"That madmon MacLennon."
"Aye, him."
"Death stalks us all, lass. A mon usually kens that weel. I dinnae understand this."
"Neither do I. I would think ‘tis because he cannae fight this, not weel. The mon is as hard to catch as smoke. He lurks in the shadows, e'er at the ready to strike without warning. ‘Tis different than the normal way of things."
"How can ye fight such a thing?"
"I cannae, can I, and therein lies the reason for my anger with the mon. He seeks to save me from grief. I cannae tell him ‘tis too late for he would most like try all the harder to push me away, denying me e'en the little I can pull from him now. That I could not bear."
Meg had little comfort or advice to offer, and was wise enough to know that she could do no more than be there in case she was needed.
When Iain entered their chambers Islaen only briefly thought of pretending to be asleep. She would not play his game, pulling into herself, turning cold and withdrawn. Islaen suspected she could not do so even if she really wanted to. It was against her nature. Simply not speaking of the love she had for him was as much as she could manage. Words she could swallow, even though they sometimes choked her, but all the other signs of her love she could not restrain. They came easily, without thought and denying any control.
When he pulled her close, his hands lightly stroking her she placed her hand over his heart and felt its quickening beat. It beat with the thrill of desire but she wanted it to beat with love. She wished she could reach beneath his taut skin and tear away the wall there. As the strength of her desire disrupted her thoughts she prayed that someday Iain would give as freely of his love as he did his passion.
