“Come in.”
Her voice did not sound like her own. And what a foolishness that she should give him permission, that he should ask for it. This was his chamber, his stronghold. His land. She lay in his power. All she had was the tiny sgian dubh in her shoe and the knife in her pocket. Those, and her intentions.
The door opened to admit Rory, large and dark and lethal. He did not look at her, not at once. Instead, he placed the bar on the inside of the door and stood for a moment staring at the panel as if warring with himself.
After she killed him, she could lift that bar—it would make no barrier—and escape.
She had only to kill him.
He turned. He faced her with heavy emotions in his eyes.
Saerla did not expect to see those emotions. Rory MacLeod was composed for the most part. His feelings did not escape him. Except for that passion last time.
He lifted his eyes and regarded her. His gaze touched her hair, her shoulders, the bodice of her gown. Her hands.
Och, what if he’d come back for more of what he’d had before? What if he expected kisses and for her to open her bodice to him?
Then she would. Because she needed to seduce this man. And leave him lying in his own blood.
“Mistress Saerla. I came…I came to inform ye of where ye stand. I ha’ sent another letter, this day, to MacBeith. To yer sister.”
“Ah.” So was it that had brought him here to her, and not desire? She did not believe it, because she could see the desire bright in the green eyes that regarded her so intently from between black lashes.
“I ha’ given her ten days to respond. If she does no’ cede all MacBeith lands to me by then, I ha’ told her your life will be forfeit.”
Saerla began to tremble. A monster, aye, and so he was. How could she have imagined differently?
She lifted her chin. “I am glad ye ha’ told me.”
“Are ye?” His gaze did not waver from her, and the breath came more quickly, lifting his chest.
“Aye. ’Tis best, is it no’, to be prepared for such an eventuality? To ken fine how much longer I ha’ to live. So I can make my peace wi’ the spirits and call upon my ancestors to welcome me.”
“Ye do no’ believe, then, your sister will do as she must to save your life?”
“I do no’. She canna. But if ye harm me, Chief MacLeod, ye will ha’ an unholy war on your hands.”
“Aye. I ken.”
“’Tis one ye just may lose. Moira will avenge me. As will Alasdair.” For an instant, she longed for the both of them so strongly she could not breathe.
Moira was a warrior, Alasdair, the ultimate warrior. She had once fought alongside them. Now she must battle here, instead.
In the only way she could.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rory had beenharsh—overly harsh, maybe. He’d told Saerla straight out that she would die if her sister refused to deal with him. He’d done that in an effort to quell the emotions that rose inside him at the sight of her.
Emotions he did not know how else to master. If he was harsh with her, he could be doubly so with himself.
He’d needed an excuse to see her, even this excuse. Now that he stood here, he felt himself coming apart inside. All his resolution, his anger, his frustration—it evaporated at the sight of her standing there facing him so bravely, fragile and yet strong.
He wanted so desperately to touch her that it made him start to shake. He wanted to protect her from all harm. Even while he threatened to end her life.
Such a mixture of courage and femininity was Saerla MacBeith. For he could see the fear in her eyes. And the determination. Both swirled there together in a haze that hinted of enchantment.
But he did not believe enchantment, in magic, did he? He’d sneered at Leith over that.
