“Held?” Fitz Alan echoed. “Do ye mean he’s been taken for ransom?”
“They seek no payment,” Alex said. “The prince will be safely returned in exchange for Lady Sibylla and Malcolm MacAedh.”
“’Tis as I suspected!” the earl declared. “Domnall Mac William was behind this treachery. ’Twas Highlanders who attacked.”
“Highlanders with Norman bows?” Alex countered. “And how did they ken the route we would take? We were betrayed.”
“Betrayed?” his uncle repeated with brows drawn. “Ye could easily have been followed.”
The earl’s arguments only convinced him further of Eachann’s involvement. Alex bit back the urge to refute him any further. He resolved to privately seek out Fitz Alan to investigate.
“In any case, I am returned to facilitate the exchange of prisoners.”
Both the earl and Fitz Alan looked to the king. A garbled sound sprang from his lips, but his answer was still clear.
“Ye will tell his captors there will be nae exchange,” the earl answered for the king.
With racing heart, Alex looked to the king for confirmation. The sovereign responded with a barely perceptible nod.
“The prince will be safely and immediately returned,” Eachann continued, “or MacAedh’s head will adorn the castle gatehouse.”
Alex fought a violent wave of nausea as he left the king’s bedchamber. He’d all but signed MacAedh’s death warrant. Their plan had failed. He must find Sibylla! He was now prepared to die to get her away from this heinous place. Where was she?
Hoping for information, Alex searched the abbey for Father Gregor.
“The king has all but banished me,” the old priest lamented. “I am nae longer allowed to see her.”
“Why nae?” Alex asked.
“The king’s mistrust,” the priest answered. “Brother Aubert has been charged with teaching her. The king doesna want her to have any further association with Highlanders.”
“He had no intention of releasing her?” Alex said.
“’Tis worse,” the priest said. “He would see her as queen consort.”
Alex was dumbfounded. “Surely he canna think to wed again on his deathbed!”
“Nae! Ye misunderstand! She is to be betrothed to Prince Malcolm.”
“Th-that soft, spoiled stripling!” Alex blurted. He might even have laughed had the truth not been so tragic. It made perfect sense for the machinating king to contrive such a match.
“Where is she?” he demanded. “I must see her!”
“I can do naught,” Father Gregor replied on a helpless sigh. “Go ye to Brother Aubert. Perhaps he can help. My work here is done, my son. There is much danger here. I must return to Portmahomack.”
“Please, will ye forestall one more day?” Alex asked, his mind desperately formulating a plan. “I seek one last boon of ye.”
*
THOUGH SHE NO longer met with the king since his relapse, Sibylla’s lessons with Brother Aubert had continued on. While only days ago she’d accepted her position at court, telling herself it was only temporary and that, soon, she would return home, all that had changed with the king’s decree that she wed Malcolm. Now she despised everything about this place, from the echoes of chanting monks that emanated at all hours from the cathedral to the detested Norman words that felt like poison on her tongue.
But what use was rebellion? She had no choice but to accept her fate. Yet, life in this place was no life at all. She felt as if she existed under a perpetual cloud and would never again experience the warmth and light of the sun; and like a flower deprived of sunshine, perhaps, in time, she would just wither away and die.
She was gazing out the window thinking of home when she heard the maid enter. “Mademoiselle? Frère Aubert vous attend dans l’antichambre.”
“Tell Brother Aubert I have no desire for study today,” Sibylla replied in Norman. “The king’s illness has me too distracted.” Let him interpret that however he will.
Heloise returned a moment later looking exasperated. “He insists on speaking with ye, Mademoiselle.”
Sibylla flung her long braid over her shoulder and rose with a sigh. She would tell him she was indisposed with her menses. That would surely send him fleeing from her chambers. The robed figure turned to face her. Her heart gave a painful leap as he dropped his cowl.
“Alexander! Ye have returned!” she rushed toward him. Unable to restrain her joy, she threw herself headlong into his arms. Unlike the last time they were together, he held nothing back, but pulled her tightly against his chest, raining frantic kisses on her hair, her eyes, her face, and finally… her lips. For several endless heartbeats, they clung together, desperately claiming each kiss they’d been so long denied until the sound of the maid’s return tore them apart.
