Although her defiance of his orders had stirred the impulse to punish her, he realized that the ideas racing through his head, of shaking her or worse, were images of childish retribution. They were precisely the “angry lad’s” reaction she had once deemed his original threats to be.
As if that were not enough to stop him, his body’s immediate, sensual reaction to those images reminded him sharply that just touching her was dangerous for him.
She had attracted him from the moment he’d seen her at the altar. To be sure, half of that attraction had been his belief that Fife wanted him to marry her so Fife could draw Sir Malcolm Cavers into his growing circle of allies.
Fife had offered Simon her generous marriage portion and possibly larger inheritance as a reward for his cooperation. Simon had thought it a sign of favor, an excellent way to increase his holdings, and a way to please his liege lord.
Her beauty had struck him so hard that he realized now, with glaring hindsight, it was one reason he had reacted so furiously to her rejection.
But that was in the past. Her foolhardiness now had gone beyond what any man responsible for any female should tolerate. She deserved censure not only for defying him but also for risking her safety at night in surroundings that must be wholly unknown to her. Moreover, if she was trying to drown herself—
Her head broke the surface, stirring sharp relief in place of what had been dawning fear. She seemed oblivious to her vulnerability as she sat with her back to him on what he knew was a flat boulder near the center of the pond. Her upper half was out of the water, doubtless freezing as she tried to wring out her long hair.
Although she must have combed or brushed the bits of dried mud from her hair and scrubbed the worst of it from her body, she had clearly not been satisfied.
Doubtless, too, she had wanted to defy him again as she had by leaving her bedchamber before he had given her leave. He could understand her dislike of confinement, but to have left the safety of the castle alone was folly.
It would serve her right if she caught her death of cold.
If nothing else, she deserved a good fright.
Sibylla knew she could not stay long where she was. The chilly air was raising goose bumps on her flesh, and experience told her that by the time she got her kirtle back on, she would feel chilled to the bone. She would be cold then until she could get back through the tunnel and warm herself by the bakehouse fire.
She had been gone too long already. Unless Jack was still in the hall or had fallen deeply asleep, he’d surely see her. The thought stirred a resigned smile.
A lad who doubtless faced sound whipping if he shirked his duty would not sleep heavily enough to let the baker find his fire out in the morning. Moreover, although she had brought four candles, she had put out the lighted one on seeing the moon and had brought no tinder box. The tunnel was nearly straight, and she did not fear its darkness, but it would take her longer to return than it had to come out.
Still, the night wooed her with its magical, peaceful beauty. The moon’s reflection on water still gently rippling from her swim fascinated her.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing out there?” The voice thundering out of the silence startled her so that she plunged back into the water without turning to be sure it was Simon. She hoped she was wrong but knew it was he the minute she surfaced, because she heard him scolding.
He stood at the edge of the pond, arms akimbo, so even before the water had drained from her eyes she knew he was furious and heard as much in his voice.
It was not as loud as when he had startled her. But the spate of his words resembled the sort of muttering thunder that warned of a storm to come.
She had looked forward with interest to their next confrontation, but she had not expected to endure a second one without clothing. Nevertheless, as she collected her wits, she noted again that he was a particularly fine figure of a man.
His hair was tousled, and he had shoved his dark cloak back off his broad, powerful-looking shoulders and chest. He had his hands on his hips, and his snug-fitting trunk hose displayed his muscular legs well. His eyes flashed, his jaw looked rock hard, and his deep voice remained thunderous as he continued to scold.
She paid no heed to what he said. But his fierce expression warned her he might be capable of more than hurling words at her, reminding her of what Hugh had done when he’d caught her swimming alone. Sitting had been painful for days.
Simon had that same look on his face. Belatedly, it occurred to her that she ought to have suspected he might treat defiance of his orders as Hugh had.
“Come out of there at once,” he commanded. Tempted to suggest that he come and get her, Sibylla bit back the words. She was certain he would do it.
Instead, she said with amiable calm, “You are right in all that you have said to me, sir, but I am chilly now and need to put my clothes back on. If you will turn your back, I will get out. However, I will not display myself for your—”
“Don’t try me too far,” he warned. “It astonishes me to learn that you possess even a modicum of modesty. Just moments ago, you showed no concern about displaying yourself to anyone who might have been looking.”
Knowing it would be a waste of words to tell him she had not expected anyone to come upon her there, she kept silent. She also took care not to look into his eyes, lest he capture and hold her gaze as he had before.
As it was, he took a precious long time to turn his back but did so at last.
Scrambling out of the water, she snatched up the shift to dry as much of herself as she could and hoped that if he grew impatient enough to turn around, she could cover the important bits of herself with it.
Even with his back to her, she could feel the effects of knowing he had watched her. Despite the chill, her skin burned with awareness that he had seen her naked. How long, she wondered, had he watched before he had spoken to her?
“What brought you here?” she asked as she stepped into the ring of discarded kirtle and quickly yanked the garment up.
