by Jackie Ivie
“Too soon? Nae. ’Tis timely. This may save your neck.”
“I doona’ wish my neck saved.” Sybil was on her feet, holding to a bedpost while she swayed in place and watched little black dots dance through her vision until they quieted and then faded altogether.
“Oh aye. You do. All mothers do. Nae matter what the father may have done. The bairn is na’ to blame.”
Sybil’s eyes filled with tears, and she blinked as rapidly as possible, trying to send them into oblivion but instead ended up sending a trail of them down both cheeks. All of which she hung her head in order to hide. Loss of control had never been Sybil’s bane. She’d teased and tormented Kendran enough about it. Sybil should be strong enough to fight it. Now she knew the truth. Heartbreak was permanent, and it was vile. It was impossible to stave off or live through.
“Hurry!” Iris hissed the word. “The laird has news for you. He does na’ like to be kept waiting.”
Sybil shuddered through another sob, and then reached down to peel off her nightgown. She used the material to dry the residue of her tears away. She didn’t know why she argued over a new underdress and bliaut. What did it matter anyway if she was gowned head to toe in MacHugh red and gold? There was no one to see it that cared.
Iris helped her into a chemise of bleached white linen, and then the maid was helping Sybil don an underdress of ecru-shaded flax woven so tightly and with such fine threads that it was akin to being covered with a waterfall. It draped beautifully and was exactly to her proportions. The hemline just reached the floor, letting her slippers peep out.
The bliaut and sleeves were fashioned in graduating shades of charcoal wool of such finely spun threads it could have competed with the flax for fluid drape and shifting color. Sybil stood passively as Iris put the dress over her head and then had her lift each arm in order to pull the lacing through each sleeve before tying it beneath each arm. There was braided black lacing to crisscross about her waist and upper body, finishing at the bodice, where the dress cinched her into immobility as well as put on display the increased size of her bosom.
The maid led her to a stool in front of the fireplace and took a brush to Sybil’s tangled locks. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d brushed her own hair. It seemed insignificant. Everything did. It took Iris some time before she got Sybil’s hair into a braid of blended black and charcoal shades that fell down her back. Then Iris placed a wimple of gossamer white lace atop her head. Taking her hand, she led Sybil over to the chamber mirror, where her jaw dropped.
The webbing about her waist made her look thin, insubstantial, that was true. She also looked absolutely beautiful. Her pallor was offset by the rosy spots of fever atop each cheek, and her lips looked unnaturally red. She moved closer. Her eyes truly were silvery toned and surrounded by lush black eyelashes. Vincent would be speechless. She could almost see his approval in the features reflecting at her from the mirror.
The moment she thought she saw it, she wished she hadn’t. She didn’t know agony was a visual emotion. She watched as it flooded her features, turning the molten silver of her eyes into glass and making her look fragile and ethereal and like a creature spawned by mist.
Sybil turned away.
The MacHugh was waiting for her in the chieftain room, which was reached by traversing a hall that had a huge tapestry along the inner wall. Sybil looked over the deep colors and intricate stitching that commemorated the Battle of Bannockburn. She knew that by the words and date stitched into the lower right of the piece. If they hadn’t been large blocks, she wouldn’t have been able to read them, for her escort didn’t slow enough for such a thing.
Hugo MacHugh was sitting in a thronelike chair atop a raised platform at the far end of the chieftain room. There were more clansmen in attendance than she could count. It was an honor to be received here. Sybil knew that. She didn’t feel honored.
She watched as Iris received permission to approach the laird and knew what the woman was whispering in his ear. That was unfair. The babe was her secret. Sybil steeled herself.
“Lady Danzel. Approach and be greeted.”
Hugo’s voice was loud and booming in the room or it might have been designed with such a faculty, for the sound of his words took a few moments to finish echoing. Sybil lifted her head, pushed every emotion as deep as she could, and did as she’d been bade. When she was at the edge of his platform, she curtseyed slightly and watched the liquid quality of her skirts as they flowed about her and then swirled up as she stood.
