It seemed strange to see the big man out of his leathers, and in a bed. His upper body lay bare of all but scars and bandages, and his abdomen was wrapped. His face wore a scowl.
“Alasdair, how d’ye feel?”
“Terrible, mistress. I canna believe one o’ they MacLeod bastards took me down.”
“’Twas a long while coming.” In how many battles had he faced the MacLeods at his chief’s side and since Da’s death? If he took wounds in those fights, he mostly refused to speak of them. Alasdair, with his redoubtable energy, merely carried on.
No wonder he scowled so at being grounded now.
“Wha’ says the healer about your wound?” She’d already spoken to the man, who had told her the wound was ugly but could have been worse.
“That I maun stay here in this bed if I want ever to carry a sword again on the field.”
Ah, so that was what kept him in one place.
“Ha’ ye been given a draught for the pain? If no’, I can mix ye one.”
“I am too angry to heed the pain. We maun tak’ this respite to redouble our defenses. For he’ll be back, never doubt it. Rory MacLeod will be back now that he has what he wants.”
Leith. Leith was what Rory had wanted. Rhian tried not to flinch at the sounding of his name in her mind.
“Moira is seeing to the defenses, so ye’ve no need to worry about that. Alasdair, is there aught I can do for ye?”
“Calm these worries, mistress. The ones in my mind that will no’ leave me alone.”
Rhian wished that she could.
“For the life o’ me, Mistress Rhian, I canna see how this will end. We win a battle, but it matters little, for that bastard will no’ give up. Now he has his heir back again.”
“Aye, so. It will do little good fretting over it,” she told him, wishing she could follow her own advice. “Ye maun use your strength to heal.”
“I canna seem to stop worryin’.” Alasdair looked more troubled than she’d ever seen him. “Since Chief Iain’s death, it has all gone wrong.”
“Aye, so it has.” She laid her hand over his.
“I should ha’ defended him better in that fight. If that accursed Farlan had no’ got in that blow, Chief Iain would still be here wi’ us now. And all the rest o’ it would no’ ha’ happened.” He bared his teeth. “I swear, I hate everyone o’ MacLeod blood.”
Including the fragile life that fluttered beneath Rhian’s breast?
“Alasdair, what happened to Da was no’ your fault.” It was not even Farlan’s, a point much less easy to embrace. Men in battle fought one another. It was what a warrior did. She wondered if Moira had embraced that truth in loving Farlan. “You fought your best for him.”
“Not well enough.” The big man’s gaze burned. “And I am no’ doing well enough now, for his daughters.”
“Ye are. Alasdair, there is such a thing as fate. As destiny.”
He made a face.
“Saerla believes in it.” And he believed in Saerla. “Moira too, I think.”
“’Tis a fancy. No power chooses who lives and who dies. ’Tis all in the strength o’ a man’s—or woman’s—arm.” His gaze unexpectedly softened. “’Tis in your healing touch, as well. I will admit, I do no’ ken why ye had to heal yon bastard Leith MacLeod. But perhaps ’twas best, for if he’d no’ been alive to trade for Saerla, what then?”
“We might ha’ lost her.” Rhian had to swallow hard over that. “Alasdair, there has been so much loss.”
Now his hand covered hers. “Too much.”
“Aye.” To her dismay, her eyes brimmed with tears. She blinked them away determinedly. “Perhaps ’tis time for the dying to end.”
He snorted. “Ye tell Rory MacLeod that. He’ll only be emboldened by getting yon Leith back.”
