Finlaggan Castle, Isle of Islay
“I’m not interested.” Tor leaned back in his chair, eyeing the handful of men seated around the large circular table in the council chamber of Finlaggan—MacDonald’s stronghold on Islay and the ancient center of the Kingdom of the Isles.
The round table was not a democratic allusion to Britain’s famous hero, but a practical solution to best take advantage of the shape of the room. Instead of enjoying the luxury of MacDonald’s new tower house, they were gathered in the ancient roundhouse beside it. The dark and drafty crude stone building was said to have been built before the time of Somerled—the great king from whom the MacDonalds, MacDougalls, MacSorleys, and MacRuairis were all descended—and used by the kings of the Isles for centuries. His host knew well the power of tradition. At Finlaggan, round table or not, Angus Og MacDonald, descendant of the mighty Somerled, reigned supreme.
For a typical war council, the room would be packed with chiefs, chieftains, and their large retinues. But not today. In addition to his host, only four other men were present: William Lamberton, the Bishop of St. Andrews; Sir Andrew Fraser, a Scot nobleman familiar to him in name if not in person; Erik MacSorley, Angus Og’s kinsman and Gille-coise henchman, reputed to be the best seafarer in the isles; and Sir Neil Campbell, MacDonald’s uncle and a kinsman to Bruce, from a clan of growing importance with lands near Loch Awe.
The man behind the proposition, Robert Bruce, was being watched by Edward too closely to attend in person.
Lamberton and MacDonald exchanged glances after Tor’s pronouncement, with the bishop apparently deciding to take a turn to attempt to persuade him. “Perhaps you don’t understand—”
“I understand completely,” Tor said, cutting off what was sure to be a long-winded explanation. “You want me to train and lead a secret, highly specialized killing team to aid Bruce in a treasonous rebellion against Edward.”
The prelate shifted uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t put it exactly like that. The team will be used for many purposes—reconnaissance, intelligence, strategy, and special missions.”
“Aye, the most dangerous ones,” Tor said dryly, amused by the bishop’s attempt to prevaricate. “But you mistake my objection. It’s not the killing or the danger that prevents me from accepting your offer”—He’d made his name for exactly those reasons, which he knew was why they’d come to him—“it’s because it’s not my war and I have no interest in making it so.”
Otherwise, he might be tempted. The idea was just outlandish enough to intrigue him. The most elite warriors in the Highlands and Isles all together in one guard? They would be unstoppable. Nearly invincible.
“But it is your war,” Lamberton insisted. “The Isles are part of Scotland now, and you are Scottish subjects, despite what some of you may choose to think.” The bishop’s sly observation earned a few chuckles around the table. Most of the local men felt as Tor did—he was an Islander, not a Scot. Lamberton gave him a pointed look. “Eventually, you will have to pick a side.”
Tor lifted a brow. “Whereas you and Bruce change sides so frequently it’s hard to keep up.”
The bishop prickled, his round face growing flush with indignation. “I fight for Scotland.”
“Aye, and Bruce fights for whatever side Comyn does not, and MacDonald here fights for whatever side MacDougall does not. I understand the intricacies of Scottish politics well enough. What I don’t see is any benefit or reason for my clan to choose sides right now. Nor is it clear—despite your secret army—that your side would not be the losing one.” He ignored the burst of angry rumbling that followed. With the treasonous journey these men were about to embark on, they needed to hear the truth. “I’ve no love of the English king or John MacDougall, but they make powerful enemies.”
“Aye,” MacDonald agreed. “And getting more powerful by the minute.” He leaned toward Tor, his goblet coming down hard on the table. “Do nothing and you will feel the squeeze of Edward’s iron fist soon enough even on Skye. Edward might be far away, but his new minion MacDougall is not.”
“All the more reason not to anger him.” Though Tor’s sympathies lay with Angus Og MacDonald, he’d carefully avoided taking sides in the feud between the kinsmen. He didn’t need John MacDougall breathing down his neck; he had more pressing concerns. But unfortunately, Nicolson had yet to arrive.
