All the while she worked over Leith, he never roused. Never stirred nor gave any sign he knew they were there. His broad chest barely rose and fell with his breaths.
Beneath Rhian’s fingers, his skin burned.
Fever. It was the last thing, the very last thing he needed. Apart from the ugly wound, which she packed with herbs and bandages, it could be enough to steal his life.
As she worked, she became angry. The emotion built in her, slow and inevitable as a kindled fire. How many more men would have to suffer like this, to die for Rory MacLeod’s ambition? How much more unfairness and pain?
As she smoothed the bandages over Leith’s arm, she wondered how a chief who claimed he cared for his people could put them to this.
She did not give way to anger often. A reasoned woman, she usually put away her rage and, like her other emotions, kept it under strict lock and key. She must do to get on with the tasks in front of her.
But now—now she wished she could have even a few short moments to tell Rory MacLeod what she thought of him.
Upon the thought, her ears caught the sound of hollering from beyond the pen. She turned her head, and her gaze met that of Tam in the torchlight.
“What is that?”
“I will go see, mistress.”
No need to worry for guarding the prisoner from escape. He would not be on his feet again soon.
Possibly not ever.
Rhian laid her hand on Leith’s brow as she had once before and spoke a charm. A prayer. For the fever to break. For his eyes to open.
See me. See me!
The shouting outside grew louder and more frantic.
“Attack. Attack!”
Rhian stiffened where she knelt.Nay. Nay, not now. Not so soon.
And yet this, the dead-silent hour before sunrise while shadows still cloaked the glen, made a favorable time to launch an attack. Such shadows played tricks on the men who stood watch. Allowed a force to get close before being seen.
She shuddered to the depths of her being. More vicious wounds. More pain. More death. She gazed down at the man beside whom she still knelt. It needed to stop, all of it.
She must get to her feet and leave Leith. She would be needed, all hands would. She might not fight with the sword like her sisters. But och aye, she fought.
She bent and placed a kiss on Leith’s brow. His skin fair scorched her lips.
“I will return,” she whispered. “Ye hold on. Hold on for me.”
*
She still carriedher anger when she went out into the murky light of predawn. People rushed everywhere, several nearly crashing into her. Both guards had gone. They would be needed on the walls, as would her sisters.
Upon the thought, she saw Moira hurry by, clad for battle and with Farlan at her side. Aye, so, he fought with her now, and alongside MacBeith clansmen who would as soon put their swords in his back as otherwise. Madness personified.
He fought against his own folk. How? How could he, even for love?
She put out a hand, and by a miracle, Moira paused. Rhian stared into her sister’s face, which looked hard, her gaze like flint.
“Where is Alasdair?”
“At the gate ahead of me. I maun go.”
“How many MacLeods?”
