She’d seen him on the battlefield, to be sure, including the first time he’d captured her. And she’d Seen him in that terrible Vision—the one she’d dared confide to no one—of her being in his power, when he’d said,Ye will be mine. She was sure, having received that Vision, he meant to capture and rape her.
She knew better now.
There had been no rape, no forcing. She wanted the man with a strength she’d never imagined. Indeed, she scarcely recognized herself when she was with him. She was not the same woman she had been.
She lived always in her mind, in her spirit. Not the flesh.
But she had been a long time away from the sacred ground on the rise back home. The place where the Visions so often found her. Where both the spirits and her ancestors spoke to her.
Where she lost herself in the light.
That must explain it, how she was able to turn to Rory, who carried so much powerful darkness. He had vowed to destroy her clan and claim the lands she loved. He had spread death with a merciless hand. So determined and ruthless was he, he’d cast off his dearest friend.
And yet…and yet.
When he came to her, he did it softly, gently. And the darkness in him somehow called up the light in her, and transformed into a powerful passion.
Her eyes widened as she realized what that meant. She had not left all the light back home.
She kept it inside her, even here.
The realization made her want to weep. It meant she had not lost herself completely to what lay between her and Rory MacLeod. She remained Saerla MacBeith. He would not change that. Not even her feelings for him could.
Whatwereher feelings for him?
She leaned to rest an elbow on the edge of the slit window embrasure and thought about it. Desire, aye—that went without saying. Everything about him, from the set of his shoulders to the gleam in his green eyes, appealed to her. More than that, his mind—clever and quick and devious, the opposite of her own—seemed somehow to reflect and complement all she thought. The need in him—for aye, Rory harbored a deep need, even if he did not acknowledge it—called up her own need.
Aye, she needed him. That was it. She craved not only his touch but his company. His presence. The way she felt when they lay together, replete, as if neither of them required anything more from the world.
She could, at those moments, feel his sense of completion as much as her own.
Need, though, was not love. She did not love Rory MacLeod, could not permit herself to love him. For beneath it all, he remained the monster. Her enemy.
Rhian said if he appeared at her door this night, she should refuse to admit him. And outside the window, night swiftly approached down the glen on velvet wings. No doubt, as so often, Rhian was right.
Did Saerla have the strength to turn Rory away?
Perhaps he would not come. If rumors about the two of them flew, he would have heard them. He could not allow himself to appear vulnerable. Unable to turn from a woman.
Nay, he would not come.
Could she bear it?
Aye, for there were greater matters here than her longing. The love for her clan. Her people. Her duty as a possession of the gods.
This—this had been but a mad interlude. One meant to teach her something. That Rory was, beneath it all, just a man.
He would keep away from her this night. She felt sure of it, and she beat back the grief while the moments stole by and the gloaming fell across the land outside her window.
She believed it, right till the moment she heard his knock at the door.
She leaped to her feet.
It had grown late—later even than he usually came to her. Perhaps after all it was not him but Rhian, returned to make sure she did nothing foolish.
But nay, she knew even before she hauled the door open. Before she saw him standing there.
He waited quietly, his black head bowed, his hands empty. His gaze found hers the instant the panel swung wide, asking a question even before his lips found the words.
