Nay, not if Rhian might never have another chance to spend a night in the circle of Leith MacLeod’s embrace.
*
“I say wemarch out to meet them,” Alasdair declared. He looked angry enough to spit nails. He also looked like a mountain in his heavy leather armor and helmet, bristling with weapons.
“I agree wi’ ye,” Moira said, surprisingly. She too stood clad for battle, and appeared grim and as sleep deprived as Rhian felt.
Alasdair looked startled. He did not often hear those words from Moira.
“Ye do?”
“Rory and his warriors ha’ met defeat each time they tried to attack us. ’Tis time they learn we hold this side o’ the glen in a firm grasp. Let us march out and show them our strength.”
Farlan, beside Moira, did not appear happy with the statement. He too stood clad for battle. Would he fight against his own clansmen? Would he be able to cut down men he knew?
As if she wondered the same, Moira turned to him. Her blue gaze seemed to measure the man, the breadth of his shoulders. His steady stance. “Farlan, I want for ye to stay here and direct the defense o’ the battlements.”
He stiffened. “Nay, Moira. I stand—and fight—beside ye.”
She shook her head. “We need someone we can rely upon if the fight goes badly and comes back upon our own walls.”
Farlan flinched. If that happened, Moira would likely be either dead or wounded. Captured. Taken from him. Rhian understood the pain of that much better than she had only days ago.
Not a sound broke the waiting silence before Farlan spoke. “Your men will no’ tak’ orders fro’ me, here on the walls.”
“He is right,” Alasdair growled. “The men still do no’ trust him. Ye stay here, Moira, the both o’ ye, to defend the walls. No one does that so well as ye. I will lead the men out to battle.”
Moira looked at Alasdair, who towered over her. She knew, as did everyone else in the chamber, that Alasdair had long harbored feelings for her.
“Nay,” she decided. “We do this thing together, Alasdair. Ye and me.”
“I do this thing for ye. For Chief Iain and MacBeith.”
Tears stung Rhian’s eyes.
Saerla said, briskly for her, “Are we going to stand here arguing it, or are we going to fight Rory MacLeod?”
“Aye, so.” Moira tore her gaze from Alasdair’s. “Farlan and I will keep the gate—at all costs.”
Alasdair, looking relieved, immediately dashed out. Rhian wondered if it was the last time she would ever see him alive. And Saerla…
As her sister moved to follow Alasdair, Rhian caught her arm and asked in a low voice, “Is this what ye Saw? Will we lose this battle?”
Saerla shook her head. “Stop wi’ wondering wha’ I Saw.” She glanced back at Moira and Farlan, who stood facing one another, hands linked.
“Saerla, will we survive?”
“There are partings, Rhian. There are always partings.”
Saerla dashed off, and Rhian asked herself how someone so ethereal could engage in battle. Could it be that Saerla spoke of her own death? Of Alasdair’s?
Rhian could not bear it. She loved them both. Ah, God! She loved every soul that belonged to this place.
And that meant she must be strong. She might not fight with a sword, but she did fight.
She needed to gather her weapons. She should go to the infirmary to stock a basket. She would watch the battle from the walls when the two forces met, and be ready to tend any wounded.
She went instead to her own chamber.
