Christina had noticed the MacLeod chief’s absence at the evening meal, but she didn’t attach any significance to it until her father stormed into their chamber as she and Beatrix were preparing for bed.
They’d changed out of their gowns, and the maid had just finished brushing out Beatrix’s hair and was starting on hers. Her father wrenched the brush out of the poor girl’s hand before ordering her from the room. Christina wished she could flee with her.
Christina’s father loomed over her chair, his face livid.
Something had happened. Her heart dropped. Heaven help me, had he heard? Had the MacLeod chief betrayed his vow?
“He’s leaving,” he seethed. “And we must do something to stop him.”
Hiding her relief that he hadn’t learned of her attack, she tried to keep her voice even and not focus on the heavy silver brush in his hand. “Who’s leaving?”
“The MacLeod chief, you fool.”
She flinched when he slammed the brush down on the table in front of her, rattling the delicate glass vials that held her perfumes and the wooden boxes for her jewelry.
When her heart had started beating again, she realized what he’d said. Her brows furrowed. Leaving? “For how long?”
Her father looked at her as if she were a simpleton. “For good. He’s refused both of you,” he said disgustedly, as if it were obviously their fault.
Refused? She caught her sister’s gaze and read the relief, but also the surprise. Earlier when Christina had returned to the room in her disheveled state, she’d had no choice but to confide in Beatrix most of what had happened, leaving out the more upsetting details. Beatrix had been horrified, blaming herself for not going with her, which was ridiculous because it was Christina who’d insisted on going alone. If there was anyone to blame for what had happened, it was she. But seeing her sister’s expression right now, Christina realized she might have overdone the noble and gallant attributes of her rescuer.
Perhaps to herself as well.
She should be relieved that he’d refused them, but instead the sudden tightness in her chest felt more like disappointment.
Her initial fear and prejudice, she realized, had been unwarranted. She’d secretly wondered … if perhaps he was the knight errant of her dreams. He’d saved her, heeded her plea for mercy, held her in his arms, and almost kissed her.
But he hadn’t. She’d thought it was honor that prevented him. Was she reading knightly attributes into his actions when he actually had no interest in her at all?
Had her forwardness repelled him? Had she simply imagined the connection between them? Certainly, nothing in his expression gave her any indication that he thought her anything other than a foolish girl who’d very nearly managed to get herself ravished. Indeed, thinking back, she realized that he’d looked at her with the same emotionless gaze that he did everyone else. The fierce, implacable façade was impossible to read, but for one moment she’d thought …
It didn’t matter. She told herself that this was the best news indeed. He didn’t want to marry her. She and Beatrix were safe—at least for the moment. They wouldn’t have to risk a last-minute escape to Iona. Her sister would be disappointed, but it would be better if they had more time. Their plan had been borne out of desperation, not rationality.
It was for the best. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking “Why?”
Her father’s face contorted into an angry grimace. “You must have angered him with your interference. What does it matter why? He’s refused, and we can’t allow that to happen. We need him. We need this alliance.”
“But why is the MacLeod chief so important?” Finlaggan was practically bursting with Island chiefs—not that she was anxious for her father to consider any of them.
His eyes narrowed. “He is; that’s all you need to know.”
Her father might think her a fool, but she knew the reason they were there had to have something to do with a war with England. At the root of all her father’s actions was securing Scotland’s freedom from the “bloodthirsty English whoreson.” Her family’s patriotism was well known, but her father’s was tinged with rabid fanaticism. At times she wondered whether there was anything he wouldn’t do to see Edward of England purged from Scotland.
Unlike most of the nobility who changed sides for political expediency—like the Bruces and Comyns, who seemed to fight on whatever side the other was not—the Frasers were always on the side of Scotland. They’d fought alongside Wallace, Balliol, Comyn, and now, if her cousin Simon’s fealty was any indication, with Robert Bruce. She guessed that the Bishop of St. Andrew’s presence here meant that he’d aligned himself with Bruce as well.
