She wished he would don some clothing, that he did not stand there before her half-naked, looking so—so threatening. It put her entirely too much in mind of the Vision.
But…but if he meant to bargain her away and send her home, why had he told her in the Vision,I will never let ye go?
She shook her head in confusion. If only it would stop pounding long enough for her to think.
He stood where he was, making no move to go around the bed and intercept her. “Ye be the sister o’ the woman who has set hesel’ up as chief o’ yer clan, aye? Wi’ Farlan at her side.”
Moira was chief of the clan, but with Alasdair at her side, as the council insisted.
“She will want ye back.”
She would. Poor Moira must be frantic with two of her sisters gone from her. Both of them here at MacLeod.
“So I will keep ye here safe till she and I ha’ the chance to bargain.”
And then you will send me home?Saerla ached to ask but would not let herself utter the words that sounded far too much like begging.
“Why am I here in this chamber?” she asked instead.
He took a long look at her before he replied, “I needed somewhere safe to stow ye.”
“Is this to be my prison?”
“Nay. Wha’ever ye may think o’ me, I will no’ put a woman, even a captive woman, in a cell. Though I ha’ to say, ye be right handy wi’ a sword. And”—he shrugged his shoulder—“a dirk.”
“Then what is this place?”
“My bedchamber.”
She stiffened in every limb. “I will no’—”
Another searing look. “Wha’ever ye may think o’ me,” he repeated with deliberation, “I am no’ a ravisher o’ women.”
Welcome words, if she could believe him. Was she to believe that this man who’d attacked them again and again without mercy, who’d banished his own friend, possessed any real honor?
Before she could ponder the question as it deserved, he turned away from her. The firelight washed over his naked back as he moved. She saw—
Och, heavens, such a wound!
They had known of it, to be sure. They’d seen him take that arrow in his back at their gate. Seen him carried away by his men. Had speculated over the damage and hoped he would die.
Aye, she’d hoped he would die—but known he hadn’t, when she’d Seen him in the Vision.
Eyeing the wound in his back, she did not understand how he was on his feet, let alone marching out to fight on the field.
A great, ugly thing it was, halfway down the lean, tapering expanse of his back. A dark hole, the flesh still torn around it. He wore it uncovered like some hideous badge of valor.
She could not keep from gasping.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. His black hair was long enough to brush his shoulders when he moved his head. His expression turned rueful.
“One o’ your archers marked me.”
How could he fight in such a condition? Even think of going to battle? No wonder he did not wear a sark when he could get away with it. Even light wool would weigh heavy against such a wound.
“I suppose ye hoped ye’d killed me?” He stood at a table against the far wall, where he poured some drink into a pair of mugs.
“We did.” Why should she lie about it? Simper or seek for favor? She would fight him to her last breath.
