The Chief: Order of the Broken Blade Read online

Honor be damned.

  “You peeked!”

  Aye, he had dared to do so. She’d been untying one side of her hunter green kirtle. He should have waited just a bit longer.

  “Apologies,” he murmured.

  “You are not at all sorry, my lord.”

  Nay, he was not. If he was sorry for anything, it was that he’d not glimpsed more.

  “Rory,” he corrected.

  More rustling greeted his admonishment. Suddenly, she was next to him, the blanket he’d given her wrapped around her shoulders.

  She sneezed, moving to place her discarded garments near his own.

  “I should have done that for you,” she said.

  “You are no maid here,” he said, standing upright and moving away from her. The sight of Cristane wrapped up in that blanket, along with the knowledge she’d passed along the night before, was proving too heady a combination.

  “I am always a maid.” She moved closer to the fire, avoiding his gaze.

  “One who has risen in the ranks more than any other,” he said truthfully. “And she will send for you,” he added, knowing his sister’s absence worried her.

  “I know.”

  He watched her as she observed the flames lick at the wood.

  “I am sorry for what happened today,” he said softly. “Mayhap you’ll leave Scotland happily after this morn.”

  Cristane turned to him, blinking. “Sorry? For having rescued me? It is I who am sorry for having ventured out, knowing ’twas not safe. For putting you in danger.”

  “I was never in danger.”

  It was not a boast, but the truth.

  “How did you find me so quickly?”

  Rory already knew from her clothing, which now lay on the floor, that Cristane still wore her shift. He also knew that he’d never desired anything so much as he did to toss back the blanket held precariously by her gentle fingers. To show her that despite never having guessed the truth of her feelings, he was quickly becoming accustomed to them. More than that, he was able to admit he felt the same way, despite knowing it could never be.

  He’d not dishonor her.

  But he would sorely like to.

  And the truth would do nothing to ease the growing tension between them.

  “I had been looking for you already,” Rory admitted.

  Clearly surprised, Cristane opened her mouth and closed it. And then she asked the one question that would complicate their situation even further.

  “Why?”

  Chapter 8

  Cristane was not a bold person. At least, she’d never considered herself to be one. But at Cait’s urging, she’d started asking more questions. Looking others straight in the eye. Any maid who’d risen in the ranks to serve the chief’s family, Cait had argued, had within her the ability to stop apologizing for herself.

  Could that simple question, as embarrassed as she was having uttered it, be any worse than what had happened to her earlier? Worse than the horrors she’d been threatened with mere hours ago?

  “To speak to you about the feast,” Rory answered just as boldly.

  None had ever accused the chief’s brother of being circumspect. She’d known that, of course—she knew Rory well. And yet to hear him speak in such a manner while naked from his waist up . . . well, that was an entirely different matter. Pretending his broad shoulders and thick forearms, the sight of each and every ridge of his stomach, did not affect her . . . it was becoming a more and more difficult task with each passing moment.

  Cristane had lain in bed considering what she would say to him about that dance, for they could hardly avoid each other forever, but not once had she imagined their conversation would happen like this.

  “Am I distracting you?”

  She’d been staring. Again.

  “Perhaps.” Denying the fact would be as silly as thinking there could be anything between them, which she knew to be impossible despite the way Rory was looking at her. There was nothing to be done for it. He was the chief’s brother. She was only a maid who would be leaving soon. “I will attempt not to notice”—she nodded her chin toward his naked torso—“that.”

  “What precisely did you wish to speak to me about?” she said, surprised at her own bravado.

  “The blacksmith. Lady Isobel.” His eyes narrowed. “Did you truly seek him out because you were jealous?”

  She gasped. “Rory!”

  The name escaped her before she could think on it. This was the first time she’d ever used his given name aloud, and it felt wrong. Intimate. But he did not seem to mind. In fact, it seemed to embolden him, for he took a step toward her.

  “We’ve known each other a long time, Cristane.”

  She swallowed.

  “Never have I known you to be shy, to not speak your mind.”

  Her shoulders rose and lowered with each deep breath she took. For a moment, she thought to lie, to say whatever it would take to end this impossible temptation, but both of them knew nothing could come of their connection. Why not speak her mind?

  “Aye, I was jealous,” she admitted.

  He took one final step toward her, and the space between them disappeared.

  “Did you think the blacksmith’s kiss would banish all thoughts of me?” He covered her hand, the one clutching the blanket, with his large palm. “Was it as you’d imagined it would be?” he asked, his intention clear.

  He meant to kiss her, and God help her, Cristane would let him.

  “Nay.” She lifted her chin so their eyes met. “Nay, it was nothing like I’d imagined.”

  Prying her fingers loose, Rory took the edge of the plaid blanket from her hand. Grasping it with his own, he opened it to reveal her shift. Damp from the rain, it left very little to the imagination.

  “What, if I may be so bold to ask, did you imagine?”

  He glanced down between them briefly and then swept the blanket from her. Sweeping it around his own shoulders, he closed what little distance remained between them.

  Cristane’s breath caught as his arms encircled her shoulders, the blanket now covering them both. Their bodies, once separate, pressed together. His lips hovered inches from her own.