Clearly, her father and Lamberton were planning something and had decided they needed the Island chiefs’ support, and Tormod MacLeod’s in particular. The best swordsman in the Isles.
Was that it? Would they be rash enough to be considering another rebellion? She hoped not. It was a dangerous proposition. Word of William Wallace’s fate had spread through Scotland like wildfire. As much as she feared her father, she did not wish to see his head stuck on a pike over some English castle.
Her father was watching her as if he expected her to say something. But the MacLeod chief had refused the alliance. What else could they do? “Perhaps you can find another way to win him to your side,” she offered.
His gaze slid over to Beatrix, who was doing her best to disappear into the billowy bed hangings and nearly succeeding. With her long, golden hair tumbling around her shoulders and gowned only in a linen chemise, she looked as ethereal as an angel.
“Oh, I haven’t given up,” her father said with a sly smile. “We will just have to leave him no choice in the matter.”
Something in his voice made the fine hairs on Christina’s arms stand up. “What do you mean?” The MacLeod chief seemed like a man who always made his own decisions; she couldn’t imagine trying to force him to do anything.
“If Beatrix is discovered in his bed, he’ll be honor bound to marry her.”
It took her a moment to realize what he was suggesting.
Beatrix turned as white as the chemise she was wearing. Her big blue eyes rounded like two big coins, dominating her stricken face. “In his bed?” she echoed in a strained whisper.
“You can’t be serious,” Christina said in a state of stunned disbelief, completely forgetting herself. He would ruin his daughter to force a man to marry her?
Her father turned on her, his eyes as hard as two black rocks. “I assure you I’m very serious.” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Nothing will happen. It will be for only a few minutes. All Beatrix need do is slide into bed beside him while he’s sleeping. I will come ‘find’ her a few minutes later. Her virtue will be safe enough.”
Christina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Had her father lost all honor?
“But it’s trickery,” she said aghast. “It’s dishonorable.”
His hand clenched and for a moment she feared she had gone too far. She flinched, waiting for the blow, but the ball of his fist stayed at his side. “You stupid girl, how dare you talk to me of honor! What are a few minutes, when I spent three years in Edward’s dungeons for Scotland and honor? What do you know of war and sacrifice?” His face was florid, his rage nearly out of control. He grabbed her arm and jerked her to look at his face. “I will hear no more of your foolish objections. This will achieve our ends and that is all that matters.” He released her, pushing her away from him as if he didn’t trust himself not to hurt her. “Beatrix will make him a fine wife. He will recognize it soon enough and thank me for it.”
It seemed she had her answer: Her father would stop at nothing to achieve his purpose.
Beatrix huddled in a ball, shaking. “I can’t,” she said, tears choking her voice. “I won’t do it.”
Christina felt a swell of pride at her sister’s defiance—until she saw her father stride over to the bed. “You will,” he threatened, lifting his hand. “Or it will not be just my hand you feel. I will take the lash to you this time.”
Before he could strike her sister, Christina grabbed his arm. “I’ll do it,” she said. “Please, don’t hurt her. I’ll do it.”
He turned to her, and she let go her hold, relieved when he lowered his hand. “Nay, your sister is the better choice. Beatrix did not make a fool of herself and interfere with his fight.”
“But he stopped,” Christina blurted. She had to think of a way to persuade him. “And he was watching me during the feast. You must have seen him.”
Her father studied her for a moment longer. “You’re sure of this?”
She felt her cheeks warm at the exaggeration. He had watched her, though there had been no hint of interest in his hard gaze—in fact, when MacRuairi had been standing there he’d looked angry. “A girl knows when a man admires her.” She turned beet red at the lie, hoping her father attributed it to modesty. She thought she’d felt a connection, though with his refusal she couldn’t be sure about anything.
But Beatrix could never do what he asked, and Christina couldn’t bear the consequences if she didn’t. The thought of a whip across her sister’s frail back filled her with icy fear. Besides, she consoled herself, she would never have to actually go through with sneaking into his room. It seemed they would have to move forward with their desperate plan. They’d be on that boat to Iona after all, gone before she had to do her father’s foul bidding.