“I canna stay much longer,” Alex murmured in Gaelic.
“But there is so much I must tell ye!” Sibylla blinked back tears inspired by a mix of joy and desolation.
“Faither Gregor informed me of yer betrothal,” Alex said.
“I dinna want to marry him!” she cried.
“Ye could be queen of this entire kingdom,” he said.
“What good is a kingdom, or even the whole world, if I lose my heart and soul in the bargain?” she asked. “I will have nae other but ye, Alexander.”
“And I ye, Sibylla. I kent it in my heart the first I saw ye.”
Her pulse raced with panic at the anxious look in his eyes as he clasped her shoulders. “But there is something more I must tell ye. Something important I have kept from ye.” He took a deep breath, then blurted, “I am nae who ye think.”
She cocked her head. “Are ye nae Alexander of Portmahomack?”
“Aye, I am Alexander,” he replied. “But I was nae an orphan and my home was nae always the monastery.”
“’Twasna? Then where are ye from?” she asked.
“A place in Mearns called Fettercairn,” he replied. “My máthair was the daughter of the man who …” He paused as if reluctant to continue.
“Whate’er ’tis, nothing will change my feelings for ye,” she insisted.
“Ye must first hear me out,” he said. Alexander then took a breath and blurted, “She was the daughter of the man who killed yer grandfather, Duncan Cenn Mór.”
Sibylla stared at him in momentary incomprehension. Taking a moment to digest his confession, she slowly replied, “’Tis no fault of yers, and I never kent him anyway. Neither my brother nor I have any greater love for our Cenn Mór kinsmen than they have shown us.” Resting her hand on his cheek, she endeavored to set his mind at rest. “This changes nothing, Alexander.”
“There is more,” he said.
“More?” Sibylla wondered what else he felt such a great need to confess.
“My faither was Malcolm Mac Alexander.”
“Surely ye dinna mean the son of King Alexander?”
“Aye,” Alex said. “The same man who tried to claim the crown that was usurped by David Cenn Mór.”
“If this be so… then ye … ye are…” Sibylla’s voice failed her as her mind wrestled with the impossible. “As Alexander’s blood, ye would have a stronger claim to the throne of Scotland than either Domnall or Prince Malcolm!”
“Perhaps,” he replied cautiously.
“Do ye intend to pursue it?” she asked. “Yer claim to the throne?”
“I canna say,” he answered. “I kent nothing of this myself until verra recently. I came here because I wanted to learn what happened to my faither, only to find myself pulled inextricably into this, this… this tangled web of intrigue!”
“Ye will be in verra grave danger if the king discovers who ye are,” she whispered, her throat growing tight.
“Aye,” Alexander said. “’Tis why I felt the need to tell ye all.”
“Is this how ye have the sword… the Kingslayer?” she asked, slowly continuing to piece the facts together.
“Aye,” he said. “’Twas given i
nto yer uncle’s keeping and he gave it to me.”
“Then Uncle kens who ye are?”
“Aye, he kens all,” Alex said.
“Who else?” she asked, her alarm growing.
“Only Faither Gregor… and now ye,” Alex answered. “Ye had a right to this knowledge, Sibylla. I could ne’er ask ye to be my wife without awareness of the danger.”
“Yer wife?” she repeated.
“Aye,” he answered her with a slow, sly grin. “Ye canna marry the prince if ye are already wed.”
“’Tis true? Ye will marry me?” She felt breathless, almost dizzy at the liberation from the crushing weight that had threatened to suffocate her soul. But her elation just as quickly evaporated when she realized the risk. “B-but do ye ken the cost?” she asked. “If ’tis discovered, we will both be put to death.”
“Living without ye is worse than death,” Alex declared solemnly. “I would die by the sword rather than give ye to another… But the choice must be yers.”
“Did ye think anything ye said would change my mind, Alexander?” she asked.
“I hoped ’twould nae, but I can promise ye nothing but my heart.”
