“Is she badly hurt?” Leith asked. Saerla heard caution in his voice.
“Nay. Hit in the head during that last crush o’ the battle before I could get her awa’ to the boat.”
The boat. Away. Where was she?
“Should ye, cousin, no’ be more worried about me?” Rory growled.
“Ye? Ye’re a bull. If that arrow in the back did no’ kill ye, naught ever will. Who won the battle?”
Rory did not answer at once. Further grunts ensued as he stripped down. Saerla, from her place on her back, could see little more than shadows shifting.
“No one,” he said at last. “They burned most o’ our boats. We could no’ retrieve all our dead. But”—a modicum of satisfaction oozed into his voice—“ye can see I managed to tak’ a fine prize.”
Leith said nothing.
“Wha’ d’ye think her sister the chief will give to get her back?”
“Ye mean to trade her back, then, Rory? Nay to hold her? Nor slaughter her?”
Footsteps sounded on a stone floor. Saerla, squinting her eyes closed again, sensed he stood over her—Rory MacLeod. The monster. Examining her, his gaze sharp as his sword.
“I do no’ murder women, Leith. Ye ken that.”
Now Leith grunted.
“Wha’ should I ask in return for her? Such a bonny thing.”
Saerla stiffened with alarm. With an utterly primal dismay.
“D’ye suppose she’ll surrender? Quit the fighting and deed the glen o’er to me, to keep her sister safe?”
Saerla stopped breathing. It had come true anyway, despite all her prayers and dread. The Vision she’d seen had found her, for all her fighting.
A destiny lay before her. A path she did not want to take.
Chapter Eight
Rory sat besidethe fire in his chamber where he’d ordered the female captive brought, and brooded. Och aye, he had no other word for his state of mind. Once again, in a battle against MacBeith, things had not gone well.
Or mayhap they had.
He flicked a glance at the small figure that lay upon his bed, here in this safest of places where she might be most securely held. He did not comprehend much of what had happened during the past hours, but he did know he had to keep her safe and secure.
The battle, the details of it, would not leave his mind. Aye, it always took him a while to wind down following combat. This time, though, the sensations remained with him all too brightly. The clashing, the hollering, and the blood.
The feel of the woman in his arms.
She’d tried to kill him there in the heat of that battle. He’d seen the intention in her eyes when first she flew at him, swinging her sword. His death had been her one desire.
He’d known her despite the tight-fitted leather helm that covered her hair. Despite the clothing that made her into a slim lad. He’d known those eyes, so full of desperation and hate.
Because he’d had hold of her once before and had traded her away. For Leith.
He still had difficulty accepting that the MacBeiths risked their womenfolk in that way. This woman, but a tiny thing, weighed almost nothing in his arms.
Yet she was dangerous. She’d done her best to slaughter him.
Saerla. A Seer. And a warrior. A bewildering combination.