Her fantasies might have run away with her for a moment, but Tormod MacLeod’s refusal had cured her of any other options.
“Very well,” her father said, as if he was granting her a great concession, “you can do it.” He smiled, and she realized that this had been his intention all along. He’d never intended for Beatrix to go; it had always been her. She’d been played handily.
Beatrix made a sound as if she was going to object, but Christina stopped her with a look, silently telling her it would be all right. They would go to Iona. It would never come to this.
“Ready yourself,” her father said. “I will come for you a few hours after he’s retired.”
Her heart stopped. Tonight? The boat didn’t leave for two days! “B-but,” she stuttered, “I thought I might have a few days to prepare.”
Her father shook his head. “It must be tonight. There’s no time to waste. Nicolson is not coming and there is nothing to hold him here.”
She had no idea who Nicolson was, but it didn’t matter. “I can’t,” she said, trying to find a reason to delay. “Not tonight. I’m not ready.”
His eyes narrowed as if he suspected something, though she knew it was impossible. “I said tonight. There is nothing for you to do.” He pointed to her chemise. “What you have on should suffice. If you aren’t ready when I return, it will be your sister who pays for your defiance.”
“But what if he wakes up?” she asked desperately, her mind racing. Would he hurt her?
Her father shrugged. “Find a way to distract him.” He looked her up and down. “I’m sure you can think of something for a few minutes.”
The blood drained from her face, his meaning clear.
All she could do was watch the door close behind him in horror and despair. He’d won. Though it had never been much of a battle. Her father had known all along that she would do anything to protect her sister. Even something as dishonorable as tricking a man into marriage who didn’t want her.
She shuddered. Her father had no concern for his own honor, so why should he worry about an insignificant daughter’s?
“Oh, Chrissi,” Beatrix said, throwing herself into her arms. “What are we going to do?”
Huddled beside her on the bed, Christina stroked her sister’s head as she cried into her shoulder. Only when the shock faded into numbness did she reply. “What he asks. What other choice do we have?”
Her stomach turned and bile rose in the back of her throat at the thought of what she had to do. Every instinct in her body rejected the idea of doing something so dishonorable. The man had saved her, and this was how she would repay his gallantry?
“He’s gone mad with his hatred,” Beatrix said. “Forcing a man into marriage this way, it’s wrong. Such a marriage would be doomed.”
Beatrix was right. The MacLeod chief would despise her—and rightly so. If the idea of sneaking into his bedchamber wasn’t terrifying enough, she also had to fear his reaction. But there would be no lasting harm. It would not come to marriage.
Christina shook her head. “I will do what father asks tonight, but we will leave the day after tomorrow as planned.” The worst the MacLeod chief would suffer would be a day’s delay in his travel. But he wouldn’t be forced into marriage. That must give her courage.
Tor tossed off the fur coverlet, swung his legs out of bed, and followed the sliver of moonlight peeking through the wood shutters to the sideboard. The slap of cool evening air on his naked skin was a welcome reprieve. He was hot. And restless.
He felt like he was jumping out of his damned skin.
Not for the first time, he regretted refusing MacDonald’s offer of a lass to share his bed this evening. What the hell had he been thinking?
His jaw hardened, knowing the answer. One woman was as good as another, he reminded himself.
Reaching for the jug of uisge-beatha, he said a silent thanks to MacDonald for his prescient hospitality and took a long drink, not bothering to pour it into a cup. The potent whisky burned a trail down his throat and chest, and after a moment spread through his limbs like a warm blanket, dulling the blade of edginess.
When the jug was considerably lighter, he looped his finger through the small handle at the neck and carried it over to the side table. Dropping back onto the bed, he raked his hair back from his face, disgusted with himself.
God’s blood, what was the matter with him?
He liked his whisky—as any Islander did—but he did not usually use it to dull his senses. But the wall that he’d erected in his mind was proving to be confoundingly weak.
