It was late afternoon when Tor returned to the castle. As much as he would have liked to stay by his wife’s sickbed, once he’d been assured of her well-being, he had matters to attend to that could not be delayed any longer.
It was the first time he could recall ever resenting the call of duty. But in addition to trying to ferret out a possible spy, he’d also received a disturbing message from MacDonald requiring action. It would likely upset the hard-won balance of the team, but it could not be avoided.
Besides, if he’d stayed in that room one more minute he was liable to forget how ill she’d been and show herexactlyhow much she’d frightened him.
The moment when she’d collapsed to the ground was not one he wished to remember—ever. For one agonizing moment, he’d thought she was dead. He’d been able to breathe only when he’d felt the flutter of her pulse beneath his fingers and her faint but steady breath on his cheek. The panic subsided a bit more when the healer examined her and informed him that she had only a fever.
Only. There was no “only” when it came to his wife. When the old woman had made that mistake, he’d scared her out of half the years she had left—and she didn’t have many to spare.
He’d never felt like this before. Christina roused a fierce protectiveness in him of which he didn’t know he was capable. It was his duty as her husband to keep her safe, but what he felt went beyond duty.
He’d always been able to cut himself off from emotion, closing his mind like a steel trap. But with her it wasn’t so easy. Something about her called to him. Penetrated. She was gentle, kind, and giving, with a quick mind and an infectious excitement and joy for life, but with more depth and spirit than he’d initially given her credit for. She stood up to him, challenged him … cared for him.
She was softness to a man who’d known only strife. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep her out.
He trudged up the stairs and instinctively scanned the area. The guardsmen were posted in their positions along the stone parapets and in thebretacheoverhanging the gate—a small wooden box built into the castle wall. A few women were gathering water from the well. Servants were carrying platters and dishes back from the Hall, and Christina was—
The bottom fell out of his stomach as his gaze shot back to the figure walking along the battlements. His temper—something he was becoming too familiar with lately—exploded. What the hell was she doing outside? She should be resting, not traipsing around outside in the cool air with—heaven help him—damphair. Didn’t she know she could catch a chill?
She turned and waved, her hand slowly dropping when he drew near.
She’d seen his expression. Biting her lip, she took a few steps back. But the placating look on her face didn’t do one damned thing. “You’re back,” she said with exaggerated brightness. “I didn’t see you approach.”
He didn’t say a word, didn’t break his stride, as he stormed right up to her and swept her up in his arms.
She gasped her surprise, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, not trusting himself to look at her. As it was, his control was hanging by a very thin thread. His chest burned.
“You’re overreacting,” she said gently, as if soothing an angry beast. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t,” he growled through clenched teeth, emotion boiling too close to the surface. “Don’t.”
With a heavy sigh of resignation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and placed her cheek on his chest. A huge swell of warmth cut through the anger. He felt an unbelievable sense of … tenderness. What the hell was happening to him?
Not knowing, not caring, he bundled her a little closer.
The Great Hall fell silent as he carried her through the entry and across to the corridor. He was aware of the curious stares but didn’t give a damn. If it seemed to the onlookers as though their chief had gone mad, they were probably right.
A few minutes later, he reached her room. He slammed the door behind them with his foot and stood there for a minute, strangely reluctant to set her down. Eventually, he did and took a seat beside her.
Slowly, he felt his body relax. She cupped his face in her tiny hand, forcing his gaze to hers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“Your hair is wet,” he said, as if this were some kind of explanation.
“I took a bath.”
“You could catch a cold.”
She had the audacity to appear to be fighting a smile. “That’s only a bit of nursemaid nonsense. I’ve been outside many times with damp hair and never become ill. It was only a slight fever; truly, I am fine. Morag said I was fit to move around.”
His jaw clenched. “What does Morag know about a wee lass like you? She’s as sturdy and stubborn as an old Highland mule.”
This time she did smile. “I might not be as tall as the rest of you, but I have a hearty constitution.” A shadow crossed her face. “Though sometimes I’ve wished it otherwise.”
It was a strange thing to say. Then he remembered. “You mentioned that your sister was ill when you were young.”
She nodded. “Beatrix was always a sickly child. I was hardly ever ill. It seemed so unfair. I used to wish I could be sick for her.”
“That’s not the way it works,” he said gently. “We shouldn’t feel guilty for how we are born.”
