A man who did not bend. A man who sought and gave no mercy. Yet now he lowered her back down onto the bench and came down with her, to kneel at her feet.
She stroked his hair, the feelings that flooded her—the tenderness—too strong to bear. All hesitation had flown from her. She could onlyfeel.
“Will ye send the letter?” she asked with her fingers still in his hair.
He raised his face and looked at her, wonderment in his eyes. “I will.”
“Even though—”
“I ha’ given ye my word. It means something, Saerla.”
“Aye.” Her mind raced, searching out ways it could all go wrong. “If Moira imprisons the messenger—”
“I will ask if Leith will tak’ the letter. She will no’ harm Leith.”
“She will no’.” Not with Rhian awaiting his return.
“Saerla. Tell me somewhat. These Visions that befall ye…” He touched her cheek softly. “How, by God, d’ye endure it?”
“’Tis no’ always like ye saw out on the sward. There are times it comes gently. Sometimes even in dreams.” She thought of the three lads running and chasing through the glen. “Other times, aye, it is harsh and brings me things I do no’ want to See. But I ha’ received such Visions for as long as I can remember, almost.” She shook her head. “I do no’ ken why I was chosen for such a fate.”
“’Tis a curse.”
“And a blessing.” For with the Visions so often came the light. And when the light possessed her…
Could she explain that to him? Could she say that being possessed by the light felt as strong and wondrous as the passion when he touched her?
Nay. He was her enemy. Perhaps not the monster she’d once thought him, but her enemy still. And making herself vulnerable to him could not possibly be wise.
He gazed at her with those intense green eyes, beseeching and demanding in equal measures. Nay, but she did not make herself vulnerable to him. The feelings that unfolded inside when he touched her did. When she touched him. A separate kind of power and magic.
Did he feel it too? Was it possible?
To test it, she stroked her fingers through his hair there where he knelt at her knees, and the spark in his eyes flared. For an instant, to the exclusion of everything else, they were all that existed, united in that radiance.
“Saerla.” He leaned in he kissed her again. She joined her lips to his, her breath to his, her heart—
He gathered himself and got to his feet. “I will send the letter. Saerla…” New emotions broke through the passion in his eyes. So strong were they, Saerla came to her feet.
He clutched her hands. “After, when the letter is sent, whether we receive an answer or no’—tell me. Tell me, Saerla, I may return here at nightfall. To spend the night wi’ ye.”
He stood and waited for her answer, this man who believed he could own the world. She could see the need in his eyes, the same that filled her, raw and urgent.
Need. It was all about need.
She bowed her head, knowing very well she should deny him, but unable to make the words come.
“Go send the letter. See to your defenses. Then, aye, ye may return to me.”
Chapter Forty-One
He returned atnightfall just as the birds began to sing their evening songs outside the window. He came with his head bared and with open hands, wearing no weapons. What, Saerla supposed, was a show of good faith.
She herself had put the sgian dubh away, hidden it inside the chest at the foot of the bed where she’d found it. This, whatever it was that existed between the two of them, was not about hurt or harm. Not about distrust or anyone getting the upper hand. Not even about being a MacBeith or a MacLeod.
Rhian had been with Saerla much of the afternoon, and in a tizzy, worrying about Leith and what might happen at MacBeith. Worrying about what might happen to Saerla also. Worrying about what the Vision had shown her.
Saerla had said nothing to Rhian about Rory or his promise to return. Rhian did not know Saerla had already lain with the man, their enemy.
