The party of messengers he’d sent out had not returned. That might be a good thing. They could be awaiting Moira MacBeith’s decision, which she would send back with them this morning.
Or they could be dead.
“We think they are still mustering, aye.” Murgor leaned on the battlements beside Rory. “The men caught glimpses o’ movement overnight. O’ course, it may be anything.”
Rory narrowed his eyes and grunted in frustration. The man on watch beside him, named Alec, gave him a sharp glance. Alec had been a particular friend of Farlan’s. He’d been markedly cool toward Rory since Rory dismissed Farlan as he had.
Banished him from the clan.
“Why,” Rory muttered more to himself than to the two men who flanked him, “would she continue to muster when her reply to me may make it unnecessary?”
Neither man replied, though Alec shifted uneasily. Moira would continue to muster if she meant to reject his offer. If the party he’d sent was dead.
If that were her answer. Hers, or Farlan’s? Farlan stood at the woman’s side. Did he want to retaliate against Rory? Would he bargain away scores of lives to do so?
Rory did not think he would. Despite the breach between them, he knew Farlan. None better. A reasoned, careful man he was, not the sort to give in to the lure and heat of revenge. At least, he never had been.
For an instant, a stab of longing, mixed liberally with regret, pierced Rory’s heart. There had been strong comfort in sitting with Farlan over a flagon of ale and discussing the future. Talking over battle strategies and eventualities. Farlan had balanced him well, the calm against the desire to act out of hand. Would he do the same for Moira?
It did not matter. For those days of companionship were long gone. And he, Rory MacLeod, was a man who did act out of revenge.
“’Tis set to rain,” said Murgor morosely. “’Tis hard to see aught that is going on.”
To be sure, heavy clouds lowered over the glen, obscuring the tops of the hills and blending with the gray morning. In the distance, toward the sea, Rory could see a curtain of rain that would all too soon sail down the loch and move in upon them.
Would she use the cover, the obscurity of the rain, to attack? Would Farlan?
“Is there no way,” Alec asked, “to avoid more war?”
Rory glanced at him in surprise. He’d had no idea the man harbored such feelings. It made him wonder what other warriors felt. Of course, Alec was not other warriors. Likely he did not relish meeting his friend on the field.
Nor did Rory, truth be told. It had not happened yet. But if he found himself facing Farlan in a battle, if it came to kill or be killed, could he do what needed to be done?
Aye, indeed. He was Chief MacLeod. He could not allow himself to falter.
“Any sign o’ our party returning?” he asked.
“Nay,” Murgor grunted. “No’ that I can see.”
“If she sends a message, if she replies as she aught,” Rory said to Alec, “’twill mean an end to the battles.” Oh, there would be pockets of resistance when he and his men moved in to take over MacBeith. Soon quelled.
Despite the heavy cloud, the morning grew stronger around them. It was a leaden sort of light that turned the loch to steel feathered over with white foam.
“There,” Alec said suddenly. “Is that our party moving out?”
Rory, his muscles bunched as he gripped the battlement and leaned out dangerously far over the stone, squinted. “Maybe. Only three o’ them.”
“Mayhap she keeps one o’ our men back as hostage?”
Rory huffed impatiently. He did not want to play at games sending messages back and forth. He wanted this done.
He wanted Saerla MacBeith out of his keep, if only for his own peace of mind.
They watched the tiny figures of the party moving slow as ants from the distance, set out from MacBeith toward the loch. Three of them, aye, when he had sent four. Before they had gone far, the skies opened and a deluge descended.
Rory swore bitterly. “Muster the men,” he told Murgor. They would not be happy about it. “We will stand in readiness. I will march out to meet our party.”
“D’ye want for me to go wi’ ye, chief?”
