Did she do it out of pride, or was this an indication she had decided to accept becoming his wife? If she’d made up her mind, he wished to God she’d tell him. Sleeping beside her every night without touching her was torture. If she made him wait much longer for their wedding night, it just might kill him.
“Wear your extra stockings today,” he told her. “We’ll see snow in the mountains.”
“Already have them on,” she said, and gamely lifted her skirts to show him.
“A bit higher,” he said. “I can’t quite see them.”
“You’ve seen all you’re going to see,” she said with a laugh. “Now, if you’re done lazing about, shouldn’t we be on our way?”
Despite the hardships, Sybil’s natural cheerfulness shone through now that they had put many miles between them and her former troubles. But they were in the Highlands now. Spring had not yet come this far north, and their route would take them into increasingly rugged terrain. He worried it would be too hard on her.
“I had no notion any place could be as beautiful as this,” she said, pausing to gaze at the shimmering surface of Loch Lochy and the rich green hills on the opposite shore.
When he stood beside her, she hooked her hand through his arm. Now that she was at ease with him, she touched him often without seeming to notice that she did or the effect it had on him.
“This is a bonny spot,” he said. “Almost as bonny as MacKenzie lands.”
“How long before we reach them?” she asked.
“A few days or more, depending on the weather,” he said. “MacKenzie lands are vast, stretching from sea to sea in the shape of a giant wedge of cheese, with the wide part in the west and the narrow point in the east.”
Sybil laughed and leaned against him. “To which part of the cheese are we going?”
“The west.”
The route east to the MacKenzie strongholds near Inverness would be easier than the mountainous journey west, for they could travel through the Great Divide, an endless valley and chain of lochs that ran at a diagonal across the Highlands. That route, however, would take them through Grant lands and directly past Urquhart Castle, the Grant chieftain’s fortress on Loch Ness. Rory intended to avoid the Grants until after he and Sybil were wed.
“We go west to Eilean Donan Castle,” he said. “My brother, our chieftain, should be there.”
Rory was anxious to make things right between him and Brian. And they needed to discuss how to mollify the Grants now that there would be no marriage between Rory and the Grant chieftain’s daughter to heal the breach between their clans.
As Rory turned Curan westward into the mountains, an uneasy sensation passed through him. His grandmother would say someone had walked on his grave. He thought he heard a voice chanting, but there was not another soul in sight on the barren, windswept hillsides.
“What’s wrong?” Sybil asked.
“Nothing at all,” he said to reassure her, but he kept a sharp lookout. As a warrior, he knew better than to ignore the unease that pricked like an itch on the back of his neck. Curan was on edge too.
A lone raven flew across the sky and cawed three times. The old folk said that was an omen of death.
***
Sybil tucked her chin down against the wind whipping at her face and pressed more tightly against Rory’s back as they rode. The plaid he’d wrapped around them kept most of the rain from penetrating her clothing, but the damp cold still seemed to seep into her bones. Ever since they turned westward, the journey grew harder each day.
By the time they finally stopped for the night, she could not feel her hands and feet.
“Ach, you’re shaking.” Rory enfolded her in his arms and rubbed her back. “I should have stopped sooner. Why did ye not tell me ye were frozen?”
“I didn’t want ye to think me weak,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“You’ve too much pride by half,” he said, and kissed her hair.
After bundling her in a blanket, he quickly set about building a fire and preparing their dinner. Sybil felt too worn out from fending off the cold to make even a feeble offer to help.
“Rain’s coming tonight,” he said, glancing up at the sky.
Coming? It had been drizzling all day. Rory set up a makeshift lean-to with a wool blanket that had been treated with some kind of fat to shed the rain. She crawled under it and must have dozed off, for she awoke to the delicious smell of the rabbit cooking on a spit over the fire.
“Feeling any better?” Rory asked.
“Aye.”
“This is what ye need.” He poured a steaming liquid into a cup, added a large measure of whisky to it from his flask, and handed it to her. “’Tis the Highland cure for whatever ails ye.”
The first sip sent a welcome warmth all the way to her frozen toes. She smiled as she breathed in the steam and watched Rory over the top of the cup as he removed the rabbit from the fire. His unrelenting kindness was making it hard to protect her heart.
The rabbit was delicious, and the fire, food, and hot drink revived her. But no sooner had they finished eating than the wind picked up bringing with it a driving rain. Rory put his arm around her and pulled her farther back under the protection of the lean-to.
“We’ll have to sleep verra close together to stay warm tonight,” Rory said over the sound of rain pelting against the blanket overhead.
That sounded dangerous in a very appealing sort of way.
“We could get warmer still by not sleeping.” His tone was light, but the desire in his eyes warmed her more than the whisky had.
“Tell me more about your family,” she said quickly, and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Ye seem reluctant to speak of them, but I’ll have enough to learn about living in the Highlands without ye keeping me in the dark about your family.”
Rory heaved a sigh and turned to stare at the rain that was already forming puddles. “What do ye wish to know?”
“Let’s begin with this brother ye fret about,” she said.
“Warriors do not fret.”
