“He has wanted to kill ye from the first. Send your bones back to Rory MacLeod as a grisly message. But ye can see”—she spread her hands in a graceful gesture—“ye are being kept safe here instead.”
“Wi’ ye.” He held her gaze steadily.
“Aye.”
“Because Farlan has told them, should Rory prove dead and him having no direct issue, wi’ me being the eldest son o’ the old chief’s sister, I am earmarked for chief after him.”
“Aye.”
“They ha’ me in their hands and think they may influence me into some sort o’ truce.”
She drew a breath. “Would that no’ be a fine thing? To cease wi’ the killing and all the heartache?”
“I do no’ ken if it would or it would no’. Generations ago my ancestors came to this glen and claimed it for their own.”
“Only,” she said softly, “my ancestors were here first.”
“A small number o’ them, to my understanding, and easily chased off.”
“Only,” she repeated, and leaned forward slightly, “they would no’ leave. They had sacred places here, and the graves of their dead.”
“They were dug in. I will give ye that.”
“Your ancestors could not defeat mine.”
“They say the MacBeiths had magic on their side.” It might well be true. Rhian might have used that magic on him right along with her herbs. She might have employed it to influence him, to soften him, to make him turn his coat just as Farlan had.
“We fight still the battles o’ our ancestors,” she told him. “Is that no’ foolish?”
Leith no longer knew. He had been languishing here in a weakened state, half killed and at times barely conscious. He’d begun falling in love with this woman, with her graceful hands, luscious lips, and generous nature.
He needed to think clearly. Come out of the spell, if she’d woven one. He’d never wanted to be chief of Clan MacLeod. He liked to keep a light heart, to laugh and enjoy his life. He wanted no part of the weight that rested on Rory’s shoulders. He’d not been cut out for it.
And he’d never believed he stood within reach of it. Rory, aye, a bull of a man, young and vigorous, could fight through any battle. He had only to choose a wife and grow a crop of sons. Who would think a stray arrow could bring him down?
He looked at the woman before him, she who had somehow anchored herself to his heart. “Ha’ they asked ye to influence me? To—to sweeten me? Is that why ye lay here wi’ me last night?”
For the first time, she looked disconcerted. A mild flush warmed her cheek, and her fingers, still in her lap, tensed.
“No one has bidden me sweeten ye, Leith MacLeod. I am my own woman.”
“Ye be a MacBeith. Rooted here like—like those stones up on the rise.”
“Aye.”
“Your twa sisters fight wi’ swords. Mayhap ye fight another way.”
“O’ what are ye accusing me?”
He was not sure and could not say. He wanted this feeling between them, this deep connection, to be real. He ached for it even though there could scarcely be a worse woman upon whom he might center his affections.
He wanted to love Rhian MacBeith. Because he’d never seen another woman to match her, and he’d never felt this way. Now, though, doubt and suspicion had entered the wild mix inside him.
He shook his head. His gaze dropped from hers for the first time. “Wha’ will they do wi’ me, your sister and yon Alasdair?”
“’Tis no’ a simple decision. They ha’ the council wi’ whom they must deal, and their sympathies are spread wide. I believe Moira would as soon send ye home.”
“So she sent Farlan to talk me round.” Or, failing his oldest friend, her, Rhian.
