The Chief Read Free

did what?” The dead calm of his voice did nothing to dispel the tension.
    The clerk startled, emitting what could only be described as a squeak. The missive flew out of his hand and floated through the smoky air to land on the rush-strewn floor. Tor clomped his foot down on the offending scrap of parchment. As he reached down to pick it up, beneath his heel he could just make out the familiar scrawl: Torquil MacLeod, his younger-by-two-minutes twin brother.
    Barely had the fires died from the recent attack on thevillage, and now his brother did this?
Slowly
, he vowed again, crumpling the missive into a tight ball.
    The clerk managed to find his voice, though it shook as he answered Tor’s question. “Y-y-your b-brother states that he cannot ab-b-ide the Nicolson chief’s refusal of his daughter’s hand in marriage and has been forced to take matters into his own hands.” The young churchman paused, wiping the sweat beading from his brow with the back of his hand. “He s-says his love—”
    “Enough!” Tor’s fist landed with a resounding thud on the arm of the carved wooden throne, in a rare break of temper. His eyes blared red as rage surged through his veins. “I’ve. Heard. Enough.”
    Love. Of all the most asinine justifications for acting like an idiot. He would rather Torquil use the excuse that Margaret Nicolson was a great heiress—which she was—and that he’d carried her off for the betterment of the clan; at least then Tor might attempt to comprehend this egregious lapse in judgment.
    With one rash act Torquil was going to start a war, jeopardizing all that Tor had fought to achieve over the past twenty years. Twenty years ago, his clan had been on the brink of destruction—first from the massacre that had claimed the lives of many of his clansmen, including his parents, and then from years of famine. But with hard work and determination he’d brought them back. The clan was once again strong and prosperous. The last thing he wanted was to see it all destroyed by war. An odd position for a man who knew nothing else—who’d made his name and fortune from it—but his clan deserved peace and he intended to give it to them.
    The recent spate of attacks was bad enough. Twice in the last year men had come at night to reive cattle, plunder the crops, and burn the fields. It was just the kind of cowardly act favored by the MacRuairis. If they’d broken the truce, Tor would make sure they paid.
    But he had to deal with the more immediate threat first. Somehow he’d have to find a way to appease Nicolson and stave off a war. His mouth tightened into a grim line. He was half tempted to drag his brother in chains to Nicolson himself. That might appease him.
    He’d be damned if he’d be Hector to Torquil’s lovesick Paris and allow his clan to suffer the fate of the Trojans. There were many reasons to fight a war, but a woman was not one of them.
    He and his brother were much alike—or so he’d thought. Where in Hades was Torquil’s sense of duty and loyalty to his clan? He made a sound of disgust. Forgotten in the rush of blood between his legs, no doubt.
    Tor forced his anger to cool. He didn’t lose control. Not that you would know it by the shaking of the obviously terrified man before him.
    Tor’s gaze narrowed beneath the heavy weight of his brow, taking in the young churchman. John, he thought, was his name. The clerk wasn’t the type of man to make much of an impression. Of medium height and slight build, with straight brown hair cut in an arch around a smooth, unscarred face, and regular if nondescript features, he appeared perfectly suited to his profession. His thin arms were built for lifting a quill, not a sword.
    Tor reserved his fighting for worthy opponents on the battlefield. Torquil would feel the lash of his anger, not this whelp. What satisfaction was there in stomping a mouse? Men who beat the weak—be it servants, children, or women—only shamed themselves.
    As the clerk