It was lust.
That thought shocked him. It had him pressing back against the wall like a man avoiding a blow. Surely not. She was the last sort of woman to attract him. The very last.
He went for women much more of her sister Rhian’s bent—lush-bodied women who promised successful childbearing.
A harsh wind might blow Saerla MacBeith away. Only, it hadn’t. She was strong,strong.
Strong enough to take the field with a sword in her hand.
Strong enough to defy him and call him a monster.
Again, he tried to discipline his emotions. Those that had possessed him when he held her in his arms. A staggering need to protect. Desire that ran like fire through his blood.
It ran through him yet.
He wanted—
He turned and stared at his door. He wanted to march back in there. Kiss her for a day and a night that lasted a month. Learn every part of her with his lips. Run his fingers through that wild mane of hair and gaze into her eyes and—
He must be mad. That thought came swiftly, followed by another. It must be some dark spell of magic.
That made him sneer at himself. He did not believe in spells of magic. Yet only look at the evidence. Farlan—practical, levelheaded Farlan, of all men—had gone to MacBeith a prisoner and come back so besotted with a woman that he surrendered his fealty and his birthright for her sake.
Leith—who, at his heart, had time for little but foolery and laughter—had fallen with a terrible injury and then fallen again for the woman who cared for him, to the point that he would run a dagger through Rory’s heart rather than see him look at Rhian wrong.
Another of Iain MacBeith’s daughters.
And now he—he, who had no time or patience for it—found himself attracted in a way he had never been before.
Perhaps they were witches, these three sisters MacBeith. It was dark magic. It must exist after all.
And yet…Saerla MacBeith did not feel dark. She did not, when he held her in his arms. With his mouth on hers, he could feel a brightness. A warmth. A light that lured him irresistibly.
By God, he wanted her so much he ached.
He must put her from his mind. She was a hostage, nothing more. One over whom he must persuade her accursed sister to bargain.
If her sister truly was the chief of her clan, she should put paid to this council of which Saerla spoke. She should tell Alasdair the war chief—who, unfortunately, had survived thatdread wound he’d taken on the battlefield—that she made the decisions without his interference. Woman or not.
He must get himself in hand and go take care of his business. He should muster for war, for he was not the man to sit behind these walls if the MacBeiths came calling.
He had regrets about Kevan. He was a fine warrior and a loyal man. But if Moira wanted her sister back, she must give him all or nothing.
Up on the walls, he could see the rain clearing to the west. Black clouds sailed up the loch, darkening great swaths of the glen. His men on watch assured him they had seen no further signs of mustering on the other side.
“Gone back inside their walls, have they no’?” said Tearlach. “Out o’ the rain. No doubt their chief does no’ wish to get her bonny toes wet.”
She would have to wet her blade if she refused to deal with him.
Rory climbed down from the walls and retreated to his study, where he searched in vain for dry clothing. Most of his things remained in his own chamber.
He could return there. It made a fine excuse. He could strip off his clothing and—
Nay. She did not want him. And he had never yet forced himself on any woman.
He did not want to force himself on Saerla MacBeith. He wanted—desperately—for her to want him. Wanted her to cling to him with need. Wrap her arms and legs around him after shedding her clothing without shame. He wanted to see those misty blue eyes heat with passion as she invited him in.
Curse the woman.