  “I imagined,” she managed, “his kiss would stir something within me. Stir the same feelings that came over me whenever I spied you in training or simply sitting at the head table sipping a mug of ale. That it would eradicate the burning in my chest at the thought of you and Lady Isobel together.”

  “Instead?”

  “You taunt me,” she tossed back.

  “Nay, Cristane, I do not.”

  She did not look away or even gasp as his hips pressed into hers, the evidence of his words clear.

  “Will you allow me to do what the blacksmith was unable to?”

  There was only one answer to his question. The one that would leave her soul even more shattered than it had been before. And yet she didn’t hesitate to say the word.

  “Aye.”

  Rory lowered his head.

  At first his lips felt soft against hers, gentle almost. And then his tongue followed, wetting the crease of her mouth. Instinctively, she opened and he took full advantage. In the few brief moments between not knowing and knowing, Cristane learned.

  How to touch her tongue to his. How to move her head to the side to give him greater access. How to kiss, and be kissed by, the man she had loved and desired for years.

  She’d lain awake in bed so many nights dreaming of this moment, and not one of those many fantasies had come close to the reality of being kissed by Rory Kennaugh. Wrapped in a blanket with him, his hips circling hers and their mouths blending together as one.

  “Mmmm.”

  The sound was her own.

  Her hands now free, she crept them up over his chest, groaning as she did so.

  “Cristane,” Rory murmured against her lips. He deepened the kiss. More frantic now, she found herself lost in a whirlwind of feelings. Of sensations. Disbelief that this was really happening. P
leasure like she’d never known. And a throbbing that became more and more insistent. One that forced her body against him. One she knew, even in this state, could be her undoing.

  “Ah God, lass.”

  He’d broken the kiss, and she felt its loss immediately.

  “Was that more akin to the distraction you desired?”

  Not yet capable of saying anything coherent, Cristane nodded. She watched as his lips parted, as his eyelids drooped. He would kiss her again.

  “The problem, of course,” she managed finally, “is that you are precisely what I need a distraction from.”

  Her words seemed to penetrate.

  “And you,” he said seriously, “are precisely what I need.”

  Chapter 9

  Given the difference in their stations, he should not have thought such a thing, let alone said it out loud. He was once again doing what his brother had accused him of for years—acting without thinking.

  It was the reason Terric refused to see him as an equal. The reason he refused to relinquish one of his two titles, chief of Clan Kennaugh and Earl of Dromsley, to him, even as he admitted he did not want both.

  So be it.

  Embracing what he was, rather than what everyone seemed to want him to be, Rory continued, “Stay here, at Bradon Moor.”

  “Pardon?”

  Rory tightened the blanket around them.

  “We are good together,” he said. “Will you deny it?”

  Cristane frowned. “Nay, but—”

  “Yesterday, during that dance, I cannot explain it,” he said, struggling to put words to how he felt. “And now, it is even stronger. This connection between us.”

  He had respected and valued her for years as a friend, both to his sister and to him, but now he wanted more.

  “I’ve never wanted another woman,” he said sincerely, “as much as you.”

  And it was true. He admired her, loved her like kin, and now that the blinders had been ripped off his eyes, Rory desired her in a way he had never experienced. The thought of being with her, slipping inside her and making her his, banishing all thoughts of the blacksmith’s son or any other man . . . aye, this was what he wanted.

  And he could tell she felt the same way.

  “But we cannot. I . . . I am a lady’s maid,” she said, as if he were not aware of the fact.

  “Cristane.” Rory lowered his head, capturing her lips, softly at first and then more insistently. “I’d never dishonor you. Never again would you need to serve another. You could stay in the keep, or choose another home close by.”

  He stood back, waiting for her reaction.

  “I care for you deeply,” he said, “and once McKinnon is taken care of . . .”

  “Your mistress,” she said. “You are asking that I become your mistress?”

  How could he have never noticed the way her face was shaped almost like a heart? He wanted to cup it, treasure it . . .

  “Your mistress?” she repeated, her voice rising. Something flashed in her eyes.

  Was she upset?

  “Would you not care for that?”

  Aye, she was upset. Very much so. Cristane’s shoulders rose and fell with each heavy breath. He didn’t understand.

  “You desire me,” he said, knowing it to be true. “As I desire you. And more, I care for you, deeply. When I realized McKinnon’s men had taken you . . .”

  Rory stopped. His words were only making her angrier.

  Stepping back, he groaned at the sight of the cream shift clinging to her every curve.

  In response, Cristane reached out and snatched the blanket from him. Wrapping it around herself, she pursed her lips together, eyes blazing.

  If he’d wanted to take her before, Rory wanted it even more now. But first he needed to address her anger. “Surely I did not misunderstand your desires?”

  Cristane shook her head. “I defended you. Always. ’Twas your intent to make Terric believe you did not want it, I told your sister. That way, you could not fail.”

  She took another step away from him.

  “But you fooled me, Rory.”

  His mouth dropped at her anger. Never, in all the years that he’d known her, had he seen her like this.

