“Nay, do no’ tak’ it out now.” It would be unreadable. “Let us get back. There is no’ an army on your heels?”
Bodach shook his head once more.
“Then let us get awa’ inside.”
*
The fire inthe hearth of his study felt better than anything had in a long time. He sent the two younger warriors off to change into dry clothing and rest. He could see that none of them had slept during their night at MacBeith.
He, Bodach, and Leith stripped down to their sarks and leggings there in his study before he poured drams all round.
Bodach, in the doing, dug out the paper he’d carried and spread it on the table. Though it was only damp and not soaking, the ink had started to run.
Remembering the first letter he’d received after Farlan’s capture, Rory glanced at it and froze. Farlan—already a traitorto him—had written that first missive. And this one also. Rory recognized his hand.
They’d spent countless hours together when young beneath the tutelage of a man called Crallan. He’d been a right bastard who liked to smack a lad’s fingers with a stick when the student grew restless. Which Rory always had. It was hard to write well with fingers that stung. But Rory’s father had believed it important for a man, and especially a chief, to be able to read and write well.
Now, despite the blur lent by the rain, Farlan’s letters jumped up at him from the page. He knew Moira could also write—unusual in a woman. Perhaps Farlan’s characters were neater. Or perhaps she’d had him write this to send a message that she and Rory’s former friend stood united in this stance they took.
Bending over the table, with his hair dripping water upon it, he puzzled through the message. Dismay, like a rock, weighted his chest as he read. He thrust the wet hair back from his face and read it over again.
“Well?” Leith asked, all too evidently on edge.
“The chief o’ Clan MacBeith has rejected my terms for the return o’ her sister. She offers me a trade o’ the captive she now holds, instead.”
Chapter Twenty
Anger, as Rorywell knew, could make a man do foolish things. Cause him to react from his gut rather than his head. Speak words he ought to keep back. Make threats he did not want to carry out.
Such anger had always been a fault of his, one his father had pointed out to him many times. He’d fought the tendency to follow his anger with haste all his life. As a man grown, he believed he’d come a long way toward conquering it.
But now, gazing at the letter spread upon the table, anger flared up, searing his insides. Curse the woman! He’d been so close, so close to what he desired—possession of the whole glen. Given the affection among the three sisters MacBeith, he’d been certain Moira would do anything—anything—to win her sister’s freedom.
Including ceding to him all her holdings.
How dare she leave Saerla in his hands, where he might do anything to her? Cruel imprisonment, starvation. Torture. Rape.
Nay, not that. He could not imagine sullying that beauty with any sort of violence.
He would never abuse a woman, any woman, unless it be on the battlefield. Moira, though, did not know that.
Unless Farlan had told her. Farlan, who knew him as well as he knew himself. He bared his teeth and growled in rage. He wanted to call up all his men and march out despite the accursed rain. He wanted to attack Moira MacBeith’s fortress and tear itto the ground stone by stone. Teach her what it meant to defy him.
Leith, standing behind him, edged forward. “Wha’ does it say?”
Bodach moved up also. Though he’d carried the message, he had not read it.
“The Chief MacBeith will no’ accept my terms.”
After two beats, Leith said, “She does no’ want Saerla back?”
He sounded as surprised as Rory felt. “Och, I am certain she does.” The decision could not have been an easy one. “She is no’ willing to trade awa’ her holdings to free her sister.”
Leith swore. “Then what?”
“She offers to trade us Kevan instead.”
“Och.” Bodach stared into Rory’s face with steady, dark eyes. “And, chief, will ye?”
