The Chief by Monica Mccarty Page A

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.

Christina tugged the huque tighter around her chest in an effort to ward off the sudden chill sweeping over her, but the thick wool cloak felt as thin as linen against the penetrating mist. Glancing up at the darkening sky, she shivered and hurried her step.
    She’d slipped away to the village after the feast, and though the autumn days were still long, her task had taken longer than she’d anticipated. If she didn’t hurry she’d be late for the evening meal, and she still needed to change.
    After gifting her maidservant with a gently used cotte from her trunk, she’d secretly borrowed the girl’s old gown. It was still finer than the clothing worn by the serving women here, but worn and plain enough not to cause undue suspicion.
    Thankfully, most of the guests, including her father, were housed in the old hall and barracks on the main island. Only a handful were staying in MacDonald’s new tower house, so she didn’t incur as much risk of running into someone who might recognize her.
    She picked her way along the second causeway toward the smaller island, the shadow of the castle looming before her. The growing darkness made her uneasy, but it could not completely dampen her spirits. A smile curved hermouth as the swell of success rose inside her: She’d done it. Her crazy plan just might work.
    In truth, convincing someone to take them had been easier than she’d expected. Whether because of simple disinterest or the gold necklace she’d offered in payment, the boatswain had been happy to agree to take them to Iona without question. He was traveling to Mull the day after tomorrow and would drop them off on the way.
    Christina did not fool herself. Their plan was fraught with difficulties. Even if they managed to get away her father would certainly follow them, and there was a chance the nunnery would not give them sanctuary, but she could not think of that now. They had to take a chance. After what happened earlier today, she knew there was no time to waste.
    Though she’d been careful to avoid catching the MacLeod chief’s gaze, she was acutely aware of his glowering stare on her during the meal—especially when Lachlan MacRuairi had come over to introduce himself and thank her for the