She closed her eyes for an instant and called upon the spirits.I pray thee, give me the strength to do as I must.
“Am I hurting ye, my dear one?” Rhian asked softly. “I am almost done.”
“’Tis naught I canna bear.”
A woman could bear much, if she loved.
*
Rory paced theforecourt with doubt and determination warring in his mind. He could not help believing it had been a poor idea, a very poor idea, to let the two sisters unite. But what else could he have done? Saerla needed her wound tended. And he could not let his heavy-handed healers, used to treating rough warriors, near her.
He intended to send her back to MacBeith, to be sure he did. But he would be certain to get a high price for her.
He must set things in motion. Moira MacBeith was fond of writing letters. She’d even called upon Farlan to do so when she held him prisoner. So aye, Rory would write to her now. Lay out for her on the parchment just what she would have to do in order to save her sister’s life.
He must do that, aye. Go and write the letter. Get shed of Saerla before the two of them, MacBeith’s daughters, had a chance to scheme together.
To be sure, Moira would want her sister back. Such an exquisite wee thing with so much… Well, and he could not come up with a word for what he saw when he gazed at Saerla. Wisdom, perhaps. An uncanny sort of knowledge.
The wordmagicpresented itself to his mind, but he dismissed it with scorn. A woman might carry many things. Hatred, for he saw that aplenty in Saerla’s eyes. Spite. Anger. Disdain. Compassion. Love. Magic was a far cry from any of those.
On the other hand…
She was supposed to be a Seer, was she not? So Leith had said. Rory wondered if she’d foreseen her own fate. Had she known she’d be captured during that battle? If so, why had she taken the field?
Had she known she would be brought here? That she would end in his hands?
In his hands.
He snorted. It was nonsense, all of it. He’d do much better to go and write his letter. Keep away from the woman. Turn his thoughts from her.
And keep his eye on the prize.
Chapter Fourteen
Rory labored longover his letter, there alone in his study, wanting to get the words of demand just right. He would offer Moira—and that traitor who stood at her side—no options. It would be done this very summer, the matter of who ruled Glen Bronach.
It had been a favorable fate, after all, that brought Saerla MacBeith to him, and a stab wound from her wee dirk a small price to pay. No doubt, though, she’d been aiming for his throat.
And if she’d succeeded there on the field? If she had killed him?
Chances were slim, but it did make a man think. Life could prove fragile. That meant he needed an heir other than his cousin, Leith.
Fond as he was of Leith—and aye, he was tremendously fond of him—he could not say his cousin would make a strong or suitable chief to follow him. Canny as Leith was, and fit as he used to be on the battlefield before his injury, he did not have the steel in his backbone needed to make a strong chief. Just look at how he let that woman of his lead him by the nose.
How could any man who could not render a woman obedient lead a clan?
He, Rory, needed to get himself a son.
Still staring at the letter on the table in front of him, he sneered. A terrible thing for a man of only a score and six years—seven soon, for it was very nearly his birthday—to have to face his own mortality.
Still more terrible to consider entering into marriage with a woman for the sole purpose of assuring the succession.
He had no time for it. Worse, he had no interest. A woman must be wooed. Paid attention to. Even if he’d had the time, he had not the patience.
Still.
There were plenty of single women here at MacLeod. The fighting assured it. Some, widowed already, had bairns that proved they were able to bear.
