The Chief: Order of the Broken Blade Page 6

  Darron whistled. “Will they involve themselves, do you think?”

  The reiving family would hardly intervene without the right provocation. But Rory might have it.

  “Tell them about the cattle and how they disposed of them.”

  “That they used reivers to cover for their misdeeds?”

  Rory nodded. “Aye. ’Twill be enough of an insult, I believe, to bring him here. If Dunn so wishes it, give them safe passage.”

  He stopped then, having reached the doorway to the ground floor solar.

  “Thank you, Darron.”

  “Are you going to work through the meal, then?” his friend asked, raising his brow.

  “I’m taking supper privately this eve.”

  Darron looked him up and down, as one would when assessing a mare.

  “Not alone, by the looks of it.”

  “Go,” he commanded. “We will speak again in the morn.”

  Darron didn’t move. Instead, his eyes narrowed.

  Rory did not budge, despite the scrutiny. He could guess the direction of his friend’s thoughts and did not desire to speak on the matter. But Darron did not seem to care.

  “You’re in love.”

  He’d been expecting suspicion, but never that.

  “Nay,” he immediately protested, but Darron wasn’t listening. With a smile and a shake of his head, he left Rory standing there attempting to shake off his friend’s words. What did Darron know of love? Less than he, to be sure.

  His attention turned to the door. Would she be in there already? There was just one way to find out.

  Rory pulled on the iron handle, opened the wooden door to the solar, and stepped inside.

  Chapter 14

  The door creaked open.

  Cristane had shut it behind her, for someone had already left a tray of food, a pitcher of wine, and two goblets. The fewer people who knew she was here, the better. There would be talk, if there wasn’t already. The slender footing she held here in Cait’s absence would slip further.

  The moment Rory stepped inside, Cristane realized she was weaker than she’d thought. Her mother had taught her strength. Cait, confidence. But none had taught her how to tame the onslaught of emotion that came from loving a man who did not feel the same.

  Aye, he desired her—the way Rory looked at her now left no doubt. She’d dressed well and taken care with every aspect of her appearance, and the reward was as she’d so foolishly hoped.

  But to what end?

  Precisely none.

  “I should not have come.”

  Rory stepped past her, the smell of sandalwood forcing the hairs on her arms up straight. He’d clearly taken pains with his preparations too, for his surcoat was impeccable, the linen shirt beneath it a brilliant white. His hair was freshly trimmed, as if there were not a war brewing beyond the castle walls.

  “Aye, lass, you should have.” He pulled out one of the simple wooden chairs from the too-intimate table. “Will you sit?”

  Say no. Leave now, before your heart is shredded beyond recognition.

  Of their own accord, her feet moved, bringing her closer to the chair. She allowed herself to sink into the velvet-cushioned seat.

  “You look lovely,” he said, sitting across from her, pouring them both red wine.

  “Rory, I . . .”

  “With your permission”—he cut her off—“can we keep the more serious discussion for after our meal?”

  She swallowed. “The one, you mean, where I ask what we are doing here? I thought I had made my position clear.” She rushed to add, “And I chastise myself as much, or more, than you, Rory.”

  His smile did nothing to allay her fears. In fact, it made them worse. She was powerless against the pull of Rory Kennaugh.

  “Aye, I’m sorry to ask it of you, but I would pause that discussion for the time being. We must talk of it, I agree, but I would do so later.”

  If he wished to delay the inevitable, then she would play along.

  “To a pause, then,” she said, lifting her goblet.

  He met her eyes, lifting his goblet to hers. “A pause and the company of a beautiful woman.”

  They both drank.

  “What are you about?” she asked while attempting to pretend she’d not heard the compliment. “You’ve been acting strangely since we left your mother’s hall.”

  “Mayhap I’ve been contemplating what you said about Terric.”

  Picking up the pewter spoon, Rory leaned over the bowl of stew and took a bite. She watched, much too closely.

  “Go on.”

  Although not hungry, she forced herself to take a bite of stew, waiting for him to speak.

  “Did you and Cait discuss us often, Terric and me?”

  Her cheeks pinkened. They had, many times.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Hmmm. And she agrees with you, I’ve no doubt.”

  “That you act differently when he is near? Aye, she does.”

  “Differently,” he murmured.

  Her inclination was to change the subject, to avoid trouble, but she reminded herself it was Rory who’d brought this up. Perhaps she could help him. “You do not want him to know how capable you are.”

  His reaction was immediate. “’Tis absurd.”

  Rather than respond, Cristane continued to eat her stew, knowing it was the nature of man to rebel against criticism. To shut down at the merest hint of it.

  After a moment had passed, she looked up at him again. “I’ve noticed the way Angus McFarland treats you. He doesn’t offer you the same respect he shows Terric. You don’t think he believes in your leadership, but I suspect he has a different reason for resenting you.”

  That got his attention.

  “Oh?”

  Taking a small bite of the stew, Cristane wiped the corner of her mouth with the crisp white handkerchief that had been provided. “Do you remember a redheaded woman by the name of Shanna—”

  “The old alewife’s daughter. Married a man from the west border.”

