“I am sure ye would. But should the council at MacBeith decide to hold me in a bid to win Saerla’s freedom, I could be separated from Rhian a long while. And she—Rory, she is carrying my child.”
“What?” Rory stared at him, his eyes narrowed. “Ye canna know such a thing. ’Tis far too soon—”
“She knows. I know.” Leith slid forward on his seat. “Rory, I believe there is some magic in it. She is magic. I canna explain.”
Rory thought of Saerla in his arms. Of tasting the light that dwelt inside her. He pushed the memory from him.
“Do no’ be a fool. She tells ye. It does no’ make it so.”
“Rory, she carries my child. ’Tis a boy. The heir to MacLeod.”
That hit Rory squarely between the eyes. All the air went out of him in a rush.
The heir to MacLeod. Not his son. Leith’s. From a MacBeith bitch.
“I do no’ believe it,” he declared. But he did. God help him, he did. Having held Saerla in his arms, he believed the three sisters MacBeith possessed some wild magic.
Leith believed it also. Rory could tell by the steady light shining in his eyes.
“How could she know so soon?” A woman, so he supposed, might tell anything about her own body. But that the child would be male?
“The spirits, they speak to the three sisters MacBeith in differing ways. I am convinced they make Moira strong. They whisper to Rhian o’ healing and such like. Saerla—Saerla is verra special. Rory, ye canna harm her. She is the gods’ own.”
“Then go to MacBeith and convince her sister to deal wi’ me. I will set Saerla free as soon as Moira agrees to my terms.” Watch her walk away from him. Could he do that?
Slowly and with regret, Leith shook his head. “I canna leave Rhian. I urge ye, Rory. Send Saerla. Send her back wi’ a letter asking for peace.”
“Peace.” Rory surged to his feet. “I swear, Leith, if ye do no’ cease in prating about it, I will kill ye mysel’.”
“Go ahead, Rory. ’Tis the only way I will leave Rhian.”
Fury rose in a bubble to Rory’s head. “Fine, then,” he spat. “We will risk another messenger. And his blood will be on your hands.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The heir toMacLeod. Leith’s son. Not Rory’s own.
The thought chased its way through Rory’s mind like a snake twining through tall grass, while he watched another party leave for MacBeith the next morning. While he went to the training field after and worked himself hard in an effort to still the emotions inside him.
Anger. Doubt. Envy. Lust. A terrible mixture, seared by regret.
He had been a fool, and that was one of the last things he’d ever wanted to be.
He should have taken care of the succession. The thought of it had been always in the back of his mind. He’d thrust it away from him, not wanting to deal with a woman and reasoning, always, that there was time.
There still was time. Unless he fell in the next battle, or the one after that. He’d been so focused on conquest, he’d neglected the fact that securing the succession had a part in it.
He grunted to himself as he left the training field, hesitating over whether to join the rest of the men in the warriors’ hall. He’d rather be alone.
He’d rather be with Saerla MacBeith.
“Chief? When d’ye expect the messenger to return?” Murgor stopped him with a hand on his arm.
Rory met his war chief’s worried gaze and shook his head slowly. Why pretend confidence he did not feel? He had statedclearly in his letter that if Moira did not return his man and cede all her lands to him, Saerla’s life would be forfeit.
The way he saw it, even with Farlan talking in Moira’s ear, insisting Rory would not actually kill a defenseless woman, she could make but one answer. She, like her sisters, considered him a monster. Could she take a chance that he would not act upon his words?
How long a reply might take, he could not tell. According to Leith, she would have to convince this council. And Alasdair, if he still survived.
