Breasts he could still taste. Och, God! But there was no God. There could not be if the most beautiful thing he’d ever known, ever held in his hands, someone in whom he’d almost, almost believed could betray him so.
“Come,” he told her. “Ye ha’ made yer bid. Tried to kill me.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, which had so recently known wild pleasure. “And failed. Ye canna get away.”
She shook her head again, the knife still outstretched toward him. As if she would fend him off. He, who had already been inside her.
“Be reasonable,” he said, as if she had not heard him the first time, “Ye canna get away.”
“Let me go.”
“I canna do that. I canna let ye go.” Among the truest words he’d ever spoken. Even now that he knew—knew that what she’d offered him had been false. A ploy. A means to get near enough to hurt him, for, och, aye, he saw that quite clearly. He did not feel anger, not yet. The other pain flared too bright to let him feel anything else.
“So.” Tears began to trickle down her face. “Ye will kill me now.”
He could not do that either. Kill her. Harm her in any way. He’d as soon lay waste to this glen he loved.
He moved swiftly, leaped across the bed, and seized her. A slash from her knife slit his arm. Aye, she was quick. He wrapped his arms around her, even then responding to the feel of her naked flesh. He quelled her, still without anger or the desire to cause hurt, and breathed into her ear, “Drop the knife.”
She refused, and they struggled, Rory striving mightily to keep from harming her all the while.
The knife made no sound as it fell onto the pile of wool that was her gown.
“Where did ye get it? Where did ye get the knife?”
She made no answer. She’d gone perfectly still in his arms.
“From Rhian?” He hoped it was her sister and not Leith. He wanted very badly to be able to trust Leith.
Could he trust no one? No one for whom he’d ever cared during his life?
He lifted Saerla with ease—she was but half his size—and turned her in his hands to face him. Glared into her face. The anger had begun to seep into him now, burning its way through the icy pain.
“Who ga’ ye the knife? Was it Leith?”
“Nay.”
It must have been her sister, then. She’d had contact with no one else.
“Ye will no’ see yer sister again. Ye ha’ earned yoursel’ confinement.” If she thought him a monster, he would live up to it. She could be shut into a cell in the depths of the stronghold like any common prisoner. Away from everyone.
Including him.
He let go of her, then bent and snagged the knife, which he turned between his fingers. Backing off farther, he stalked around the bed to his own clothing.
The wound at the side of his neck still trickled blood—he could feel the path it made running down. Trickled, not gushed. He would be dead by now had she succeeded in her intention. Her plan for his death.
Leith would have become chief. And his son after him, if Rory could believe Leith’s story. The child who bore half MacBeith blood.
He backed off yet another step, never taking his eyes from the woman who continued to stand facing him. He gathered his clothing, making sure of the weapons he always carried as a matter of course.
He felt for the bar on the door, lifted it by touch, and hauled open the panel. Tossed his clothing out into the corridor ahead of him.
Still she had not moved. She stood with tears on her cheeks, her hair a wild tangle. Grief filled her eyes.
Swiftly, swiftly now, he stepped out after his clothing. Shut the door and replaced the bar.
He stung as if he’d been thrashed from head to foot. His neck, his arm. The hole in his back. His heart.
Alone in the hallway, naked as he was, he leaned against the wall. The cold from the stone seeped into him but failed to quench the flames of anger that had begun to roar through him.
