“I do no’ believe in such things.” He’d not meant to say that either.
She lifted her brows again. “I am no’ surprised. It takes faith to believe. And it takes, in turn, belief in somewhat greater than onesel’ to ha’ faith. Ye clearly heed only yoursel’.”
He felt as if he’d been cut to the bone, so sharp and complete was her disdain. It seemed she had pulled out a knife from somewhere and slashed him deep.
“Ye suppose ye know me, do ye?”
“Your every action has taught us what ye are. Bent upon your own goals and no’ caring who gets trampled on your way. Even your best friend receives no notice from ye. ’Tis all about what ye want.”
“Farlan is a traitor.”
“He is a fine man, as I ha’ had the opportunity to learn full well. He has made a choice for reason, for mercy, and for love. It is a strong choice.”
“Love,” Rory scoffed. So she admired Farlan, did she? And despisedhim.
“To be sure,” she scoffed in return, “ye would no’ credit such a soft emotion. Yet, Master MacLeod, ’tis the strongest force on earth.”
Aye, mad she was. A typical woman, prating about emotions. If he gave her half a chance, he wagered she’d speak about magic also.
“No’ so strong,” he told her, “that it canna be put to the sword and vanquished by death.”
“Is that wha’ ye think? And wha’ makes ye suppose love does no’ continue beyond the grave?”
Frustrated and impatient, he met her gaze. In her eyes he saw…
The swirl of mist on the shoulders of the mountains. The glitter of hoar frost on a winter’s morning. The slant of light streaming down the glen.Eternity.
He backed up a step and growled, “I ha’ no time for this nonsense. Prepare yoursel’ to leave here. I expect your sister’s reply by morning.”
“Och, I shall just pack up all my belongings, shall I?” One eyebrow lifted this time.
Rory MacLeod, who never ran from anything, backed out of the chamber. She thought him a fool.
For the first time in his entire life, he conceded it. Perhaps he was.
Chapter Seventeen
“He says Moirawill reply to his demands by tomorrow, Rhian. He sounded verra sure o’ it. Wha’ might those demands be?”
The hour had grown late, and Rhian had come to tend Saerla before retiring to bed. Beyond the slit of a window, the soft gloaming had settled. Clear summer air trickled in, smelling sweetly of the far hills.
Rhian had lit a taper in order to examine Saerla’s head wound. Her hands, parting the red-gold hair, were gentle.
“I do no’ ken. I think Leith may know, but he will no speak o’ it to me.”
“Can ye no’ persuade him? I ha’ a terrible bad feeling about it.”
“Ha’ ye Seen—”
“Nay. No’ that.” Saerla frowned. “I had a dream about when we were all small. The first Vision I ever received.”
Rhian said nothing. She understood the vagaries of the Sight, how it might be sued but never controlled.
“Moira must be half out o’ her mind, wi’ me gone.”
“Aye.”
“Rhian.” Saerla turned to face her sister. “I fear him. I fear Rory MacLeod.”