Sybil snorted. “Then tell me about this brother ye don’t fret about.”
“Brian is my half-brother, older by six months,” he said. “He is the MacKenzie, the chieftain of our clan.”
Older by six months. Now that was interesting, but a bit delicate to ask about just yet. “What about the rest of your family?”
“I have a younger brother and sister.”
“And yet ye fret about the brother who is chieftain, not the younger ones?” That struck her as odd.
“My younger brother is a priest,” he said, “and my sister is a good and quiet lass who stays at home and out of trouble.”
Those two sounded dull as dirt. “Tell me more about Brian.”
“His mother was a MacDonald, the daughter of the Lord of the Isles,” he said. “Her marriage to my father was intended to end the strife between two great clans who were longtime enemies.”
“A political alliance, then,” Sybil said. “That’s the basis for most marriages among the Lowland nobility.”
“In the Highlands marriages between warring clans are common, despite the fact that they often have the opposite effect intended,” he said. “Here, enmities run deep and can last for generations—long past anyone’s memory of how they began.”
“Did your father’s marriage to his enemy’s daughter succeed where others failed?”
“Ach, no,” Rory said. “They despised each other from the start.”
“Apparently they put aside their differences long enough to conceive an heir.”
“Aye, they did their duty, but the marriage didn’t last long,” Rory said. “Soon after Brian was conceived, my father saw my mother, and that was that.”
“That was that?” Sybil raised her eyebrows.
“He set his MacDonald wife aside,” Rory said, “and sent her home to her father.”
“Set her aside? He petitioned the church for a divorce?”
“Highlan
d marriage customs are more accommodating than the church’s, especially for chieftains,” Rory said. “Rome is a verra long way away, and many a chief has set aside one wife to take another—or kept them both—and later asked for dispensation from the church.”
Two wives at once? Sybil’s mouth gaped open. These Highlanders truly were heathens.
“The Lord of the Isles, this lass’s father, ignored a direct edict from the pope himself demanding that he quit cohabitating with his second wife and take back the church wife he had set aside.”
“Why would he risk excommunication and everlasting hell?” While a Lowland noble might bribe a bishop to gain support for a petition, fear of the church’s power led most men to respect its authority.
“The Highlands is a violent place, and a chieftain needs heirs—the more the better—and alliances that benefit his clan,” he said. “’Tis common for chieftains to change wives when alliances shift or a wife cannot give him heirs.”
After the depravity Sybil had seen at court, she should not be shocked. Was this not just powerful men taking mistresses and calling them wives?
“Sometimes chieftains change wives for no reason but to please themselves, as my father did,” Rory said with a shrug. “Chieftains hold all authority in their clan and can do what they will.”
“Then ’tis fortunate you’re not a chieftain,” Sybil said.
“Why is that?”
“Because if I did marry you—and I’m not saying I will—I’d murder ye for such behavior.”
***
Rory smiled at her threat to murder him, for he took it as a clear sign that she was imagining her future as his wife. Despite her claim that it was fortunate he was not a chieftain, he was certain she would be far more amenable to the marriage if he was. Sybil was not raised to be the wife of a second son. Her brother had been the most powerful man in Scotland, and, as the king’s stepfather, he could well be again.
But she was contracted to him, and he meant to have her.
She was wrapped in his plaid and pressed against his side like melted wax on a candlestick, which gave him hope that tonight would be the night she finally said aye. He was nearly blind with arousal imagining all the things they would do when the sound of her soft, regular breathing finally penetrated the vivid fantasies running through his head. He heaved a sigh. She was fast asleep.
The rain had nearly put their fire out, but there was just enough light to see her face, which was usually so lively and full of expression. In sleep, she looked serene and innocent. Awake or sleeping, she was so beautiful she took his breath away. When he gently laid her down, he felt a deep longing to make her his, to wake up every day to see her face across his pillow.
Despite his longing and a physical desire that was almost painful, he told himself it was good she had fallen asleep. Sybil was accustomed to a pampered life, and he ought not take his bride for the first time under a rough blanket on the cold, wet ground.
For this sweet lass, he would wait until they made their vows in a MacKenzie castle before his chieftain and clansmen and could spend their wedding night in a huge bed in a comfortable chamber warmed by a roaring hearth fire. Rory wanted everything to be just as it should be on the night he made Sybil his wife.
When he touched his lips to her forehead, Sybil smiled in her sleep, and his heart flipped in his chest. Ach, he was a lost man.
Heaven help him if Sybil decided she did not want him.
Rory did not expect sleep to come easy, but as he held Sybil in his arms and listened to the wind whip against the lean-to, he felt himself drifting toward sleep.
Caw caw caw.
He awoke abruptly in the dead of night with his palms sweating and his heart racing. During the hard days of travel through the mountains, he had forgotten about the raven’s cry when they first turned westward, but the raven had come back to him in a dream.
He told himself it meant nothing. All the same, he held Sybil closer, determined to protect her from whatever evil lay ahead. He would be glad when they finally reached the safety of Eilean Donan Castle.
