“Ah. He is the most stubborn man I ha’ ever known. And he is angry. Angry at me for daring to turn my back on him. Angry that he has no’ been able to walk over MacBeith and defeat the clan he always considered so weak.” Farlan shook his head. “He will no’ give up.”
Saerla’s heart sank. “He wants revenge?”
“He wants revenge and he wants conquest. He wants victory and to be the cock o’ the walk here in Glen Bronach.”
“He—he sounds like a terrible bad person.”
Farlan shot her a close look. “He is no’. Not all bad, by any road. He has his faults, as do we all.”
Ah, and would Farlan still defend the man? After Rory had cast him off, deprived him of his very name?
“He appears to ha’ more faults than most.”
“Perhaps so. He was born ambitious. And ’tis difficult to ever convince him he is no’ in the right.”
Saerla snorted and asked what had been most on her mind. “How d’ye think he will treat Rhian?”
Farlan’s gaze softened. “He is ne’er harsh wi’ women.” His lips curled in a rueful smile. “Of course, he does no’ credit them wi’ much either. He has ne’er met women like the sisters MacBeith.”
He would meet her, Saerla. It had been foretold. Did she have the strength to endure such a meeting?
In the past, she’d defied her fears. She had taken the field when she was afraid. She’d sought Visions when she was afraid.She’d carried on without Ma. Without Arran. Without Da and now Rhian.
Why did the thought of facing a single boogeyman frighten her so?
Because she sensed he threatened all she held dear. All she was. The light she carried within.
The gods help her, she must be strong enough. Because if Rory MacLeod overthrew the magic of this place, it would destroy them all.
Chapter Three
Rory rolled fromhis bed with a groan. He no longer rose of a morning as he used to do, bounding up on a wave of vitality he could barely contain, eager for the day and all he might accomplish during it.
Too much had happened. Too many wounds, both emotional and physical, including this accursed one to his back.
He’d discovered if he trundled from the bed where he either slept far too deeply or not at all, the pain was less than if he flexed his back to stand. Very nearly bearable.
He straightened and breathed deeply, trying to discipline his agony. A young man, and one well used to having his body at his command, he rebelled at this. He needed to conquer it. This was merely pain.
A warrior suffered such as a matter of course. His body carried any number of scars, old and new. None like this.
The healers said he was fortunate to be alive. The arrow he’d taken in the back during that skirmish at MacBeith had been well placed and penetrated between two of his ribs, done some kind of damage to his lung that still made it hard to breathe. But the blow had missed his heart.
The damned arrow had turned as it went in so that when his men got him home and into the healers’ hands, the points had caught on his ribs and refused to come out again. The way he understood it—for he’d been half senseless then and raving with pain—they’d had to cut the thing out.
It had left a great, gaping hole in his back. An ugly one by all accounts. He, to be sure, could not see it himself, but he gathered much from the expressions on the faces of those who could.
He stood there beside his bed thinking about it, still trying to breathe. He slept wearing as little clothing as possible because clothing hurt. The room felt cold, as he rarely bothered with a fire at this season, and his skin pricked all over.
Nothing had gone right so far this year. First the death of his father. He still flinched inwardly at the thought of that. Camraith MacLeod had been a legend, a strong man and a wise chief who had somehow managed to combine a measure of mercy with his ability to lead.
Rory puffed out a breath. Mercy. It was for fools and weaklings.
Which did not mean he hadn’t admired his father. He had. And he missed him every day, even though they’d disagreed fundamentally on many matters.
Such as ownership of the glen.
Rory steeled himself, ignoring the pain, and stepped to the pile of clothing he’d discarded last night. He’d told Da, and told him again, that Clan MacLeod had business to finish here in Glen Bronach. Their ancestors’ business.
