Chapter Twenty-Six
The rain hadfled at last, disappearing up the glen sometime during the night. Rory stood on the battlement gazing out over the land that lay awash with pure golden radiance in the new dawn.
He’d come up here to look for signs of movement at MacBeith. To search out danger. To clear his head.
After leaving Saerla last night, he had not slept. He’d tried once again to write a letter to her sister and come up with an effort he thought might serve.
The other thoughts—sensations—had refused to forsake him. All of them were of Saerla MacBeith, and they consumed his mind.
He had wondered how she would taste. Her breasts tasted like honey. And like light.
It was inexplicable to him how a woman could taste like light, but she did. Sweet, sweet and strong. The finest thing ever to meet his tongue.
Kissing her…kissing her was like nothing he’d ever known.
He stood with his hands on the stone of the battlement—hands scarred from fighting, hands blessed by touching her—and tried to make sense of it. There was no sense to be had, and little rational thought. Just pure feeling.
Seldom had he been victim to his emotions, seldom did he permit it. He thought. He planned. He sacrificed.
He would have to sacrifice Saerla.
In the end, she would have to go back to her sister. In exchange for ownership of the glen.
He let his eyes wander across the land that stretched out in front of him, peaceful in the golden light. A bonny place this was, aye, and part of him, blood and bone. As a lad, he’d intuitively recognized that beauty, being somehow connected to it. Over the years, though, it had slipped away from him, replaced by the need to take.
He’d forgotten why he wanted Glen Bronach. Och, he told himself it was because his ancestors had been bent upon it, and he needed to achieve what they had not.
Mayhap that was not the truth. Mayhap he’d forgotten that the true reason was how much he loved the place.
Something in Saerla’s kiss had reminded him of that. For was she not beautiful in just the same way as the glen? A wee bit wild and a wee bit mystical. Filled with the changing light.
That made no sense either, that kissing a woman could remind a man of what had slipped away from him. His feelings made no sense.
He needed to send her back—not only to achieve his goals, but for his peace of mind.
One of the guards on duty came up beside him. “Chief, d’ye think yon MacBeith woman will muster now that the weather has cleared?”
“Quite likely.” He would, if his enemy held something of such precious value in his hands.
The man eyed him uncertainly. “Will we be getting our Kevan awa’ back home, then?”
“I hope so.” He eyed his man in return. “We are ready, are we no’? For a battle? A defense?”
“Aye, chief.”
Rory nodded and left the battlements, left the peaceful, sleeping glen, trying to exude an air of confidence he did not actually feel.
He sought out Leith at his chamber, where his cousin was just dressing for the training field. “I need a word wi’ ye, man,” Rory said, casting a look at Rhian, who eyed him without favor. If she knew what had passed between him and her sister last night, she would glare still harder.
Would Saerla tell her? Would she claim he’d tried to force her? Women did. Yet he had not. She had kissed him just as he had kissed her, and held him to her breast.
For an instant he went dizzy with remembering that, as if all the light of the morning had gotten inside his head.
Leith narrowed curious eyes at him. “Are ye well, man?”
“Aye.”
“Is it the wound to your back still? Would ye let Rhian look at it?”