“We will make it worth your while,” Lamberton insisted, changing tactics and trying to dispel the growing tension. “Fraser here has two unmarried daughters, both of whom are very beautiful and come with rich tochers of land.”
“Which won’t be worth anything if you lose,” Tor said bluntly. “Edward will dispossess all who fight against him of their land and titles—after he divests them of their heads. I’m rather attached to mine.”
“He has you there,” MacSorley said with a good-natured laugh. “Edward has quite a growing collection of Scottish ornaments adorning the gates of his castles.”
MacDonald gave his henchman a glowering look, but MacSorley just shrugged with an unrepentant grin.
The offer of marriage did not tempt Tor. He’d been married before and felt no urgency to take another wife. He had sons. His wife had died almost eight years ago while giving birth to their second son. Murdoch and Malcolm were being fostered on the Isle of Lewis.
If he married again, it would be to seek an alliance with the western seaboard—Ireland or the Isle of Man—to increase his clan’s power and prestige, not with the daughter of a Scottish noble. But not wishing to give offense, he turned to Fraser. “I thank you for your offer. I’m sure your daughters are very beautiful”—as all ladies of noble birth were in marriage negotiations—“but I’ve no wish to take a wife.”
Fraser nodded, but Tor could see his cursory dismissal had angered the proud nobleman. Something about the old warrior bothered him. In a room full of battle-hardened warriors, Fraser’s eyes burned too hotly. Emotion like that was dangerous; it had no place on the battlefield—or in the council chamber. Cool and controlled were the mark of a shrewd leader and warrior.
MacDonald leaned back and gave Tor an amused look, some of his earlier anger fading. “Perhaps you will change your mind when you meet them?”
Tor shook his head. “My mind is made up.” Unlike his brother, no woman—no matter how beautiful—would ever make him lay aside his duty. “You’ll have to find someone else to lead your secret band of Highlanders.”
Over the long journey from Stirlingshire to Islay, Christina had almost succeeded in convincing herself that it wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe Tormod MacLeod—she’d learned the name of the Island chief her father sought to wed her to—wasn’t a brute at all but a gallant and chivalrous knight.
The moment she arrived at Finlaggan, however, she knew her imagination had run away with her again. It was worse than she’d originally feared. Much worse. Never had she seen so many terrifying-looking men in one place. Nay, not men, but warriors. These Islanders looked as if they did nothing but fight. It was in their blood and bred into their bones—from the fierce, battle-scarred visages locked in perpetual scowls to their extraordinary size.
The latter proved truly disconcerting.
Even without chain mail—they wore shockingly little armor—the men from the Isles seemed taller and broader than their Lowland counterparts. Everywhere she looked stood men well over six feet tall, stacked with layer upon layer of bulky muscle. Their arms in particular—thick and ripped with rock-hard muscle—seemed built for wielding the terrifying two-handed swords, war hammers, battleaxes, and other instruments of warfare they wore strapped to their bodies. And it wasn’t just the men; the women, too, were tall and strong. A veritable race of giants, or at least it seemed so to her. Unlike her tall and willowy sister, if Christina stood on her tiptoes she was lucky to reach a hand over five feet.
They probably would have drowned her at birth.
The men wore their hair to their shoulders, some with braids at the temple, and a disproportionately large number were fair-headed.
Probably all that Viking blood, she thought with a shiver, feeling a sharp pang of empathy with her forebears. How terrifying it must have been to see those longships appear on the horizon and know that these fierce barbarians were bearing down on them to wreak havoc and destruction in their pillaging wake.
Christina felt that same helplessness and an overwhelming sense of impending doom. She knew she had to protect her sister, but her plan to entice the MacLeod chief to choose her and not her sister was a far more terrifying proposition now that she was here.
