The Forbidden Highlands

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Alex was beginning to understand Domnall’s rebellion and bitterness. Not only had he suffered a father’s rejection, but now carried the added stigma of bastardy. They had both been ill-used by the Canmores. Did he trust Domnall enough to reveal his own secret? He wanted to speak, but caution told him to hold his silence.

  “And I’m neither scholar, nor statesman,” Domnall said. “I wish my uncle would understand that. I have neither the desire nor the patience for history and Latin!”

  “He only acts in your best interest,” Alex said. “The study of history allows us to learn from the mistakes of others.” MacHeth was trying to provide the guidance that Domnall needed, but Alex feared his impatient temperament would always lead him to learn his lessons the hard way.

  Alex closed the history and Latin texts. “I’ll speak with your uncle.” Domnall didn’t lack for intelligence, but without motivation to learn, it was all a waste of time. He was reminded once more of Sibylla’s eagerness and intellectual curiosity. She would be a joy to teach—if her uncle would permit it.

  Domnall departed with a look of relief and a murmur of thanks.

  Feeling restless, Alex left the castle to find a quiet place to pray. He first started for the chapel but then gazed up at the distant promontory. His instincts urged him to go to a high place apart from people just as the Lord had done in troubling times.

  He wandered in the general direction until he found a narrow drover path that seemed to lead the right way. When he reached the top, Alex took in the circle of carved stones that marked the old Druid worship site. In the center stood a great oak tree. What better place could there be to make his appeal to the true God?

  Kneeling beneath the branches, he retrieved his psalm book. “Bow down thine ear, O Lord, hear me: for I am poor and needy—Ouch!” he cried as an acorn dropped upon his head. “Be merciful unto me, O Lord, for I cry unto thee daily,” he continued, only to be struck by another acorn, and then a third! “Bluidy squirrels!”

  Mumbling a curse, he rubbed his head, and once more took up his psalms. “Give ear, O Lord, unto my prayer; and attend to the voice of my supplications. In the day of my trouble I will call upon thee: for thou wilt answer me.”

  There came a sudden rustle of leaves, but this time he had the good sense to protect himself from a hailstorm of acorns that was followed by a ripple of feminine giggles.

  Had he somehow conjured a wood sprite? He was quick to shake off that notion. He didn’t ascribe to old folklore and superstition, and would surely burn in hell if he allowed such Highland heresy to rub off on him.

  Alex’s gaze darted upward, searching through the thick canopy of branches to a flash of billowy white. Closing his book, he stared more intently into the tree. The glimpse of white he’d seen transformed into a more corporeal shape—that of Sibylla.

  He leapt to his feet. “Sibylla! What the de’il are ye doing in that tree?”

  “Looking for mistletoe, of course,” she answered as if he were a simpleton.

  “Ye shouldn’t follow the Pagan ways,” he reproached.

  “Is it evil and heathenish to make medicine for my clan? ’Tis not as if I’m performing human sacrifices!”

  Alexander had no reply.

  She stretched out full length upon the branch. “Besides, I like it up here. The view of the land is breathtaking. Ye should come and see it.”

  He glowered. “I won’t humor ye, Sibylla.”

  Swinging back to a sitting position, she dangled her bare legs. “Can’t ye climb?” she taunted. “Or perhaps your robes get in the way? Ye could always do what I do and tie them up.”

  His gaze traced slowly upward from her delicate bared toes, to a set of trim white ankles, and then to a pair of smooth, shapely calves. Alexander shut his eyes before he could give in to the temptation of looking higher.

  “Enough of the games, Sibylla. Come down!” He didn’t understand why this slip of a lass so easily fired his temper.

  “Verra well,” she replied. “Hold out your arms.”

  “What? Ye can’t mean to jump!”

  She grinned. “But I do.” Bracing her hands on either side of her hips, she wiggled forward on the branch.

  “Ye’ll break your fool neck.”

  “Not if ye catch me.” Her gaze held his. “Would ye let me fall, Alexander?” she asked softly.

  “Nae.” He murmured and slowly shook his head. “I’d ne’er see ye hurt if I could help it.”

