Christina knew what he was referring to and was glad he could not see the guilty flush staining her cheeks. She’d been waiting for her husband’s lead and had yet to tell anyone that she could read. Knowing the way Tor’s mind worked, she supposed he thought it safer to keep that piece of information to himself until he found the spy.
“I wonder what is going on with Rhuairi,” Brother John said absently. “He’s been so secretive of late.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Christina lied, trying not to feel guilty. She hoped Brother John would forgive her, but she could not take a chance in voicing her suspicions.
“Thank you, my lady. If you don’t mind, I should be going.”
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and watched him walk through the sea-gate down to the jetty.
Resisting the urge to tear open the note right there, she tucked it in the folds of her cloak and fled to the privacy of her chamber. There, by candlelight, she carefully unfolded the small piece of parchment.
Her heart raced. This could be the proof she’d been looking for. She felt a prickle of guilt and quickly shook it off. If the note turned out to be nothing, Tor would never know. But if it wassomething, he would thank her for it. He could forbid her from interfering, she rationalized, but not from observing what was right before her.
She recognized the crude style of Rhuairi’s lettering right away, though the note was not signed. It was short and succinct, but it caused her heart to freeze with an icy blast of fear. She’d found her proof, but it was so much worse than she’d thought.
“Confirmed MacLeod’s location. Bring men. Attack at midnight.”
Dear God, what time was it now? Seven? Eight? Her heart raced wildly. What was she going to do? She had to find a way to warn him, before it was too late.
Tor sat on a large, flat stone outside the entry to the broch, a flagon ofcuirmin his hand, watching the last pink wisps of daylight sink over the horizon.
Campbell had been gone for nearly a week, but the team had yet to recover from the loss of one of their own. He knew it should please him—serving as proof that his training had been a success—but it did not. The loss of one of the team, no matter how it occurred, rankled.
He uttered an oath and took a long swig of the strong ale, slamming the cup down hard on the stone when it was empty.
“Ouch,” MacSorley said, coming out of the broch to take a seat beside him. “The ale a little bitter perhaps, or is that the taste of regret?”
“Leave it,” Tor warned. “I’m not in the mood for your sharp tongue tonight.”
MacSorley took a drink from his own cup. They sat in silence for a while before he spoke again. “They’ll forgive you. Give them time.”
Since Campbell had left, the gap between Tor and the men had widened. Once again, he was firmly ensconced in the role of leader—the man forced to make the tough, unpopular decisions. Part of the team but detached. That, however, wasn’t what was bothering him. He just wanted this damned thing over with.
“Are you going to tell them soon?” MacSorley asked quietly. “There are only two weeks left.”
Tor’s jaw hardened. This time the other man’s aim was true. “Nay, not yet.”
MacSorley’s expression lost all sign of joviality, hardening into a forbidding mask of anger. “They deserve to know before we are sailing away that you will not be leading them when we’re done here.”
His words were too close to Tor’s thoughts, and he didn’t want to hear them right now. His eyes narrowed on McSorley dangerously. “Have care, Norseman. You aren’t in charge yet.”
MacSorley did not shrink from his warning—not that Tor had expected him to. The Viking was nearly as reckless as he was glib. “You know what I think?” Tor acted as though he hadn’t heard him, staring out over the clearing to the edge of the trees. “I think you don’t want to tell them because youwantto lead them, and it’s bothering the hell out of you that you think you can’t. But you can’t sit on the wall forever, MacLeod.” Not “captain.” Tor didn’t miss the slight. “War is coming and one of these days—sooner than you probably think—you are going to have to choose. This team needs you,” he said quietly. “Scotland needs you.”
To hell with Scotland; his duty was to his clan. “You sound like your blasted cousin.”
“Angus Og is a wise man—think about it.” And with that he finally left him alone.
Damn MacSorley to Hades! Tor didn’t need his opinion. He’d done his own analysis—many times over. Even if MacSorley was right, nothing had changed. He still could not justify involving his clan in a war that did not threaten them.
Two more weeks, he thought. Two more weeks and his obligation would be fulfilled. The danger of discovery—and his treasonous training of men for Bruce—would be over. He would have satisfied his part of the bargain by training the men and succeeded in getting Nicolson off his back.
Things would go back to the way they were, even if it killed him to think of his men fighting without him: He would go back to being neutral in Scotland’s war and in the feud between MacDougall and MacDonald.
No matter how much he personally wanted otherwise, his duty to his clan always came first. Always.
If Christina had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to do something important, she knew this was it.
Knowing how adamant Tor had been about her leaving the castle, she searched for Lady Janet or Colyne—both of whom she knew Tor trusted—but was unable to find either. Not daring to involve anyone else, she knew she had to try to find him herself. She wasn’t sure he was at the broch, but given the note it seemed likely.