On the final leg of their journey by sea, however, another possibility had occurred to her. She realized how fast the sea roads were compared to their land counterparts. With favorable winds, long distances could be covered in hours rather than days. When one of the oarsmen had mentioned that he’d recently come from the holy Isle of Iona, the spark of an idea took hold: She and Beatrix could flee to Iona and take refuge at the famous nunnery.
It was a crazy plan—fraught with risk at every turn—but it was something.
This morning after breaking their fast, she and Beatrix had headed to the village to make initial inquiries, but Christina would have to return later at night to attempt to secure passage. A pilgrimage to St. Columba’s holy isle would not seem out of the ordinary, assuming no one discovered who they were.
The wind whistled through the reeds that grew along the stone causeway as they made their way back to the castle, the eerie sound utterly in keeping with the haunting majesty of this ancient stronghold but doing nothing for her frayed nerves.
Beatrix must have sensed her unease. Looping her arm through Christina’s, she drew her closer as they walked. “Are you sure about this, Chrissi? If father discovers what we are planning—”
“He won’t,” Christina assured her with far more confidence than she felt. The idea of defying her father terrified her. “We’re not doing anything out of the ordinary. There is no reason for him to be suspicious.”
It would be later at night, when she actually sought to arrange passage, that the real danger would come. But she dared not voice her fears to her sister. As it was, deception was utterly foreign to Beatrix; adding fear to the mix would be disastrous. They could do nothing to arouse their father’s suspicions.
“But if anything goes wrong—”
“Nothing will go wrong,” Christina said firmly. She hoped. It was a simple plan, but neither of them had ever attempted anything like this before and they couldn’t take the chance of involving anyone else. If Alex had traveled with them they might have asked him to help, but he’d been sent to join their cousin Simon, one of Robert Bruce’s closest companions. She looked into her sister’s troubled face. “You want to go to Iona, don’t you?”
Beatrix’s entire expression changed, her face transformed by a heavenly light that took Christina’s breath away. “Of course I do. It’s an answer to a prayer, except that never even in my dreams did I imagine it would be possible.” Beatrix sighed. “Just think, the nunnery at Iona. Surely, it must be the most holy place in all of Scotland?”
“We shall find out,” Christina said with a smile. Though she did not share her sister’s religious devotion, it was impossible not to get swept up in the excitement. They would be safe. That was all that mattered. For two young women, there were precious few options available. If the choice was between marriage to a barbarian and a nunnery, it was an easy decision.
But part of her wondered …
“Are you sure you want to do this, Chrissi?” Her sister’s pale blue eyes slid over her face. “This is my dream, not yours. I’ve no wish to marry, but can you say the same?” Christina slammed her mouth closed; at times Beatrix had an uncanny ability to read her mind. “What about your knights?” she added softly.
Christina kept her eyes fixed on the path in front of them. She’d regaled her sister with too many romantic stories to even attempt to feign ignorance at what she was getting at. “They’re stories, Bea. Just stories. I never thought of that for myself.” Dreaming didn’t count. “Marriage for women in our position is to secure alliances, not for love. I’d rather spend my life reading about romance than locked in marriage to a man …” Her voice fell off.
“To a man like father,” Beatrix finished gently.
Christina nodded. Aye, the man who thought her no better than a dog to kick. She hated the fear that her father had instilled in her. Fear that came not only from pain but also from powerlessness. Never had she felt the fate of being a woman so cruelly. If her father—or her husband—wanted to thrash her senseless, no one would gainsay his right to do so.
That realization made her all the more certain that what they were doing was right. She couldn’t just sit back and wait, while her father offered them up like two juicy lambs to the slaughter. If there were a chance to avoid that fate for herself and her sister, she would take it.
“I know you are only doing this because you are trying to protect me. But I’m older—I’m the one who should be protecting you.” Beatrix drew up her slender shoulders. “I’m stronger than I look. I could …” She fought back tears through a wobbly smile. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad.”
