Rory whipped a look over Leith, up and down. “Ye do no’ want to tak’ me on.”
“Nor you, me.” Leith’s gaze had turned to steel.
Christ!It was madness. “I ha’ no quarrel wi’ ye, Leith.” Rory switched his gaze to Rhian. “Ye will be allowed to see your sister. When I say.”
Pure hate stared at him from her beautiful eyes.
“Ye will regret this, Rory MacLeod.”
He already did. But he sensed that Saerla MacBeith was important. Quite possibly the key to his ultimate victory. The one missing piece he’d needed all this while.
Kin of the MacBeith chief. A Seer. Beloved. Saerla MacBeith might allow him the leverage for which he longed. The outcome he owed his ancestors.
“Leave me,” he barked at Rhian.
“Rhian,” Leith said, “let us go. We will seek out your sister in the morning.”
“Aye, the morning,” Rory agreed. Anything to get rid of the woman now. He was weary to the bone—sick to death of the carping—and he hurt.
They left, Rhian directing one last glare at him that could have flayed flesh. He closed the door behind them and leaned against it.
He needed rest. If only that could be found by such a man as he.
Chapter Eleven
Saerla dozed fitfullyatop the comfortable bed, not quite able to give way to proper sleep. Every sound, whether it be a footstep in the hallway beyond the closed door or a log shifting in the fire, brought her sharply aware, sending alarm through her again.
She’d performed a search of the chamber after Rory departed. He had many possessions. Garments in the clothespress. Boots tossed against the wall. Books and a jumble of empty flasks. The table held several sheets of foolscap with scribbles on them. The man had terrible handwriting that she could not puzzle through.
He was not particularly neat, but he was careful. She’d begun to despair of finding any weapon—her own having been stripped from her upon capture—until she rifled through a chest at the foot of the bed. There she found more garments, one with something hard concealed in its folds. A pocket contained a sgian dubh.
It now rested in the pocket of her own sark, and her fingers frequently revisited the antler bone handle for reassurance. She’d peeled off most of her leathers, dragging the helm from her head and unbraiding the bloodied hair, mostly for the sake of comfort.
Comfort, however, did not ensue. It resided at MacBeith, the stronghold she knew so well. It dwelt on the rise above the keep, with the standing stones where she so often sought refuge.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was there.
She dozed and dozed again.
She thought of those at home worrying about her. Moira would be frantic for her safety and wild to get her back.
Would she be so foolish as to launch an attack against Rory MacLeod’s stronghold? Moira, a born defender, rarely took such a step. Indeed, nor had Da. The only time MacBeith raided MacLeod was in an effort to get back their stolen cattle, and mayhap a few extra head.
She was no cow. But, aye, Moira would be mad to try to take her back.
And what of Alasdair? The big man had been sore hurt in the fight that saw Leith traded away. A strong bond existed between her and Alasdair. What if her capture caused him to rise from his bed before time? What if that, in turn, cost him his life? Alasdair was only slightly less than a brother to her, but far more than a friend. Being the cause of further harm to him would pain her beyond bearing.
Would he blame himself for her capture? Alasdair never said much, but he did tend to hold himself responsible when a battle went awry. Regret might be enough to make him take a risk he should not—not only arise from his bed and march out, but challenge Rory to single combat.
Alasdair, aye, was a mountain of a man. He rarely showed distress. That did not mean he failed to experience it, and the wound he’d taken to the gut had very nearly killed him.
She thought again of the man who’d stood before her in this very chamber, half-naked. An impressive specimen of a man, also, was Rory MacLeod. He did not have Alasdair’s size. Few men did, though Rhian’s Leith came close. And he too bore a terrible wound. But Rory’s body looked like a weapon, honedand shaped for one purpose. Saerla had seen the man fight on the field. Lethal.
Ah, but she was creating fantasies in her head, scenes and situations that might never come about. Even the terrible Vision might never come true. Destiny presented possible paths, as she well knew. It was up to her to choose the way.
Still, she shivered where she lay, shivered with dread, and let her fingers brush the handle of the sgian dubh once more. She dozed and then roused to a furious pounding on the door, accompanied by raised voices.
She was on her feet without knowing how she’d gotten there. Because she knew one of those voices full well.
