She did not say that. She struggled to form other thoughts instead.
Often—usually—Rory withdrew from her before he spilled his seed. There had been times when they were so deeply joined, when they climaxed at the same instant, that he’d left it with her instead.
Grief now looked at her from Rhian’s eyes. “I always thought, sister, ye would find someone special, a man who would understand the beauty that is inside ye. Who would join ye inside yer world. I hoped ye would ha’ bairns o’ yer own—”
“And I always thought I would live my life alone.” There had been no place in what Saerla gave to the gods for a man. Or for that kind of love.
She did not love Rory MacLeod. She was not at all sure what she did feel for him. It could not be love.
“Sister, ye maun put an end to this madness. Should he come to ye again, ye maun send him awa’.”
Send him away.
“We maun get ye home to MacBeith, where ye belong.”
But that was not fair. Rhian was not at MacBeith, but here with the man she desired.
“Saerla”—Rhian leaned forward and touched Saerla’s hand—“naught is more important than the powers that ye serve. Naught can ever be.”
“Aye, sister.” Mayhap Rhian was right. But when Rory came to her door, would she be able to send him away?
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Aword, cousin,if ye will.”
Rory glanced at Leith in surprise. The man looked unaccustomedly grim, and Rory could feel the uneasiness coming off him. In truth, all the warriors with whom he’d worked this afternoon had seemed out of sorts.
To be sure, it had been a hard training session. Rory had spared none of the men, nor himself. They had only a few days left before the sentence he had laid on Saerla’s head would expire.
Her sister and the whole MacBeith army would be coming.
It had not happened yet. Rory felt as if he spent half his time, though, in keeping watch for them. The first thing he did every morning after leaving Saerla was climb to the battlements and look toward MacBeith. Most often, it being very early, the only people astir were the guards. They always assured him all was quiet.
Even while he worked at training, he cast glances toward the loch, interrupting his own concentration. And before he went to Saerla of an evening…
His thoughts fractured there, caught upon the image of her. The idea of her. Misty blue eyes, soft lips. Strength and vulnerability. Beautiful, beautiful woman filled with light.
He eyed Leith and assessed his condition. His cousin worked determinedly to win back the full use of his arm, and it was coming along. He did better now than he had.
As did Rory with the wound in his back—which, he came to believe, had begun to heal at last. It no longer pained him as deeply or as fiercely. No longer interfered so drastically with his movements.
That too must be down to Saerla. She had taken to caressing the wound—the flesh around it—when they lay together after coupling. And she’d put her lips there in that kiss of blessing.
By God, he wanted her. He could not wait to be with her this night.
He tossed his head at his cousin. “I suppose ye think we are training too hard?”
“’Tis no’ that. I am that glad to win back the strength in my arm.” Leith twitched. “But can ye no’ feel the discord?”
Rory could. “The men are on edge. They ken an attack can come at any time.”
“I do no’ think that is all.” Leith glanced around. “We canna speak here.”
Aye, so, the warriors watched him all from the corners of their eyes.
“Come to the study.” Rory wanted a drink anyway. One that would hold him till the sun went down and he could be with Saerla.
They went swiftly to the study, where Rory shut the door behind them and poured two drams before he sat down.