  That he recalled her so quickly stung, but Cristane put the feeling aside. If she started feeling jealous of Rory’s former flings, she’d never stop. Much to her dismay, there’d been more than a few, and she knew about many of them.

  “McFarland’s grandson fancied her, thought the two might marry. Shanna’s father was an old friend of McFarland. Apparently they fought together once, long ago.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “After you were linked to her . . .” She trailed off, unsure how to put it delicately into words.

  “They could not be married.”

  “Nay. And ’tis the reason McFarland treats you differently than Terric. He associates you with the woman who caused his family turmoil.”

  Rory lifted his goblet and sat back.

  “Our relations were fleeting.”

  “I am aware.”

  Cristane did not like that slow smile, but she was grateful he’d listened to her. Perhaps he could yet repair his relationship with McFarland. If he did so, it would go a long way toward convincing the council to support him as the new chief.

  Rory pushed his bowl forward, apparently finished despite the fact that he’d had little more than a few bites. She really wished he would stop looking at her that way.

  “What else do you know of . . . my relations?” he asked in a husky voice.

  “More than I wish to.”

  Oh, she wanted him to kiss her again. Fool that she was, she leaned forward a little in her seat. That small movement, though, was enough to make her realize what she had to do. Pushing her seat back suddenly, she stood.

  But Rory was already on his feet as well.

  “I cannot . . .”

  He grabbed her hand so quickly she had no time to react. The firm grip sent ripples of pleasure through her. This was precisely why she needed to leave. That a mere touch should have so much power over her . . .

  “We need to talk.”

  She should have pulled away but d
id not.

  “I spoke to my mother this afternoon,” he continued. “We spoke of you.”

  When their eyes met, all of her good intentions fled as quickly as Rory had ridden off to England to aid his brother last spring. She hated herself for such a weakness. But she needed one more kiss, just one more. Was it so wrong to ask?

  “I wish for you to kiss me again.”

  With that, she was hauled up against him, her wish granted. Rory’s mouth slammed onto hers, his tongue swirling in a desperate tangle with her own. She couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to. Cristane just wanted to feel, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as Rory’s hand covered her breasts. He squeezed, moaning.

  Or was that sound her own?

  The door opened so suddenly that it took Cristane a moment to realize they’d been interrupted. And not by just anyone.

  “Pardon, brother. Had I known you were not alone . . .”

  Cristane jumped back, staring in mortification at Rory’s twin.

  “He knew you were not alone,” the steward said from behind Terric.

  “You said he was with Cristane. I thought . . .” Terric stopped, his gaze darting between her and Rory. “Apologies. I did not realize.”

  “What are you doing here?” Rory asked. Before Terric answered, he moved forward and the brothers embraced. “Is Roysa with you?”

  “She stayed at Dromsley, but word of McKinnon reached us. I’ve been away too long.”

  “I sent a messenger,” Rory started.

  “He is with me. We met on the road.”

  Terric looked at her once again, his eyes full of speculation. She wished to sink into the ground.

  “I wonder at your intentions here, brother.” And then to her, “Roysa has been in contact with Cait, who very much misses you. Will you come back when I leave for Dromsley once again? ’Twill be closer to Licheford, and when the weather does improve a bit—”

  “Aye,” she said, without hesitation. This night proved what she had already known in her heart. Remaining here, now that Rory knew . . .

  She’d been strong enough to survive her mother’s death, but she doubted she could live here, at Bradon Moor, without becoming Rory’s mistress. And that was one thing she could not allow herself to do. No matter how much she loved him.

  She looked at Rory, who had been beaming with happiness at seeing his brother. That happiness had sloughed off like a snake’s discarded skin, and he was peering at her through narrowed eyes. Almost as if they really were master and servant.

  “I will be pleased if you will escort me south,” she continued. “I very much miss serving your sister as well.”

  Bowing, she turned away from Rory, unable to withstand his scrutiny any longer.

  “We’re pleased to have you home, Chief,” she said to Terric, “if only for a short while.”

  Terric smiled. “I am pleased to be home. But my stay will be short.” He turned to Rory. “Roysa is with child.”

  She chanced a quick glance at Rory. Did he know what this could mean for him? She wanted to encourage him, to bolster him, for this talk with his brother, but it wouldn’t be proper to stay any longer. And tears were already pressing for release.

  “Then congratulations are in order, brother.” Rory slapped Terric on the back, a cue for her to leave.

  “My congratulations as well,” she murmured, scurrying through the door and picking up her skirts. Once she reached the passageway, she started running, heart hammering the whole way. Cristane did not stop until she reached her bedchamber, bursting into sobs the moment she entered it.

  Soon she would be leaving Bradon Moor forever. Lady Cait awaited her, and Cristane was more than ready to leave. It was everything she’d ever wanted.

  Save the one thing she hadn’t dared to dream about.

  Chapter 15

  Rory pressed his fingers to both temples, attempting to block out the shouting of the council.

