She’d also Seen Rory MacLeod. In a Vision.
She walked toward the ring of stones, which, as she approached them, towered over her. She was the tiniest of MacBeith’s three daughters, and the stones had the height of nearly two men. Some of them had lintels, and formed doorways.
Saerla walked through the nearest of these. Mist frequently collected here, especially so early in the day. It moved about in wisps like trailing spirits. She fancied they greeted her now as she stepped into the heart of the magic.
“Accept me, your daughter.”
Softness gathered around her, welcoming. It did not help her mood. The dread inside her expanded.
She wanted to push away the memory of that Vision. But that was the thing about the Sight—it came when it chose. Showed you what it chose. When it did, the images were impossible to chase away.
When first she received this particular Vision, she hadn’t been certain about the identity of the man she Saw within it. She’d caught glimpses of Rory MacLeod, aye, in battle. But a madman swinging a sword was a far cry from one looking a woman straight in the eyes. With anger. With longing. With demand.
I want ye, Saerla MacBeith. Ye will be mine.
Nay, she would not. Not if she had to wield a sword or magic in order to prevent it. Not if it meant her life.
But she, a Seer to the bone, believed the Vision. And it had answered a question they’d needed to know at the time—whether, following a grave injury, their enemy, Rory MacLeod, yet lived.
He did. The bastard had survived an arrow straight to his back. He would continue to beleaguer them.
She walked to the center of the stone circle and knelt down. She had told no one about that Vision—och, she’d told them, of course, that Rory MacLeod still lived. Nothing more. But she feared—she feared she must fall into his hands. Into his power. So she brought the dread here, hoping for a measure of reassurance. Of peace.
She bent her head and let the strong morning light beat against her closed eyelids. The power around her, carried in the mist, began to swirl. She fought to discipline herself, her thoughts and her fears. To open the door that would let the light, and the Vision, flow through.
It came suddenly and with a force that nearly knocked her back off her heels. Darkness. Noise. The crashing of arms. Oh God, oh God, it was a battle. And he was near. He was near. She could feel him.
Fear, pure and strong, poured through her, a fear such as she’d seldom experienced. It chased all the breath from her body and sent her mind spinning into a vortex of terror.
Help me. Help me!
Everything stilled. The scene before her inner eye changed abruptly. She saw him again.
He stood before her. A big man he was, a good head taller than Saerla and with broad shoulders. A warrior’s body clad in MacLeod tartan. They were in a chamber, one she did not recognize, with stone walls and rushes underfoot. A fire flickered low in a hearth, shedding red light over him, offering her the clearest sight of him since the battlefield.
Black,blackhair worn long. He must tie it back in battle, for she’d not noticed that before. A face made of all sharp angles. A severe countenance that displayed no mercy. Lips held tight. Green eyes that glittered like hard gems.
Everything within Saerla tightened. She wanted to run. To hide. No refuge from that gaze.
“I hate ye, Rory MacLeod,” she told him.
He smiled.
Chapter Two
Saerla went firstto seek out her sister Moira and found her in company with her lover, Farlan MacLeod.
Farlan, a big man with a mane of rich brown hair and thoughtful brown eyes, had become a steady if quiet presence in their lives. He did not say much, did Farlan, in company, though Saerla figured he must share his opinions with Moira in private. Whatever thoughts he had, he kept to himself. He knew he was hated here at MacBeith. The enemy. The cuckoo in the nest, as their war chief, Alasdair, put it.
Farlan was detested and mistrusted and had been beaten near death back before he and Moira joined forces. He bore all that for Moira’s sake.
Saerla could not say she disliked Farlan. Indeed, in different circumstances, she might have felt respect and even liking for him. But Moira was now her only available sister. And he took up Moira’s time.
She found them having breakfast together in the chief’s quarters, which Moira had taken over when she assumed that place following Da’s death. They had all too clearly just climbed from the rumpled bed.
It made Saerla uncomfortable. Aye, she’d had messages from Da’s spirit saying that Moira and Farlan were destined to be together. It still caused her to feel uneasy.
“Saerla? Ye are astir early.” Moira had a crop of bright red curls that she fought valiantly to discipline, usually to no avail,and dark blue eyes so like Da’s, it was uncanny. She was a strong woman who battled with a sword like a man, a born defender, and it still surprised Saerla she had opened herself as she had to a man.
