Like livestock.
Could he go into a marriage with the sole objective of breeding? Nay.
That arrow in his back could well have stolen his life. Naught but strength and determination had brought him out of that. He sat with his hands resting on the top of the desk, running possible mates through his mind.
There was Dairmid’s widow. What was her name? She had a lush body that promised sons. He had no time to waste on daughters.
Or Marchan’s sister. Peggy. Rory had caught her looking after him with interest more than once. Several women, come to think of it, looked at him that way. No doubt the place of wife to the chief held a certain attraction.
It would have to be a woman he could tolerate. One he would not balk at taking to his bed.
A sudden image arose, blazing through his mind. A cloud of red-gold hair, all wild. A slim, whipcord body. Already there in his bed.
He snorted again, a sound of disdain. He could scarcely have a worse idea. But she would not be gone from his mind, and he felt his body tighten.
It had been far too long since he’d had a woman, that was all. He could barely remember the last time. It did not do for the chief to walk out looking for a random female willing to relieve his need with no strings attached.
Anyway, he told himself harshly, Saerla MacBeith did not look suited to bearing sons. Too small by half. Those slender hips. The diminutive breasts that barely made a bump beneath the leather jerkin.
As if she’d ever have him. Welcome him onto her thighs. She hated him. He would be the last man on earth she—
A knock sounded on his door. He turned to it with relief. “Come awa’ in.”
His war chief, Murgor, rattled into the chamber. He looked like he’d come straight from the practice field and still wore his weapons.
“Aye? Wha’ is it?” Rory did not get up, wanting to conceal the physical condition that thoughts of Saerla MacBeith had prompted.
“Chief, several o’ the guards and others o’ the men ha’ come to me. They insist they’ve seen signs o’ muster over at MacBeith.”
That did make Rory swivel in his seat. “Did ye tak’ a look? Is it so?”
“Could be. I thought ye might want to come and look for yoursel’.” Murgor measured Rory with wise eyes. He had been a contemporary and good friend of Rory’s father, Camraith, and had served him well. The two men had fought together when young. Just like Rory and Farlan. But he pushed the thought of Farlan away hastily.
“D’ye think she will attack, this female chief MacBeith? ’Tis her sister ye hold, is it no’?”
“Aye.” He may not have time to send his letter. “She’ll want the sister back.”
“Ye mean to bargain over her?”
“Aye. Unless she attacks us first.”
“Come and see.”
Disciplining his body ruthlessly, Rory arose and followed his man.
Considerable excitement reigned on the walls where the best outlook over the glen might be found. A beautiful, clear day it was. Narrowing his eyes against the glare of sunlight, Rory could see movement near the stronghold situated across the loch and halfway up the opposite rise. Mustering for war? Then why be so obvious about it? Putting on a show? Aye, maybe.
Murgor took the place beside Rory and said softly, “She has ne’er attacked before, this woman chief.”
“Nay.” She defended, and defended well. Rory twitched, remembering the blinding pain of the arrow piercing his back.
“Mayhap she has no’ the mind for battle. Bein’ a woman and all. I mean to say, any woman will defend her home. Being bold enough to march out is a far different thing.”
“True.” Moira’s father, Iain, used to launch the occasional raid. Both he and Camraith had. Rory sensed it had been like a game to both men, an honorable contest without much animosity behind it. But men had died in those raids. Iain’s son, Arran, had. And spilled blood raised it all above the level of a game.
“She’ll want her sister.” Besides, she had Farlan at her side. Farlan knew how to launch an attack, if he put his mind to it. He knew how Rory thought and how he fought.
If Moira MacBeith attacked MacLeod, that turncoat could make a difference.
