“Christ, Rory. I am scarcely out o’ my bed.”
Rory could see that. In fact, behind Leith, in the dusky chamber, the woman—Rhian MacBeith—even now slipped from their bed and drew a robe about herself.
Rory scowled at his cousin, who swiftly considered his disposition and backed down.
“Verra well. Gi’ me a moment. Come in.”
Rory had no desire to enter the chamber. He chose to have as little interaction as possible with Mistress Rhian MacBeith.
Not that she wasn’t beautiful. He could see the attraction. Take now, for instance. She’d come from the bed with her hair hanging loose and wild. Deep red it was, and full of curls. She had a strong, bonny face, beautiful, dark blue eyes, and a lush, womanly body that might make any man take a second glance.
Rory stepped into the chamber and scowled at her before turning his eyes sternly away.
“Good morning, Master Rory,” she said.
There was something about her voice, a low huskiness, that set him on edge. A healer she was, and Leith insisted she would be of great use to the clan someday, once she’d settled, tending the wounds her own people inflicted on his men. He wondered how she would countenance that. How might she provide such service?
For love. All these sacrifices for the sake of love. He’d be cursed if he understood.
Chapter Four
Rory spoke longat the meeting that followed the practice session. He and his warriors met in the open, it being a fine day, and him disliking being confined inside. He’d called in certain senior members of the clan along with his war chief, Murgor, a contemporary of his father’s whom Rory would nevertheless pit against any younger man for toughness. For savagery. Rory needed savagery.
To be sure, he did not need to discuss his plans with anyone. He made the decisions here at MacLeod. His aim was to whip up fervor for another attack against their enemies.
The past few had gone very badly. So he tested the waters and perhaps himself, though he would not readily acknowledge that.
The training session had been lengthy and agonizing. He would not spare himself, even though each movement hurt, and the weight of his leather armor on his back prompted agony. He could not falter. If he could not endure a mere practice session, how would he endure battle?
Endure battle, he must.
His men all listened to him, standing in a rough circle beneath the sun, most still carrying their weapons. Once he’d outlined a plan for attack—which, he declared, should come just at nightfall—they continued to gaze at him. No one spoke a word until one of his warriors, Mathis, said, “When, chief? When will we launch this attack?”
“Tomorrow night. There is no moon. We will row across the loch and march in under cover of the gloaming.”
He cast a look at Leith, watching his cousin’s face closely. If protest were to come, he figured it would stem from him. Since Leith had returned home, he’d done naught but bleat about peace, talking of striking a treaty with Farlan and his woman.
Striking a treaty would not gain Rory the glen. He wanted it all, from one steep slope to the other, and the stones over on the far rise.
To his surprise, it was his war chief who spoke. “Chief Rory, would it no’ be better to wait a time?”
Rory focused his glare on the man. “Wait?”
Murgor gestured at Leith. “Master Leith here works to regain use o’ his arm, but he is no’ there yet.”
Aye, Leith had worked hard toward that goal today, and it had cost him. And aye, Leith had always been valuable in such battles. Though he lacked what Rory would call a killer instinct, his great strength made up for it, and Rory had always felt confident handing him control of one flank.
The three of them, himself, Leith, and Farlan had battled well together. Now he faced the prospect of cutting Farlan down in any encounter. His best friend.
Former best friend.
Making his mind up swiftly, he declared, “Leith will no’ come wi’ us on this attack.”
“Wha’?” Leith chirped.
Rory treated him to a glare but said nothing more. The men all looked at one another.
“And ye?” Murgor said.
