Page 13 of The Chief

Chapter 7

Rory could feel Cristane stirring as he hoisted her in front of him on his saddle, but he did not pause in spurring his mount forward. With one hand on the reins and the other firmly gripping her waist, he sped toward the lodge. It would not be prepared for them, of course, but staying there was still preferable to returning all the way to the castle in this weather.

Once she was settled, he wrapped his mantle around her to ensure she stayed warm. The freezing rain and wind stung his skin, but the only thing that mattered to him in the moment was the safety of the woman who practically sat in his lap.

“My lord . . .”

She sat more upright now, making it easier to ride.

“It will not be long,” he said, already spying the stone structure ahead. Small but functional, it offered everything they needed at the moment, primarily a shelter against the freezing rain.

“There.”

“Upper Bradon,” she said, echoing his thoughts.

“Aye.”

The hunting lodge, which had not been used much since the death of Rory’s father, sat not far from the northwest edge of their land.

“We’ll warm there before returning.”

Although he should have sent for help—he knew that—panic and blind rage had stolen over him at the sight of Cristane’s lost mare. He’d been looking for her, despite knowing it was beyond foolish, and the last thing he’d expected was to find her horse wandering loose. The tracks had led him directly to her, thank God.

McKinnon’s men had been lucky to survive. Well, most of them. He knew not the fate of the man who’d dared to take her. Nor did he care.

They could not know the woman they’d kidnapped was the same one he’d dreamt of the night before.

But it wouldn’t do to think of that now, as he lifted her off his horse and led her into the hunting lodge. Though rarely used, it was well-kept. A large room nearly the size of Bradon Moor’s great hall, with a massive corner fireplace and two large beds off to the side, the lodge held many fond memories.

Cristane’s whole body was shaking, yet another reminder that he had to get them warm. Now. He hurried over to the hearth and quickly stoked a fire, courtesy of the dry firewood and fire striker. Then he stripped off his wet tunic.

“What are you doing?”

“The same as you should be. Warding off a cold fit.”

Although he did not think either of them would suffer such a malady, Rory wasn’t taking any chances. Besides, he was damn freezing.

Continuing to remove his wet clothing, Rory attempted to ignore the fact that she was next to him, that she was watching. By the time he was down to his trewes, however, he finally had to acknowledge that he had to make accommodations for Cristane’s modesty. She would not simply strip off her gown.

She did not, however, hide her appreciation for his chest, a fact Rory’s body responded to with vigor. Cursing, he strode past the fire and lone trestle table to one of two beds, pulling the blanket from it. Shaking away the dust, he brought it to Cristane.

“You can wear this,” he said, pleased with the solution. But her cheeks got even redder, if possible.

“I cannot . . . undress. And you . . .”

“I will look away.”

He turned his back to her and moved closer to the fire. Rory heard nothing but the crackling source of the blessed warmth in front of him.

“Modesty will not keep you warm,” he said softly.

“My lord—”

“Rory,” he interrupted. “When you undress in the same chamber as another person, you’ve earned permission to use their given name,” Rory teased.

She would not use it. Rory had made the offer, nay, the entreaty, many times before, but his sister’s maid stubbornly refused the familiarity.

“Should we not return to warn the others?”