“I am no’ so easy to kill as all that.”
The wound in his back did not look easy. Saerla did not say so.
He crossed back to the bed and extended one of the cups across it. “Here.”
When she remained where she was, arms wrapped tight, he said, “’Tis no’ poisoned. See?” He drank from the second mug thirstily, draining it dry.
She accepted her mug, sure not to let her fingers touch his.
The monster offered her hospitality. She needed to go carefully and accept it. For she lay in his power, much as she might detest the fact.
She took a cautious sip. Not ale. Something harsh that burned on its way down.
He went and refilled his cup, affording her another look at his back.
What if she could get her hands on a weapon? Bung it in just there, where his back was torn.
Gods and spirits of the air, help me. Make me as strong as I need to be.
“I wish to see my sister.”
He spun around to face her.
“My sister, Rhian. She is here. With Leith.”
His lips tightened. “She is.” He strolled back to the bed. “Ye do no’ make demands, Mistress Saerla.”
Setting his mug aside, he sat on the far edge of the bed. Saerla’s alarm spiked.
“Ye will see yer sister. When ye deal honestly and readily wi’ me.”
What did that mean? What did he want from her, precisely? He said he did not intend to ravish her—and despite that accursed Vision, she wanted to believe him. To trade her, then—for what?
She lifted her chin. “I am an honest woman.”
“That is good to hear. If ye be also a careful and a prudent one, things will no’ go hard wi’ ye here.”
Saerla drew a breath. “Ye intend to hold permission for me to see my sister over me like a weapon?”
“I ha’ said ye will see your sister. But ye maun accept, Mistress Saerla, ye lie in my power now, and that it will happen only by my leave.”
Saerla wanted to spit. She wanted to hurt him enough to wipe the confident smirk from his face. She wanted the return of her dirk so she might, aye, plunge it into that hole in his back and take him down.
Instead, she met his gaze head-on. “We ha’ heard much about ye, Rory MacLeod, from Farlan. From your cousin, Leith.Dire stories that support what your actions cry aloud. Ruthless. Wi’out mercy. Stubborn. I ha’ to say now, the truth o’ ye proves all that and more. That the gods should let such a man as ye draw breath is an abomination.”
Once more he leaned toward her. “The gods ha’ naught to do wi’ it.”
Saerla’s eyes narrowed. “Are ye certain o’ that? Because for all your efforts, Master MacLeod, ye ha’ no’ succeeded in overthrowing us. MacBeith still stands strong.”
He lifted wicked black brows. “All that will change now that I ha’ ye in my hands. Ask yoursel’, Mistress Saerla—wha’ will your sister no’ do to get ye back safe again?”
Aye, that very question had been swirling through Saerla’s mind. Moira was a clever and careful woman. One who almost always put MacBeith first.
She had let her emotions get the better of her when it came to Farlan. In this situation, would she do so again?
Saerla closed her eyes and whispered a swift prayer.Do no’ do anything foolish, sister. Because MacBeith is far more important than me.
When she reopened her eyes, Rory MacLeod still watched her, his gaze hard and a whit curious. Softly, in almost a croon, he said, “Ye will see your sister if—and when—I say. Do no’ try to escape. The door will be barred, and ’twill be the worse for ye, if ye try.”
