The Chieftain (20 page)

C
onnor and Ilysa had formed the habit of talking over the day’s events and business of the castle when they met at night. Usually,
they made love first, but the matter Connor had to discuss with her tonight should not wait. When she came to his chamber,
he pulled her onto his lap and sat with her before the brazier.

“I saw ye speaking with Lachlan outside today.” This was not what he needed to discuss with her, but the words came out of
his mouth.

“Aye.” Ilysa’s face lit with a smile that was like a needle in his heart. “Have ye thought any more about making him captain
of your guard?”

“For now, I need him to travel around the peninsula gathering information,” Connor said.

“He said he’s going off to look for Hugh’s new camp.”

“That’s what I told him to do,” Connor said. “Who knows if that’s what he’ll actually be doing.”

“I’m certain he is.” Ilysa drew her brows together and searched his face.

“I thought ye didn’t like the idea of me making him captain,” Connor said, keeping his own gaze on the burning peat logs.
“Ye didn’t trust him.”

“I don’t recall saying that,” she said.

“What ye said was that something troubled Lachlan, and ye wish ye knew what it was.” Connor turned and fixed his gaze on her
face. “I take it ye found out.”

Ilysa fussed with her sleeve and did not respond.

“I see that ye don’t want to tell me,” he said.

“I do,” she said. “But it’s no my secret.”

Connor did not like the idea of Ilysa and closemouthed Lachlan sharing secrets. “Why would he tell you?”

“He didn’t, precisely. He just gave me a general idea of the sort of secret it was,” Ilysa said, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
“He thinks Hugh has a spy in the castle.”

If Lachlan was the spy, that is exactly what he would say to divert suspicion.

“So now that ye know—
in a general sort of way
—what troubles Lachlan,” Connor said, “what is your opinion of the man?”

“I believe ye can trust him,” she said, meeting his gaze dead-on now, “and that he’s the best choice to be your captain.”

“What about Sorely?” Connor asked, just because he was feeling sour.

“Ye said yourself that Sorely is no good at training the younger men.” She paused. “And I don’t like him.”

“Perhaps if he told ye his troubles like Lachlan does, you’d feel differently about him.”

The hurt on Ilysa’s face made Connor regret the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. She removed his arm from around
her waist and slid off his lap. Then she stood before him, hands folded in front of her, looking at him with her doe eyes
and making him feel like dirt.

“Why are ye speaking to me this way?” she asked.

“Ach, I’m sorry.” Connor went to the window and stared out at the black sea and sky. “I see ye with Lachlan and know he could
give ye all the things I wish I could, and I’m so jealous I can’t think straight.”

He heard Ilysa’s soft steps as she crossed the room to him. He felt the venom go out of him as she put her arms around his
waist from behind and leaned against his back. Her kindness was a gift he did not deserve.

“Don’t talk like that,” she said. “What could anyone give me that I’d want more than being with you?”

I can’t even give her that for much longer.
Though it was true that he had suffered a bout of jealousy when he saw her with Lachlan in a quiet corner of the castle yard,
it was the message from MacIain that made his jealousy so sharp that he lashed out at her.

Connor turned around to face her. There was no avoiding it any longer. He had to tell her. What would she do?

She would leave him.

“Come to bed,” Ilysa said and took his hand—and he put off telling her a little longer.

They prepared for bed like he imagined a young married couple would. After helping her off with her gown, he watched her cross
the room in her chemise to drape it neatly over a chair. He dropped his own clothes by the bed. He left the candles burning
because he liked to see her and crawled in beside her.

As he held her to him, he closed his eyes, but he could not prevent the words of the message from blazing across his mind.
It would be wrong not to tell her before they made love in case it changed her mind about wanting to be in his bed. But he
was tempted.

“
Mo chroí
.” He brushed the hair back from her face and kissed her forehead. “I have news I must tell you.”

He felt her body tense in his arms, and she said, “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Niall brought a message from the MacIain chieftain,” Connor said. “He writes that the Crown will look favorably upon a marriage
between me and his granddaughter.”

Ilysa seemed to fold in on herself. Though he understood why she was withdrawing from him, he hated it.

