But nay, it was a foolish notion. Rhian MacBeith did not love him.
Gritting his teeth still more fiercely, he struggled to sit up on the pallet. His own weakness appalled him. The simple movement took three attempts, and by the time he succeeded, Rhian’s clean white bandages had turned red.
But he would not lie here, by God, like a puling infant.
Having made it upright, he sat sweating and trying not to groan aloud. He had no clothing, not a stitch, which meant Rhian had seen all there was of him. Ah well, she would not be the first woman.
His clothing would have been ruined with blood. But the cool air pricked at him, and his nakedness made him feel all the more vulnerable.
Another defense, gone. All the things that made him who he was had been stripped away. It allowed him to think anew on the ordeal that had befallen Farlan. Aye, he’d sympathized with the man when he brought his tale back to MacLeod and told of his love for MacBeith’s daughter. He’d felt for the man, but until now, he hadn’t truly understood. Being trapped, cut off from all he knew, and all that knew him. Surrounded by ill will.
He closed his eyes, clenching them hard against a sudden wave of weakness and despair. To combat it, he reimagined the moment when Rhian had laid her hand on his brow and he’d opened his eyes. To see her.
The sweet, serene oval of her face, full of womanly wisdom. The perfect sweep of her brows and the cloud of wild auburn hair. The full lower lip that betrayed just a hint of the passion that might lie within.
He could not say that the passion lying within her might extend to him. She was a woman who disciplined her emotions. Not some pretty lass primed for seduction.
Just as he’d tried to tell her, she was not merely bonny. She wasbeautiful.
Using the conviction of it for strength, he heaved himself to his feet. When he got there, he stood swaying, nearly falling back down. His head spun in slow, sickening circles, and he half feared he’d lose his sight again.
Yet he stood on his feet, by God, and felt more the man for it.
The pallet had been provided with two blankets. He took up the smaller of them and wound it around his hips, making a rough covering. Then he stood shaking in every limb, wondering if he dared take a step.
Rhian had left a flask on the wooden table that stood against the wall. Water, no doubt. Only a few steps away, yet he doubted he could reach it. Should he fall, he would never pick himself up again.
Shuffling like an old man, he took one step. Two. When he reached the table, he caught up the flask and wondered how to open it one-handed. His throat burned with thirst, so he used his teeth on the stopper and spat it out.
Ale. God bless the woman. God bless Rhian MacBeith.
*
Out in therainy morning, Rhian paused and cocked an ear, wondering if someone had called her name. The rain fell so hard it looked like a silver curtain, and in the distance, thunder rumbled. She could not see her sisters anywhere.
This was madness.
She’d already tried Moira’s chamber, that which used to be Da’s—alarming Farlan, who waited there, and sending him out on a search of his own. Saerla’s quarters also lay empty, as did the armory and any other place Rhian could call to mind.
They must have gone up on the rise. To the ring of standing stones. And Da’s grave.
More madness, in such weather. But Moira had not been completely in her sane mind when she’d left the hall. And the rise—well, it was Saerla’s second home.
Rhian set her shoulders, picked up her skirts, and ran. She wished she’d stopped by her own quarters for her cloak, for the hard rain soaked her to the skin. Ah well, she could become only so wet and no wetter.
The wind caught her as she climbed the rise, slipping on the wet turf as the storm blew in from the west. It covered her, crashing and tearing, making the rain of a moment ago seem like nothing. Water filled her eyes so she could not see. Yet she knew the way. She’d been coming here since a wee lass. She need only keep on.
The next time she stumbled, hands caught at her and helped her up again. Her sister’s hands. She’d found Saerla, at least.
Neither of them attempted to speak as they gained the top of the rise, passed Da’s grave, and reached the circle of stones. There, Moira came out to meet them.
Rhian had found both her sisters.
They huddled down, the three of them, with their heads together and the rain pelting their bent backs, in the limited shelter of a standing stone. In the onslaught, Rhian could not tell Saerla’s hands from Moira’s, gripping her own. But she felt the strength of the embrace.
The storm passed, pounding the ground with percussive steps and grumbling like an ill-tempered giant.
Soaked to the bone and chilled with it, Rhian raised her head.