  “You fooled me into thinking there was more to you than everyone else saw, but your brother had it right all along.”

  His spine stiffened.

  “What,” he ground out, “are you angry about?”

  Cristane rolled her eyes. “Your mistress. Do you think I worked so hard to become a kept woman?”

  Understanding dawned on him. His mouth getting ahead of him, he asked, “You thought to become my wife?”

  Surely she knew such a thing was not possible. If he had any hope of one day becoming chief, something he doubted would ever happen even though his brother now wished to remain in England for his wife, he would need a wife who brought status to the marriage. Connections. Surely Cristane did not think . . .

  “If I am ever to take a wife, which I’m not inclined to do at present,” he admitted, “’twill be for the sake of the clan. Not”—he made a sound—“for myself. Or for some foolish notion of love,” he finished, realizing the harshness of his words as he said them. “Surely you understand?”

  Cristane pursed her lips together.

  “Aye, my lord. I understand it well. And nay, I did not think to become your wife. I am naive, admittedly, but not enough to believe such a thing possible.”

  Rory was back to being confused.

  “Then what did you believe would happen here? That I would take you like some commoner? I’d never treat you in such a way, Cristane.”

  If he had thought she was angry earlier, Rory had misjudged her. This woman was the very epitome of rage, and it was directed solely at him.

  “I did not allow myself to think beyond how safe I felt in your arms. Or how good it felt to be held by a man I’d adored for so many years.”

  He reached for her, but she spun out of his grasp.

  “I did not think,” she continued, “and for that, I am sorry.” Cristane turned from him then and gathered her belongings, the blanket falling to the ground. “But know this, my lord. I am no man’s mistress. Nor will I ever be. I am a lady’s maid, Cait’s maid, and when she comes for me, I will be ready to leave this place.”

  With that, she turned from him, dressing with such vigor Rory was sure she would rip the fine kirtle she so abused.

  With no words to offer, he followed her lead, preparing to ride back out into the wretched weather to continue what had been, with a brief respite, a horribly wretched day.

  Chapter 10

  Everything had gone to hell.

  Rory could not stop thinking about Cristane and what she’d said to him. That he pretended not to want the title he coveted for fear he would not be deemed worthy of it. Truth was, Terric had admitted that he was inclined to stay in England for his wife Roysa’s sake. He’d said he would gladly relinquish the position of clan chief, if the council approved it, to focus on the earldom.

  And yet, he’d still tabled any further discussion of the transfer of power, saying it could wait until spring, so Rory had done what he’d always done in the past. He’d told his brother he didn’t want it, fearing the delayed discussion meant Terric still didn’t believe him capable of fulfilling the role.

  Cristane had deemed him worthy, but no longer.

  Well, if Rory had wanted to prove himself, it seemed his opportunity was before him.

  His brother had challenged him to bring an elder in the clan to heel—Angus McFarland, who had officially declared Clan Kennaugh to be at war with Clan McKinnon. Without the council’s approval, of course. The wily old man may have been one of his father’s favorites, but he certainly didn’t feel the need to consult with Rory. He fought Rory and Terric at every turn, making clan business a tricky dance.

  Rory heaved a loud sigh. Turning to his friend who walked up behind him in the hall, he said, “This week could not possibly g
et any worse.”

  By the way Darron looked at him, Rory was sure his words would soon be proven wrong. It had been four days since Cristane’s brief abduction. Four endless days of back-to-back meetings with clan elders and preparations for retaliation against the McKinnons.

  Four days of unbearable silence from Cristane.

  He’d seen her only twice, both times in passing. Knowing her usual routine, Rory had looked for her in the kitchens and the stables, but short of seeking her out in her bedchamber, he’d run out of ideas about where to find her.

  “You’ll not want to hear this, then.” Darron turned to leave, but Rory stopped him.

  “Darron,” he warned.

  “We’ve just received word from Kerr that McKinnon stole some twenty cattle from them, shuffling them to reivers.”

  “So Kerr has no proof?”

  Darron’s frown confirmed it.

  “Nay, but two of his men spied the bastards with their own eyes.”

  Proof enough for him.

  “Send word to Kerr that we will support any effort they deem necessary.”

  McFarland may be an old loon, but it appeared he was right this time. They were officially at war, again, with Clan McKinnon. But this time Terric wasn’t on hand to take command of the situation.

  “And if they ask for men?” his friend pressed.

  Rory sighed. “We provide them. But we’ll do nothing before. If we attack, we do it together.” Perhaps the weather would work in their favor. If McKinnon had a mind to bring in his French allies, they’d have a devil of a time crossing the River Seine to get to them. Either way, it would be safer to ignore the chief’s provocations until they could form a united front with the Kerrs. It was a burr in his throat to ignore such insults, but he’d do what he must to keep his clan safe. No matter what the council thought.

  “Darron,” he said, calling him back. “Send a messenger to Dromsley too. Tell my brother Clan Kennaugh is prepared to attack McKinnon with Clan Kerr.”

  Darron’s sour expression told him what he thought of waiting, but he’d sooner see his people safe than sated.

  Rory stood.