The wind seemed to carry an echo of his dream, and it sounded like a warning.
Caw caw caw.
CHAPTER 14
“We’ve crossed onto MacKenzie land,” Rory said. “You’ll see Eilean Donan when we crest this hill.”
Eilean Donan was a rather grand and romantic name for a hovel. Sybil steeled herself for her first look at the home he spoke of with such affection and prepared herself to lie.
“The countryside is lovely.” This much, at least, was the truth. The landscape was wild and magnificent, much like Rory himself.
The “hill” they were climbing was a mountain and so steep that they had dismounted to give Curan a rest. Rory climbed it as if he were strolling, but Sybil was gasping for breath long before they reached the top.
“There it is,” Rory said, and she could hear the pride in his voice. “Home at last.”
Sybil stopped in her tracks, mesmerized by the sight of the castle rising from the morning mist at the point where three stunning lochs met in the valley below. The long, narrow lochs cut through mountains that extended as far as the eye could see.
“’Tis the most beautiful castle I’ve ever seen,” she said as they stood side by side looking down at it.
“Our vassal clan, the Macraes, hold this castle for us, but my brother Brian spends most of his time here,” Rory said. “By tradition, the Macraes serve as our chieftain’s personal guard. They’re known as the MacKenzie’s chain mail.”
Though Sybil knew the MacKenzies were an important Highland clan, she had no notion that they had vassal clans, vast lands, and more than one castle.
Rory whistled a tune as they made their way down the trail. Now that they were on his homelands, he seemed to truly relax his guard for the first time since they began their journey. Sybil, however, was suddenly anxious.
“I can’t meet your family like this,” she said, spreading the filthy skirt of her gown. “I look like a tavern wench—one ye had your way with in the bushes all the way home.”
Rory tilted his head back and laughed. “Well, I can’t say I don’t wish the last part was true, but ye look fine.”
“I don’t look fine,” she said, “and this is nothing to laugh about.”
“A wee bit of dirt won’t matter.” As he wiped a smudge from her cheek, the laughter left his eyes, and a wave of hot lust sizzled between them. “Believe me, every man in the castle will envy me the moment ye walk in.”
“And none of the women will forget that I arrived looking a filthy mess,” she said, forcing her thoughts back to the problem at hand. “Your brother is a chieftain. I can’t meet him like this.”
“As soon as we arrive, we’ll get ye out of those clothes and into a hot bath,” Rory said, brushing a tangle of her hair from her cheek. “And I’ll have the servants find ye a fresh gown.”
That sounded as if he planned to strip and bathe her himself. Though she would never allow it, she could not at the moment muster an objection.
She imagined Rory unfastening her gown and letting it slide over her skin as it fell to the floor…him kissing her neck and rubbing her temples as he washed her hair…and then sinking into oblivion as she was enveloped by the heat of the water and the sensation of his soapy hand running down her limbs.
“A bath would be…lovely,” she finally managed to say, and started down the hill to the castle.
***
Rory had made light of her complaint, but the truth was it hurt his pride to see his woman in a torn gown and muddy slippers. He could hardly blame Sybil for not wanting to wed him, given how poorly he had taken care of her. Now that they had reached Eilean Donan Castle, he would see to it that she was pampered, as she deserved.
Perhaps then she could envision herself as his wife.
They remounted Curan when they reached Loch Duich in the valley. As they rode the path along the loch, he could make out the figures of the guards
on the wall of the castle, which was built on a small island just offshore at the far end of the loch. At first, he and Sybil were hidden from view by the low trees and shrubs along the loch, but the guards on the wall surely saw them as they neared the bridge to the castle.
The guards should have recognized him and his horse by now and opened the gate. Had they grown lax in his absence? Rory could think of no other reason for their delay. As he turned Curan onto the bridge, he felt the guards’ eyes on him.
But the gate remained closed.
***
Hector sat alone in the chieftain’s private chamber to enjoy the fine meal laid out before him.
“Such a clever man,” he said, lifting his cup in a toast to himself. He should have the news he’d been waiting for any day now.
He took a deep drink and swished the wine around his mouth to savor the flavor. The wine had been shipped from France at great cost, but he deserved to enjoy the fruits of his labor. Of course, it would not do to drink it in front of the men. In the hall, he drank ale like they did. It made them believe he was one of them.
He frowned as he chewed a mouthful of the peacock roasted with exotic spices, a dish that graced the tables of kings and chieftains. In truth, he liked ordinary roasted chicken better, but he ate peacock because he could.
A knock on the door disrupted his meal. He nodded to his servant, who opened the door to one of the Macrae men.
“Ye said ye wanted to know if Rory came,” the guard said. “He’s riding up now.”
So he’d shown himself at last. “You’ve closed the gate to him, as I ordered?”
“Aye, but how can we deny him entry? Rory is the chieftain’s bro—”
“I speak for the chieftain, and I said close the gate to him!” Hector stabbed the point of his eating knife into the table, which proved persuasive.
After the guard bounded out, Hector took his cup of wine with him to the arrow-slit window to watch the scene unfolding below at the gate.
CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) Page 10