the back of her head. She had the strangest thought that she heard a muffled “sorry,” before darkness swallowed her.
Christina woke to the non-too-gentle sounds of a slap and “damn fool Englishman.” At first she thought the voice was directed at her, but when she opened her eyes it was to see an enormous, fearsome-looking warrior leaning over Sir Alex, attempting to rouse him.
She’d seen him before. Dark, with a heavy brow and a face more rugged than handsome, he looked like a man who’d been in too many late-night tavern brawls. Then she remembered: He was the warrior who’d lifted the big boulder as if it had weighed next to nothing.
She must have made a sound because he left Sir Alex’s side and immediately came to hers. “Are you all right, lass?”
“I think so.” He helped her sit up. A moment of dizziness quickly cleared. Reaching around behind her head, she felt a small lump but thankfully no blood. She was conscious of his heavy gaze on her. “Sir Alex? Is he all right?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. “You know the Englishman?”
She realized she hadn’t told him who she was. “I’m Lady Christina Fraser.”
If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “MacLeod’s wife?”
She nodded. “And you are …?”
He hesitated, then said, “Raider.” Apparently, he didn’t want to tell her his name, begging the question why.
“You are from the borders?”
She saw the spark of surprise in his gaze—she’d guessed the source of the epithet correctly.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked, changing the subject. “What happened?”
It all came back to her in a rush and she jumped to her feet in panic. How long had she been unconscious? “What time is it?” she asked frantically. Before he could answer, she grabbed him by the front of his cotun. He didn’t budge an inch. Goodness gracious, he was even larger than her husband. What was wrong with these Highland warriors? Were they all built like mountains? “I’ll explain everything, but there is no time. You must take me to my husband.”
He didn’t look happy about it, but her tone must have impressed upon him the urgency of the situation. “Can you walk?”
She nodded, and he helped her to her feet. Sir Alex was a large man, but this border “Raider” lifted him off the ground and tossed him like a bag of flour over his shoulder—none too gently, either. It seemed he had no fondness for the young knight. Without further discussion, he led her through the trees.
When they entered the clearing before the broch, he hooted like an owl, obviously giving some kind of signal. Despite the time of night, there were a handful of men practicing with various weapons—swords and axes, from what she could tell. A man stood at the entry, and she knew from the size of the shadow that it was her husband. Her heart filled with relief to know that she had arrived in time. She’d done it.
He started walking toward her and she ran forward to meet him. The others gathered round, curious as to what was going on.
“Christina?” he asked, his voice sharp with disbelief. “What’s happened? Why are you here? I thought I warned you never to come here again.”
She heard the spark of anger and rushed into his arms before it could flare. They closed around her automatically, but he looked away from her long enough to see the big man drop Sir Alex at his feet. Christina was relieved to see the young knight was stirring.
Tor swore and grabbed her by the shoulders, his eyes raking her from head to toe. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “A bump on the head, that’s all. This man Raider found us.” Tor raised a questioning brow, but the brawny warrior merely shrugged as if to say he would explain later.
“Who did this to you?” his voice was as cold and deadly as she’d ever heard it.
“I don’t know, but you must listen—there isn’t much time.” In her eagerness to tell him, it all came out in a jumbled mess. Noticing his growing impatience, she simply handed him the note. He held it up to a torch. “It’s Rhuairi’s handwriting,” she said, not knowing how much he would be able to read. “He knows where you are and is planning an attack for tonight.”
“It looks like Rhuairi’s handwriting, but it doesn’t make any sense.”
She didn’t have a chance to ask why. He called out, and a moment later two men emerged from the broch. She paled, recognizing Rhuairi as one and Colyne as the other.
If Rhuairi was the spy, what was he doing here? He should be long gone by now.
She’d been so certain she was right that even when the possibility that she wasn’t hit, it didn’t quite sink in.
Rhuairi came over to read the note. He scanned it quickly and handed it back to Tor. “It’s a good likeness of my writing, but I did not write this.”
Tor’s voice was deceptively calm, but she sensed the burgeoning storm. “How did you say you came by this note?”
She explained about her exchange with Brother John.
“And he said he was going into the village?” Tor asked.