  “Then ye’d best hold out your arms.”

  Before he could protest again, she launched herself from the tree. Her small body felt like a ton of stones hitting him as it slammed Alex backward onto the ground with Sibylla on top of him. Unable to gather his wits, Alex lay stunned beneath her while she burst into laughter.

  Alex found no humor in his situation. What the de’il had just happened? He’d come to this place seeking peace and solitude for his soul, but all he could now think about were the stirrings in his body, and the soft feminine form stretched over him.

  Heat of an unfamiliar kind infused his loins and warmed his blood. And as much as he wished it, Alexander just couldn’t bring himself to move—except for the parts that shouldn’t.

  Awareness came to her suddenly. Her breath hitched, her gaze widened, and her laughter died, but she made no move to pull away. They both lay fixed and still, as if afraid to breathe.

  “Why did ye come here?” she asked softly, her warm breath caressing his face.

  “I needed to be alone,” he replied.

  “Do ye want me to leave?” she asked.

  “Nae,” he confessed. “’Tis the last thing I want.”

  If he told her the whole truth, it would be that he’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted to know the taste of her lips, but the mere thought made him breathlessly aware of other feelings he hadn’t even known he possessed.

  “Have ye ever lain with a woman, Alexander?” she whispered.

  He stifled a groan. Was this a test from God? A trial of his faith and self-restraint? He’d never thought himself a weak man, but if Sibylla was a test, he was doomed to fail.

  “Nae,” he replied with a hard swallow.

  To his dismay, she stared down at his mouth. “Have ye ever kissed a lass?”

  “Kissing leads to temptation,” he replied. As did lying under a tree with a beautiful girl on top of him.

  “But a kiss can mean many things,” she argued. “Are there not chaste kisses? Kisses of affection? Kisses given as greetings? Kisses to say goodbye?” She leaned closer until her silky hair brushed his face.

  Alex shut his eyes once more, but couldn’t block out the sensual assault—her subtly fragrant scent, her warm breath, her pliant breasts pressing against his ever-tightening chest … and then her soft, sweet lips brushing lightly over his.

  He opened his eyes to her questioning gaze and found himself drowning in fathomless depths of sea green. Guilt mixed with longing twisted in his gut. He knew he should not, but he ached to reassure her. He yearned to return her kiss, to touch and hold, to taste her sweet lips again and again.

  “Did ye not like it?” she asked, uncertainty clouding her eyes.

  He reached for her then, cupping her head and slowly closed the inches between them until their lips were but a hairs-breadth away. “I didn’t kiss ye at the burn, Sibylla, not because I didn’t want to. I didn’t kiss ye because I knew I would only want more.”

  “And do ye?” she asked. “Want more?”

  “Aye. I do.” He’d never before comprehended how King David had broken faith with God over Bathsheba, or how the mighty Sampson had succumbed to the seduction of Delilah. But now he was overwhelmed with the power of pure physical desire.

  Unable to resist, he returned her kiss, pressing his mouth to hers, gently at first, tentatively testing and tasting. Her lips were soft, warm, and responsive.

  As she responded in kind, what began as tender torture quickly intensified. Their mouths melded and breaths mingle
d. Instinctively, he flicked her lips with his tongue. She opened on a tiny gasp. He licked again, this time parting the seam of her mouth. A puff of her breath entered his lungs, making him suddenly lightheaded.

  Reading his mind, Sibylla twined her arms around his neck, pressing her body closer and eagerly meeting his searching lips and seeking tongue. The first slick strokes nearly blinded him with sensation. Teasing and tasting, his tongue danced with hers and awakened a ravaging hunger.

  More. It wasn’t enough. He needed more of this…more of her.

  “Sibylla,” he moaned her name. Desire had thickened his tongue. Passion made his pulse heavy in his ears. But this was more than carnal lust, his need for her ran marrow-deep. God in heaven. I am lost.

  Sibylla hadn’t considered the repercussions when she’d flung herself from the tree. She hadn’t thought at all. It had all been just a game to her. She’d wanted to claim the prize that he’d twice denied her—the right to boast she’d finally been kissed. But she hadn’t known the danger. This was so much more than just a kiss. It was as heady and powerful as a magical potion.

