Magic? Had he truly begun to warrant its existence for a few short moments in her arms? She was a witch, and he was a fool.
With no one there to see him, he hastily dressed and took himself away. From the chamber that had once been his. From the lie that was the light.
*
Inside the chamber,Saerla crumpled to her knees. She went down atop the soft fabric of her gown, where she huddled, naked, shaking.
She had made her bid, aye. She had failed.Failed. Now he knew—knew she wanted him dead.
Did she?
His hands moving over her. The gentleness as his fingers found the secret place she kept for herself alone. The fire and splendor of it when he’d entered her still gently, and freed her from all earthly bonds, setting her in flight.
They had flown together.
He’d been vulnerable. As vulnerable as this dangerous man would ever be. She’d taken her chance, but the powers had not been with her.
They had been with him.
That hurt almost more than the rest of it and felt impossible to accept. She had given up her virginity to a monster. Found a foreign, savage joy in it. A part of herself she never knew existed. She’d offered herself up in order to save her clan. Magic should have assured her success.
The magic had sided with Rory MacLeod.
What, then, had the Vision meant? Was she not intended to be the catalyst to end this war, and preserve what she loved? Save all the light and beauty that dwelt up on the rise?
Aching, all her tears dried, she knelt and refused to rise.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Rory did notintrude upon Leith and his woman in their chamber the next morning. He preferred to speak with his cousin alone, and anyway, he did not wish to gaze upon Rhian if he could help it.
He had not slept after he left Saerla. It seemed an impossibility. Instead, he’d called for a guard to station at her door and then paced until dawn. The battlements. The forecourt. The grounds beyond.
At dawn, when dark began to leave the sky, he at last went to his study, where he swabbed away the dried blood on his neck and looked at the wound in the scrap of mirror he used for shaving.
Another inch—another half inch, he decided. Another flick of the blade and she would have had his life.
And what would she have done then? What, after his life’s blood pumped out all over her where she lay? Would she have fled? Taken refuge with her sister? Aye, for surely they had schemed together in this.
Only Rhian could have given her the knife. Saerla had denied it, and he refused to believe his cousin would have done such a deed.
In the early light flooding the windows of his study, he changed his clothing, making certain his jerkin and his hair covered the wound. He felt hot and cold by turns—anger alternating with a far more dangerous and hurtful emotion.
Half his anger centered on himself. He should have known she would betray him if she had the chance. She was the enemy. How could he have imagined differently?
Bitterly he thought about it. This,thiswas why he never dealt with women. Last night, out of desire, he’d stepped onto unknown ground. Desire, quite clearly, was a weakness he could not afford.
Better to get a son, or a crop of them, with some woman with whom he was honest. Ratha, quite likely. Best to tell her from the outset there would be no emotional ties. No love.
He returned to the training field and, when the men showed up, worked them hard. He worked himself harder, and if they looked at him from the corners of their eyes, they made no protest. Likely they supposed he prepared for the battles to come. If Moira MacBeith did not cede him the glen.
They had nine days. Nine days were all Saerla had left before he made good on his threats.
Could he kill her? He’d been certain he could not harm one glorious hair on her head. Now…
He became aware that Leith, who numbered among the men at training stood beside him, eyeing him dubiously.
Rory swung around and glared back at his cousin with renewed ire. Had Leith known? Would he betray Rory to such a degree?