She nodded, and he swore. The look he gave her was not full of gratitude, but of derision—as if he couldn’t believe she could be so stupid.
“When?” he asked, shaking her shoulders. “How long were you unconscious?”
Her eyes widened, completely taken aback by the reaction that was so different from the one she expected. “I d-don’t know,” she stuttered. “An hour, maybe longer.”
He looked to the man Raider for confirmation. “I was patrolling to the east, Seton to the west. When the Englishman didn’t answer the call, I went looking for him. It could have been an hour, maybe more.”
“You didn’t think to go after whoever did this?”
Raider’s mouth clamped in a hard line. “I thought it more important not to leave the lass alone and to bring her to you.”
Even when the truth that she’d been tricked stared her in the face, she didn’t want to believe it. There had to be some explanation. “You’re wrong about Brother John. It couldn’t be him.” He wouldn’t do this to me. “He doesn’t know I can read.”
“Are you absolutely sure about that?” The look her husband gave her could have cut a diamond. “You’d better hope you are right. You have no idea what you might have done.”
Without another word to her, he ordered two of the men to the village via the woods to see what they could find, and the others to ready the birlinn to return to Dunvegan by boat.
Christina was numb with horror. Had she led the spy right to her husband? “Sorry.” The voice in the darkness made sense now. She wanted to put her hand over her ears and block out the truth. Dear Lord, there has to be a mistake. Please let there be a mistake.
Tor was grim as he waited for Lamont and MacLean to return from the village. But he already knew. The clerk had followed Christina through the woods and was long gone by now. It had been dark, but Tor had to assume he’d seen enough to jeopardize everything.
Christina’s interference had put both his clan and the secrecy of Bruce’s guard at grave risk. Twenty years of war and struggle to restore his clan, the lives of his clansmen, and his own life hung in the balance. If the clerk connected him to Bruce, his life, if King Edward got hold of him, wouldn’t be worth spit. But he wouldn’t suffer alone. His clan would go down with him. And if the clerk had recognized any of Bruce’s secret guard, they would have targets on their heads as well.
How could he allow this to happen? He knew better. He’d wanted to think he and Christina were different. Had he learned nothing from his parents’ deaths?
This was exactly what he had wanted to avoid.
He was a damned fool. He thought she’d understood. He never should have confided in her. In trying to please her, he’d let down his guard and allowed her to get too close. He’d allowed a woman to come between him and duty to his clan.
He was so furious that he didn’t trust himself to talk to or even look at her. But he was painfully aware of her seated beside him on the dais, wide-eyed and pale. He hardened his heart, not letting the quiver of her lip or the slight shaking of her shoulders get to him. Never again would she get to him.
Blood pounded in his ears, and he was barely able to hear as the men returned and confirmed what he’d already known. The clerk was gone. No one had seen him leave, but Tor had to assume he’d had help getting away.
His jaw locked, clenching so tight he could feel the veins in his neck bulge. He barked out orders to ready the ships. They had to find the traitor before he could pass on whatever information he’d learned. Failure wasn’t an option.
The men cleared the solar. He gave some last-minute instructions to Colyne and Murdoch to prepare the castle for war and stood to leave. The room was empty except for his wife.
She should have just let him go, but she never knew when to stop. She grabbed his arm, the soft press of her hand like a brand. On his skin. In his chest. But his continuing weakness for her only fueled his anger.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, wringing her hands and gazing up at him with those big, beseeching eyes. “I was only trying to help.”
He held perfectly still, despite the maelstrom raging inside him. Not one flicker of the emotion showed on his face. Her pleas would not penetrate. Not this time. Never again would he allow her—anyone—to compromise his duty.
“Help?” He gave a harsh laugh. “Apparently, it is difficult for you to understand, but I don’t want, nor do I need, your help. You are my wife, by God, not one of my men. I warned you not to interfere. I told you to never—under any circumstances—come to the broch again. Your ‘help’ has put my clan, the men I’ve been training, and me in grave danger. If the clerk is not found, King Edward will have a price on my head big enough to send even my closest allies after me. You have no idea what you’ve done.”
Though she looked ready to fall apart, she stiffened at his words. “You’re right, given that you’ve never seen fit to tell me.”