Christina stopped in her tracks, grasping hold of her sister’s shoulders to turn and face her, taking care not to clasp her too hard. Beatrix bruised as easily as a rose petal. Her sister might be taller than her by nearly half a foot, but her delicate build made her seem much smaller. Christina was all round curves to Beatrix’s fine lines.
Despite the cloudless sky, a cold shadow swept over her as she looked at her sister. Pale, ethereal, fragile. Unbearably fragile. Not just in appearance but in her life’s breath. Sometimes it seemed as if Beatrix had one foot in heaven already—that each moment with her was a precious gift that could be taken at any time.
The thought of losing her sister made Christina’s chest burn. For as long as she could remember, there had been only the two of them. Their mother had died not long after the birth of their youngest brother, and their brothers had been sent away when they were very young. Beatrix was all she had, and Christina would do anything to protect her.
Her throat swelled with emotion, knowing that her sister would do the same. She could only imagine what those brave words had cost her. “I’m not doing this just for you, but for both of us.” She read the uncertainty in her sister’s gaze. Realizing that giving voice to her own fears might help, she swallowed and said softly, “I’m just as scared as you are, Bea. I’ve no wish to marry one of these men any more than you do.”
“You’re certain?” Beatrix asked hesitantly.
Christina nodded with a smile. “Positive.” She lifted up on her toes and placed a kiss on her sister’s cheek. “Now, if we are to have time to change before the feast, we’d better hurry.”
They resumed walking, continuing their way along the slippery rock pathway and onto the big island. Finlaggan was uniquely situated, spread out between two small islands on an inland loch, connected to the mainland by stone causeways. Located about fifty feet from shore and surrounded by tall wooden fortifications, Eilean Mor, the big island, housed most of the castle buildings, including the Great Hall, St. Findlugan’s Chapel, and the armory, smith, and barracks. At the far end of Eilean Mor was another stone causeway, this one much longer, perhaps a hundred yards in length, connecting the big island to a small crannog—a man-made island—which housed the council chamber and MacDonald’s new tower house. The mist that had cloaked the morning had slowly dissipated, though it had yet to dry completely from the ground. But she could just make out the formidable keep in the distance.
Christina had to admit that despite the fearsome appearance of the men, there was nothing crude or barbaric about Finlaggan. The castle and its outer buildings were as fine as anything she might find in the Lowlands. The Great Hall with its lime-mortared stone walls, arched windows, and beautifully beamed ceilings could rival the recently renovated Great Hall at Stirling Castle. Indeed, the massive fireplace was the largest she’d ever seen, and the faces on the stone corbels were so lifelike they could only have been carved by a master craftsman.
The food was also a surprise. Half fearing that they would be eating nothing but herring and oatcakes, she was impressed by both the variety and the skilled preparation of the meal they’d enjoyed upon arrival the previous night. In addition to fish, they’d found a selection of game, stewed lampreys, root vegetables, dried fruits—including her favorite (and very expensive) figs—warm brown bread with slabs of cool butter, exotic spiced sauces, marzipan, and sweetened almond milk, all eaten off pewter trenchers. Even her father had been much impressed by the French wine that flowed abundantly from large pottery jugs, enquiring from their host the name of the merchant who’d sold it to him.
If that was all for a “light” supper, the feast at the midday meal today should be lavish indeed. Her stomach made a sharp sound of anticipation.
She frowned, remembering another incongruity. For a culture so obviously consumed by war, the Islanders also had a deep appreciation for music. When the enormous gray-haired warrior sat down to play the clarsach, Christina had been shocked by the sweet sounds that poured from his big, battle-scarred fingers along the harp strings. Indeed, the prestige accorded the poet who composed the verse—the Islanders called him the filidh—along with the seanachaidh bard who performed it, the piper, and the harpist among the clan was clear from their position at the table near the chief. Only the chief’s henchman took precedence. It made her wonder whether there was something more to these people.
But the thought barely had time to form before it was quickly disproved.
As they approached the Great Hall, she noticed a group of warriors gathered near the entrance. Her pulse spiked. If possible, they appeared even more formidable than those she’d encountered previously.
