She, Saerla, must prevent that. She must act, and soon. Before Rory sent his letter and provoked a war. Because she loved them all. Moira and Farlan. All the true hearts who would march to their deaths for her sake. Alasdair.
If she must sacrifice herself, so she would. Aye, surely, so the Vision meant. She had only to find the courage.
*
It had beentwo nights since Rory had slept. Even had he possessed a bed—which he no longer did—his thoughts would not have let him rest. When he did ease down onto the settle in his study, which made an uncomfortable roost, he could not so much as close his eyes without reliving it again.
The kiss. Saerla MacBeith.
Aye, he’d decided after hours-long pondering, there must be some magic in it. Given, he had never much in the past lent any credence to magic. Mayhap he’d been wrong.
For she carried a measure of magic inside her, did Saerla MacBeith. An uncommon magic, like light. He’d been able to feel it, aye, when he held her in his arms. To taste it in her kiss.
Why else had the memory, and a brief memory at that, taken such hold of him?
She was but one ordinary woman, after all. Utterly ordinary. Except for that wealth of hair. Those eyes. The very scent of her.
Nay.
Was he a lad, a child, to lose his good sense to such a degree? Yet he could not rest. He could not stop thinking about her. And he could not decide what to write to Moira.
Och, well, he could. He had written three letters. Burned them all. Told himself if she expected a reply from him, the better to let her stew. Dance on the hot coals of uncertainty.
Launch an attack?
She had not done so yet, which argued she would not. Women should not lead. Or was it truly his former friend with whom he contested?
The thought merely served to raise his level of disquiet.
He walked out, paced the ramparts and the grounds, assuring himself all lay in a state of readiness. The weather continued foul, rain moving in successive waves down the glen. The men on watch suffered, as did he.
Because the very sound of the rain made him remember having her in his arms. The rain crashing down outside the window. The sound invading the chamber.
Desire, he assured himself over and over again, was but desire and could be conquered like any other emotion.
He needed to banish her from his mind. A draught of strong ale might help.
The hope of it took him to the warriors’ hall, where he soon found himself surrounded, his men asking when they were to fight again. He told them it would be soon and pried himself away to sit with Leith, whom he found at a table against the wall.
“I am surprised to see ye here, cousin.” Instead of with his accused woman.
“And I, ye. Does that hole in yer back still pain ye, then?” Leith’s blue-gray gaze probed him.
It did, damn it. “Why should ye think so?”
“Because ’tis no’ like ye to take to drink in the middle o’ the afternoon.”
Rory could scarcely admit he needed relief from his thoughts. Instead, he cocked an eyebrow at his cousin. “And ye, Leith? I am that surprised ye ha’ torn yoursel’ away from your woman.”
“She is with Saerla.”
Saerla. Rory’s gaze flew to Leith’s face. “I did no’ give permission for that.”
“Ye did give permission for Rhian to tend her sister, did ye no’, in the capacity o’ a healer?”
“Aye—”
Leith pushed a flagon of ale toward him. “Then drink and shut yer gob about it.”
