18 A CLAN-CHIEF’S PROMISE

"YE ARE ASKING much of us, lass," the clan-chief finally replied, his deep voice rumbling through the hall. The four of them were alone in here, save for an old wolfhound that was currently scratching by the fire. "For it sounds as if the Mackinnons have the upper hand, indeed."

His son nodded at this, clearly agreeing with his father's appraisal of the situation.

Heat washed over Astrid at these words, her temper quickening for the first time since entering Dunvegan Castle. "That's exactly why I'm here," she said, throttling her response. "Why I've braved storms and shipwrecks to reach ye."

"And yer tenacity is impressive," Tormod replied, his expression unchanging. "But I cannot give ye an answer now. First, I must discuss yer request with my son, and my marshal … alone."

"But my brother needs ye."

"Perhaps." A scowl creased his face now. "Yet Loch will understand that I do not give help blindly. There is much to be considered before I put my birlinns … and the lives of my men … at risk."

Swallowing her rising anger, Astrid nodded. It galled her to have to speak softly while Dounarwyse burned. Nonetheless, an aggressive approach would merely vex the clan-chief. She needed to tread carefully now.

The Macleod clan-chief was old, but in his day, he was said to have been one of the most formidable warriors in all of Scotland. Even now, there was a ruthless edge to him, as there was to his son as well .

"I understand yer caution," she said after a pause, "but I must remind ye that my father came to yer aid twenty-two years ago … and helped ye best the MacDonalds of Sleat."

Tormod's face tightened. "I don't need reminding of that, lass," he snapped. "I might be old, but my wits are intact."

Astrid didn't answer. Her comment had vexed him, yet she couldn't let this exchange conclude without bringing up the past.

Moments slid by, and then Tormod heaved himself up out of his carven chair, using his stick to aid him. "After yer ordeal, ye will both avail yerselves of fine Macleod hospitality," he announced then. "My steward will have chambers prepared for ye and baths drawn." He paused then, his grey eyes sharpening once more as Astrid lifted her chin and met his eye again. "I will give ye my answer at supper this eve."

"Slippery auld bastard … he's looking for an excuse to refuse us."

Finn's voice, low and hard, vibrated through the bedchamber. The moment the steward, who'd shown them to their lodgings—two chambers connected by a door, had left them, he'd erupted.

Astrid flinched. "Thank the Lord ye didn't say that to his face," she muttered, crossing to a table where a jug of wine and cups had been left. "If Tormod Macleod wants a reason not to help us … I'd rather ye didn't give him one."

Then, she poured two generous cups of what looked like rich plum wine and carried them across to him. Standing by the open window, Finn took his cup from her. "Thank ye," he said, a little ungraciously.

Facing him, Astrid took a large gulp of wine. Indeed, it was plum—deep and fruity. She needed something to settle her nerves and mounting panic.

What was happening back on Mull? Were they already too late?

"I agree, Tormod's reaction is … disappointing," she admitted, throttling her fears. "But all isn't lost."

Finn's brow furrowed. "Ye think he'll actually aid us?"

Astrid's breathing grew shallow. "I'm going to do everything in my power to ensure he does."

Their gazes fused then, and Finn's eyes glinted. Was that respect she saw glimmer briefly? Surely not. "Aye, well, choose yer words carefully this eve," he replied, his voice roughening as he took a step closer. "Everything depends on it."

Astrid nodded, a sigh gusting out of her. It had been an exhausting day, full of highs and lows—one moment relief, the next fear and despair. Her mind and body were weary while tension knotted up her insides. "We both need to rest," she replied after a pause. "I must ready myself to lock horns with Tormod."

"And with his son," Finn added. "The cub is as wily as the wolf."

"Aye … Malcolm says little yet misses nothing. His father will rely on him heavily these days." Astrid's belly twisted then. To calm her nerves, she took another gulp of the delicious plum wine.

Likewise, Finn drank from his cup, although his features remained strained, his gaze still narrowed.

A knock came upon the door then, intruding on their conversation. "Hot water for yer baths," a woman's voice filtered into the chamber.

"Aye," Astrid called out, taking a step back from Finn. Without realizing it, they'd moved inappropriately close to each other.

A moment later, a procession of servants entered, some carrying pails of steaming water, while those at the rear hauled in two large iron tubs—one for her chamber and one for Finn's.

And despite that she was on edge—despite that time was passing and her people still didn't have the help they needed—relief filtered through Astrid.

No, a bath wouldn't solve her problems—yet right now, it was just what she needed.

Sinking down in the large tub, Astrid's eyes fluttered shut. She'd scrubbed her grimy skin clean and washed her hair yet lingered afterward. The water was still deliciously warm, soaking away all her aches and pains. The resinous scent of rosemary, from the oil she'd added to the water, wreathed up, clearing her mind, and strengthening her resolve.

She'd do whatever it took to get help from the Macleods .

Eyes still closed, her head resting on the rolled edge of the iron tub, she went over various arguments in her head, preparing herself for her coming meeting with the clan-chief.

She was deep in thought when the sound of splashing roused her.

Astrid's eyes snapped open, and she glanced right, at the door that separated her and Finn's chambers.

After he'd departed to his room, she deliberately barred the door on her side. However, the only exit from their lodgings was through her chamber, so she'd have to unbar it once she finished bathing.

Her precautions were perhaps a little extreme but Astrid had found it hard to relax, to disrobe and climb naked into the bath, knowing that just an unlocked door lay between them. This chamber and the adjoining one sat on the eastern edge of the keep, designed perhaps for a visiting family.

Aye, Finn was her escort, her protector, but the Macleods didn't need to put him so near her.