He struggled to maintain his control. Only she would dare reproach him after what had just happened. His gaze darkened, biting like the blistery edge of his voice. “With good cause, after what you just did. This is exactly why I didn’t want you involved. I should have known better than to trust you with any of this.”
Her temporary bravado faltered, as she seemed to realize the gravity of her actions. “You have every right to be angry, but I thought you were in danger. I could never have guessed what Brother John intended. I took every precaution—”
“Which obviously weren’t enough.”
Her eyes filled with tears. She leaned into him, but he held himself perfectly erect. He had to force himself not to move. Not to give in to the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and shake her—or to kiss her until the ache in his chest went away. He wasn’t like other people, damnation; he wasn’t supposed to feel anything. Wasn’t that what he’d prided himself on? Wasn’t that what made him a great leader and warrior? But her tears ate at his steely resolve like acid.
“I swear it will never happen again,” she whispered.
He needed to make it clear exactly how it was going to be between them. His gaze held hers, hard and unrelenting. “Damned right it will never happen again because I will never tell you another bloody thing.”
She shrank back from him as if he’d yelled, though his voice was deadly calm. “You’re angry,” she whispered. “You don’t mean that.” It sounded as if she was trying to convince herself.
The look he gave her would have frozen lava in hell. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life.” He’d made a mistake, but it wasn’t one he ever intended to repeat. This was his fault as much as it was hers. He’d allowed himself to become part of her little fantasy. But that was over. “I told you exactly what I want from you: Oversee the castle, bear my children, and leave the rest to me. Don’t expect anything more.”
Christina flinched, utterly stricken. Who was this harsh, unforgiving man? He’d never looked at her like this—even the first time she’d seen him he hadn’t looked so cold and remote. So unfeeling.
He doesn’t mean it, she told herself. He’s angry. But a whisper of doubt stole into her heart.
She forced her gaze to his, refusing to be cowed. He shouldn’t talk to her like this. She’d made a mistake, but not without cause, and her intentions had been pure. “I deserve your anger, but not your scorn. I did not act precipitously, nor did I mean for this to happen. I was tricked. You have to know I would never do anything to hurt you.” She paused, then said softly, “I love you.”
She waited for some reaction to her heartfelt declaration, but he stood in stony silence—aloof, distant, imperious as a king. The only evidence that he’d heard her was the slight whitening around his mouth.
She hadn’t expected him to return her sentiment … had she?
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. Her throat was so tight it was hard to talk. Why was he acting like this? This was the way he acted with everyone else, not with her. Where was the man she’d read stories to in bed? “Don’t do this to me. Don’t pull away. I don’t deserve being treated as if I mean nothing to you.” She tried to swallow, but it hurt. “This isn’t you.”
His gaze shifted to hers, silently challenging her words. If there had been anger in his eyes she would have held out hope, but the cool, steady gaze that met hers was ice-blue, without a flicker of emotion. She stepped back, as if seeing him for the first time.
“This is me. I’m not your damned Lancelot. This isn’t some romantic fantasy, and nothing you do—or no matter how helpful you try to be—is going to change that.”
She gasped, feeling as if he’d just plunged a dirk into her heart. The blood leached from her face. He’d just shined a light on her deepest, darkest dreams only to stomp on them. Was she so transparent? Had he seen her attempts to please him as some pathetic attempt to gain his heart? She cringed, wondering if he was right. Pride made her say, “I don’t know what you mean.”
Please don’t let that be pity in his gaze.
“You think I don’t see the way you look at me? What you want from me? But I can’t give you what you want. You are young and full of dreams of knights and romance. I’m a battle-hard Highland chief whose sole devotion is to his clan.”
“And there is no place for me?”
“Not in the way you want.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
His face didn’t move a muscle. “Aye, it does.”
“I think you want it that way,” she said angrily. “You want to be alone—so that it doesn’t have to hurt if you lose someone and you don’t have to rely on anyone else. You’ve started to believe what they say about you. But you aren’t invincible. You are a man. People need one another—even if they make mistakes. Your father was wrong to make you think differently.”
She saw the pulse below his jaw and wondered if she’d gone too far.
“You don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “I knew this was a mistake.”
Her stomach turned, realizing what he meant. Their marriage was the mistake.
