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Chapter 16

Cristane sank onto her bed. She looked across her chamber to the raging fire and stared at it for so long dots appeared before her eyes. Little orange and yellow ones, blessedly simple and distracting.

But they vanished all too soon, bringing her back to the present. The message had come from Clan Kerr, and tomorrow Terric and Rory would be leading their men, and others—the friendly reivers—in a fight against an old enemy. All day, everywhere she went, people had been talking about it. Asking her about her role in the provocations. How did she feel about being avenged? Would the men who had taken her be taken prisoner or killed?

All assumed, of course, the Kerrs and Kennaughs would be victorious in battle, but a small part of Cristane worried for Rory.

And there it was. Rory.

No matter how hard she tried, his face kept floating before her. Haunting her. The feel of his lips on hers invaded every thought. No distraction would block him out. Fortunately, she’d become adept at avoiding him. Cristane knew his routine, so she’d gone late to break her fast, early at the midday and evening meals. She avoided the stables and spent all of her time preparing to leave for England. For what would come afterward.

But yesterday . . .

He’d entered the hall just as she left it, and their eyes had met and held. One look at him had been enough to smother all her efforts to find joy at the prospect of her reunion with Cait. For months that was all she’d wanted, but now . . .

Fool that she was, Cristane had dared to hope for more. In those brief stolen moments in between sleep and wakefulness, she’d allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to be married to such a man.

And now he was chief.

She’d not congratulated him yet. Cristane simply could not bring herself to speak to him, knowing her own weakness when it came to Rory.

Coward.

Aye, she was that. And tomorrow he would ride into danger. He might even be killed . . .

Cristane stood.

He was the man she loved, aye, but Rory had been a friend long before that. Would she let herself be such a coward?

Nay. She could at least congratulate him. Wish him well on the morrow.

Pulling on a robe, Cristane walked to the door, paused for the briefest of moments, and opened it—only to find the very object of her thoughts just beyond it, his mouth agape.

“Where did you think to go dressed as such?”

He thought to tease her at such a time? Her throat felt strangled, but she managed a quip of her own.

“What manner of man comes to an unmarried maid’s bedchamber at this time of night?”

His step toward her forced Cristane back into the room.

“One who wishes to finish a conversation.”

Her eyes lingered on Rory as he closed the door behind him. He was dressed simply, in a loose linen shirt that gaped open, giving her a view of his rather remarkable chest. Although she could not identify why, exactly, Rory seemed . . . different.

“A conversation,” she murmured, moving back into the room.

“Aye.”

Rory did not follow her.

Cristane spun around, giving him a partial answer as well. “I was coming to see you.”

His expression unreadable, Rory crossed his arms.

“Is that so?”

He was in her bedchamber. The reality of it slammed into her with the force of a war hammer. Rory Kennaugh, chief of their clan and the man she had loved for as long as she remembered, stood in her bedchamber looking at her as if he would ravish her.