“’Tis enough for me,” she said.
“Are ye truly certain about this, Sibylla?” he asked, mixed hope and uncertainty clouding his eyes.
“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” she answered.
Urgency shone in his gaze as he took her into his arms. “I must leave again in the morn, but this first will be done.”
“How?” she asked.
“I have a plan. Can ye contrive to meet me in the queen’s chapel during compline?”
“Aye,” Sibylla’s bobbed her head vigorously. “I will tell them I go to pray privately for the king.”
Alexander nodded. “Until then, mo ghaol.”
My love.
Then, claiming one last quick kiss, he released her and turned for the door.
*
THE WAITING WAS interminable, akin to a slow torture. When the cathedral bells sounded, Sibylla donned her mantle and left her chamber, bound with the others for the cathedral’s last prayer service. Ducking into an alcove, she waited until the corridor had emptied and darted out the nearest exit, through the gardens to the gate leading to the queen’s private chapel.
Sighting two figures inside, she froze on the threshold. She’d expected to find Alexander waiting but hadn’t anticipated anyone else. Had they been discovered? She exhaled in relief when Father Gregor turned to the light and revealed his rotund face.
“Sibylla!” Alex rushed toward her, closing both of his large, warm hands over hers. “Come, mo ghaol. There isna much time.” Taking her hands in his, Alex led her to where Father Gregor stood waiting behind the altar.
“Are ye decided, lass?” the priest asked.
“Aye,” Sibylla whispered.
Clasping their hands together, the priest looked to Alexander.
His eyes never leaving hers, Alex softly spoke the words that filled her pounding heart to the very brim. “Before God, I take this woman unto me as my lawful wife, to love and protect until the last breath leaves my body.”
“And ye, Sibylla?” the priest prompted.
Returning Alexander’s earnest, clear gaze, she declared. “Before God, with ye as my witness, I take this man unto me as my lawful husband, to love and honor until the last breath leaves my body.”
Faither Gregor cast his eyes heavenward. “May the God of all creation bless this union.”
When he finished Sibylla, looked questioningly to the priest. “’Tis done then? We are wed?”
“Not quite,” Father Gregor’s face reddened. “There is… er… one more… er… requirement.”
“Of course.” Sibylla stifled a giggle. “Ye havena kissed me, Alexander!”
She then rose on her toes to offer her lips. Alexander claimed what she offered with a kiss of aching tenderness that left her wanting so much more.
When he released her, the priest cleared his throat with an embarrassed look. “That isna quite what I meant… ye must also consummate this union for it to be legally binding.”
“Consummate?” Sibylla turned wide eyes on the priest. “But how is this to be? We are in a chapel surrounded by a monastery!”
“’Tis nae without risk,” the abbot replied, “but with due discretion, ’tis nae an insurmountable problem. The monks have declared a late prayer vigil for the king.” He produced a black robe and offered it to Sibylla. “If ye would cloak yerself once more as before, ye and Alexander could pass the next hour alone in my chamber.”
“Only an hour?” Sibylla repeated in dismay as she accepted the garment.
“An hour at most, lass,” the priest warned. “Any longer and yer absence will surely be remarked upon.”
Alexander reached out to cup her chin with his warm fingers. “’Tis nae what I wished for us, mo ghaol,” he said softly, apologetically. “But ’tis all we have for the nonce.”
“Many things are nae as we wish,” she said, “but I suppose we must make the best of what time has been given us.”
*
ALEX’S HEART BEAT in his throat as he led the cloaked Sibylla to the place where their bodies would bring to completion the promise he and Sibylla had made to one another. Following her inside the Spartan chamber, he softly closed the door.
The room contained a simple, straw-stuffed pallet on the floor, a wooden chair and a table with a lowly-burning oil lamp. He reached for it with sweating palms. “Shall I douse it?” he asked.
“Do ye wish to?” Sibylla asked, dropping back her cowl, and looking as uncertain as he felt.
“Nae,” he said. “I wish to look upon ye… if ye’d allow it.”
“I, too, wish to look upon ye,” she replied, her pale face blooming pink with a blush.
