*
Rory very nearlychoked on his aggravation as, sometime later, he retraced his steps back to his chamber. He felt beyond exasperated with the situation. Rhian MacBeith looked to prove troublesome, all too determined to fight on behalf of her sister. He did not understand how a strapping man like Leith could fail to keep her in line.
Of course, there was something to be admired in anyone who stepped forward to battle for her kin. Even if she fought only with a pair of furious blue eyes.
At his back walked a servant—an older woman—with a tray containing the prisoner’s breakfast. He would not be accused of mistreatment. Mistress Saerla would be provided the best his stronghold could offer.
His gaze met that of Seumas, who had been on guard all night. Seumas, an earnest young man, had expressive eyes, which he now rolled.
“All quiet?” Rory asked him.
“Aye, Chief Rory.”
Rory jerked his head. “Get ye off. Find someone to tak’ yer post.”
“Aye, chief. That woman—the one who was here before—she would ha’ gutted me if she had a weapon.”
Aye, so she would. Anger, as Rory knew, made a sharp enough weapon on its own.
He wondered what his reception by her wee sister would be when the door opened.
Ah, and was he afraid of a mere woman?
Chapter Twelve
She stood inthe very center of the chamber between Rory and the bed, and the sight of her stole his breath. He’d been picturing her all the night long as he’d last seen her, clad in a warrior’s leathers. But she’d stripped most of those away.
To be sure, she had.
Her hair—
Her hair!
He’d caught glimpses of her before on the field, when he’d not paused to think she could be a woman rather than a lad. He’d had her once before in his very hands. And they’d brought her all the way across the loch from MacBeith yesterday. Unconscious, she’d been then.
He’d never seen her like this, her form looking small and vulnerable, her hair a cloud on her shoulders.
Such hair!
Aye, her sister, Rhian, had a crop of it, all dark red and wild with curl. From what he’d seen of her, she kept it mostly confined and plaited.
This…
It made a halo around Saerla MacBeith’s face, red-gold, shining like something precious, lit by the sun coming through the slit window behind her. He’d never seen such hair, that a man could get lost in if he took her to his bed of a night.
And her face—strong with determination and resolve not to let him cow her. Yet delicate at the same time, with a point tothe chin, wide eyes, and lips the color of rosebuds. He wondered what color her eyes were. He had not yet been near enough to see.
All the things he’d meant to say flew out of his head. He said instead, “So ye think me a monster, do ye?”
Her gaze met his. The pointed chin flew upward. “Aye.”
The serving woman walked past Rory and set the tray on the table. She went out without a word, shutting the oak panel behind her.
“Wha’ sort o’ monster am I? A kelpie? A sea serpent?”
“Nay. I ha’ always imagined kelpies as being pleasant for the most part.”
“I am no’ pleasant.”