When he began to turn, she whirled to give him her back view as she laced it, blessing Lady Murray for choosing dresses she could do up herself.
She would not have wanted to ask Simon for help. Just the thought of him touching her made her skin flame hotter.
He said, “I was riding back from Hobkirk, and I know this pond. When I saw movement here through the shrubbery, I thought someone might be poaching.”
“I did not realize the pond was visible from the road,” she said.
“It is not, most of the time,” he said. “The woods are dense here. But a trick of light, or mayhap the night’s stillness, revealed your movement. It does not matter how I came here, though,” he added. “You should not be here.”
“I could not resist the chance to enjoy a half hour’s freedom,” she said.
“To have come by yourself was unwise. The reason I was away tonight is that reivers—mayhap the same men who tried to drown the children—lifted one of my men’s beasts. He sent to inform me of his loss and, I believe, to learn what I mean to do about it.”
Glancing over her shoulder at him, she said, “You believe?”
“Aye, well, he did not have the temerity to make the demand, but I’d wager he’d have liked to. It is as well he did not, for I knew not what to say to him,” he added. “Until recently, we’ve had few such problems hereabouts.”
She turned, tying off her laces as she said, “Because of your neutrality?”
He looked surprised but said, “I expect you heard that from Amalie.”
“One hears much from numerous sources, sir. Surely, you know that in times of strife many complain of Elishaw’s neutral position.”
“I do know that, aye,” he said. “But I do not mean to talk of Elishaw, my lady. I mean to talk about a young woman who defies her host in matters relating to her safety, and does so when she knows that raiders infest the area.”
“You have already made yourself plain on t
hat subject, sir.” She shivered as she slipped on her thin shoes and bent to retie their ribbons.
Discerning nearby movement, she looked up to see that he had doffed his cloak and was striding toward her. As she straightened, he glanced at her shoes.
“Those shoes are hardly suitable for walking in these woods,” he said as he draped his cloak over her shoulders.
She did not reply other than to thank him for the cloak, still cinnamon-scented and warm from his body. She could hardly say the tunnel floor had not hurt her feet. Nor could she say she had noted no discomfort in walking the twenty or so yards from its entrance. At the time, she had thought only of concealing any sign of her passage.
Meeting his piercing gaze, she told him the truth. “I was just seeking brief freedom, my lord. I did not consider the danger or the distance.”
“My horse stands a quarter of a mile that way,” he said as if he had never lost his temper. “We’ll have to fetch him, but I’ll put you up to ride the rest of the way.”
She did not think he was being kind. One did not think of Simon Murray as a kind man. She was not certain now that he really had lost his temper.
He had spoken that first sentence loudly, doubtless to frighten her. But what had followed had been frosty displeasure quite unlike her father’s fiery rants.
However, Simon did not care about her as Sir Malcolm did. Simon was just angry that she had defied him.
They walked for a time before he said in the even tone he had used since she had begun dressing, “How did you get out of the castle?”
She knew it had been foolish to hope he would not ask. But she had hoped anyway, because she had no sensible reply and dared not tell him the truth.
Were the truth to expose only herself, she would tell him. But she could not tell him how she’d found the tunnel without revealing her visit to the bakehouse with Tetsy, or that a look on Tetsy’s face had told her that a secret existed.
“Well?” he said.
“I walked, of course.”
“How did you get past the guards at the gate?”
Not above a white lie or even a gray one in a good cause, she said glibly, “The gate stood open and I walked out, of course. No one saw me.”
“I see. That is too bad.”
Recognizing bait when she heard it, she grimaced as she asked him why.
“Because I must now hang the men responsible for such neglect.”
Sibylla’s temper ignited. “You can’t do that!”
“Of course I can. I have the power of the pit and the gallows, just as your father has at Akermoor. In times like these, when even a truce cannot protect us from raiders, I must hang careless guards.”
“If you do such a thing, you will be guilty of a great wrong, because those men were not at fault. No one is but me. I promise you that, on my word of honor.”
“Women have small understanding of honor,” he said. “I understand it,” she said. “I got out by myself, sir. I shan’t tell you how, but I will swear on anything you like that your men had no part in it.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?” His tone was icy enough now to stir more goose bumps on her skin. “You lied to me at least once in claiming that the gate was open. You cannot expect me to believe you now.”
“I don’t suppose I can,” she admitted. “What I say is nonetheless true.”
He did not speak again, and they reached his horse a short time later.
“I can walk,” she said. “The ground is soft, and the exercise warms me.”
“We’ll go faster if you ride,” he said. Allowing no further discussion, he put his hands at her waist and lifted her to his saddle.
It was as well, she thought, that he had done it quickly and without comment, because she could still feel the pressure of his hands on her waist and ribs. She was able to think about little else until the gate came into view.
As she had expected, a chill had enveloped her body soon after she stopped walking. But as they approached the gate and saw it swing open to receive them, one look at Simon’s grim expression set her heart pounding. She kept silent.
He made no comment either, merely nodding when the two guards gaped in surprise at her as they greeted him.
