“I ha’ given her ten days,” he told Murgor tensely.
“And after that, chief?”
“After that, we attack.”
“Aye, so.” Murgor’s gaze moved over him slowly. “And that wound o’ yourn—will ye be fit to fight?”
Rory straightened indignantly. “Did ye no’ just see me on the training field?”
“Aye, chief, I did.” Murgor’s gaze did not waver. “’Tis why I ask. Master Leith’s arm does no’ yet serve—”
“I will be ready to lead the men when the time comes.”
“Chief—”
“I will be ready.”
“Aye, so.” Murgor did not appear convinced.
Rory tossed his head. “I will be in my study betimes.”
He marched off, aware that he’d just added outrage to the morass of emotions inside him. How dared Murgor imply he was not fit? He could disregard the pain. He could disregard everything besides his goal.
At his study, he called for hot water and, when it came, barred the door, stripped down to his skin, and washed away the sweat and grime, wishing he could shed his aggravation with it.
“Nearly there,” he growled under his breath. He almost had all he wanted in his hands. What he should do was dress himselfin clean clothing, go out, and pay a call on Mistress Ratha. She was his best choice, after all. He could deal honestly with her. Tell her plainly what he was about. She was a practical, sensible woman. She’d loved Dairmid and would not insist on a love match in remarriage.
If he explained to her that he needed sons—sturdy ones like she’d borne Dairmid—surely she would understand. For him, it would be a duty like any other he owed MacLeod. For her and Dairmid’s wee sons, it would provide security.
Evening dimmed the sky when he finished his ablutions. He dressed himself in clean clothing, dragged a comb through his hair, and tied it back. Strictly disciplined his emotions.
Or thought that he did.
Ratha still lived in the small hut she’d shared with Dairmid. Rory had directed his feet there before they stopped suddenly of their own accord. He stood where he was, gazing out over the glen.
The sun sank in the west through a bank of cloud that looked like mist. It looked like the mist in Saerla MacBeith’s blue eyes.
Rain by morning. He knew the signs. He had lived here all his life and loved this place with every part of him, to the bone. He lived for MacLeod.
What, then, did these emotions inside him mean? The longing, the desire that poured through his blood?
He wanted to go to Ratha, aye, and see to his duty. He would, anon.
His feet took over then, moving in accordance with the longing in his heart. They turned him around and back inexorably to his chamber, where he dismissed the guard with a jerk of his head.
He raised his hand to knock and called instead, “Mistress MacBeith, I desire—I desire to come in.”
*
As soon asSaerla heard Rory’s voice outside the door, her heart began to pound. She’d been seated at the window catching the last of the light. Rhian had brought her a spindle and wool—something, so she said, to keep Saerla’s fingers busy and her mind sane.
Such work might well keep Rhian sane, but Saerla fumbled the task over and over again.
Now she leaped to her feet, and the mess of wool slid from her lap. The spindle hit the floor with a bright clatter.
Her fingers flew to the pocket of her skirt and tested the weight of the knife there. Fate had given her another chance.
This time, she could not fail.
