Chapter 4
Sybilla watched him coax the stretching, rolling flames into a fiery ball. True enough, the warmth from the hearth did sooth her aches and ailments, but it was his herb potion that offered the most relief. She’d expected his concoction to make her sleepy-eyed and stupid like a stuffed doll, but instead, she felt calm and almost pain-free.
He was a surprise in a great many ways. Kidnapping robber-thugs were gentle when they wanted to be. She’d never have guessed.
She sat, her back pressed against the cold stone wall, watching while he moved around his tiny, tumble-down home. Most of the time, he could rein in the span of his arms, duck his head, and move about without disturbing the jugs and food sacks dotted about. She watched as he spooned broth, without spilling a drop, into two tiny earthenware bowls.
She accepted the pottage with a nod of thanks and took a sip.
“Will you tell me your name?”
“Gus.”
Gus. Was that really it? Was that really his name? Does it matter? She’d call him the King of Scotland if he wished and if it helped to keep her safe.
Sybilla cleared her throat. She hated to bring up anything personal, like her toileting needs, because she’d be reminding him that she was a woman and he a man.
“Ahem,” she said, her cheeks heating and her eyes downcast. “I must see to my personal needs.”
Why did she feel so embarrassed? In the castle, folk used the privy in full view of everyone walking past. But here, with him, everything was so very . . . intimate, for want of a better word.
The two of them were alone in this tiny cave. Worse than that, they were alone in this secret part of Scotland. He was a dangerous Scottish barbarian, and she was just a waif-sized English maiden. Her father would say, “Use your womanly wiles,” and she would use them now, if only she had some.
Studying the Highlander’s face, she decided that some would call him attractive. But she had Eoin, so she hadn’t noticed.
“I use the bushes myself. I believe the fresh air is hard to beat. You may go outside if you like.”
“The thickets it is then,” she snapped, annoyed that she must ask his permission to toilet. Damn it all. Her face was flaming now. No doubt she looked redder than a cooked beet. She plonked her bowl of broth down and rose unsteadily. The hard mud floor rolled like a ship at sea.
“Do you need a hand, lass?”
“I can see to my own needs.”
Gingerly, she paced towards the door, and then, ever so carefully, she moved out into the weak sunlight and away from him.
The air was even fresher outside with the breeze kissing her skin as provocatively as a lover’s caress. Stop that rubbish, Sybilla! You hate poetry, remember. What is wrong with you?
The best crop of trees for crouching behind, whilst maintaining one’s dignity and staying unseen, was in the distance and almost too far to reach. Fifteen paces at least.
Mayhap she should squat behind his cave. But then, she already knew he had a penchant for spying. He’d admitted as much.
Taking a deep breath, she decided to call this a test. If she was strong enough to reach the tree line, she might be strong enough to escape and flee home to Eoin, before it was too late.
But every miniscule step she took cost her dearly. The effort was painful, overbearingly so. Another. Then another. Three steps down and another eleven to go. No. There would be no dash for freedom today.
She looked back at his lumpy home, the smallest of structures. Her father had a dove cote bigger than that. Any passer-by would easily mistake the rubble of rocks for nothing more than scenery. Thorns and honeysuckle and such grew wild all around, and they almost obscured the sorry clump of stone. A castle search party would simply ride on by.
Further away now and looking back, she spied his horse in a lean-to near the cave. That horse did not look sick. Perhaps she could help herself to his stallion. Of course, she’d return the horse another day. But how would she climb up onto such a tall beast, especially with only one working arm? Her head still throbbed, and her shoulder wound was caked in blood and threatened to break open. Scrabbly Castle had to be a hard two-hours ride away. She needed a cart, not a horse.
And anyway, opportunistic men like Gus were clever with their horses. His stallion would be well trained. One whistle from him, and the horse would stop dead, making fleeing impossible. He wasn’t the sort of man women escaped from, not without enormous thought and planning first, if ever.
Soon, she would get away though. Yes, she would rush back into Eoin’s arms, and he’d be delighted and proud of her escape and boast of it to all. Most importantly, their wedding would still go ahead, and neither Vienna nor Juliette would have to marry a Border Reiver.
Sybilla noted that by time she made it back into the hut, he’d finished eating his broth and was washing up in a basin of water.
“Come in and finish your broth. Hurry up about it, too, because I want to strip you down and give you a good clean.”
Sybilla blinked. Strip her down? Were her ears playing tricks?
With her cheeks burning, she said, “I do not need stripping nor cleaning.”
“I think you do.”
Was this it then? Was this how she would lose her maidenhood?
“My wound dressing is fine. We shall leave it be.” She lowered her fragile body back onto the bed.
He placed the pottage bowl back into her hands. She accepted the soup and managed a few more swallows. She couldn’t say what the meal tasted like, though, because the thought of his huge hands against her naked skin did something strange to her taste buds. They no longer worked.
He moved closer, invading her personal space. She could almost feel his breath on her cheek.
“We will not leave it there. The dressing is nay fine. Best not let that wound fester.”
