But Saerla, aye, knew Rory MacLeod. Not defeated, nay, not yet. Too stubborn to give way. To lose.
Even though that hole in his back must be hampering him. Even though the emotions he always sought to hide must be riding him. The man knew not the meaning ofquit.
Farlan delivered a crashing blow that Rory caught on his shield, and the wood split. Rory retreated another step, tossing the useless remnant aside, and his men cried out. Rory’s feet moved in the green turf with the grace of a dancer’s, and he delivered an answering blow that took him a step forward again. Both men’s gazes were locked on one another to the exclusion of all else.
They rained blows on one another with unstinting might, both of them now sweating in the cool morning air. Farlan repeatedly flung the brown mane of his hair out of his eyes. Rory’s green eyes had narrowed to slits. The very hills, the standing stones, and the cairns of Saerla’s ancestors waited to learn their fate.
Would Glen Bronach be won this day? Would it be lost?
Rory had stopped retreating. Mayhap he thought he had Farlan’s measure; perhaps he thought Farlan began to tire from the furious, relentless pace. Farlan did notappearto tire. But aye, step by aching step, Rory fought back and gained ground.
The blows took up a terrible rhythm, splitting the clear air, and Saerla’s heart crashed in time. When Rory whirled and used the momentum of the turn to wallop Farlan’s shield, the plain wood of it cracked asunder, and it fell from Farlan’s hand.
Now both men fought without protection.
Moira gasped—Saerla heard her despite the din. Aye, she knew Rory MacLeod always looked for the chance. For the advantage. Fate had just evened the score and handed him one.
Farlan did not waver. Without so much as glancing down, he kicked the pieces of his shield aside and came on against Rory’s whirling blade. Both men fought double-handed, gripping the swords that were all that defended them from death.
Rory looked grim and terrifyingly certain. Farlan, in turn, betrayed no hint of fear. To be sure not. He fought for love, and love even now gathered all around them like the light.
Rory. She called his name in her mind, laid all her own love and faith and belief behind it. And he heard her. His narrowed, feral gaze flicked to her for the briefest instant.
In that instant, they connected. Connected as surely as they had when he was deep inside her, when they rocked together, when they became one being, complete. When they flew with the strength and beauty of a bird.
Saerla. Love.
No more than that, but she saw the thoughts move in his eyes. Light and shadow. She felt his lips tighten. Knew when he weighed love—what they felt for each other—against duty. Against avarice. Against pride.
She felt it when he chose.For love.The miracle of it shimmered all around her; it uplifted her. The light around them began to grow brighter and brighter as Rory stepped back.
Back.
He continued to catch Farlan’s crashing blows on his sword, but the blows he aimed in return had lost their might. Farlan was able to parry them with his blade. Turn them away and press on.
Was Saerla the only one there out of all those watching so avidly who saw that Rory’s foot did not truly slip on the trodden grass? Who saw his toe dig into the turf so he tumbled backward, casting aside his sword as he fell?
Did even Farlan, who fought him, see? No time to decide, for Farlan leaped forward and put the point of his blade to Rory’s throat where he lay on his back there on the blessed soil beside the loch.
It went abruptly silent, so silent Saerla could hear both men laboring for breath. She could hear the waters of the loch kissing the shore. And the bird, that bonny bird, crying its song.
“Finish it!” Alasdair called out then.
A fight to the death. One Saerla stood to lose. For though MacBeith would retain their lands, she would lose a great, bloody portion of her heart, torn out by the very roots.
Farlan breathed so hard, the sword rose and fell in his hand. Or perhaps that hand trembled. For he stared down into the eyes of the man who had once been his best friend.
Defenseless. Eyes unreadable. Fingers clenched into the sod of this place—this place they all loved.
Please,Saerla beseeched the light, her gods, and every power that had ever attended her.Make it right.
“Finish it!” Alasdair cried again.
But Farlan continued to stand, gazing into Rory’s eyes.
The warriors on both sides grew restless. Ignoring them, Farlan called out, “Ye be bested, Rory MacLeod, in fair and honorable combat. Let this be an end to it! Again I say, let it be done. No more battles in this glen. No more bloodshed and strife.” He took a single step back. “I let ye live to negotiate a peace.”
There were gasps all around. No other sound save the cry of the bird now distant. For one more instant, while Saerla’s heart pounded, her life and her future hung in the balance.
