“Is Mistress Saerla unwell that she still needs a healer’s attention?”
Again, Leith studied him. “I do believe Rhian goes there to check the head wound, where Saerla was clubbed down.”
Rory flinched.
“But I freely admit, it may be an excuse for Rhian to see her. Comfort her. They are attached, those three sisters.”
“Aye, so.”
“And if ye think I will endeavor to keep Rhian awa’ for any reason—”
Rory sneered. “Ye canna even control your woman.”
Leith leaned closer across the table. “If ye suppose, Rory, ’tis about control, ye be more the fool than I thought.”
Rory did not like being called a fool. He asked, not without sarcasm, “Nay? Wha’ is it about, then, wi’ yer woman?”
Leith fixed him with an unexpectedly serious eye. “Bonding. Sharing. Give and take in equal measures. A love wrested, Rory, is no’ worth the having.”
“Love.” Rory tried to scoff at it. “A weak man’s game.”
“Funny, then, cousin, it should require so much sheer strength to keep alive.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
On the wayback to his study from the warriors’ hall, Rory encountered Dairmid’s widow, Ratha. To be sure, half blinded by the rain, he bumped into her, nearly dislodging the pile of clean linens she carried in her arms.
His hands came out to steady her, and their gazes met, she peering out from beneath the hood of her cloak.
Not so much a bonny woman, Ratha, but a lush one, the sort who had in the past always caught Rory’s eye. She had a wealth of auburn hair, now caught beneath her hood, and eyes to match. A strong-boned, oval face and a body made for welcoming a man.
She’d been a good wife to Dairmid. Rory had to admit, he knew little more of her than that. Did she like to laugh? Was she bright of spirit? Had she grieved long enough, yet, to be?
“Chief Rory,” she exclaimed as he steadied her.
“Forgive me, mistress. I was no’ looking where I was going.”
“And I could no’ see. I am taking these old, washed linens to the infirmary to mak’ bandaging.”
“Aye, so.” And was it a coincidence that Rory had met her this way when she headed his list, more or less, for a wife? “Where are yer wee lads?”
She gave him a smile. “Dairmid’s ma has them. They bring her comfort. Wee William, so she says, looks much as Dairmid did when he was small.”
“Och, aye.” Rory could tell from the sadness tinging her smile that her grief lingered. Would it be an offense for him to say he would like to pay court to her? To wed soon, in order to get a son of his own?
He stood there in the rain staring at the woman, unable to decide. He, a man who rarely had trouble making up his mind about anything, now could not tell what to write in a letter to his enemy or whether to speak to his clanswoman about the future.
She, as his clanswoman, would have a duty to wed with him. In truth, he would give her full choice. But he thought she would agree. And he would perform a duty, nothing more.
Let that fool, Leith, prate on about love as he would.
“Chief Rory?” She now looked at him in concern. “Is somewhat amiss?” Worry gathered in her eyes. “I ha’ heard we may come under attack fro’ those devils at MacBeith. Is it so?”
“Ye ha’ no need to worry. Our walls and our warriors both stand strong.”
“Aye, but”—she gave a shiver—“I hate the thought o’ more killing. More—more dying.”
“When ’tis done, mistress, ’twill be done for good and all.”
