The wound she’d inflicted upon him hurt more than it should. The woman’s dirk, a small one, had done limited damage, despite the force with which she’d driven it into him. He should barely be able to feel it, given the searing agony of the hole in his back.
Yet he could.
Another bit of torn flesh. What was that? He’d been taking such wounds since he was sixteen.
Leith said he should call in one of the healers to look at him. He’d even offered his Rhian, though Rory could not imagine the woman would relish the task.
The clan healers were busy tending other wounded. Besides, Rory dared not let them see…
He dared not give them another look at the condition of his back.
The man who’d been in charge of his care after the remnant of the accursed MacBeith arrow was removed from his back had advised against resuming training so soon. Against returning to battle. But he was the point of the spear that was MacLeod. Without him, where would they be?
Nay, he did not want the healer to see him again. And as if he’d place himself in Rhian’s hands! She wanted him dead as much as her sisters did, no doubt.
Leith had suggested letting Rhian see the lass he’d captured also. Her sister. The one who now lay on his bed.
He wondered whether he should, if she did not awaken. The blow she’d taken to the head might have done real damage.Bringing her sister in would be better than letting the other, heavy-handed healers tend her.
He remembered the agony of that arrow coming out of his back. It had taken two healers to draw it out and two other men to hold him down. He’d been unable to keep from hollering.
Nay, he would not let them touch his prize.
But he did not necessarily want her sister fawning all over her either. The two of them scheming together. He needed her isolated, frightened, so he might get valuable information from her before he bargained her away again.
Slowly, he walked to the bed, wondering for the first time where he’d sleep this night. The captive lay atop the counterpane in her filthy battle armor, and he eyed her carefully from head to toe.
That close-fitting leather helm—had it protected her head? A pale, almost ridiculously bonny face streaked with sweat and dirt. Brown lashes in fans on her cheeks. A small, compact body that, nay, did not look much like a woman’s. Slender, narrow hands, almost delicate to the eye, and tiny feet encased in leather boots smeared with mud.
She was tiny, aye, but he could not fool himself. She made both a threat and a powerful weapon.
He would wield her against her sister. If she ever came awake.
His stomach clenched on a sudden surge of disquiet. What if she died without waking?
He bent closer, watching her carefully. “Mistress Saerla. Mistress?”
*
Saerla lay withher breath caught and her eyes tight shut, very much awake. She listened to the man moving about the chamber after Leith left.
Leith—would he go and tell Rhian that she had been captured? Would Rhian come? Could her sister do anything to save her?
Naught could save her, if her Vision proved true.
She heard it when the man—Rory MacLeod—stirred up the fire, and she caught the flare of brightness against her closed eyelids as the fire leaped up. A clang as he no doubt set his weapons aside. The scrape of a chair against the floor. Did he sit? Another as he got up again.
He approached her. She felt him draw near, sensed the coiled energy of him poised, close at hand. He stood gazing at her.
She knew what the man looked like even though she’d only ever glimpsed him in battle. In his armor. He’d, aye, held her once before, or his fellow warrior had, when he demanded Leith’s return.
But she’d Seen him, aye. In the Vision.
“Mistress Saerla. Mistress?”
That rough voice speaking her name. She’d heard that too, in the Vision. The foretelling. The terrible, terrifying one where he’d grasped her in his arms, green eyes blazing, and told her, “I will ne’er let ye go.”
Ah, she should have better heeded the warning contained in that Vision. She should never have entered the battle, should have kept clear away from him. She should never have tried to kill him, only…
