But Rory did not stop. Rather, the ferocity of his blows increased until he took his friend down into the grass.
“Stop!” Leith threw himself between the two of them. “Rory, for God’s sake!”
Both lads breathed hard. Rory’s chest rose and fell violently. His eyes had cooled to green ice.
“Ye will ne’er make a warrior, Farlan MacLeod, lest ye stop being afeared.”
The dream fled like wisps of mist, driven by a chill wind. Saerla awoke to find herself still in the bed, exactly where she’d been.
She remained there with her eyes wide, wondering. Which? Which was the true Rory MacLeod? The man who had made love to her so sweetly, or the lad who refused to show mercy even to his best friend?
Morning came gray with rain that matched Saerla’s mood. Yesterday’s meal sat untouched on the table where the guardhad set it. She felt far too sick to eat. No other food or water was brought.
Around noon she caught voices, the sound of an argument outside the door. Someone demanding to be let in.
Her sister, Rhian. Struggling against the guard.
“Nay, mistress. I ha’ orders. I canna let ye in.”
Rhian threw herself at the door. “Saerla? Love, are ye hurt or harmed?”
Saerla was both hurt and harmed. She ached for the refuge of her sister’s arms but could not let Rhian risk herself.
“I am well enough. Please, Rhian, go.”
“Wha’ has he done to ye?”
“Naught.” She’d done this to herself.
“I will no’ rest till he lets me in.”
But Rhian left. With a hearty curse for the hapless guard, she did. Saerla caught the sound of her footsteps fading away.
She wanted to weep then. She wanted to sob, but would not let herself. She must be strong like her sisters. She must make Da—and Alasdair—proud.
She must harbor what magic she could, because therein lay her strength. But it seemed most of the magic had fled her.
If the powers wanted her here—and it seemed they must—then they had to restore that magic to her. The magic, the light. Her strength.
She sat beside the window where so little radiance could be found and imagined herself on the rise at the far side of the glen. Among the stones. Gathering the light.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Moira MacBeith’s replyto Rory’s letter arrived not long into the afternoon, brought by the party he had sent accompanied by the original messenger, whom Moira, the accursed council, or all of them together had seen fit to release.
He felt both glad and surprised to see Kevan among the other men and beyond anxious to get his hands on the letter. This could well be it. Surely Moira would concede. The fight would all be over and the glen would be his.
He could send Saerla home. Be rid of her once and for all.
“Wha’ happened?” he demanded of the clearly exhausted band of men.
Bodach rolled his eyes. “Meetings. We were held wi’out harm while the bitch o’ a chief made up her mind. And wrote yon letter.” Rory already clutched the sheet of foolscap.
He glared at Kevan. “And ye? Did they hurt ye?”
Kevan shook his head. “Nay, chief. I was but penned up. Treated neither badly nor well. The worst o’ it was no’ kenning wha’ was happening all the while.”
Rory clapped the man’s shoulder. “Go ye to yer quarters and rest. If ye ha’ any information for me, come to me later wi’ it.”
