“Eh?” Rory switched his glare to the man.
Murgor rarely looked uncomfortable. He did so now. “Tha’ wound in your back, chief. Are ye sure ye be ready for hard battle?”
“Will ye tell me I am no’?” Rory drew himself up.
“Well—ye did nearly die o’ that arrow, seated so deep between your ribs.”
Rory spread his hands. “As ye can see, I did no’ die, and stand here before ye, fit to fight.”
Again, the men exchanged glances.
“Forgive me sayin’,” Leith put forth, “but we all saw ye at practice. Saw what it costs ye to swing a sword.”
For an instant, Rory went stone cold. He would not accept disrespect—or pity—especially from his men.
He tossed his head. “There are costs in battle. I am willing to pay mine.”
“All I am saying,” Leith persisted, “is mayhap wait a wee while before resuming the campaign.”
The other men nodded.
“Allow yoursel’ to heal a bit more, and me also, before taking the field.”
“And waste valuable time this season?” He’d be cursed if he would. Following Da’s death, Rory had vowed this would be the summer of conquest. They’d waited long enough to fulfill the intentions of those who had come before them.
If only one thing, onedamnedthing, would go right.
Something flickered in Leith’s eyes. “This season. Next—”
Rory pressed his lips together. No matter how the hole in his back pained him, he would not relent. “What sense is there in waiting till that war chief o’ theirs is back up on his feet? He is laid up now, and so now is the time to attack. We go tomorrow night. Ready the men,” he told Murgor. And, with another glare, “Leith, ye come wi’ me.”
Leith did not look pleased with the command. No doubt he wanted to hurry home to his woman, to her tender care.
Not just yet.
Rory led his cousin to the hall where the warriors drank, to a shadowy corner where they might sit alone and speak in private.
Leith downed his first mug of ale in one go and eyed the second one Rory set before him.
Rory longed to do the same, to let the fine brew dull the edges of the pain. He said instead, “We need to talk.”
“Aye?” Leith picked up the second tankard but did not drink.
“About yer loyalties, and where they lie.”
Leith stared at him, appearing stricken. He put the tankard down again. “Ye question that? Ye question me?”
“I maun know I can trust ye before we go into battle together.”
“I am your cousin. Your blood.”
“Aye, that. And yer loyalties are tangled, given the woman who followed ye home.”
“Her name is Rhian.”
“I ken it fine.”
“Then ye will call her that, wi’ respect.”