Two men stood at the center. She couldn’t see their faces, but both were tall and extremely muscular. That, however, was where the similarities ended. Though one had golden hair and the other’s was so dark as to be almost black, it wasn’t the hair color that separated them so sharply, but the way they carried themselves. The golden-haired man stood as proud as a king, with a predatory stillness in his rigid stance. In contrast, the dark-haired man’s stance was lazy—almost taunting—but equally threatening.
Something about the situation set warning bells clamoring, making the hair on Christina’s arms stand on edge. The instinct to fade into the background that she’d learned since her father’s return took hold.
She wrapped her arm around Beatrix’s shoulders, tucking her against her. “Keep your head down and walk faster.” The urgency in her voice must have alerted her sister to the danger.
Beatrix looked at her with wide eyes. “What is it?”
“Something is going on over there and I don’t like the look of it.”
Unfortunately, they had to go past the Great Hall to reach the second causeway that would take them to the castle, but she hoped they could slide by without being noticed.
As they drew closer, the charge in the air intensified. With each step, her heartbeat raced faster. Her sister felt it, too. The quickening of Beatrix’s breath matched her own.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see the men not ten paces from her. She fought the urge to shudder, realizing how much larger and more daunting they were up close.
We have to get out of here.
The causeway wasn’t far now. Twenty paces or so and they’d be safe.
All of a sudden, she heard a man let out a vile oath, followed by the bloodcurdling crash of steel on steel. Before she could react, the crowd had tightened around them, cutting off their path.
They were trapped.
At first Christina feared that they would be caught up in the melee, but then she realized only two men were fighting—the same two warriors she’d noticed before.
A sword fight in the middle of the courtyard? Goodness, did these barbarians fight everywhere?
She and Beatrix watched in horror as they attacked each other with a viciousness that could mean only one thing—a fight to the death. It was horrible. Violent. Their wild, brutal fighting style was nothing like the “civilized” practicing she was used to on the lists or the tournaments she’d seen as a child.
Neither man wore mail, only the leine and padded leather cotun studded with metal—woefully inadequate protection against the penetrating steel blades of their swords. They both wore soft leather boots to just below the knees, leaving a gap of bare leg to the lower thigh.
The golden-haired warrior had his back to her, but she could see the muscles in his back flare as he swung the enormous two-handed longsword in a high arch over his head and brought it down with crushing force. The sword seemed a part of him, as if he’d been born with it in his hand.
The dark-haired warrior blocked it with one of his two short arming swords, resulting in a piercing clatter that shattered the peace of the day, making her ears ring and teeth rattle. He allowed his blade to drop to the ground, pinned beneath the other, but then he spun and whirled the other over his head to return the strike.
The warriors exchanged blow after deadly blow, neither showing signs of tiring, wielding their enormous blades as effortlessly as if they were made of wood and not steel. The ground reverberated with each terrifying stroke.
She should look away. She should attempt to escape. But Christina was as mesmerized as she was horrified by the brutal savageness of the spectacle before her.
Was this what the Romans had felt watching the gladiators?
If the warriors weren’t so obviously trying to kill each other, there would be something almost beautiful about their movements. Despite their powerful builds, they moved with leonine grace. In the back of her mind it occurred to her that if they weren’t so fearsome looking, the men might be considered handsome. Nor could she ignore that there was something blatantly male and attractive about such brute strength. But the thought was fleeting and quickly forgotten in the heat and clamor of the battle. The clang of steel mixed with the grunts of the combatants and the ebbing and flowing murmurs of the crowd.
At first she thought they were well matched, but as the fight drew on she recognized the superior skill of the golden-haired man. His blade fell harder; his reactions were quicker and his movements more precise. He controlled every aspect of the battle.
Her gaze was drawn to him.
When it became clear that she and Beatrix were not in danger, she grew more bold in her observation, noticing the hard lines of his jaw, the wide mouth, and the forbidding brow. The noble bearing that permeated the air around him. As the fight had started without warning, he wore no helm or bascinet to protect his head. His hair was actually more brown than blond as she’d first thought, but the sunlight picked up all the golden strands, making it appear much lighter.
