The bright trickle of blood.
Now he would hate her with a fervor unrivaled. Rory MacLeod did not forgive. He had cast off his closest friend, Farlan, shunned and humiliated him for a breach in loyalty.
He would desire vengeance against her, and no doubt planned even now the best way to get it.
She knew the best way—harm someone she loved. And Rhian was here in his power.
Leith would never let Rory harm Rhian. Would he? Not if he could prevent it.
How could she have forgotten she risked not only her own safety but Rhian’s?
She fretted over it a while longer until she lost her battle with exhaustion and fell asleep.
And dreamed.
In the dream, she once more saw the three lads, the one with hair like flax, the one with a head of rich brown, the other black. They ran out on the green sward like wild things, ignoring the calls that came from the distant stronghold. Leaping and tussling together as wolf cubs might, they appeared completely in tune with each other and the glen. The loch stretched behind them, and the glen dozed in a summer haze.
They laughed. They hollered. They brandished their swords, either borrowed or stolen from the armory, and played at being warriors.
Until the boy with the hair that gleamed like the feathers of a blackbird turned and faced the other two.
“Come on, then. Which o’ ye wants to challenge me?” He raised the tip of his sword. “See if ye can tak’ me down.”
The other two boys exchanged glances. Suddenly all the fun had flown as their companion’s mood changed.
“Nay, Rory,” called the fair-haired lad. Leith. “Ye always best us.”
“And will”—Rory tossed his head—“until ye learn to fight back. ’Tis as Master Murgor says—a man does no’ ken wha’ he can do till he has a sword in his hand.”
Farlan spoke up. “And yer father, Chief Camraith, says we are no’ to fight each other again. No’ after the last time.”
“He is no’ here, is he?”
The lads peered around. No one was there save the three of them—and Saerla, who watched silently.
Rory’s green eyes gleamed wickedly. “Are ye afeared, Farlan?”
Farlan said nothing. He did not raise the sword in his hand.
“If ye be afeared now, what when we are grown and tak’ the field in earnest, to win all Glen Bronach?”
“That is a long way off,” Leith cried.
“’Tis no’. ’Twill be here in the blink o’ an eye, and we will be men.” He took a step toward Farlan. “Face me!”
“I do no’—”
“Face me! First to knock the other down is the victor.”
He did not wait for Farlan to agree or otherwise. Instead, he came in for the attack.
Clearly startled and on the defensive, Farlan raised his sword and fought back.
No coward, Farlan MacLeod. Saerla had seen him face rampant hostility with quiet strength. Rory’s ferocity, though, drove him back. Nearly of a height, the two lads contested while Farlan lost ground step by step.
Until a vicious strike from the black-haired lad’s sword got under the brown-haired lad’s guard and laid open the skin of his arm.
Leith cried out then. “Stop. Stop, cousin!”