Another splash reached her through the door, and Astrid's thoughts strayed.

Suddenly, she was imagining him naked just a few yards away, soaping his skin.

Astrid's pulse quickened.

After they'd washed up upon that deserted isle and stripped off their wet clothes to prevent dying of cold, she'd seen Finn naked. Of course, she'd been too distressed and chilled to be aroused by the sight—and yet, she'd marked it. Finn's body was lean and long. He was narrow-hipped with strong shoulders, finely muscled arms and legs, and a flat abdomen.

She imagined his body now, water trickling down his neck and chest, his skin flushed from heat.

Astrid gave a soft gasp and pushed herself upright with such force that water sloshed over the edge of the tub.

What the devil was she doing?

That kiss they'd shared on the beach had clearly muddled her mind. All the same, her lewd thoughts had caused a strange fluttering low in her belly, followed by a restlessness that made her want to wriggle.

Gritting her teeth, Astrid pulled herself up from the tub and grabbed a drying sheet. She'd ruined her bath. She couldn't continue lazing in the warm water, not if she was going to let her mind travel in such a disturbing direction.

She climbed out of the tub, her feet sinking into a soft sheepskin, and began drying herself off with far more force than was necessary. However, she welcomed the sting of the coarse linen against her skin, for it provided a welcome distraction.

The stress of this mission must be eroding my wits , she consoled herself as she reached for a fresh lèine.

The Macleods put on a fine supper that eve— venison stew, walnut-studded bread, and an array of cheeses—to welcome the Macleans of Mull to Dunvegan. The great hall glowed with warmth, and two musicians—playing a harp and flute high in the minstrels' gallery—performed for the clan-chief, his retainers, and Astrid and Finn.

However, Astrid found it hard to enjoy her meal, the music, or the company. Not when the clan-chief hadn't yet answered her.

Tormod Macleod's warriors and their wives and families lined the long trestle tables beneath the raised dais where the clan-chief's table sat. Making her way through a huge trencher of venison stew—Tormod clearly thought she needed feeding up and had instructed the serving lad to give her a hearty helping—Astrid was aware that gazes kept straying her way.

She pretended not to notice, although she was grateful that she was now clean and wore fresh clothing. It was hard to preserve one's dignity looking like the sea had just spat her out. Of course, the clothing she'd brought with her from Duart Castle was now sitting on the bottom of the sea. Fortunately, their host had provided her with fresh attire.

"That dove-grey surcote is a bonnie one, Lady Astrid," Tormod Macleod spoke up then, drawing her attention. A wistful expression played across his lined face. "My wife, Christina, always looked lovely in it too. She was as slender as ye."

Astrid favored him with a tight smile in return. She didn't want to talk about gowns now, yet she could see that he'd loved his wife. "When did ye lose her?" she asked after a pause. As impatient as she was to speak about more important matters with the clan-chief, she remembered her manners. Despite everything, she was curious about Tormod's life. She had met few folk as old as him. Also, speaking of such things might soften him up.

"Christina was much younger than me, yet a lung sickness claimed her five summers ago now." He paused then. "I look forward to the day we'll be reunited once more."

His comment brought a concerned look from his son, although Tormod ignored it. "I also wish to see my sons Leod and Godfrey again," he admitted, his voice roughening slightly. "Leod died fighting for the Bruce … and Godfrey was a monk who followed God's call to England, where he died of a fever last winter. Unfortunately, when ye live for as long as I have, too many of those ye love die."

"Ye still have me, Da," Malcolm reminded him, a trifle tersely. The clan-chief's son was seated to Astrid's right this eve, while the clan-chief was to her left. Meanwhile, Finn sat a little farther down the table, with the steward, marshal, and the Captain of the Dunvegan Guard.

"Aye, lad," Tormod rumbled. "And I'm grateful for it."

"Indeed," Astrid said after a pause, breaking off a piece of walnut bread and dipping it in her stew. She favored the clan-chief's son with a smile. "I have heard of yer bravery, Malcolm … yer skill with a claidheamh-mòr is becoming something of a legend in the Highlands."

Malcolm's handsome face split into a broad grin at these words, while Tormod huffed a wry laugh. "Don't encourage the lad, Lady Astrid … at just nineteen winters, my son believes he's invincible."

The clan-chief's son raised an eyebrow at this. He then winked at Astrid. "I'm honored to hear such things, Lady Astrid."

Not for the first time, Astrid marked the gleam in his smoke-grey eyes when he fixed his gaze upon her. Malcolm was six years her junior, yet the force of his character made him seem older.

Heat washed over Astrid then, her old shyness threatening to shatter her composure. Aye, she could play the game, yet flirting would never come easily to her. However, while she'd waited in her bedchamber earlier, she decided that a little flattery aimed in the right direction could help her cause.

Astrid inclined her head in response. "Of course, I'd be interested to see just how much skill ye have with a blade," she murmured. The skin of her chest started to prickle, and she willed herself not to blush.

A cough intruded then, and her gaze shifted across the table to where Finn appeared to have swallowed something the wrong way. The marshal thumped him on the back, but Finn paid him little mind. His eyes were narrowed as they fixed upon her.

Ignoring him, Astrid shifted her attention back to Malcolm, who was grinning now. He was loving the attention.

"Ye are a charming lass," Tormod said then, amusement lacing his voice. "But we all know ye aren't here to flirt with my son … but for an answer."

Astrid's embarrassment cooled at these words, relief sweeping over her. She wasn't sure how much longer she could flatter Malcolm. Determination clenched in her belly as she met the clan-chief's gaze once more. Finally, they'd returned to the reason she was here. "Aye," she admitted. "Do ye have one for me?"