She should not be able to shove him away. She had not been able to, during that Vision. He had the strength in plenty to keep her there, caught fast in his arms. Yet he let her go. Raised his hot mouth from hers, stumbled back a half step, and stared into her eyes.
They gazed into each other’s eyes, into each other’s souls.
She saw the young lad running with his friends on the green sward. The young man training at arms, his black hair gleaming in the sun. The young warrior, making promises to himself. The man kneeling at the bedside of his dying father.
She felt for him. Even though she did not want to, she did.
He drew a breath that expanded his chest. “Mistress Saerla—”
Her lips felt…not bruised, no, for he’d been too gentle for that. They felt softened, aquiver with the need to feel him again. She licked them tentatively to get the sensation under control, and his green eyes brightened, following the movement of her tongue.
She said softly and clearly, “Stay awa’ fro’ me.”
He lifted both his hands in a placating gesture and took another step backward. Saerla also backed away from him, toward the window.
It would not be now. Her Vision, so it seemed, would not come true now. They would not tangle together, limbs and tongues in helpless passion. Perhaps—so she prayed—not ever.
“My apologies,” he said, his voice rumbling through him. “That was—”
She could see the words moving in his eyes. His choices of words.Unforgivable. Irresistible. Magnificent.
“—unforgivable,” he said, choosing among them. One corner of his mouth twitched. “Even for a monster.”
“Ye will no’ win this battle,” she told him. “Ye will no’ best Moira. Ye will no’ possess MacBeith—nor me.”
“Will ye fight me, Saerla MacBeith? To the death?”
Only then did she remember the knife hidden in her pocket. She should have stabbed him when she had the chance, while he had her so close in his arms.
She had failed.
“If I must.”
“I will write back to yer sister. Tell her I do no’ find her offer acceptable.”
“And leave your man to his fate?”
“Kevan is a warrior and kens fine the risks o’ such an assignment. Besides”—he tossed his head—“wi’ the way things ha’ been, he will likely come home wi’ a woman in tow, to whom he will swear his undying love.”
“Do ye mock the emotion, Rory MacLeod?”
“Would ye no’ expect me to?”
Aye. She would expect him to mock it, spit upon it. And yet—there had been those threads of brightness inside him.
“Do no’ forget, mistress, I am a monster.”
He gave her an exaggerated parody of a bow, and left.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rory leaned againstthe wall outside his chamber and tried to catch his breath. No one lingered in the corridor beyond what had once been his own quarters. He’d sent the guard off. Another had not yet come to take his place. Others of the warriors had no call to be here anyway—in such weather as this they would most likely gather in their own hall, drinking ale and speculating over what he would do next.
Whatwouldhe do next?
He could not think. He could not think even though he must.
In the past, only anger had kept him from thinking clearly. And he’d succeeded for the most part in mastering his anger. It was not anger he felt toward mistress Saerla anyway.