“What do ye intend to do?” she asked in a small voice.

“I sought this match,” Connor made himself say. “Our clan needs the alliance.”

He had racked his brain since reading the message, trying to think of a way to avoid the marriage. No matter how he looked
at it, his clan could not defeat the MacLeods without the help of an ally, and his warriors’ lives would be sacrificed for
naught. As chieftain, Connor did not have the right to put his own happiness, or even Ilysa’s, above the lives of his warriors
or the recapture of their rightful lands.

“Does that mean it is settled?” Ilysa asked, and the slight catch in her voice plucked at his heart.

“MacIain is on his way now,” he said. “He’ll be here in a few days—with his granddaughter.”

As the silence stretched out, Connor wished just this once that Ilysa was the sort of lass who yelled and threw things. Anything
would be better than this terrible stillness that made him feel as if she were slipping away from him moment by moment.

“I have no choice,” he said, “I must enter into this marriage for the good of the clan.”

But you’re the one I want
. Connor did not say the words aloud. He had caused enough harm without begging her to stay and be his lover.

In her methodical way, Ilysa folded the bedclothes back in neat turns and sat up, leaving his arms empty of her warmth. The
candlelight picked up gold and red in her hair as she sat on the edge of the bed with her back to him.

“If ye want to leave, I’ll send ye home to Dunscaith tomorrow,” Connor said, though he prayed she would not go.

He loved her so much.

Was her happiness to end this quickly? Connor called Dunscaith her home, but it could never be that without him. She had no
home.

“What do you want me to do, Connor?” Ilysa managed to keep her voice calm, though she felt as if her life hung in the balance.
It was easier with her back to him.

“I’m trying to do the right thing, if belatedly, by you and by…my future wife,” he said. “I swore I would have but one woman
as chieftain. If you remain here, I won’t be able to keep that pledge.”

“I didn’t ask what ye thought was right or what ye feel your duty is,” she said, speaking carefully. “I asked what ye want
me to do.”

“I want ye to stay here more than anything I’ve ever wanted,” he said, his voice rough. “I need ye at my side every day and
in my bed each night—but I can’t ask that of ye.”

Ilysa swallowed against the surge of emotion that closed her throat. Connor still wanted her.

“You don’t have a wife yet,” she said. “I’ll stay until ye do.”

And after that?
She could feel his unspoken question, but she was not ready to answer it.

Connor moved to sit behind her, sliding his long legs on either side of hers and wrapping his arms around her in a protective
cocoon.

“I’ll cherish every hour we have together,” he said and kissed the side of her neck.

“I have one condition,” Ilysa said, remembering Teàrlag’s warning.
Our chieftain can only find happiness if he weds the lass who chooses him on Beltane night.

“What is it?” he asked, his breath warm on her skin.

“Promise ye won’t wed before Beltane.”

“Is that all?” he asked. “I doubt there would be time to wed before then, even if I wanted to.”

“Promise,” she insisted.

“I promise.”

Why had Teàrlag not said Connor must wait to find his bride until the summer solstice—or better yet, Lamas, when August arrived
warm and golden?

Beltane was only a week away.

Connor awoke abruptly and sat up. It was dark, but he sensed morning was not far off. He held very still, listening for the
sound again.

“What is it?” Ilysa asked in a sleepy voice.

“Did ye hear that?”

“Hear what?” she asked.

He could not say what precisely had roused him from a deep sleep, but his warrior instincts had been alerted by a sound that
should not have been there. He threw back the bedclothes and walked naked to the windows. He peered out into the darkness,
looking for movement, first on the sea side and then from the windows overlooking the courtyard.

“I can’t see well enough from here,” he said. “I’m going to the tower.”

He opened the small door at the end of his chamber and ran up the three steps to the tiny tower room. In addition to the ghost
who supposedly dwelled here, the tower had a single large window. Connor opened it and leaned out. He heard nothing but the
wind and the crash of the waves against the cliff.

Then he saw them, a line of dark figures coming up the steps.

C
onnor took the three steps from the tower in one stride, tossed his clothes on, and grabbed his claymore as he ran out the
door.