She was fascinated by the way his muscles bunched and flexed with each blow of the sword. Looking at him, the idea of Lancelot bending steel bars didn’t seem so farfetched. Such power would normally terrify her, but detached like this she felt a strange heat shimmering through her.
But she hardly had time to process the strange reaction before the battle shifted and took on a far more ominous tone.
The change was subtle but marked. The golden warrior attacked with cold purpose and precision, making her wonder whether he’d simply been biding his time.
She glanced at the dark warrior’s face and felt a chill so strong it turned her blood to ice. Behind the goading defiance, his eyes were empty. Soulless. And she knew with a certainty that couldn’t be explained that he didn’t care whether he lived or died.
She gasped when the golden warrior landed a blow to other man’s upper arm that drew blood, causing him to drop one of his swords. Her stomach rolled as the cotun and leine underneath stained a deep, dark red.
Beatrix buried her head in her shoulder, sobbing, but Christina couldn’t turn away, unable to believe what was about to happen.
The battle was intensifying now. Going faster. Moving toward a fatal end with each stroke. The scent of well-worked bodies wafted in the breeze. Tension and excitement surged in the crowd.
No one was going to do anything to stop it.
With blow after ringing blow, the golden-haired warrior moved his opponent back. The dark-haired warrior couldn’t last much longer. Christina’s heart was pounding so hard she couldn’t breathe.
She gasped again when the dark warrior stumbled back and fell to the ground. Her horror only grew when his mouth curved up in a smile.
The golden warrior raised his sword above his head, poised for the final blow.
“No!” a voice rang out.
His gaze shot to hers. She was riveted to the ground by the most piercing ice-blue eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes that seared her with an intensity she’d never experienced before. Eyes that were hard, cold, and utterly without mercy.
She blanched, as horror dawned: She was the one who’d cried out.
Their gazes held for only an instant before he looked brusquely away.
Disappointment crashed over her. How could she have expected mercy from such a man? Despite her strange fascination with him, he was not a knight but a brutish barbarian warlord.
She couldn’t bear to watch. Turning her head, she braced herself for the gasp of the crowd as the golden warrior finished the job. She heard the sword whiz through the air and land with a resounding thud that shook her to her toes.
But the gasp never came.
By the time she’d gathered enough courage to look back, the golden warrior had already started to walk away, and the dark warrior was being helped to his feet by one of his men. The golden warrior’s two-handed sword was plunged deep into the ground near where the dark warrior had lain, and one of his men was struggling to pull it from the ground.
She heard the whispers and felt the curious stares of the crowd on her, but she was too stunned to care.
What had just happened? Disbelief mingled with wonder. Had he heeded her plea?
All of a sudden, someone grabbed her arm and jerked her around.
“You stupid girl.”
She froze, her stomach pitching to the floor. “Father.”
His fingers bit into her shoulder. “What have you done?”
“I …” Her voice caught, not knowing how to explain. “He was going to kill him.”
He drew her close with a growl. “And you decided to interfere in a battle between men?” His face was only inches from hers. She could feel the heat of his wine-laden breath on her cheek. “You idiot! Do you know who that is?”
She shook her head, her heart pounding erratically, knowing she’d made a huge mistake.
“Tor MacLeod,” he spat. “The man one of you is to marry.”
Christina gasped, horror washing over her. Marry him? That muscle-bound giant? She’d seen more emotion in a rock. Good lord, he looked like the kind of savage Viking who collected heads on necklaces and sacrificed virgins for fun.
For a moment she thought she might faint. But Beatrix did it for her.
Tor was aware of MacDonald’s amused gaze on him throughout the meal. Apparently, his host found Tor’s uncharacteristic display of mercy humorous.
He could guess why.
