He made a face, looking at the fire and not at her. “Only that she cede all MacBeith lands to me.”
“Och! I could ha’ told ye she would no’ agree. Even if she wanted to do that—which she would no’—Alasdair would no’ let her. The council would no’.”
“Council?” He shot her a narrow look out of those brilliant green eyes. “Is her power no’ absolute?”
“Like to yours, ye mean? Nay. She is a woman. The council, old men and some younger who were close to my father, do no’ trust her yet.”
“Yer father—Iain MacBeith.”
“Aye. Your scheme will no’ work. Did she mak’ ye a counteroffer?”
“Aye, to exchange one o’ my men—one of the messengers I sent and she has taken prisoner—for ye.”
Saerla wanted to laugh but did not. “A messenger who is no’ important to ye.”
“He is important. Just—”
“No’ important enough. Ye will leave him there to die.” She meant it as a simple statement, not as a condemnation of him, but he took it for the latter. Turning from the fire, he stepped up to her.
“Is that wha’ ye think o’ me, Saerla MacBeith? That I value those who are loyal to me so little?”
Somehow she forced herself to meet his gaze. Since he was nearly a head taller than her, she had to tip up her head to do so. A wealth of emotions swam in the green eyes, clear for her to see. Outrage. Indignation. Anger.
Desire?
Nay. Her heart began to pound.Not that.
“Aye,” she said softly. “’Tis all about loyalty wi’ ye, is it no’? That is what made ye cast Farlan off. Or so ye claim. I think ’tis arrogance instead. Ye just canna stand to be crossed.”
His lips parted, but he said nothing.
“Now my sister has crossed ye. She has dared. If ye want to kill me in retaliation—to cause her pain—go ahead.”
“I do no’ want to kill ye.”
“Why no’? ’Tis what a bully would do, and that is what ye are. A bully. A—”
“Monster. Aye, I ken ’tis what ye think o’ me. But I do no’ want to kill ye.” He shook his head. Water droplets flew. “I want—”
His hand snaked out and caught the back of her neck. It happened so swiftly that she had no time to reach for the knife in her pocket or otherwise resist.
She saw the flare of desire in his eyes then—clear and bright—and expected him to be rough, violent. To bruise and hurt and harm. Instead, he drew her to him gently, with infinite care, brought her body up against his and bent his head.
She had barely time to draw a breath before his mouth claimed hers. Again, she might have expected—feared—brutality. But his lips were soft, questing. They teased hers, tasted them. Feathered a touch and asked a question.
Her lips wanted to answer his. She could not allow it.
But oh,ohthe sensations that tumbled through her, not all of them purely physical. She could feel him, aye, his body damp and incredibly hard pressed against hers. She could smell him—the sharp scent of the rain and wet wool and something else beneath the both that wooed her.Wooed her. She could taste him when those soft, questing lips urged hers apart and he entered her mouth, breaching defenses she’d never meant to let fall.
More than that, though, she felt the tangle, the swirl of emotions that filled him. Dark emotions—anger and regret. Iron-fast determination. Flaming ruthlessness. A thread of light woven through it all, sparkling like dew on a spider’s web.
All of it drew her unexpectedly. The light within him, faint as it might be, called to the light inside her, a wealth of light, and had it rearing up. Was this desire? For him?
Nay, and nay.
’Twas instead her Vision come to life. Rory MacLeod overpowering her. Taking her. Making her his own.
Panic arose, overwhelming all other emotion. Bright and hard as the stones at the top of the rise back home, it surrounded her. She placed her palms against his chest and shoved.
