They went out, leaving Rhian and Saerla alone. Saerla, or so Rhian felt, had acted strangely throughout. She continued to do so now, standing with her head down and her gaze averted from Rhian.
Aye, and all this might well overset the best of them—which Saerla undoubtedly was. The youngest of the three sisters had long been cherished for her sweetness, her beauty, and her ability to contact the other world. Rhian remembered Ma saying to her once, when Saerla was still quite small, “Rhian, ye maun look after your sister. She has a rare gift.”
It had evolved to where Rhian looked after not only Saerla but everyone else besides. She supposed when she’d stepped into Ma’s place, she’d inherited all that. She was a mother without having birthed a child.
“What is it, Saerla?” she asked now, softly. She half expected Saerla to go on about the council and their ill feelings, because Saerla hated discord. Or about Moira and her difficult situation.
Instead she came and stepped up to Rhian. Raising both hands, she laid them on either side of Rhian’s face.
“Sister, ye will go carefully.”
“Wha’ ha’ ye Seen?” No question that Saerla had Seen something. She rarely spoke in this tone unless conveying messages from beyond her.
Gazing into Saerla’s wide eyes, Rhian felt herself falling. Into deep waters and through a patterned field of stars. It knocked the breath from her precisely as if she’d been thumped hard in the chest.
Fire and heat. Scorching kisses, a sense of belonging so strong it stole what remained of her breath. And laughter, deep and wide and comforting.
When she returned to herself, she still gazed into Saerla’s eyes, which were now filled with sorrow.
“Go carefully,” Saerla whispered again.
What was that?But Rhian did not say those words aloud. She could not speak. She drew in ragged breaths even as Saerla released her.
Swiftly, swiftly Saerla went out, leaving Rhian alone.
*
It took herseveral more moments to gain control of her emotions and depart the hall in turn. She meant to go straight back to the cowshed but was delayed by two more requests for her to recheck wounds.
By the time she managed to free herself from those obligations, it was late and anxiety filled her mind. What would she find when she returned to the MacLeod? By now, he might well have slipped away.
Would it matter if he did? He was just another MacLeod prisoner, if one said to be of worth, and they’d certainly had enough of that with Farlan.
Bad it was, fighting a war—worse when the stakes became complicated. Moira’s feelings for Farlan had certainly complicated this fight. Besides, it was true what she’d told Farlan. If and when Leith MacLeod awakened, it would be to pitiless agony.
Those thoughts so occupied Rhian’s mind that as she approached the makeshift prison, it took an instant for the truth to penetrate.
No guards stood at their posts outside the door.
Moreover, the area lay otherwise deserted. Granted, it was located in an area somewhat off the beaten track, but in the past when Farlan had been held there, folks had found excuses to walk by, if only to glower. Rhian, who did not possess a touch of her sister’s sensitivity, had been able to feel the hate.
Now, it echoed to her step, in emptiness.
Her heart began to pound and her feet quickened. She’d left the men, both of Alasdair’s choosing, on guard. She’d also left a light burning. Now she could glimpse no light seeping around the ill-fitting door.
“By God,” she whispered as she barged in. She had to fumble for the rushlight beside the door, striking the flint no less than three times.
When the light bloomed, she was sure Leith MacLeod was dead. She’d left him on a pallet stretched across the floor. Now he sprawled half on his side, most of him no longer located on the straw. His arm had been flung up, and a filthy bolster lay covering his face.
It took her a moment to accept what she was seeing. When she did, her hands began to shake. A bolster, a heavy one. Someone must have come in here and held that over his face. Tried to smother him. Attacked him while he lay defenseless. Tried to kill him? Or succeeded?
She fell to her knees on the filthy floor at his side and tossed the bolster aside. The rushlight beside the door did not lend as much radiance as she might wish. But as she turned Leith over onto his back, she could see the angry red marks across his face.
By God! By God, he was gone.
The fact that she consistently kept a rein on her compassion did not render it lacking. It flooded through her now, off the lead and strong. What a dreadful way to die—alone and at the hands of hatred. Unable even to see his attacker. A senseless, terrible thing. A waste of a strong, vital life.
He had struggled, even if whoever had done this deed had fallen upon him while he was unaware. That struggle had tumbled him from the pallet and opened up the wound she’d bandaged carefully so it bled anew.