  Alexander had awakened a fever within her that burned as fierce and hot as a midsummer banefire. As their limbs entangled and entwined, Sibylla threw her inhibitions into the incinerating pyre.

  He broke the kiss to explore her face and neck with his mouth. His breath was hot and humid and his low moans rumbled softly in her ear. His hands were warm and gently moved up her arms and shoulders, lightly skimming over her skin. She pressed her hand over his trembling fingers as he touched her breast.

  She nodded silently as his gaze locked with hers. She wanted this. She wanted to feel his hands on her skin—just as she wanted to feel his hot flesh under her own palms. Growing mindless in her passion, she tugged at his tunic.

  Abruptly, as if suddenly coming to his senses, he pulled back with a groan. “Please, Sibylla!” he pleaded with a pained look that made her chest feel tight. “We cannot do this. God in heaven knows how much I want to. How much I want ye, but ’tis not right to dishonor ye with my body.”

  “But I want this, too, Alexander,” she whispered. “I want to feel ye inside me.”

  He turned his face away with an anguished exhale. “Why do ye make this harder when I’m trying to do right by ye? I wish with all that I am that I could offer ye marriage, Sibylla, but I cannot. I have nothing. I can give ye no home. No security.” He cupped her face. “Please, lass, try to understand. I never intended to toy with ye.”

  “I know that,” she struggled to reply as the tightness rose from her chest into her throat. “Wasn’t ye who started this. ’Twas me. If anyone is to blame, ’tis me.”

  With an effort, she pushed herself upright, and with shaking hands, began straightening her clothes. She glanced up at the sky, noting the splashes of orange and pink coloring the clouds. “Daylight fades. I’ll soon be missed.”

  “Aye,” he agreed. “We must head back.”

  She bit her lip. “What if we’re seen together?”

  “Then I’ll follow ye.”

  Twilight made a rapid descent over Cnoc Croit na Maoile, cloaking the forested part of the path in deep shadow and making the way difficult. Twice, she scratched her face on a branch and a short while later, caught her foot on a root that sent her sprawling to the ground.

  Alex was there swiftly, helping her back up. “Are ye a’right, lass?”

  “Aye. I’m not hurt,” she replied, though her palms were scraped and her tunic torn by a limb. He gently brushed away the dirt and tenderly kissed both of her palms before entwining his fingers with hers. “I’ll lead ye now.”

  “What is this!” an angry voice startled them as they emerged from the forested path.

  “Domnall!” Sibylla gasped as her brother pulled his horse to a halt.

  He flung himself down from his mount with an accusing gaze that darted from Sibylla to Alexander and back again. “Where have ye been? The entire clan is looking for ye.” With hand on his sword, he took a step toward Alexander. “What were ye doing with my sister?”

  “Nae, Domnall!” Sibylla protested, scrambling toward him. “’Tis not what ye think!”

  His gaze narrowed. “I ken what I see.”

  “Alex did nothing amiss,” she said. “I fell out of a tree.”

  “Ye fell?” He snorted in disbelief.

  “Aye,” she insisted. “I was in the great oak at the standing stones when Alexander came and—”

  His raised a silencing hand. “Enough! Even if I could swallow that tripe, which I don’t, that still doesn’t explain the kiss.” Domnall pierced Alex with an accusing stare. “What have ye to say, priest?”

  “I make no excuses,” Alex said. “’Twas just a kiss. Nothing more. I dinna dishonor your sister. I give ye my sacred vow.”

  Domnall regarded him with a look of contemp. “In my experience, a vow is only as good as the man who makes it. And I still don’t ken what to make of ye. Come, Sibylla,” he commanded. “Ye will ride back with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Alex as she passed, her gaze downcast.

  Alex slowly exhaled as Domnall lifted her onto the horse. He’d prayed he wouldn’t be forced to defend himself and his prayer had been answered. Of all the sins he’d committed in his life, some might be worthy of mortal punishment, but a kiss certainly wasn’t one of them. Then again, if had perished under Domnall’s sword, he could never regret meeting death with Sibylla’s sweet kiss still lingering on his lips.

