Page 91 of The Scot

“No!”

She spun so quickly at Cait’s scream—not Terric, not Rory—that she had to close her eyes to stave off a fit of dizziness. She opened them, her heart hammering as she peered a little more closely at the bloody body Cait was looking at. How had she missed him coming into the hall? Was it . . .

“Gilbert.”

“The dead remain outside,” the seneschal yelled as a reminder.

“Nay,” Cait countered. “’Tis Gilbert. He will stay here.”

Roysa could only stare. Just this morning, the marshal had chastised her for insisting on going outside the keep. He could not possibly be dead.

But he was.

“No. No, no, no.”

If Cait’s earlier cry had given her pause, this one was like being doused by a stream of icy water. She knew immediately who’d been carried inside. The wide berth he was given confirmed it.

“No!” she shouted, echoing Cait’s words. She staggered toward him as he was carried to a nearby trestle table, although his sister got to him first.

“Terric, do you hear me?” Cait shouted.

“I hear you,” he groaned.

He was alive! Terric was alive! She put on a burst of speed, reaching the table.

“You must stop doing this.” Cait reached for one hand, Roysa another. He had no visible injuries, although she knew that did not mean all was well.

He answered with a groan.

She wanted to ask what had happened. If he had seen her father. If they were winning or if Ulster’s men were even now within the outer walls.

But she didn’t. He was obviously in pain, and she just wanted it to stop. Fortunately, Dromsley’s physician arrived just then. He not so politely pushed both women to the side. While she watched, the man prodded Terric, who seemed to be waking.

“Gilbert? Is he truly dead?”

Before any of them could answer, Lance edged his way in front of them. “Gone,” he said. “Go slowly, Terric. You took a hard blow to the head.”

When Terric opened his eyes, Roysa could finally breathe. Pushing past the physician, she took the hand of the man she loved, defying the doctor to move her again.

Her eyes met Terric’s—and she saw not relief in their depths, but regret.

“I tried to find your father.”

Was he . . .

“Is Father dead?” she asked, that last word difficult to say aloud.

“I never saw him.”

Terric’s gaze moved to Lance.

“’Tis done,” the blacksmith said. “Rory waits with Ulster to negotiate.”

“Done? What does that mean?”

Lance might have answered, but her sister found them then. She launched herself into her husband’s arms, their greeting hardly appropriate but very much understandable.

Finally, Terric cleared his throat. She’d do anything to kiss him now, as Idalia and Lance had just done, but his head . . . “Does it hurt?”