Not only did she labor over the script itself, but the content of the missive. Rory could—and undoubtedly would—read this letter when she finished it. She needed to pen a warning Moira would understand, but that he would not.
She began by begging Moira not to ransom her.Our lands and what dwells upon them are far too precious to sacrifice for one life. As I belong to what exists at MacBeith, preserving it will preserve the best of me.
Likewise, I beg ye do not launch an attack to try to regain me. I would not have ye risk yourself. Do not, I pray, allow others I hold dear to risk themselves either.
Allow me, sister, to make this sacrifice for those I love. The gods will guide me to the destiny I have earned.
Would Moira listen? Her sister was a protector to the very heart. Her first instinct, just like Rhian’s, had always been to look after their small sister.
Could Moira leave her to her fate, even for the sake of all they loved?
And what of the man pacing the floor behind her? He doubtless thought she would beg Moira to save her and would not like what she had written. Beyond that, was she to believe he had forgiven her for raising a blade to him? For attempting to kill him? He was not a man who forgave easily, if at all.
He insisted he would not have cut her throat out there in the glen. He claimed he would not harm her now. She did not know if she believed him.
When she finished the letter, she spread her hands and directed a look at him.
He might have been a caged beast, green eyes aglow in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Muscles tense.
“Wha’ ha’ ye told her?”
“To abandon me to my fate. Ye will no’ ha’ what ye seek, Chief MacLeod, no’ by threat. Ye will either ha’ to battle for it or negotiate a peace.” But if Moira did not bring the fight to him in an attempt to ransom Saerla, at least the terrible Vision might not come true.
A muscle jumped in Rory’s cheek. “Negotiating a peace, Mistress Saerla, will no’ gain me ownership o’ the glen.”
“Nay, but it could bring ye somewhat much more valuable.”
“There is naught more valuable to me.”
“Perhaps then you will refuse to send this letter to my sister after all. For when ye suggested I write to her, you thought I would urge her to succumb to your demands in order to save me. I ha’ done just the opposite. Glen Bronach—and what lies up on the rise—mean more to me than my own life.”
For several moments he continued to gaze at her while a pulse—the very one she’d thought she could still—beat at his throat.
Raggedly he said, “Yer life, mistress, is in no danger. I ha’ said I will no’ harm ye.” His eyes narrowed. “Ye do no’ believe me.”
She shook her head.
“Saerla, I will no’ harm ye.” He reached down, seized her hands, and drew her up into his arms. He did it gently, as he always touched her, and yet her pulse jumped as it might in response to great fear.
Or passion.
She could not let him touch her. She could not let him caress her. Again.
And yet she said nothing when carefully, almost tenderly, with his hands lodged at her waist, he drew her in. She fought the impulse to rest her hands upon his chest.
“Saerla. Wha’ if ye do no’ return home, ever? If ye stay here wi’ me? Wha’ then?”
His lips swooped in to meet hers, as inevitable as the coming of spring. As the rising of the sun, as the onset of a Vision. She could not refuse it. She could only lift her face to him and part her lips.
Och, and it felt wondrous, breathless, and as if every separate part of her had been waiting for exactly this a long while. It opened her, sheltered her, and called up the light. She felt that light bloom inside her as it did when she stood on the rise back home. When she gave herself over to something far greater than herself.
Was this, that which existed between her and Rory MacLeod, greater than herself?
She did not know, but her hands did come to rest on his chest before creeping up around his neck. She did stretch up on her tiptoes, the better to feast on his mouth. She did open to him, granting him admittance. And when the kiss ended at last, whenhe buried his face in her neck and clutched her as if he would never let go, she trembled violently.
With need.
“Saerla. Saerla.”
