Had she succeeded, had she pushed the blade home, his blood would have showered upon her, hot and vital.
Only right that his hands should be the ones to slit her throat and feel that heat.
“’Tis Moira MacBeith who has chosen her sister’s fate,” he told Leith. “And ’tis I that will make good on it.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rory more thanhalf expected a visit from an enraged Rhian. Leith had already proven incapable of controlling his woman. Since she carried his child, Rory supposed Leith would not use force to keep her in line.
He did not expect her to attack him in front of his men.
They had mustered out in the green sward in front of the forecourt. The rain had stopped, though clouds still hung low over the glen. Rory wanted MacBeith to see that he prepared for war, if they were looking.
And they would be looking.
He’d made a speech, a braw one, to his warriors. All about how these would be the last battles of this campaign. How by the end of summer, all of Glen Bronach would belong to MacLeod. They would all be rewarded by expanding their holdings, as would their sons after them.
He did not intend to march out and attack MacBeith, not this time. No more scurrying across the loch in wee boats and arriving at a disadvantage, nor making the perilous trek over the high country to cross the burn.
Moira would have to come at him if she wanted revenge for the death of her sister. Let her arrive at a disadvantage. Let it end here on MacLeod ground.
He was indeed giving directions for defense when Rhian came storming up—with Leith, damn him, in her wake.
“Rory MacLeod!”
She called him out there before all his men. And she looked magnificent, her blue eyes glowing with rage and the cloud of her auburn hair spilling loose from its plait down her back. Leith appeared grim, and Rory supposed he had argued till he had no breath.
It might have been laughable had he not been so angry, and had the woman not looked so dangerous.
He turned, sword still in hand, and shot her a forbidding look. “Mistress MacBeith, this is no place for ye. Pray, go back inside.
“I will no’.” Of course she would not. If it were possible, Leith would have kept her from creating this shameful scene.
“For yer own safety, get back inside.”
She drew up in front of him, eyes glowing and bosom rising and falling. He saw no weapon on her, though that did not mean she had none upon her—like her sister. Quite clearly, she wanted to kill him.
“Why? Will ye harm me if I do no’ cower and obey yer orders? ’Tis what ye do, is it no’, Rory MacLeod? Threaten and harm women?”
The warriors surrounding Rory made a ring, giving the woman plenty of room. Not a man of them, so Rory figured, but had seen an angry woman before, though perhaps not one so angry as this.
“I ha’ no wish, Mistress MacBeith, to harm ye.” He flicked a look at Leith. “Take her inside.” If Leith needed help, Rory would assign a couple of men to carry the wench.
“Coward!” she cried at him.
Not what he wanted to hear. Rage poured through Rory in a drench that turned him cold. “Wha’ did ye say to me?”
“’Tis what ye be—a coward. Holding a woman hostage—”
“She is a warrior. One who faced me on the battlefield.” Rory waved an arm. “Like all these men.”
“—and threatening to take her life!” Rhian went on as if he had not spoken. “A life blessed by the powers o’ earth and sky, fire and water. One worth far, far more than yours will ever be.”
That might well be true. Saerla’s life might be worth ten of his. He could not let that sway him.
“Your sister, Moira, had the chance to ransom the prisoner and chose her death instead.”
“She likely did no’ believe even ye,” Rhian spat, “would be despicable enough to slaughter a woman.”
