Inside she, too, gave up life and hardly noticed that Bjorn lifted her from her feet. Though he was wounded he carried her into the keep, to Hagan’s room, where the lord was laid upon his bed. Sorcha was beside herself, and though both Anne and Leah tried to force her from his chamber, she stayed at his side, as long as even the tiniest breath of life was in his lungs.
Holding his hand in hers, she kept her vigil throughout the day and into the night, refusing food and sleep, never failing to touch him, to talk to him, to beg him to come back to her.
The gossip of the castle was spoken around her, and bits and pieces scattered through her mind. Anne, as Lady of Erbyn, gave Bjorn his freedom, and Leah planned to leave with the man she loved. There was still talk of Bjorn being of royal birth, and he was determined to discover his birthright.
Tadd was dead, struck so by Ware, who, once his mission was accomplished, disappeared. Garrick of Abergwynn was furious with his brother and planned to have him hunted down like a dog, but Anne absolved Ware of his crimes.
But Sorcha paid no attention. She cared not for what the others would do. She stayed with Hagan until Isolde crept into the shadowed room.
“ ’Tis no use,” Isolde said, touching Sorcha’s shoulder. “He’s dying.”
“Where there is life, there is hope. Is that not what you once told me?”
“But, child …”
“I will not give up,” Sorcha proclaimed, and she eyed the sticks around Hagan’s neck. They seemed so small and useless. His chest barely moved, and though his wound was beginning to heal it was as if his soul had lost its way and he had no reason to live.
“Child—”
“Damn it all! Hagan, do not leave me!” she yelled, her voice raspy and desperate. “I love you.” With all the strength in her hands, she grasped the damned red cord from his neck and yanked it hard, tearing the threads, the knots unraveling, the twigs falling apart. With a fury born of lost hope, she flung the useless necklace into the fire. Sparks sputtered upward, and the flames crackled in hungry anticipation.
The tears she’d fought so valiantly against welled in her eyes, and as she leaned over him for one last time, she whispered, “I love you. I have always loved you and I vow to you that I will love you forever.” Heart in her throat, she placed her lips over his and kissed him goodbye.
He was gone to her. Lost forever.
As she lifted her head, she felt Isolde’s old fingers clutch her arm. “Come, child. ’Tis over.”
“Aye,” she whispered but could not tear herself away. Somewhere outside the castle the wind rose, sighing loudly through the trees, rushing across the battlements.
Hagan’s eyelids moved.
Sorcha stood stock-still. ’Twas only her imagination, but—
One of his long fingers stretched upward, and she felt a gladness soar in her heart. “He lives,” she cried, hardly daring to believe the truth.
Blinking hard, Hagan opened his golden eyes to stare up at her as if he’d been in a dream.
“Hagan!” she whispered, tears of gladness raining from her eyes as she threw her arms around him. He let out a low sound, somewhere between a cough and a laugh.
“Wha—what is this?” he asked in a voice that sounded as if it were made of gravel.
“I thought I’d lost you—”
“Never,” he vowed, lifting one arm to surround her and draw her close. Though he winced with pain, he would not release her. “Did you doubt your own powers?”
“What powers?”
“You are truly a savior,” he whispered, his fingers coiling in the strands of her hair. “And I love you.”
The words, spoken so softly, echoed in her heart.
“Do not leave me, Hagan,” she cried, sobbing against him.
“Never, my love.” He pulled her head to his and kissed her with a desperation that ripped through her heart to her very soul.
Sorcha stared at the gown she was to wear. Soft white with gold threads for her wedding. Isolde’s smile was tired. “I lived to see this day, m’lady,” she said, “that you will marry the man you love.”
Sorcha slithered into the soft silk and pulled her hair from the neck. “Without you, Hagan may not have lived. I owe you much, Isolde.”