He’d been damned close to kissing the lass earlier and knew it. For a man who prided himself on control, the lapse was unfathomable.
He should be focusing all his thoughts on Nicolson. Tor had learned from MacDonald that Nicolson was not heeding the summons to Finlaggan. Nicolson had sent his regrets, but pressing matters required his attention.
Aye, Tor thought, pressing matters like mounting an attack against the MacLeods.
MacDonald had sent another messenger to Nicolson, demanding his immediate presence, but Tor dared not wait. He needed to return to Skye immediately to begin preparations for war.
But it was not the prospect of war that invaded his thoughts, stiffened his cock, and made him feel like a lion penned in a very small cage.
He was distracted. By a woman, of all things.
He shook his head. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the company of women. But other than light conversation at mealtimes, he related to them best in bed. In that he understood them well. But in truth he’d never given any one in particular much thought. He hadn’t had the time or attention to spare. Since his parents’ death when he was a lad of ten, he’d been focused on one goal—restoring his clan to prosperity. The better part of the last twenty years he’d spent on the battlefield, returning to Skye when he could.
He’d known his wife, Flora, the daughter of an Irish king, for only a few days when he’d married her, and thinking back, had probably spent less than a few months with her the entire time they were married. Long enough to give him two fine sons, but little else. He attended his duties and she hers. The marriage suited him perfectly.
He frowned, wondering whether the situation had suited her as well as it did him.
Attributing the odd thought to the whisky he’d consumed, he put aside the jug, lay back on the cool sheets, and closed his eyes, allowing the darkness and the drink to soothe the tension from his coiled muscles.
But the drink hadn’t helped. The images burned in his mind were not so easily dislodged. As soon as he closed his eyes it all came back to him. Her lovely face. Her exotically tilted eyes. Her sinful mouth inches from his.
And her bare breast.
He groaned, his cock jerking hard as the image came to him full force. A generous mound of creamy, untouched ivory skin topped off by a tight pink nipple the size of a pearl. It was the most spectacular breast he’d ever seen, designed for a man’s pleasure. A perfect blend of innocent and erotic at the same time—much like the lass herself.
He was hard as a smith’s hammer. Knowing he wasn’t going to get any sleep like this, he wrapped his hand around himself and gave over to the images—her breast, her face, that wide harlot’s mouth sucking—and released his frustration into a drying cloth. A warrior’s practical solution, if not a particularly satisfying one.
At last he fell into a fitful sleep. But the morning couldn’t come soon enough.
Christina couldn’t stop shaking, shivering uncontrollably not from cold but from fear. She trudged down the corridor and up the stairs one halting step after the other, as if her father had her at the point of his sword.
She couldn’t believe she was doing this. The only thing that kept her feet moving forward was the thought of her father’s rage and the knowledge of what would happen to both her and Beatrix if she didn’t do as he ordered. The more she thought about it, the more her father’s plan seemed fraught with possibilities to go wrong, but what could she do?
Pray.
Her father leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Move your feet and stop that blasted shaking. You’ll wake him the moment you try to climb in bed.”
Her father’s warning stopped her shaking because instead she froze. How was she going to do such a thing?
She wanted to run and hide, but it was too late.
“Here,” her father whispered, pointing to the small door on the right. They’d reached the top floor of the tower keep. Thankfully, the MacLeod chief had been given one of the few private chambers in the castle. Only his status as an esteemed guest had prevented this farce from taking place in the Great Hall or barracks surrounded by pallets of sleeping men.
“Hurry,” her father said impatiently. “Give me your cloak.”
She clutched the folds of wool until her knuckles turned white, not wanting to let go. “I …”
“Now,” he said impatiently.
She wanted to beg him to reconsider, but one look into those hard black eyes flickering in the candlelight and she knew it would be futile.
Fingers trembling, she untied the cloak and handed it to him. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling naked though she still wore a linen chemise.
“Go,” he ordered.
“You won’t leave?” she said, her voice sounding pathetically like that of a child afraid of being left alone in the dark.