But MacDonald was wrong. It had nothing to do with the lass—not in the way he thought, at least. A plea for mercy assumed he had some. Her cry had simply cleared the haze long enough for Tor to reconsider. It wasn’t the look of horror in the girl’s wide eyes that stayed his hand, but the realization that he’d been baited.
He’d like nothing better than to sink his blade into Lachlan MacRuairi, but hell if he’d be the instrument in some half-crazed death wish.
MacRuairi’s crude remark about Tor’s sister had been calculated for one purpose. He had been prevented from seeing it earlier only because he’d been caught off guard by his enemy’s sudden appearance.
He tore a piece of meat off the rib with his teeth and chewed slowly, washing it down with a long swig of cuirm, before turning to his host. “I assume you heard what happened today.”
The older man’s gaze narrowed, his blue eyes darkening. Though approaching his fifth decade, MacDonald was still a formidable warrior and to many a king. “Aye, you and my bastard cousin ignored the truce and broke the peace.”
Tor didn’t argue; it was the truth. The summons to the chiefs had been done under a vow of truce. Men of lesser rank could be chained in irons for such a breach. By all rights MacDonald could seek to exact retribution from them both—more from Tor, who’d struck the first blow.
“You’re fortunate the lass prevented you from doing something I wouldn’t be able to overlook,” MacDonald said. “Lachlan may be a provoking bastard, but he’s still my cousin. His sister would have my bollocks if you’d killed him.”
It was hard to believe a black-hearted whoreson like Lachlan and Tina MacRuairi, the Lady of the Isles, could share the same father—a father who’d left three male bastards and only a lass as his legitimate heir.
MacDonald’s sudden loyalty was strange given Lachlan’s past. Not long ago MacRuairi had been allied with MacDougall—MacDonald’s enemy.
“The girl didn’t prevent me from doing anything,” Tor said. “If your cousin wants to die, he’ll have to find someone else to do the killing—I’m sure he won’t have to look too far.”
MacDonald gave him a look that suggested he didn’t believe him about the lass, but apparently chose not to press his point. He shrugged. “One can only guess what goes on in that devious mind. Lachlan has always been an enigma. I’ll admit goading the best swordsman in the Isles wasn’t one of his more prudent moments, but you aren’t exactly known for losing your temper.” MacDonald smiled at the understatement, and then asked, “What did he say?”
“Something I couldn’t ignore.”
Too bad you don’t have any more sisters. My brother can’t seem to get enough of his bride and my sword could use a good oiling. The crude reference to Tor’s sister sucking Lachlan’s brother’s cock had been the last straw in an already heated exchange.
Lachlan’s brother Ranald had kidnapped Tor’s sister Muriel nearly three years ago during a raid. He’d never know whether his sister went willingly. She claimed so now, but that was because she fancied herself in love—apparently, a recurring deficiency with his siblings.
He couldn’t imagine having the time or inclination to pursue such folly. In a world where death was a daily occurrence—where men died in battle, women died in childbirth, and children died of disease or were sent out to be fostered at a young age—it was wise not to get too attached. To make decisions under pressure, a warrior had to learn to control his emotions and not think about killing or dying. As chief, he had the same responsibility to his people.
The recent truce had been at Muriel’s urging. He’d welcomed an end to the feuding, for his clan’s sake, but the MacRuairis were still his enemies.
MacDonald turned to Lamberton on his other side, and Tor found his gaze slipping to the lass. It wasn’t the first time. She sat beside another girl—the angelic fair-haired lass she’d been with earlier—at a table close to the dais, meaning that she had to be of some importance. A relative of MacDonald’s, perchance? He couldn’t get a good look at her face, despite her nervous habit of tucking her hair behind her ear. She kept her sable head averted each time he glanced in her direction. But he remembered well enough what she looked like.
Beautiful. Not in the classical fashion of the blond beauty beside her, but in a much more visceral, cock-hardening way. It wasn’t just the lush, well-curved body, evident even beneath the modest green silk cote-hardie that she wore, but the wide, red mouth and the exotic tilt of her dark eyes.