  “We are already at war,” McFarland argued. Again. “Why wait for Kerr, or anyone else for that matter? Attack while McKinnon isn’t expecting it.”

  For two days now, they’d gone round and round the issue. In some clans, the chief had the final word on all decisions. But their grandfather had set a different precedent. In Clan Kennaugh, the council had a say in three important decisions: attacks, counterattacks, and matters of succession. In theory, Rory agreed with that policy—important decisions deserved great thought and consideration—but they appeared to be at an impasse. Both sides felt passionately that they, and they alone, knew the best way forward.

  Terric had glanced Rory’s way more than once this morn, but Rory had decided to let him take the lead. The chief had returned, had he not? Now, he was once again naught but the second. And yet, he couldn’t shake the thought that perhaps Cristane was right about his approach with Terric. His mother had told him the same, but it had made more of an impression coming from Cristane.

  But what did it matter?

  Terric was still chief.

  And Cristane was leaving. When his brother had pressed him about her the night he arrived, Rory had said little, knowing his reluctance to discuss it disappointed Terric.

  “Are we boring you, brother?”

  Sighing, he opened his eyes and looked at the others. They were all watching him closely, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the disappointment in Darron’s eyes.

  The glib response that was prepared to roll off his tongue paused at the tip of it instead.

  He’d so often acted the part of the fool, with his brother, with the council, and—most egregiously—with her. Things might have been different if he hadn’t asked her to be his mistress. Perhaps they could have finished the conversation they’d begun that night. Perhaps he could have told her what he really wanted . . .

  Terric had given her the message she’d been waiting for all these months, but he had another alternative. One he would present to her later, but first he must reclaim his dignity within the clan.

  “Not bored, brother, but frustrated,” he said. Shifting his gaze to McFarland, who’d led the movement of those who wished to attack now, he said, “You refuse to see how much has changed. The reivers grow bolder. The English, more intolerable.” He turned to Terric. “With exceptions, of course.”

  Terric’s brows rose.

  “Whether we acknowledge it or not, influences from far across the channel have crawled into our politics,” he said, looking to McFarland again. “McKinnon is not just one man, or one clan. He is representative of a new type of threat that cannot be beaten by sword and scabbard alone. Would I arm the men and march against him this very afternoon if I thought such an act would bring anything more than a temporary peace? Aye, and you would follow, for a more loyal man I’ve never met,” he said honestly. “We should wait for our allies in this.”

  McFarland was not convinced.

  “Kerr, aye, and Dunn too. We need the reivers as much as our enemies do. We’d be foolish to paint them all with the same brush.”

  Although Terric didn’t appear surprised by his pronouncement, the others who had not known about Dunn’s possible involvement all started talking at once, some, it seemed, agreeing with him.

  “They’ve not yet said they will fight with us,” he spoke over them, “but they will. Then, and only then, do we move against our enemy. And when we do, McKinnon’s greed will be his downfall. Whether he has reinforcements or not, he’ll not stand against our combined might.”

  Silence met his statement. Then one by one, the men pounded their mugs on the table, ale spilling everywhere. He and Terric waited for McFarland, and then, after an insufferable silence, the stubborn old man reached for the handle of his mug and pounded it.

  Rory exchanged a glance with his brother, who’d already raised his arms to make the pronouncement.

  “It is settled. We meet again once we’ve received word from Kerr. But now, you must vote.”

  The cheering stopped.

  Vote? Hadn’t they already done
so?

  “As you know,” Terric continued, “I’m married now to an Englishwoman who very much enjoys her wretched country.”

  The men all laughed. Well, all except for Rory, whose heart had started beating faster in his chest.

  “As she does Dromsley Castle. I will admit, I’ve developed a certain fondness for my mother’s inheritance.” He looked to Rory. “’Tis no small matter for a chief to run an earldom. My father did it and cursed the matter for as many years as I was alive.”

  Murmurs of agreement met Terric’s words.

  “I would put before you the matter of making my second the new chief of Clan Kennaugh. You deserve a man whose attentions are not split. Who loves his clan as much as I do. Who was trained by our father, the greatest man to ever live.”

  Every man present crossed himself, a beautiful gesture of acknowledgement that would have moved Rory more had he not been completely incapacitated by shock.

  “I’ve spoken to each of you privately, so this comes as a surprise to none but”—Terric turned to him—“my brother, Rory. You’ve made me proud, brother. I would see you do the same with our clan.”

  Rory barely felt the clap on his back, his whole being still paralyzed.

  “A vote, then. Aye or nay.”

  A chorus of “ayes” and it was done. Although their father had long talked of such a thing, having one of his sons in Scotland while the other stayed in England to protect their mother’s legacy, Rory had doubted it would ever happen. And to think . . . Terric had made the decision before the council meeting.

  “Congratulations, brother,” Terric said, smiling. It struck Rory that Cristane had been wrong about one thing. His brother had known the truth about him all along. His act had fooled no one. Not his mother or sister. Not Cristane. Not even Terric.

  No one, he corrected, but himself. For far too long.