Could a man live so, without a heart? Because she would take his heart with her. He loved her as he would never love anyone again.
Yet he could not tell her so.
If he loved her, he must do what was best for her. Send her back where she belonged.
“Saerla, promise me something.”
“What?”
“That ye will no longer tak’ the field in battle. If yer sister fights on—”
“So she will. She will never yield to ye, Rory.”
“Ye will no’ march out. Ye will no’ don yer armor or tak’ up the sword. Ye will hold fast to yer magic.”
Barely a breath away from him, she gazed up into his eyes.
“I canna mak’ ye that promise. Och, I will hold fast to my magic, aye, till I die. But”—she hesitated, tears once more flooding her eyes—“so long as ye wage war against us, I maun march out against ye.”
“Nay.” His entire being cried it.
“Rory, I can no more gi’ up fighting for what I love than ye will stop this campaign and let Glen Bronach lie in peace.”
It would end badly. It would all end in terrible sorrow. He suddenly knew that as if she had whispered the truth of it in his ear. As if he himself had Seen.
Even though he did right by her, it could only end in grief.
The tears in her eyes spilled over, ran down to wet the bolster. “I am to leave ye, come morning?”
“Aye. I will send ye safe wi’ Leith—”
“Then mak’ love to me. Mak’ love to me one last time.”
With all of his heart, he did.
Chapter Fifty
Such a morningshould not look so bright, Saerla decided as she stood gazing out on the sward at the front of MacLeod’s stronghold. The sky should be dark with cloud, a storm boiling up the glen from the direction of the sea. The loch should be tossing, and the hills scowling.
Instead, the beauty of it all fair dazzled her eyes. The turf shone brilliant green in the new light, and the loch glittered with a thousand shards of radiance. The sky stacked blue upon blue, and the smallest details stood out in stark relief. On the far side of the glen she could see…
Home.
MacBeith’s keep stood out glowing whitely. Above it, the rise of granite and turf seemed to beckon her. There did mist gather still, a cauldron of magic.
She longed to be there, so much she ached with it. She did not want to leave the man who stood at her side.
He had done as she asked last night and made love to her one last time. That it was love and no longer just lust, her heart was now certain. At least on her part, her heart was fully engaged.
She’d known that full well as she tasted him for the last time. Opened herself to him for the last time. Inhaled his scent. Plunged her fingers through his black hair. Taken him inside her, deep inside.
What he felt, she could not tell. A man such as Rory MacLeod might be incapable of love as she understood it. So they, atMacBeith, had always believed. He was, aye, tender with her. Inexpressibly tender. And he was sending her home.
She turned and looked up at him. His black hair shone in the sun, and his face, set in an emotionless mask, might have been carved from the same granite that formed the glen. He did not look at her, had refused to look at her since they’d risen and dressed this morning, and he’d left to make the arrangements to send her home.
Now he still gazed anywhere but at her. At the loch, at MacBeith’s fortress beyond. At his own stronghold behind them. At the two who stood here in their company.
It was just the four of them out here on the sward—Saerla, Rory, Leith, and Rhian. Leith would accompany Saerla on her journey, ferry her across the loch and leave her on the other side. She would make her own way from there, every step taking her from the man she loved, while Leith rowed back.