He frowned. But she was small and young. And despite her seductive beauty, obviously an innocent—she had that wide-eyed, startled look of a girl raised in a convent and brought out into the world for the first time. She’d probably shake with fear if he whispered “boo.” Not the kind of woman to typically catch his eye.
At that she had surprised him, but the desire pooling full and heavy in his groin was proof enough. The reaction was understandable. Though he had a leman to take care of his needs, it had been some time since he’d felt the urge to bed her. The oversight was obviously making itself known.
He’d have to do something about it.
He turned his gaze from the lass, only to find his host watching him again. “They are both very beautiful, aren’t they?” MacDonald asked, not expecting an answer. “But I think it’s the delectable dark-haired morsel on the right who has caught your eye.” The older man shook his head. “I can’t fault your taste; she’s stunning.”
“Who is she?”
MacDonald arched a brow. “She’s the one who interrupted the fight, isn’t she?”
“Aye.” That smile that was beginning to annoy the hell out of him. “And you find that amusing?”
MacDonald laughed and shook his head. “Nay, that’s not what I find amusing.”
It was becoming harder and harder to remember that he was MacDonald’s guest. Tor had always respected the older warrior, but at times Angus Og could be as provoking as his bastard of a cousin. He was done playing games. “Then what is it?”
MacDonald shrugged. “If you want her, she can be yours.”
Tor frowned. A harlot? Could it be she wasn’t as innocent as she looked? His gaze slid back to her. Nay, it had to be something else.
All of a sudden he understood his host’s amusement.
His mouth fell in a hard line. “Fraser’s daughters?”
MacDonald nodded. “I thought you might wish to reconsider.” He lowered his voice. “Say the word and she could be in your bed before the week is out.” Tor clenched his jaw, his body responding to the thought as his head could not. “The lass is a prize,” MacDonald urged. “Not only a beauty but rich in land and the daughter of an important nobleman. You would be hard pressed to find a better match.”
Tor’s jaw hardened. He was angry not only because he’d allowed his interest in the lass to show, but because in doing so he’d given MacDonald what he thought was an opening. But MacDonald didn’t know him at all if he thought he could be so easily turned. “Except that it comes at too much of a cost.” He gave his host a long look. “I told you before, I’ll not be drawn into Scotland’s war; I’ve enough troubles of my own. If you thought a beautiful lass would sway me, you were mistaken. If I want a lass in my bed, one will do as well as any other. I don’t need to jeopardize my clan to have that one.”
MacDonald sat back, folding his arms across his great barrel chest, the smile fading from behind his long gray beard. “You surprise me, MacLeod. Frankly, I thought you’d jump at the opportunity—not because of the lass, but because of the challenge. Nothing like this has ever been conceived before. Just think what these men will be able to do with the right training and the right leadership. This will be the best team of warriors in the world. Better even than Finn MacCool’s Fianna.”
It had intrigued him for precisely those reasons, but his duty was clear. Rising against Edward was of no benefit to his clan. More likely the treasonous rebellion would lead to harsh reprisal. “I’ve made my decision.”
MacDonald heaved a sigh of resignation. Tor’s uncompromising tone had left no room for argument. “Bruce will be disappointed, but if you will not agree, someone else will. The lass would tempt the devil himself.”
Something in MacDonald’s expression made Tor’s instincts flare. He followed the direction of the other man’s gaze and his entire body went rigid.
The lass had raised her head and he could finally see her face. A delicate pink flush had spread over her rosy cheeks, and an embarrassed smile was playing upon her wide red lips.
But it was the man standing before her who sent the flood of angry fire surging through his blood.
Aye, the devil himself: Lachlan MacRuairi.
Tor stared for a long moment, his stony expression giving no hint of his strangely intense reaction to the thought of his enemy winning such a prize.
But nothing would change his mind. His will was forged of iron, hard and unbending.
When at last he turned his gaze from the girl, he didn’t look back.