She pulled him in for another deep, searing kiss, then pushed him away. “Your precious oracle said I would stand by my brother if he returned, and that I would choose him over you. But I am carrying your child now, Angus. That makes me yours. You must have faith in my loyalty and tell her so. Then, for God’s sake, send her away. If you don’t, she’ll do nothing but wreak havoc here.”
“But she sees the future,” Angus said. “I must know her prophecies.”
Gwendolen hopped off the desk and moved to the center of the room. “You cannot trust what she sees, for she has painted me with a false brush. She could be wrong about other things, too, and lead you down the wrong path.”
“What other things?” he asked.
“Your death, for one.” She approached him again. “I’ve had my own dreams, Angus. I have envisioned our future, and what I see is very different from what she has seen in the stones.”
He felt an unexpected curiosity. Did every woman in the world wish to control him with mysticism? “What do you mean, you’ve had your own dreams?”
“Dreams,” she repeated, with a noncommittal shrug. “Sometimes I dream about certain events, and later there is truth in them.”
“What events?”
She shook her head as if she didn’t want to speak of it, but continued nonetheless. “I dreamed of your assault on Kinloch the night before you stormed the gates. I saw our passion together. And before our wedding day, I dreamed of the swallow that was nesting in the Great Hall. I saw her fly away and leave us.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Why have you not told me this before?”
“Because it’s probably just a lot of superstitious nonsense, and besides, when I have the dreams, I don’t know if they will come true or not. I don’t recognize the prophecy until it occurs, and then I look back and remember that I dreamed it. So you see, I am no oracle.”
“But your dreams do come true.”
“Sometimes.”
He walked to the window and looked out at the surrounding meadows and forests, and wondered what he was supposed to do with this information. He had married a woman who was not only beautiful and spirited, not to mention sexually eager and gloriously fertile, but had prophetic dreams as well.
“What else have you seen in your sleep?” he asked. “Have you ever seen my death?”
She spoke with conviction. “Nay, but I have seen our life together, many years from now.”
He faced her. “What did you see? Tell me every detail.”
“I saw you pass your sword to our eldest son on his wedding day, and all was well.”
All was well?
Angus found that difficult to believe, for there was always violence or death in some corner of his life, waiting to rear its ugly head. Even now, the dread of it was haunting him like a demon. Which left him only one choice.
“I am laird here,” he said, looking out the window again, “and it is up to me, and only me, to decide who stays and who goes.”
“And Raonaid stays, I suppose?”
“For the time being.”
For a year, he had lived with Raonaid and listened to her prophecies. She had saved him in more ways than one. Helped build him up when he was broken. She made him strong when he was weak. He simply could not banish her now. He owed her his life, and he needed to know all there was to know about the future. Because of Gwendolen.
She regarded him with disappointment, and he was suddenly aware of the fact that his army was being assembled in the bailey, yet he was here in this room, talking to his wife about dreams and prophecies, when he should be out there, preparing his men to fight and defend.
“Do you still love her?” Gwendolen asked.
He scoffed bitterly. “Are you mad, lass? I never loved her. I’ve never loved anyone.”
Color rushed to her cheeks, and she turned quickly for the door. “I beg your pardon, I forgot. I suppose I have nothing to worry about then.” She walked out and slammed the door behind her.
Angus stood in the empty chamber and knew very well that she was upset with him—because he had just told her in no uncertain terms that he did not love her.
But how could he have said anything different?
