Yet kindness shone from her hazel eyes. Love lay here also.
Carefully, Saerla said, “I feared, Fiona, that the consequences o’ such an attack on Moira’s part could outweigh what might be won.”
Did Fiona understand? She blinked at Saerla and said quietly for her, “Wha’ could be more important, wee lass, than restoring ye to us?”
“Keeping all who bide here alive and safe.” Saerla looked away from Fiona’s troubled face. “Now, the battle will come anyway, and I hate to think—”
A loss might well be had on either side. Alasdair would have to fight with a half-healed wound in his gut. Moira always marched out in the vanguard, first targeted to be struck down. And Rory, Rory with that ugly hole in his back.
She could not bear to lose any of them.
“Lass, ye seem overwrought. Come back to my quarters wi’ me. We will sit quiet. I will mak’ ye a wee bit o’ supper. Just the two o’ us, aye?”
“That does sound wonderful. But I—I ha’ been unable to tak’ much to eat since I returned.”
Fiona went quiet, which was so unusual for her, it made Saerla search her eyes. She found great hesitancy there.
“Is it so?” Fiona examined Saerla disquietingly. “Are ye right within’ yersel’?”
“I am not sure that I am, Fiona.”
“Ye ken fine, lass, we worried about all kinds o’ nasty things befalling ye there at MacLeod. That Rory might make a weapon o’ ye or an instrument o’ revenge. Even though we knew Rhian would protect ye as best she could.”
He is not like that. But Saerla could not say so. She said nothing.
Fiona clasped Saerla’s hands between her own. “When I was young and first wed my husband, Raef”—a warrior who had diedyears ago, leaving her a widow—“I knew I was wi’ child because I could no’ stand the sight o’ food.”
Fiona stared at Saerla meaningfully. Saerla stared back, mute.
“Lass, if yon monster forced ye while ye were there, ye can tell us. None will place any blame upon yer head.”
“He did no’ force me.”
Fiona drew a breath. “If somewhat else happened—”
“Why should ye think so?”
“Well, he is no’ an ill-looking man, withal. And ye ha’ a look about ye, lass. One I recognize full well. Have ye had yer courses since ye came back?”
Saerla shook her head. “It has no’ been long enough.”
“Aye. Well, they may still come—”
Or they might not, for a number of months.
“Fiona”—she clasped the woman’s hands in turn—“speak to no one o’ this, I pray.”
Fiona looked unhappy. “Yer sister should know.”
“Know what? I am no’ certain aught ails me more than upset and exhaustion.” Swiftly, Saerla rushed on, “If Moira thinks—Well, she will ne’er let me march out to battle.”
“It might be best if ye do no’. Lass, ’tis no’ safe. And do ye want to engage in such a horror?”
She did not. But nor could she stay back. She had to be there if fate ran a sword through her heart.
Chapter Fifty-Three
“To arms! Toarms! Clan MacLeod has mustered and is on the move!”
