“Nay. Ye be a boogeyman.”
“Why that?”
“They love to frighten people. Those weaker than themselves.”
Something within Rory sank with dismay. It could not possibly be his heart. Did she think he would hurt her and take pleasure in it?
“Would a monster bring ye breakfast?” He nodded at the table.
“I do no’ want your food. I wish to see my sister.”
“All in good time.”
“Another healer, then.”
He stiffened. “Are ye indeed hurt?”
She turned and showed him the back of her head, matted with blood.
“Ye told me last night—ye told yer sister this morning—ye were no’ hurt.”
“I did no’ ken how bad it was till I stripped off the helm. And then I did no’ wish to worry Rhian more than she already was. She—” Saerla broke off suddenly.
Rory lifted an eyebrow.
“She was already upset enough.”
Rory drew a breath. He remembered the small whirlwind of a warrior flying at him on the field, trying to cut him down. He remembered her being clubbed by one of his men. Unconscious after.
Yet—she was on her feet. Talking to him. Making sense.
“I will fetch you a healer. Is there aught else ye need?” He let his gaze trail down over her. She wore a lad’s leggings that defined her slim legs in a way that no respectable woman would condone, and a soft woolen sark not unlike his own, which hung loose. “Clothing, mayhap?” A woman’s clothing, he meant. What a decent woman would wear, though—he sensed she was decent to her soul.
“Nay.”
“Please.” He gave her a bow as if she were a grand lady. “Eat your breakfast.”
He went out and barred the door from the outside, then leaned against it for a moment. What had that been? He did not understand his own reaction to this woman. She was a bonny wee thing, aye. But just a woman.
Still, he should have made certain last night that the blow to the head had done no real damage.
He wondered which of the healers he should fetch. Bann, who had treated him, was heavy-handed, as Rory could attest. To be sure, most of their men were heavy-handed.
There were the midwives who treated the women in labor. That would not do.
There was Saerla’s sister.
He scowled to himself, still leaning against the door. He did not want to give in and let Rhian MacBeith have her way. If he did, there would be no end to the demands she thought she could make.
Nor did he want to think of Bann’s hands in Saerla’s hair.
With a grunt, he went off to his cousin’s quarters.
Rhian was on her feet and pacing when Rory reached Leith’s door. She did not appear quite as angry as she had earlier, but when her gaze lit on Rory, the hate came pure and strong.
Leith shot her a glance before he turned to Rory. Indeed, Rory hoped he’d had words with his woman when they returned home. The scene outside his bedchamber had been unacceptable.
“Wha’ d’ye want?” asked Leith, not looking particularly happy to see him.