She ignored his hovering body, or pretended to, and furthermore managed to pretend he hadn’t said a word. To give herself something to do, she sipped the pottage, but at a crawl. Best drag this eating business out as long as she could because who knew what would happen next.
He raised one eyebrow. “If it is your modesty you’re most concerned with, you’ve no need. I’ve seen it all afore.”
She stopped eating, her spoon raised mid sup. “I’m sure you have.”
Despite her best efforts to eat slowly, her bowl was still emptying. When he said he’d seen it all before, she hoped, nay, prayed he meant that he’d seen other women. Just the thought of him lifting her shift and peeking at her body whilst she lay unconscious sent shivery bumps all over her skin. Surely, he would not stoop so low? Aye, he would. Then another question kept popping into her mind and refused to be ignored. Had he liked what he saw?
She supped, nay, licked her pottage at a snail’s pace until the last dregs were stone cold and congealed into fatty glops.
Without warning, he jumped up, bounded over, and placed his apelike hands around her bowl.
She refused to relinquish it. But he simply rolled his eyes and tugged the bowl free.
She looked away, again studying the same piece of hard earth that she’d studied so often in the past few hours. Would it be like that with her body when the time came? Would he simply decide that enough was enough, jump up, and take her without a word spoken?
He dropped the bowl into the cleaning water.
“Now, no more dallying. Ease your shift from your shoulder. If you cannae manage that, then I will do it for you. It would be easy enough for me, I could lift that wee snippet of shift clean over your head without touching the bandage, and you’d feel naught.”
“You needn’t sound so eager.” She gave him her most condemning stare. Infuriating, really, because he took no notice.
So, with chin tilted high in the air, she turned herself givin
g him her back. Ever so carefully, using only her good fingers, she slid her undergarment off one shoulder. The movement caused some pain, but in truth, she was far too tense, so she felt little of the ache.
He rose from his stool. She sat with her back to him, waiting and wedged tightly into the corner, as rigid as a wooden stake.
All was still except for his heavy in and out breathing. What was taking him so long? Was he just standing there staring at her? There was a lump the size of a drawbridge in her throat.
When his fingers finally touched her skin, she jumped like a rabbit sprung by a fox.
“Lass, I know I’m as gentle as a blind ox, but I’ll do my best. I’ll try nay to be rough with ya.”
She nodded, the tension holding her tongue.
Carefully, he began to peel away her bandages. His roughened fingers scratched against her bare skin. She could feel the heat of his body and smell his woody scent. There was a distinctly masculine odour about him. She should find it unpleasant, but instead, she drew in a deep breath.
Without her realising it, he’d removed the old bandage. It wasn’t till she felt the cool air about her wound that she realised the bandage was gone.
“Lass, are you feeling alright?”
“Fine. I’m actually not that aware of the wound. I’ve suffered far worse injuries in the past. I’m tougher than you think, you know. We English lassies are made of stern stuff.” Now that was an outright lie.
“Pleased to hear it. I was about to fetch you something to bite down on, but if you think that is not necessary?”
She swung around. “What?”
“Stay still, or you’ll open the wound again.”
“Then wrap it quickly and no more talk of biting down on things, please.”
He touched her good shoulder. “Tis time to be brave, little one. This wound needs cleaning before I apply a fresh dressing. The whiskey will sting, but you will survive the bite of it.” And, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Because you are English and made of tough stuff.”
She closed her eyes and would have liked to whimper, but that was off the cards. There would be no whimpering with him around. Heaven’s above! She remembered well the feel of raw alcohol on an open wound, and it wasn’t a feeling she wished to repeat. But if she refused his cleansing whiskey, she’d look like a coward, and it wouldn’t do to be seen as weak. He must see her as a strong woman, someone not to be toyed with.
“I need to do this, lass, lest the wound festers. If that happens, you’ll likely nay survive the sennight.”
She nodded, knowing he spoke the truth. In her short life, she’d already seen too many men die from poison in the blood.
Clamping her teeth together, she muttered, “Go ahead. Quickly. Do it now.”
He poured the whisky all at once onto her shoulder. The pain felt as if a spear was being driven into her wound. The light behind her eyes went white, and then everything darkened as if the sun had gone into hiding. Even the sound of the crickets outside dimmed.
She may have yelped a little, but she couldn’t be sure. She sat on that pellet, shaking, and waiting for the pain to dull. At last it slowed, and she could breathe again. She kept her eyes closed in order to stop the tears from coursing her cheeks.
“Done now, lass. We’ll bandage you back up and not look again till the morrow.”
With her eyes still squeezed tight and still holding onto her tears, she tried to nod. Her body was weak from shock and the relief of the cleansing being over.
Gently as he could, he wrapped the linen strips around her shoulder blade and under one arm.
“Tis over.” He gripped her head in his giant hands and cradled her against his chest. “You’re a brave wee thing. I’ll give ye that.”
She smiled, nay, grinned as wide as a slice of moon—his praise warming her heart. Although why she was so pleased, she’d no idea. Perhaps it was the solid feel of his body against her cheek. That must be it. Her body sought his strength. Yet his strength represented danger too. If he was to come for her in the night, she’d have no way to keep herself chaste. She would be ruined for Eoin. Forever.
