Her fingers tightened on his brow before she lifted them clear away. “A typical man.” He could tell she strove to speak lightly, even though he thought he glimpsed tears before she lowered her lashes. “Thinking o’ such things even at death’s door.”
“Such thoughts,” Farlan assured her dryly, “are calculated to keep a man alive.”
“Is it so?” Lightly still, she appeared to contemplate it. “Then here is something to be going on with.” A soft kiss landed on Leith’s brow just where her palm had been. “And this.” A second, still more fleeting, touched his lips.
His soul—his very soul—rose and rejoiced. For an instant, all pain fled his body before crashing in upon him once more.
Farlan laughed softly and with sympathy. “If that does no’ cause ye to stay wi’ us, Leith, naught ever will.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“The prisoner mustbe moved from that filthy pen,” Rhian declared forcefully, “if ye want him to survive. It is cold and malodorous. No place for a man barely clinging to life.”
She spoke before Moira and Alasdair, who she supposed now made a pair of sorts, representing Clan MacBeith. They’d met at her request in the great hall that otherwise stood cold and empty.
Moira and Alasdair exchanged speaking glances.
“The council will no’ like it,” Alasdair said. The big man sported a number of his own bandages, some of which Rhian had placed. His face bore new lines, yet he appeared indefatigable. Did he never tire?
Rhian told him, “I do no’ care about the council. Tell them that Leith MacLeod is an important prisoner, one who must be kept alive.”
Alasdair made a face. “They ha’ heard all that before.” He rolled his eyes at Moira. “Wi’ the last one.”
“Aye, so.” Rhian had to admit it. Men like Ewan did not like where that had gone. “We almost lost him this day.” It took her a moment to gather her emotions and go on. “If he remains where he is, I canna promise we will not lose him yet.”
Moira looked at her with concern. Rhian could not quite decide from whence that concern stemmed. From the possibility of losing a valued prisoner, or something more? Moira knew what Rhian felt for Leith MacLeod. The worry might well be for the state of her heart.
Moira took a turn around the room. “I say move him.”
“Ye would,” Alasdair muttered unhappily.
Moira swung to face him. “Ye disagree?”
“The council, as I say, will disagree. Moira, they ha’ seen all this before.”
“So ye ha’ said. That does no’ change the fact that Rory MacLeod may be dead or dying. We may ha’ the future chief MacLeod in our hands.”
“So,” Alasdair sneered, “treat him well now and he may spare our lives later?”
Anger flashed in Moira’s eyes. It must be galling for her to be deprived of the full place of chief and forced to make her decisions jointly.
“Farlan says this Leith would make a far different sort o’ chief to Rory.”
“Farlan.” Alasdair’s lip curled.
Moira’s chin jerked up. “Much as ye might dislike it, much as the accursed council might, I will be wedding wi’ him. Soon. He will stand at the head o’ Clan MacBeith.”
Alasdair growled.
“If he has an understanding wi’ the man who will likewise lead Clan MacLeod—d’ye no’ see, Alasdair? We could ha’ a future before us that holds peace.”
The very thought made Rhian draw a breath. It was like one of Saerla’s Visions.
“For that to happen,” she put in, “Leith MacLeod must survive.”
“’Twill no’ be accepted.” Alasdair tossed his hands into the air in frustration. “They did no’ like it, Moira, when ye moved yon Farlan out o’ that selfsame pen and into luxury.”
She snorted. “It was no’ luxury.”
