She looked pale and quite tiny, clad in her dull gray gown—likely the only garment she possessed. And she shone. Her hair made a nimbus of red-gold around her head. Her eyes looked clear and solemn.
She stole Rory’s breath.
He’d imagined her all night lying near to death—or already dead. Stricken down as he’d last seen her. Now gratitude shook him to the root, a humble sort of thankfulness he’d never before known.
“Mistress,” he breathed out in a voice he barely recognized.
“Chief MacLeod.” She inclined her head at him as to a stranger. Impossible that they had moved in the bed together. Held one another with tenderness. That he’d tasted her pure sweetness.
Desperately, he called on his self-control. “I trust ye are recovered from yer—fit?” He did not know what else to call it.
Rhian, behind him, began to speak. Saerla directed a look at her.
“Leave us, sister.”
“I will no’.”
“Please wait outside the door.”
“I will no’ leave ye alone wi’ this—this—” Apparently Rhian lacked a word terrible enough to describe him.
“Please,” Saerla said again.
Rhian looked at Rory. “Touch a hair of her and I promise by everything I hold dear, ye will live to regret it. And ’twas no’ a fit but a Vision, ye damn idiot.”
She crashed out, leaving the two of them—Rory and Saerla—facing one another in the bright sunlight.
And he…
He wanted to throw himself at this woman’s feet—he did, just as when he’d come to her last time. He wanted to declare himself her protector for all time.
A man did not do that. A chief did not. Instead he asked, “Should we sit?” She appeared so frail standing there. In his mind he saw her going down once again into the green grass. Lashes closed on pale, freckled cheeks.
Ignoring his suggestion, she lifted her chin a notch, achieving a resemblance to her sister. Her eyes did not avoid his.
“I wish to send a letter to my sister, Moira. Ye suggested I should do so before. I would do it now.”
Rory’s mind raced, or tried to. He rarely acted without due thought for consequences, except when he lost his temper. Or when he’d succumbed to passion. With this woman.
“Might I ask, mistress, why ye seek to do this now?”
“Moira has no’ agreed to your last offer. She sent back a refusal with your men, instead.”
“She may still change her mind—”
“I believe ye have had her answer.” Slowly, Saerla shook her head. “She will no’ ransom me. That means she will attack in an effort to tak’ me back. It is a war I would prevent, if I can.”
Looking into her eyes, Rory beheld only truth. Was this what the Vision had brought to her? A warning of war?
Or had she Seen her sister failing to rescue her? His heart began to beat hard. If he might keep her here, hold her always, somehow win her favor, make her his own…
“Is that what ye Saw, mistress, in that dire Vision? This coming war?”
She began to sway on her feet. He reached her in two strides and caught her hand.
He half expected Rhian to burst in through the door and behead him with a stolen sword. It did not happen. Instead, he guided Saerla to the settle in front of the fire.
“Here. Sit.”