“I have to make a show of looking for you, but after I ‘force’ your sister to tell me where you have gone, I’ll return.”
He’d thought of everything. “In a few minutes,” she said.
“In a few minutes,” he assured her. “It will be over before you know it.” He pushed her to the door. “Stay quiet and he’ll never know you’re there.”
Christina put her hand on the latch and took a deep breath, praying for strength.
God forgive me, she murmured and opened the door.
Before she lost courage, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Standing stone still, she listened for any sounds of disturbance but heard only the drum of her own frantic heartbeat pounding in her ears. After a few moments, she could just make out the soft rise and fall of his breathing. She exhaled with relief.
The room was pitch black, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. Even then, it was hard to make out anything other than shadows. But she recognized the large one opposite the door—the bed. And on the bed, rolled to the side, a sleeping man, which was fortunate because although the bed was big, the tall, hulking warrior took up a large portion of it. There would barely be room for her to squeeze in beside him.
Her stomach knifed, and her already frayed nerves seemed tied in tight knots.
It will all be over in a few minutes. Little consolation under the circumstances.
Willing her feet forward, she crept to the bed, her footsteps nearly soundless, a talent she’d perfected since her father’s return from imprisonment. Though she kept her gaze safely away from the figure on the bed, with each step her awareness of him grew until the pressure built to near bursting. One touch and she was sure she would scream like a banshee.
The room seemed too warm, almost sultry, the air heavy with whisky and a dark, masculine scent that she recognized as his. Her body responded on a base level she didn’t understand—the clean, spicy scent seeping through her pores, warming some of the ice from her blood.
She’d reached the side of the bed.
Holding her breath, she ventured a look at the sleeping figure, getting far more than she’d bargained for. It was dark, but not dark enough to prevent her from being able to see that not only was he lying atop the bed coverings, he was doing so without any clothing—completely and utterly naked.
He was facing away from her—small mercy!—and she could just make out the hard lines of his strong back and broad shoulders, the rocklike bulges of his arm, the thick, heavily muscled legs, and the finely carved slope of his buttocks, which were as hard as the rest of him.
Good gracious, he was magnificent. His long, lean, muscled body was built to be worshipped like a statue in some ancient Greek shrine. Apollo, perhaps.
She sucked in her breath, her body flooding with heat. Shocked and embarrassed, but also something else. Curious? Nay, the strange, warm tingling in her breasts and between her legs told her it was more than that.
She was attracted to him—aroused by his nakedness.
Quickly, she dropped her gaze, ashamed by her body’s reaction. What was wrong with her? All those muscles, all that raw power, should be terrifying her. She’d be helpless against such strength.
She needed to get this over with. How long had it been? A minute? Two? There wasn’t much time left.
She closed her eyes, said another prayer for courage, and carefully climbed onto the bed beside him. The mattress sagged with her weight, causing her heart to jolt. She listened for the even sounds of his breathing, but her heart was in her ears and she couldn’t hear anything else. But he wasn’t moving; that was a good thing.
She tried to make herself small, turning on her side at the edge of the bed and leaving as much space between them as possible. Though they weren’t touching, she could feel him. He was so big and warm—his body seemed to radiate heat like a fire.
Hoping her father would hurry up, she started counting in her head. One minute. Two.
Where was he?
All of a sudden the bed squeaked as he shifted behind her. She gasped when his big arm wrapped around her waist, just under her breasts, and pulled her against the hard length of his body.
She froze like a deer in the archer’s sights. Shock and awareness waged war with her senses. Mostly, she was aware of his heat enveloping her. Of the sheer power of the big, hard body behind her.
What was she going to do?
She couldn’t move even if she wanted to. It felt as if she’d been encased in warm steel, his big warrior’s body rigid and unyielding but inexplicably cozy.
Good Lord, his arms were strong. She could feel the latent raw power in the big muscles flexed against her waist and breasts. She remembered how he’d wielded his sword with deadly precision and tried not to panic.
A task that became impossible when she became aware of something else: He wasn’t asleep.