Kevan snorted. “All I saw was the inside o’ a cattle pen.”
Bodach, who had led the returned party, narrowed his eyes. “They are preparing for war, chief. Mustering and strengthening their defenses. That much was plain to see.”
“Aye, so.” Rory’s fingers contorted on the letter. He needed to read it at once.
He hurried to his study, a chamber he’d begun to detest, and found Leith waiting outside the door.
“Come awa’ in.” He gestured to his cousin. Leith wore a mutinous look on his face and no doubt wanted to petition for his woman to see Saerla.
Not yet.
Leith paced in a manner utterly unlike him while Rory unfolded and read the letter, which he saw, with a spike of ire, was once more written in Farlan’s hand. The anxiety inside him cranked up a notch. Holding his breath, he began to read.
He got to the end, and read the whole of it again, then cursed bitterly, causing Leith to cease his infernal pacing and stare.
“Wha’? Rory, wha’ does it say?”
Rory answered him in a growl. “Mistress—Chief—Moira tells me she canna accept my offer and cede her lands to me. No’ even to ransom the life o’ her sister. She says should Saerla’s life be forfeit, I should prepare for war.”
The chamber went so quiet, Rory figured neither of them so much as breathed. He certainly did not. The breath had frozen in his chest, unable to compete with his thundering heartbeat.
Refused. The damned woman had refused.
Och, and he could scarcely believe it. No warrior—not even one as fierce and undoubtedly twisted in her sensibilities as Moira MacBeith—could let a one of her blood, her sister, languish and die in the hands of her enemy.
Especially a woman such as Saerla. Fragile and strong. Gentle and fierce, earthy and otherworldly. Almost too precious for this realm to hold.
She had tried to kill him.
Now he would have to take her life.
He stared at the sheet of foolscap, no longer truly seeing the words written there, feeling only the pain inside. He ached. He did, from head to toe. All he contained seemed to be pain. The hole in his back. The prick at his neck. His heart…
His accursed heart.
At that moment, he hated the world and everything in it. He hated Farlan and he hated Moira MacBeith. He hated himself most of all.
Leith asked, “Rory? Wha’ will ye do?”
Rory turned on him savagely. “Wha’ the letter tells me to do, o’ course. Moira MacBeith has made her choice. In return, I will tak’ her sister’s life.”
“Ye will no’.”
Only a day ago, Rory might have agreed with that. He’d believed he could not harm so much as one curl on the woman’s head. Saerla, with her actions, had made it easy for him.
Perhaps that was fate come into play. Removing another obstacle. Proving all the glen should belong to him.
“Watch me.”
“But Rory”—Leith appeared beyond stirred—“she is but a woman.” He lowered his voice. “We do no’ harm women.”
Aye, so Rory’s father had hammered into all of them. A man protected women. With his life, if necessary.
Especially, he thought again, a woman like Saerla.
Who had tried to kill him.
He snarled, “She is no’ just a woman, is she? She’s a prisoner. A warrior. Sister to their chief.”