“What is it?” Ilysa called after him.

“We’re being attacked!” He repeated the cry to awaken the men when he reached the hall. “Everyone outside!”

Connor burst out of the keep and ran hard for the gate. Ensuring it was secure was the first task in defending the castle.
The sky was already a shade lighter with dawn nearing.

O shluagh!
Connor’s heart flipped over in his chest as he made out two figures slumped on the ground inside the gate. When he was a
few yards from the downed guards, he could see in the growing light that the gate was unbarred. He heard running feet on the
other side and ran faster. Leaping over the bodies, he flung himself against the gate.

Thump, thump
. The gate bounced against his shoulder as men banged on the other side, trying to force the gate open. Connor braced his
legs against the weight pounding against it. A gap inched open, and the shouts of the attackers rang in his ears. He rammed
the heavy bar across, but he could not bring it home.

“No!” All would be lost if the enemy came through the gate. Gritting his teeth, Connor gave a final push and slammed the bar
across.

No sooner had he secured the gate than he was surrounded by a dozen warriors who had followed him from the hall. He had only
been alone at the gate for a few short moments, but battles and wars were won or lost in such moments.

“Drop the portcullis!” he shouted.

Someone followed his order, for he heard the rapid
clank clank clank
of the chain as the heavy iron grate fell free, quickly followed by the anguished cries of the men caught under its sharp
points.

“To the walls!” Connor shouted, and waved for the men to go up to repel the attackers.

While he gave orders, a part of his mind grappled with what he had seen. The two dead guards. The unbarred gate. It could
have been a disaster, the battle for the castle over almost before it began. That was the plan. While the MacDonald warriors
slept, someone had killed the two guards and opened the gate.

There was a viper inside the castle.

After Ilysa had seen to all of the wounded who had been carried into the hall, she left Cook in charge and went outside to
look for more injured. From the steps of the keep, she surveyed the chaos of the attack in the slanting streaks of dawn light.
Arrows sailed into the courtyard. Several men were busy propping logs at an angle against the gate, which shook with a rhythmic
pounding. Above her, warriors were fighting hand-to-hand with attackers who had scaled the walls.

She watched in horror as one of the MacDonald warriors fell backward off the wall. He landed with a
thud
and lay twitching with his legs splayed at awkward angles. Ilysa ran across the courtyard and dropped to her knees beside
the fallen man. There was a dirk in his chest. His body was still now, and his eyes open and unseeing. There was nothing she
could do for him.

Overcome, she covered her face and keened over him. But this was no time for weakness, so she forced herself to stop. There
were others who needed her attention.

As she struggled to her feet, she saw Connor watching her from across the courtyard. When their eyes met, the sounds and sights
of the battle faded, and there was only the two of them. It could not have lasted more than an instant, but she felt as if
time itself stopped.

Then he waved his arm and shouted, “Get inside!”

She ran back to the keep. From the protection of the doorway, she turned and saw him climbing a ladder up the wall with a
dirk between his teeth.

Lachlan followed him, carrying a bow and arrows. Once they were on the wall, Connor fed arrows to Lachlan, who shot them,
one after another in quick succession. Between shots, Connor pointed, apparently choosing targets. She guessed he was picking
out the leaders or the most formidable-looking warriors.

Connor left Lachlan on his own while he knocked one enemy and then another off the wall. Ach, he was a wonder with a sword.
Ilysa had her own part to play. When she saw a man limping toward the keep, dragging his bleeding leg, she hurried to help
him. This one, she could save.

Connor was not surprised to find that the attackers were Hugh’s men, rather than MacLeods. A traitor in the castle was far
more likely to have a connection to Connor’s rival within the clan than to their enemy clan.

The one bright light in this miserable day was discovering Lachlan’s deadly skill with a bow and arrow. Hugh’s men shot their
arrows blindly into the castle, occasionally making a lucky hit. But there was no luck involved with Lachlan’s bow—except
bad luck for anyone in his aim. Unfortunately, Hugh did not show himself. Connor suspected he was watching from the safety
of his damned boat. Hugh could wield a sword with the best of them, but he was judicious about risking his neck when he could
be.

