His fingers tingled where he touched her. A warmth traveled up his arms and through the rest of him. An ache, replacing all the others, filled him.
“Can ye write, mistress?” he asked gently.
Again her eyes found his. Clung to them. “I can. We were all taught, and I sat in sometimes on my brother Arran’s lessons. Since I was youngest, I learned the least. I canna write so well as Moira, or even Rhian. I can puzzle it out.”
Rory nodded. Naught about this woman should surprise him. Fragile and strong. Magical and fierce. Possessed of unearthly talents. Had there ever been a woman to match her?
“I shall have ink and parchment brought. If ye like, I will mysel’ write whatever ye wish to tell yer sister. Ye may read it after to make certain I ha’ copied it out true.”
She shook her head. “It should be in my hand. Moira will know.”
“Aye, so. Are ye strong enough for the task?” He could feel her fingers trembling in his.
“I will mak’ myself strong enough.”
“Aye, then.” He rose, went to the door outside which Rhian lingered, looking anxious, and bellowed for a servant. When the girl came, he bade her fetch the required elements from his study.
Then he looked at Rhian. “Ye may as well go. She wishes to write a letter. It might tak’ a time.”
“I—”
“I will no’ harm her. Ye ha’ my word.”
A sneer crossed Rhian’s full lips. “The word o’ a man who held a blade to her throat.” But she took herself off, if not without another warning glare.
Back inside his bedchamber, Rory rearranged some furniture and brought a small table to the place where Saerla sat.
He said, “Mistress, I want ye to know I would no’ ha’ slaughtered ye out on the sward.”
That made her gaze return to his, startled. “Ye were verra angry.”
“I was.”
“Ye wanted revenge. For what I ha’ done.” She blinked at him.
“I did.”
“I tried to let your blood. Ye would ha’ cut my throat. Tit for tat.”
“I would no’.”
“Yet—”
“Saerla! I would no’.” He tried to convince her with the truth in his eyes. He willed her to believe it. In a whisper, he added, “I could ne’er harm so much as a hair o’ ye.”
Her lips parted. Could she believe him? She considered him a monster.
“Then,” she said slowly, spreading her hands, “how will all this end? I in your hands. And Moira unable to betray MacBeith in order to ransom me.”
He did not know. Perhaps she could stay with him.
Forever.
Chapter Forty
Rory MacLeod wasnot a patient man. Saerla could feel him chafing as he paced the room behind her, waiting for her to finish writing her letter.
It would doubtless have been much easier for him to take the quill from her, nudge her aside, and write the letter himself than watch her struggle over it. She had not lied about her abilities in the schoolroom. What had seemed a good idea when Moira was young had dwindled to less than important by the time Saerla became old enough to learn.