The Highlander moved back to his washing bowl, taking the dirty bandages with him.
The sting was less vicious now and abating more with every moment that passed. While she waited, she distracted herself by trailing her eyes along his shelves, to where his belongings lay. He’d fashioned himself shelves out of blocks of stone. She thought she could make out a blade or two stashed up there on that top shelf. Next time he stepped out of the crib, she would investigate. It she was to keep herself safe, the more she knew about him the better.
He’d not laid a menacing hand on her yet, least not while she was awake. They’d slept beside each other, all night long last eve, in this tiniest of huts, and her virtue was still intact. But would Eoin believe it?
How would she explain the truth of it all to her betrothed? He wasn’t the trusting sort. Actually, few, if anyone, would believe her to be chaste still, least of all Eoin’s Border Reiver clan.
Sadly, everyone knew what wild rutting Scottish warriors did to innocent girls, especially English girls. When she escaped, she’d better come up with an entirely false story because no one without an addled mind would believe the true version thus far.
Gus remained surprisingly quiet. He went about his tidying and washing without uttering a single word. Perhaps he had much to think about too.
Suddenly, she felt exhausted and in desperate need of sleep. She lowered herself onto the pallet and closed her eyes. Already she could feel herself drifting away.
He must have noticed that her eyes were closing because he whispered, “Sybie, you sleep. I’m going off for a wander. I’ll leave a clean shirt of mine on the end of the bed. Whilst I’m gone, best if you put it on, if you’re able. Your own clothes are in need of a clean.”
“Sybilla,” she corrected him, before she drifted into a deep slumber.
She woke again many hours later. The fire had died, but the sun was still out and doing its best to warm their corner of the world.
She sat up slowly and carefully, trying not to knock her bandaged shoulder or aggravate her walloping head.
Looking around, she realised that she was alone. At least there was no sight of him inside. And, just like he said he’d do, he’d left a spare shirt of his on the bed for her to put on.
She would wear it because her shift was dirty, and her other clothes were gone. She slipped her shift off and his huge linen overshirt on. There, that felt better. Now, mayhap she could rustle around a bit and search for her skirt. Actually, now would be an ideal time for a bit of a snoop.
“Gus,” she cried softly.
No response. Good, he wasn’t lurking outside the door. She could hear naught but birdsong and crickets making merry. With slow, measured steps, she paced towards the shelving.
Rifling through his things might be an ignoble thing to do, but that was too bad. Kidnapping was far worse. With a renewed sense of justification, and with way more curiosity than she cared to admit to, she shuffled towards his stash of belongings.
From what she could see already, this man was no peaceable hermit. But she knew that. She only had to look at his scars to know he battled hard and often. There was an array of weapons on the highest shelf: long and short knives, a bow, and two swords. The find did not bode well for her.
While roaming minstrels and nature lovers might stop in one of these tumble-down huts to rest the night, neither type lugged a cache of weapons around with them. One thing was clear as loch water—Gus was a warmongering man.
She felt strangely disappointed and yet exhilarated too. Her disappointment stemmed from the fact that Gus really had been the one to hurt her, and the exhilaration she felt was a strange, unfathomable emotion indeed.
So, Gus really was a raider, an opportunist, and a hireling sword. He was someone who travelled around ransacking homes and kidnapping innocent woman. Accept the fact, Sybilla, and stop trying to see him in a flattering light.
She continued her search. Under a pile of linen sheeting, she found a spare plaid and a metal brooch. She scooped up the beaten silver circle, bringing it close for inspection. It was an intricate piece indeed—silver inlaid with stones. The brooch would be worth a whole pouch of silver coins.
She slipped the brooch back into place. Such a rich piece was indeed dubious. If he was wealthy enough to own something of this calibre, then why was he living rough? It was stolen. Of course, it was.
Her thoughts revisited the idea of escape. Maybe if she hobbled away now, she’d be far enough into the woods by time he returned. But then again, a man like him would be skilled at tracking, and he was the one with the horse. She’d be escaping on foot.
She ran her fingers along the length of the next shelf until they rested on soft leather. Lifting the earthenware jug out of the way, she spotted the object—a large leather-bound book.
Books were rare treasures indeed. She’d read two in her life thus far, and both had been Christian texts. She was fortunate to have read those two books because many folk had never held, nor even seen, a book. And even fewer could read at all.
Cradling the heavy text, she lifted it to her nose. Ah, the alluring smell of parchment, ink, and knowledge. She brought the text over to the doorway, towards the sunlight so that she was able to read the title.
Folk-Lore and Witchcraft. Why would Gus risk his neck to steal such a thing? For a bag of coins, of course. It would fetch a pretty coin.
Could Gus read? It was doubtful or very unlikely. He was a man that would know nothing of pens and writing, or even the alphabet. Did he even know what his book was about? No matter. It was a rare treasure and one that would yield a hefty ransom. She flipped open the cover.
Hemlock and Honey Page 6