“Bring buckets of water!” Connor shouted when he saw that the thatched roof of one of the storerooms along the wall was in
flames.

Before the words were out of his mouth, he saw Ilysa leading three women across the courtyard, all of them carrying sloshing
buckets. An arrow whizzed by Ilysa’s head, and his heart stopped. If the woman did not stay inside, he was going to tie her
to a goddamned chair.

When he caught up with her, he handed her bucket to the nearest man, picked her up, and shouted at the other women to leave
their pails and get the hell inside.

“Stay in the keep where ye can’t be hurt,” he ordered Ilysa after he set her down on the steps.

“I’ll try,” she said.

By the saints, she was stubborn. But what a woman—she was as courageous as any of his warriors. Connor gripped her shoulders
and kissed her full on the lips.

“I have a battle to fight,” he told her. “I can’t be worrying about ye, so you’ll do as I say.”

This time, she nodded, and he kissed her again for that.

Though he was tired from the battle, Connor could not sleep. He kept thinking about the two men at the gate, murdered by someone
they thought was a friend. At least his men would be less vulnerable now that they knew to be on guard against an enemy within.
Trust was essential, however, for them to fight well together. Connor must find the culprit and soon.

His thoughts bounced back and forth between that scene at the gate and the arrow whizzing by Ilysa’s head. Dear God, if something
had happened to her, he would never forgive himself.

The attack on the castle served to reinforce how important it was to control the surrounding countryside and, hence, to secure
MacIain’s help. Soon, his bride would arrive, and he would lose Ilysa. What would he do without her?

In truth, he was not even trying to sleep. The little time he had left with her was too precious to waste in oblivious slumber.
Each night was both a valued gift and a torture, knowing it could be his last.

“Are ye awake?” Ilysa asked in a soft voice.

“Aye.” He kissed her hair and held her closer.

“I’ve made up my mind,” she said.

“About what,
mo chroí
?” He steeled himself to hear her ask him to have a boat ready in the morning to take her back to Dunscaith. His heart was
in her hands.

“If ye want me to, I’ll stay after she comes”—her voice caught as she added—“and after you’re wed.”

He closed his eyes. This was both what he wanted and what he hoped she would never say.

“I fear it will make ye unhappy to share the household with another woman.” Connor did not add,
and share me
, but it hung in the air between them.

“It may,” she said, “but I would be more unhappy without ye.”

Connor felt overwhelmed with relief and guilt.

“I will feel badly for her,” Ilysa said, turning her face away from him.

That was so like Ilysa. “Most chieftains have more than one woman. Her grandfathers are chieftains, so she will expect it,”
he said, stroking her back. “Having no woman but my wife was my rule, made in the arrogance of ignorance.”

“’Tis the church’s rule as well,” Ilysa said without much conviction.

The church had many rules that were not strictly followed in the Highlands. Here, priests were so few that marriages were
generally blessed, if at all, at the same time the couple’s first child was christened. Under Celtic tradition, illegitimate
children were claimed with no shame. Both men and women could set aside a marriage for a variety of grounds, including the
woman’s failure to bear a child and the man’s failure to perform his husbandly duty in bed.

“I expect my wife will be content so long as I treat her with respect and”—he made himself say it—“give her children.”

Ilysa was so still Connor wanted to take it back and tell her he wanted only her, which he did. But he needed to be honest
about how it would be—how it
had
to be—if she stayed.

“I have a duty to her. This is not her fault, and I will give her what is her due,” he said. “Can ye accept that?”

Ilysa nodded against his chest, and he hated himself.

“She will understand that our marriage is an alliance between clans, nothing more,” he said.

“She’s a woman,” Ilysa said. “No matter what she understands, she’ll hope for love.”

“That she can never have,” Connor said. “No matter if ye stay or go, my heart is yours.”

He made love to her slowly, needing to show her with each touch, each kiss, each stroke, how much she meant to him. Until
now, he had held back some essential part of himself that he had never trusted to a woman—at least not since he was a boy
of seven and his mother left without a second thought for him.

He was a cautious man who laid aside all caution. He bared his soul to Ilysa and let her own his heart.