  Chapter Six

  Alex awoke the next morning to a cacophony of sounds—horses whinnying and men shouting. Wondering at the cause of the tumult, Alex leapt from his bed and strode to the window where he flung open the shutter. Three men were dismounting in the stable yard. Their horses were lathered and spent, and the riders didn’t look much better. They spoke to one another in a mixture of Gaelic and another tongue he couldn’t comprehend. Who were they?

  Three young lads materialized to take charge of the horses, and a moment later, MacHeth himself strode out to greet them—arms open wide. But after a few words were exchanged, the smile vanished from his face. Whatever news they carried was obviously not as well received as the messengers themselves. Curious, Alex washed and donned his clean tunic, then headed for the kitchen to break his fast.

  This time, unlike the last, the room was a hum of activity with cooking fires blazing at both ends and a dozen women chopping vegetables, kneading dough, plucking fowl, and roasting meats on the spit. He’d never seen so much food being prepared at one time. He was momentarily overcome by the mélange of mouth-watering scents of herbs and spices.

  “There be bannocks and parritch yon,” one of the servants nodded curtly to a corner table. “Help yerself.”

  Alex noted several younger lads who were eating and looking as mesmerized as he felt. He recognized Domnall’s sparring partner Kenneth among them. He joined them on the bench, took up an oat cake, and reached for the pitcher of heather ale.

  “MacHeth surely killed the fatted calf for Somerled’s men,” Kenneth remarked. “Can’t recall the last time we had such a feast!”

  “Somerled?” Alex asked, taking his first bite of oat cake, finding it dry and disappointing after all the tantalizing smells. He washed it down with a long and eminently more satisfying gulp of ale.

  “Aye, the King of the Isles. His men brought word the king’s son is dead,” Kenneth said.

  “Which son?” Alex asked.

  “Prince Henry, the heir. They say he was murdered by his brother-in-law for his lands. The king has called for a meeting of the earls and thanes. It’s rumored that he will make them all pledge allegiance to his grandson, Malcolm.”

  That explained why MacHeth looked so grim upon their arrival. His antipathy for the Canmores was no secret. What would he do if forced to bend the knee to the king’s grandson? Would he be tried for treason if he refused? And what of Domnall? Would he attempt to make his own right known?

  He though
t of the thousands of Highlanders who had died fighting for his father. If forced to choose, would he fight for Domnall?

  Kenneth seemed to read his mind. He continued in a lower tone, “The opportunity has come if Domnall has a mind to put forth his claim for the throne. I’m ready to fight.” His eyes gleamed. “’Tis past time my sword got bloodied.”

  “They talk of rebellion?” Alex asked.

  “Better said, they talk around it,” Kenneth said with a wink. “They would know MacHeth’s position first.”

  “And what is MacHeth’s position?” Alex asked. Alex was beginning to question where his own loyalties rested. Before coming to Castle Kilmuir, he’d accepted that for better or worse, God chose the kings of men. But now? He felt his own allegiances subtly shifting.

  Kenneth shrugged. “MacHeth is a man who keeps his own counsel.”

  “Ouch!” Sibylla cried out as her cousin yanked at a tangle of her hair. “Must ye be so rough?”

  “I wouldn’t have to be if ye took more care,” Ailis chided. “Ye think to conduct yourself like a wild beast and win a husband?”

  “Why do ye go on so about husbands?” Sibylla complained. “’Tis tedious.”

  In truth, the idea wouldn’t be half so annoying if Sibylla had any hope at all of obtaining her heart’s desire. But Alexander had made it clear that he had no intention of wedding anyone. And he’d been avoiding her since.

  “Tedious?” Ailis hissed. Sibylla shrieked as another hunk of hair snarled in the comb. Yanking the silver comb from her cousin’s hands, she began working at the ends of the knot. “Why are ye in such a temper?”

  “I’m not in a temper,” Ailis sullenly denied.

  “Nae?” She turned to face her cousin. “I’d have no hair on my head if I let ye finish.”

  “A’right,” Ailis sighed. “Some men from the Isles rode in this morn.”