His body was rigid with anticipation as he took a step toward her. Once their bodies were joined, the marriage would be irrevocable. He’d never wanted, or feared, anything so much in his life. He desired Sibylla beyond reason, but couldn’t suppress the self-doubts. Could he truly be the husband that she needed? The kind of man she deserved? He didn’t know the answer. He prayed that he could be… that he would be… that he would never disappoint her.
To his surprise, she raised her chin and came toward him. “I want this, Alexander,” she whispered, and drew the monk’s robe over her head. “I dinna fear it. Let us now become one in both spirit and in flesh.”
He could barely suppress the trembling as he reached out to hold her face in both hands. “Ye dinna ken how much I want ye, Sibylla. From the first time we kissed, I havena been able to put ye from my mind. Ye are constantly in my thoughts… in my dreams.”
“Aye? And precisely what do ye dream of, dear Alexander?” she asked, her eyes dancing with mischief.
“Of touching ye.” He stroked a thumb along her face. “Of kissing ye.”
He leaned in closer to brush her sweetly yielding lips with his own. Sibylla breathed a soft sigh into his mouth as she opened to his kiss. Her eager response sent a flood of heat to his groin. His pulse pounded as he deepened his exploration, drawing her closer, tighter as his passion flamed. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she echoed his moans as they struggled to remove the garments that still created a barrier between them.
Her flesh was warm, sweetly scented, and smooth as silk as he tested the weight of her small, round breast in his palms, and tasted the salt of her skin on his tongue.
Sibylla. Beautiful, intelligent, stubborn Sibylla.
Her warmth and scent engulfed him as their hands joined and fingers entwined. Her name spilled from his mouth over and over as he lost himself in learning her body.
He’d never dreamed that this moment would come… that she would truly be his.
Her gasp broke the silence as he breached her. She went still beneath him. He also froze. “Sibylla, mo chridhe. Are ye a’right?” he asked, afraid to move inside her, and almost afraid to breath.
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“Aye.” Her gaze sought his as she nodded. “I kenned ’twould hurt a bit,” she answered with a wince. “But I wasna prepared.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. What a clumsy lout he must be. “I’m so sorry, mo chridhe,” he said. “What can I do to ease yer discomfort?”
“Kiss me, Alexander,” she replied smiling up at him. “I feel only pleasure whene’er ye kiss me.”
When he began to move again, soft sounds of mutual pleasure filled the air. Before long, she was moving and panting beneath him, holding him tight as he stifled his cry and spilled himself inside her.
*
LOST IN WONDERMENT, Sibylla lay still beneath Alexander’s damp and spent body. Alexander had been everything she could have desired—gentle and tender, considerate, and passionate, but nothing could have prepared her for the actually moment he breached her body. It was painful and glorious all at once, as he bathed her in his warmth and musky scent. Though she understood what would happen between them, her imagination never could have conjured the overwhelming sensations. There was pain but after had come pleasure, pleasure that assailed her with tiny ripples that spread from deep inside her womb, causing her mind to blur and her body to quiver.
After a time, he rolled to his side and pulled her into the crook of his arm. Sibylla curled into his body and rested her head on his chest, relishing his warmth and the strong, steady drum of his heartbeat. Holding her close, he said nothing for a long time, and then finally broke the silence with a sigh. “Was it so verra bad for ye?” he asked.
“Nae!” she insisted, adding more hesitantly, “would ye think me a wanton if I told ye I liked it?”
“I wouldna think a wanton wife is a bad thing at all, so long as she saves her passion only for her husband,” he replied.
“I love ye, Alexander Mac Malcolm,” Sibylla whispered. “There will ne’er be any other for me.”
“Nor me,” he replied. “Ne’er forget it, mo chridhe, whatever may happen.”
He lapsed into another silence but tension, rather than satisfaction, was written on his face.
“Does something more trouble ye, Alexander?” she prompted.
“Aye,” he confessed. “I curse myself for taking my pleasure in ye.”
Reckless Scotland: A Scottish Medieval Romance Bundle Page 23