Chapter Nineteen
Beyond the windowit rained in a torrent, rendering even Saerla’s narrow view nothing more than a blur. She could feel, though, that something had happened out there. Something beyond the torrents of rain. The very air of the place had shifted and quickened.
She’d had little sleep. When she did fall into slumber, she dreamed of battle, of chaos, of darkness and despair. It did not bode well for this new day that might bring so much change.
Her release. Rory MacLeod’s death—by her hand.
Had Moira replied to his letter? Had she decided on some mad scheme of rescue instead? Saerla prayed that someone would come and tell her.
But no one came. No guard or servant bringing breakfast. Not Rhian. Not Rory himself. Her prayers, increasingly desperate, dangled like ribbons in the wind.
Beyond the window, the rain continued to fall, and the air coming in grew chilly.
She spoke to them, those spirits of the air drifting in.Bring me knowledge. She spoke to the spirits of the fire when she kindled it, thinking of her ma all the while, and her sister, Rhian.Bring me action.I canna stand being trapped here. She spoke to the droplets of rain that flung themselves through the window.Let me accept whatever my fate may be, and let wisdom flow to me. She spoke to the stone itself, the walls of herprison.Root me in my faith, my strength. Let me believe that where’er I am, my spirit is home.
When she finished, she felt stronger. She might be far distant, aye, from the standing stones upon the rise and the magic that dwelt within them. But there might well be a worthy cause. For here, she began to learn that the magic dwelt within her. It abided like a steady light wherever she might be.
*
Rory went withLeith and two guards, all of them thoroughly miserable before they’d made a hundred strides. When it chose to rain in Glen Bronach, by God it rained. The hills wept, silver tears flowing down. The sky threw sharp daggers that pricked the skin. Rory’s hair, fully beaten, clung to his skull and water sluiced down his back inside his clothing. His boots squelched with every step.
They did not attempt to speak to one another over the crash of raindrops. He had a feeling—a bad feeling—that a horde of MacBeith warriors would follow their returning party, bent upon attack. And here was he with but his sword, two warriors, and a man who could barely hold a weapon well enough to fight.
He hoped he had not made a fatal mistake. He did not know Moira MacBeith, but he’d met her two sisters. Strong women. Extraordinary women. If she was anything like them…
To be sure, she must be. She’d stepped into the place of chief. She’d won Farlan’s heart.
After the death of Farlan’s young wife, Ainsley, Rory had not thought his friend would ever mate with another woman. Ainsley had been Leith’s sister, and so Rory’s cousin—a bright, luminescent lass who, like her brother, loved to laugh and brought beauty to the world. Almost too young to wed she’d beenwhen they joined in marriage. Too young, as it proved, to safely bear a child.
Farlan had been devastated when she died, and the wee lad with her. Rory had never seen his friend so, and for a time had not thought he would survive the loss. He’d never believed Farlan would open himself to its like again.
Now, walking through the rain, Rory wondered: what if it came to battle? What if he, Rory, faced not Farlan but this Moira MacBeith and slew her? What if he took from Farlan his second chance at love?
Love. Och, had he not assured himself he gave no credit to that notion?
Farlan did. He’d sacrificed everything to be with this woman. For the first time, Rory, marching through the rain, considered the courage of that. Not that Farlan had defied Rory, but that he’d found the fortitude to take a chance and risk his heart again.
Rory swore bitterly. Deep down, he still cared about Farlan. He did not want to, but—
They reached the loch and halted. He would wait here and let the party row across to him, using the tiny boat they’d taken yesterday. He would not relish the task of rowing the distance in this downpour.
It took so long that he began to fear the party had been lost out on the wild water. That they’d overturned and drowned. He could not display his uncertainty to his companions, and stood like a rock, the rain pelting his face.
Clouds rolled across the loch toward them. No small party came out of those clouds. By God, an entire army might erupt from cover, and here he stood like a fool.
He was about to give an order for retreat when a creaking of oars reached his ear. The boat appeared with three men aboard. Rory and his companions ran to the shore and hauled the vessel from the water.
Rory swiftly inspected his men, who looked half drowned. Two of his younger warriors, dependable men Murgor had chosen, and a slightly older warrior.
“Where is Kevan?” he shouted against the rain. It had been Kevan whom he’d entrusted with the letter.
Bodach shook his head, gestured with his hands. Despair lay in his eyes. “They kept him.”
“Eh?” Rory’s heart fell. Aye, he had expected this when they spied only three men returning. He’d hoped he was wrong. For this—Moira MacBeith keeping back a hostage—meant she had not agreed to his terms.
“Wha’ happened?”
“He is alive,” Bodach yelled. “I ha’ a letter.” He gestured to his jerkin.
