Och, aye, she’d needed this.
She raised her eyes to the fortress across the way, the one made of dark stone. It looked so small from this distance, too small to contain someone of such vital importance to her.
Aye, Moira was right, it lay quiet. Like a dark jewel in the gods’ hands.
“’Tis a bonny place when ye see it fro’ up here,” she said to Farlan. “And all of a piece. ’Tis a sin to war over this.”
“Aye, so.”
“Ye would think all the love, Rory’s for his side and ours for this, would bind it together.”
“Love is a strong enough force.”
Saerla turned her head and looked at him. “Ye believe that, do ye?”
“’Tis the strongest thing I ha’ ever known.” Strong enough to take him from his home and bind him to Moira’s side.
Suddenly she wanted to confess all to this calm, steady man who had hitched his star to love. Surely, he would understand. But she could never forbid him from speaking in turn to Moira, and she was not ready for Moira to know what she had done.
Lain with the monster who beleaguered them. Given him her heart.
Instead, she stepped away from Farlan and laid her hands on the stones of Da’s cairn. Warm from the sun. Full in the light.
Da? Be ye here?
The answer came swiftly, a deep throb of reassurance in her mind.Aye, daughter. I am here and everywhere.
Saerla’s eyes filled with tears.Do ye condemn me for what I ha’ done?
Love, daughter, should ne’er be condemned. It is never wrong. Did I no’ bid ye tell Moira so, back when she fell for this man who stands beside ye?
He is a good man.
He is. And so is Leith MacLeod, for whom yer sister Rhian traveled awa’ from us. Why should it be different for ye?
’Tis different because Rory MacLeod is different. He is the darkness that brings our pain. If he costs us Moira’s or Alasdair’s life—
Darkness, daughter, can be battled only by light. ’Tis that ye carry within ye. Gather it, Saerla. Gather it and make o’ it yer weapon.
Saerla nodded. She stood for many more moments listening for further wisdom before she walked from her father’s cairn and into the waiting circle of standing stones, cloaked in magic.
Chapter Fifty-Two
“How fares thatarm o’ yours, Leith? Be ye ready at last for the fight?”
When Rory asked the question, his cousin turned and directed a searching look at him—wondering, no doubt, how best to reply. They had just ended another grueling training session. Rory had been driving himself and the men hard. He’d been able to see, during training these days just past, that Leith swung the sword with more power and control than at any time since his injury.
Rory wanted him to admit it. He wanted a reason to attack MacBeith.
Four days had passed since Saerla left him. Since he’d sent her away. He knew very well he’d been in a foul mood. Nay, that did not describe it sufficiently. He’d been in a savage mood. Harsh, unsparing, impatient, and constantly on the verge of losing control of himself.
Such befitted a man living in darkness.
Leith did not want to return to the fight, as Rory knew very well. His woman did not want it either, did not wish the battles against her folk to resume. Leith had no doubt surmised that if he admitted he was ready for the field, the campaign would restart.
But Rory needed to prove something to himself, if not to his people. He needed to prove he could wage war upon Saerla’s clan without a qualm. He needed—
He needed to see her, to touch her, to inhale her scent. He needed her warmth and the mist in her eyes.