She stared straight ahead, but her sense of humor stirred when she recalled that it was the second time the guards at Elishaw had seen her arrive on Simon’s horse, wrapped in his cloak, with wet, tangled hair.
Whether he liked it or not, if they had recognized her, word would spread.
In the bailey, a lad ran to take the horse, and Simon lifted her down as effortlessly as he had put her up. Then, with a hand at the small of her back, he guided her past the main entrance and around the stable to a narrow walkway that opened between the outer wall and the rear of the keep.
She murmured, “I trust you won’t cast me into your dungeon.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he said. “The entrance to the dungeons is from the bailey, however. We are going to the kitchen, where one of the fires will still be going, so you can dry your hair. You should not go to bed with it wet.”
Sibylla’s breath stopped in her throat. Having small reason to trust such thoughtfulness, she felt sure he must have realized how she had slipped outside.
Even so, she did not tell him that she often went to bed with damp hair.
Simon’s thoughts had returned to the men at the gate. Their expressions had told him more plainly than Sibylla’s promise had that they had not known she was outside the wall. Had they let her out, they’d have looked to him when they saw her, to judge how angry he was at having found her outside the gate.
Instead, they had gaped at her as if they could not imagine how she came to be with him—or as if they did not even know who she was.
He recalled then that although guards the previous day had seen him carry her in, the hood of the cloak in which he and Hodge had wrapped her might well have prevented a clear view of her face.
In any event, the guards tonight had not looked at him with the fearful expressions he’d expect to see had they had any responsibility for her escape.
His sister Amalie had said Sibylla often seemed to know things that others did not. Indeed, she had assured him that Sibylla was not a witch, although admitting that some had called her so. Sibylla simply gathered information where she found it, Amalie had explained, and put it to good use.
He wondered with a touch of dry amusement if Amalie might have underestimated Sibylla’s powers.
As he descended with her to the kitchen, his mind continued to seek an answer that fit with what he knew of her and of Elishaw. He found it impossible to believe that she had donned a disguise clever enough to slip past his guards without their having questioned her. Moreover, the blue-green kirtle was the same one she had worn earlier. If she had donned a disguise, where was it?
She had not even worn a cloak. He’d had to provide one again. Gratitude for that act alone ought to have loosened her tongue, but she had barely said thank you.
Having given her the cloak out of courtesy and not because her shivering had disturbed him, he assured himself that letting her dry her hair was more of the same.
She clearly spared no thought for such practicalities, but he did hope she might note his civility and decide she owed him an explanation.
Sibylla’s apprehension grew with each step they took toward the kitchen. As Simon guided her through it to the bakehouse chamber, she felt as if it were harder to breathe. Jack was asleep on his pallet but woke when Simon prodded him gently with the toe of his boot.
Dismayed, the boy darted a glance at the fire, then looked at his master.
“Go up to the hall, Jack,” Simon said. “I’ll fetch you when we’ve finished here. Meantime, I’ll take good care not to let your fire go out.”
Jack looked relieved, but Sibylla’s tension increased tenfold.
Deciding not to allow Simon to continue whatever game he was playing, she said as the boy’s footsteps faded in the distanc
e, “Why did you send him so far? He could easily have dragged his pallet into the kitchen.”
“I wanted him beyond earshot whilst we talk,” he said.
She swallowed. The chamber seemed smaller than it had the previous night.
It dawned on her with horror that the door to the tunnel was still ajar.
She dared not look, but she recalled that the alcove was shadowy. The flour bin and lard barrel surely blocked any view the ambient, flickering firelight might throw on so narrow an opening. But he’d have only to put a hand to the door to discover she had left it off the latch.
“Have you a comb?” he asked.
“Nay,” she admitted. Then, forcing a smile, she added, “It won’t be the first time I’ve used my fingers.”
“Wait here,” he said, striding back into the kitchen.
Crossing quickly to the alcove, she pulled the tunnel door to, taking care to hold the latch open, lest it make a noise loud enough for him to hear as it tripped over its catch and fell into place. Then, instead of moving from the alcove to the fire, she stepped toward the archway and met him as he returned.
“I should have known you wouldn’t wait as I told you to,” he said.
“Curiosity is my besetting sin, sir. But you’ve found a comb!”
“And a brush,” he said, showing her. “My sisters keep them down here for drying their hair. I was not certain I’d find them, but I did.”
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the implements. “You may leave me to dry my hair if you like. I can easily find my way back to my bedchamber.”
“It does not suit my notion of courtesy to leave a female guest to wander the halls of this castle alone any more than to let her traipse about the forest at night. And I still have more to say to you.”
Words flowed from him as she pulled a stool to the fire and began to brush her hair. She listened as politely as she could, given the irritation she felt at his continued attempt to command her and a waning hope that he would not mention the tunnel.
Yearning to have the matter over and done, she nearly spoke of it herself at one point. But she held her tongue, and when he pressed her harder to tell him how she had got out, she let her temper show.
Amanda Scott - [Border Trilogy 2] Page 9