He didn’t mean it. He must have wanted to marry her a little bit … didn’t he? No one forced him to do anything. No matter how much it hurt, she had to know the truth. “Why did you marry me?”
He turned, and she could see from his hesitation that he didn’t want to tell her.
Her chest was so tight she could barely breathe. “What difference does it make now?” she asked hollowly. “Why keep any more illusions between us?”
He shot her a hard look, not liking her sarcasm. “It was part of the bargain I made with MacDonald. Marriage to you was the price I paid for peace. Although after what has happened today, it may have just cost me exactly that.”
Her heart felt like it was breaking into a million little pieces, scattering across the floor at her feet. Big, hot tears poured down her cheeks. “And the men you’ve been training are part of it?”
Curtly, succinctly, emotionlessly, he told her what she’d wanted to know for so long, letting her see exactly what her actions may have cost him. She listened as he explained the terms of his bargain with MacDonald. How they’d asked him to lead the men and how he’d initially refused, but then MacDonald had made him an offer her couldn’t refuse.
He never wanted to marry me. It wasn’t honor or any special feelings for her that had changed his mind, it was his duty to his clan.
And she’d done the one thing he could never forgive: putting herself between him and his clan. She felt ill, realizing the danger she’d unwittingly unleashed. Because of her, the safety of his clan and everything he’d fought to achieve since his parents’ death was at risk.
He would never trust her again. She knew how hard it had been for him to relax his guard just a little, and he would see this as a personal failure. She’d fulfilled his worst fear—that allowing himself to get close to someone would hurt his clan. The promise of the past few weeks was gone. He’d distanced himself from her, this time for good.
“And now?” she asked. “Do you feel the same way now?”
She thought his gaze flickered, but it was just the candlelight. “What difference does it make? You are my wife.”
It was the final blow. Her fantasy had prevented her from seeing the truth. For the first time, she saw things clearly. He was right: He would never be able to give her what she wanted. He would always keep part of himself detached from her. Even if he did care for her, he would never admit it. He didn’t love her and never would. She’d been deluding herself. Making excuses. Convincing herself that beneath the icy shell he cared for her. That the shell was only to protect himself. That he just didn’t know how to show his feelings.
But she was wrong. Trying to wring emotion from him was like trying to squeeze water from a stone. She hadn’t sought a full cup, only a few drops. But he couldn’t even give her that.
And she was done trying. She’d given him everything she had to give and it wasn’t enough—it would never be enough.
She wiped the tears from her eyes. This was how it would be between them. Always. There had never been anything special. It all had been her imagination getting carried away. He wasn’t her Lancelot; he was a ruthless Highland chief who belonged to his clan.
There was a knock on the door and MacSorley said, “We’re ready, captain.”
Tor made his way to the door.
“I’m so sorry,” she said one last time.
“It’s too late for apologies,” he said stonily. “If you want to help, pray that I find your friend before he brings Edward’s wrath down on us all.”
Her chest squeezed as she watched him go, trying to burn every detail to memory, her heart knowing what her head had yet to realize.
“Good-bye,” she whispered, as the door closed behind him.
She realized she meant it. Perhaps it was inevitable. A marriage forged in treachery was doomed from the start. But she could not go on like this. Pretending. Banging her head against a stone wall. He may have relaxed the boundaries between them, but they were still there—would always be there. His world and hers. It wasn’t good enough.
She wanted—nay, deserved—more. He wasn’t the only one who deserved happiness.
Ironically, he was the one who’d helped her see it. She was no longer the frightened girl who’d cowered under her father’s hand or the adoring pup who begged for whatever meager scrap of affection her husband wanted to dole out. She had a lot to give. She could read and write, calculate complex figures in her head, turn a dark hovel into a home, and most of all, love someone with all her heart. If he couldn’t see that, it was his loss.
Father Stephen was right. She deserved someone who could see what she had to give and would love her for it. Who wouldn’t turn away from her every time she made a mistake. She wanted to be important to someone. Perhaps it was unrealistic, but the alternative was far worse. What Tor offered would not only break her heart, but her spirit. She could live with a broken heart, but not at the expense of her soul.
She took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her eyes. There was only one thing to do.