Isabel felt her blood run cold. “Stop. Don’t say anything more. You need your strength.”
“No,” he rasped through clenched teeth, every sound an impossible strain. “It’s important. You need to know that you were not alone in your feelings. I need you to know that I love you.”
That brought her head up immediately. Her entire body seized with disbelief as her eyes fastened on his. “You l-love me?” she stuttered.
“More than I ever thought it possible to love another.”
A wave of happiness crashed over her. For a moment she forgot her fears, allowing the soothing warmth of his words to enfold her. Words she’d ached to hear. But not now. Not at a time like this. Tears blurred her vision. “Why did you not tell me before?”
“I thought it would make our parting more difficult. But I want nothing more between us.”
Guilt tore like acid through her veins. Now was the time to say something. If she was ever going to tell him why she had been sent to Dunvegan, this was the time. “Rory, I—”
The words stuck in her throat. Fear wrapped around her chest. Would he understand? A heavy pause hung between them while her conscience warred with practicality. Rory was dying. Anger would only weaken him. What purpose would it serve to tell him now, when he had just declared his love? She dared not risk that his last memory of her be one of betrayal rather than love.
He stroked her cheek, wiping away the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“I love you, too,” she said instead. “I will always love you.” She pressed her face into his hand and said a silent prayer for forgiveness.
This was the happiest, most terrible moment of her life. He loved her, but he lay dying. It was so illogical, like a flower blooming in the ashes of hell.
She listened to his pained, shallow breathing growing steadier. Until at last he slept.
Chapter 21
The haunting sounds of the pipers playing their eerie lament for their dying chief echoed through the dark halls. The words of Patrick MacCrimmon gave voice to the anguish of a clan.
My pipe hand me and home I’ll go,
This sad event fills me with woe;
My pipe hand me, my heart is sore,
My Rory Mor, my Rory Mor.
It seemed as though the entire castle dwelt in a state of limbo for months, although in reality it was only a few days.
Endless days of waiting for the fever and infection to run its deadly course.
Endless days of praying for God to take him, to relieve him of his unbearable pain.
Endless days of praying for God to take her, so she would not have to watch him suffer.
In the end, He took neither.
By some miracle Rory survived, finding the strength to defeat the fever.
Never would Isabel forget those harrowing days when she thought she might lose him. Or the infinite joy she’d felt when at last he opened his eyes and his lucid blue gaze, strong and unwavering, met hers.
He took one long look at her and boomed in a surprisingly strong voice, “Get some rest. Now.”
Isabel never thought she’d be so glad to hear that uncompromising voice ordering her about. Ignoring his instructions, she rested her head on the bed and wept with relief. Relenting for a moment, Rory gently stroked her tangled hair. But when her tears had dried, Isabel found herself forced from his bedside, not allowed to return until she’d eaten and slept.
Over the long weeks that followed, Isabel nursed Rory during his recovery, her happiness tempered only by the fact that she knew she might lose him still. He loved her, but he still had not promised to marry her. Each day that passed was like the tolling of a bell reminding her that the time of reckoning drew near. Would Rory go through with the repudiation? His silence on the subject of their future seemed only to confirm her fears.
Her uncle’s threat to tell Rory of her perfidy weighed heavily on her mind. Sleat acted with the single-minded purpose of destroying the MacLeods, heedless of her happiness or security. She had no doubt her uncle would hold to his promise if she did not bring him the flag by the end of the handfast period. If he waited that long. Isabel knew she had to do something about her uncle soon. She would do whatever was necessary to protect her secret until she was sure that Rory would not send her back; only then would she dare risk his anger.
Rory had given her his love and trust, and she had not been completely honest with him. She should have told him that night as he lay dying, but she’d been too scared. Their love was too fragile. There were too many forces trying to keep them apart. Isabel didn’t have much experience with love, nor was she confident that she could hold the love of a man like Rory. The scars of her past were too deep to erase with words spoken in the face of death…and not repeated. How could she be confident in the strength of his love when the threat of repudiation hung like a reaper over her head?
