The rain hadabated from a deluge to a steady downpour when Rory walked upstairs to his chamber. The young guard standing outside the door looked on edge.
As was everyone.
“Go on wi’ ye,” Rory bade him. “Get somewhat to eat.”
He wanted to burst into the chamber. To rail at Saerla about her sister’s refusal to behave as he desired. To make her tell him the weak point in Moira’s armor where he might insert his sword.
He could not do that. She was a woman and, since she was not at present on the field, defenseless.
He hauled hard on his anger and aggravation and rapped at the door. “Mistress MacBeith, ’tis I, Rory MacLeod. May I enter?”
She must be half mad with wondering. She would let him in.
It took a moment, though, before he heard her reply. “Come awa’ in.”
He lifted the bar from the door. Entered the chamber.
She had lit a fire in the hearth, and welcome warmth met him. He still stood damp in his sark and leggings, his hair dripping. Beyond the narrow window, rain continued to fall, filling the space with echoed sound. Within the chamber…
Och. He’d expected to find her as he’d last seen her, clad in the remnants of her battered leathers. Instead, she wore a woman’s clothing. A pale gray gown loosely belted at the waist, the hem dragging on the floor. A shawl he thought he’d seen Rhian wearing, wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair…
Her hair hung loose, a cloud of red-gold around her face that spilled down her back to her narrow waist. Her eyes, as she faced him, seemed to glow in defiance of the weather outside, with their own light.
She lit the place, she did, filled it with more brightness than the fire.
He’d never before seen her dressed as her sex ordained. Her beauty made him humble.Damn it!Her beauty, along with her bearing, made him want to fall to his knees at her feet, an impulse he’d never in his life entertained.
He stopped where he stood. All the words he’d meant to say flew from his head. He could do naught but gaze at her while sensations, rather than thoughts, tumbled through him.
She lifted her chin. He tried to remember what she reminded him of standing there so, some figure out of the stories his old tutor had made him, Farlan, and Leith read. A queen out of a fairy hill, maybe.
Though, to be sure, he did not believe in such beings. No more than he believed in love.
“Wha’ is it?” She drew a breath that lifted her bosom. “Ye ha’ news for me?”
“Aye. Your sister has refused my offer to ransom ye for return to MacBeith. I regret to say ye will no’ be going home.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Refusal. Moira hadrefused to ransom her. Saerla fought against the despair and disappointment caused by that news and battled to understand.
Aye, she’d known it might be so. If Rory MacLeod asked too much, Moira would have no choice but to refuse.
’Twas her fate to be here at this time, in this place. To take hold of all her courage and end Rory’s life.
She eyed him up and down. He had quite obviously been out in the rain. His boots still sopped with wet, and the rest of his clothing, a sark and leggings, clung to him.
She’d seen him in less.
His hair—it clung to his head, sopping, dripping onto his shoulders. She would no sooner touch him than she would a dangerous asp, yet her fingers twitched with the desire to smooth that hair away from his angular face.
She would have to touch him if she meant to put an end to his life. Get close to him. Close enough to sink her blade into his flesh.
His throat would be the likely place. She eyed it—a strong column with a pulse beating, visible to her gaze. He fought some strong emotion in coming here, did Rory MacLeod. Disappointment, maybe, that rivaled her own.
He strode in and closed the door behind him. Went to the fire and held out his hands.
“Wha’ did ye demand o’ her?” Saerla asked. “Wha’ in exchange for my return?”