“I have received my answer from your kin, the Donal. Early this morn.” Hugo announced it even more loudly, and waited the requisite moments until the sound of his voice faded before looking down at her.
Sybil nodded and didn’t move her eyes from his.
“Do you na’ wish to ken what it is?” he asked.
“I doona’ need to ask,” Sybil replied in what she hoped was a firm voice. That’s when she knew the room had been designed with the acoustics of a cathedral, since her voice had the same large quality and took time to fade.
“Why na’?” he inquired.
“Because you had me brought here in order to tell me.”
He grunted a reply and unfurled the rolled parchment in his lap. It felt like everyone paused to listen, although it could be her imagination as easily. Sybil didn’t move her eyes from him and watched as his mouth started reading. She didn’t hear what he was saying until he was near the end, and then knew what it felt like to have her heart fall to the pit of her belly, where it continued pounding with painful thuds. She was just surprised her body hadn’t done the same thing.
Myles Donal wasn’t paying a ransom. He wanted to negotiate.
“You ken what this means?” Hugo was asking it.
“My kin has decided my worth is na’ as much as you…ask.” Her voice broke on the last word despite the iron control she was exerting over herself. She couldn’t help it. She watched as his features softened.
“Na’ so.”
“Nae?” Sybil asked.
“The Donal is at the Danzel stronghold. He rode hard upon receipt of my demands. He arrived there three days ago. This is nae denial. It’s a ploy for time. The Donal is shrewd. Strong. Powerful. Battle-hardened. And lucky. Come. I’ve been told of your condition. We need to discuss this. In private.”
He was standing, dwarfing everyone else in the room, although she knew he wasn’t a tall man. Then he was walking across the wood of the platform, making more reverberations of sound with each step.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hugo MacHugh’s private chambers weren’t as intimate as she’d been dreading, and yet they were too close at the same time. The two-story door had opened on a sitting room containing two facing settees, a table, and a fireplace. There was another door at the far end that she guessed would lead to his bedchamber. Sybil didn’t ask. She sat on one of the settees as he requested her to do and waited while he sat on the opposing one.
“Iris tells me you’re with child,” he began.
“’Tis too soon for such certainty,” Sybil replied.
“Iris is a midwife,” he responded.
Sybil didn’t answer. She kept her eyes on him and waited.
“The Danzel does na’ seem to have shared his sister’s curse.” He sighed deeply and looked very sad and approachable of a sudden. “I envy him. Still.”
“Still?” Sybil asked.
He nodded. “Odd, is na’ it? Nae matter how many times I win over him, or even if he’s dead, I still envy him. Even more now.”
“Because of the bairn?” she asked.
He nodded again. “A man has naught if he has nae heir to pass it to. When he leaves this life, there is naught who care.”
“Your wife—”
“Mary Elizabeth is barren! I was cursed the night I took her, just as I will probably be cursed worse for taking you.”
“Why did you, then?”
“I told you. Revenge. And envy.”
“You envied Vincent that much?”
“Aye. And his father, Erick, afore him. Still do.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Danzel said he does na’ want you. You say he was a brute. Donal will na’ pay the price I ask, and I want a bairn! That is why.”
That was when Sybil knew that nothing was worth more than the babe growing within her. She’d been foolish to even try and harm it. Love for the baby filled her, making her warm with it until she probably glowed. She watched MacHugh’s eyes sharpen on her and was still powerless to halt the supreme joy that filled every bit of her and just kept growing in volume and intensity until she could scarce contain it.
“I would na’ place a bairn in the hands of a man capable of whipping a lad to death,” she whispered finally.
“Death? Vincent looked well enough.”
“Na’ him. The Carrick lad.”
“Is that what you’ve been told? That it was my fault? All of it?” His red hair clashed with a ruddy complexion that darkened further with every word. He was almost shouting the last of them at her.
“I was na’ told anything,” Sybil replied. “I guess. And then I wait. And sometimes I am right.”
“Na’ this time.”
“Then tell me. Now. You want the bairn. Prove yourself worthy.”
He sighed heavily, and then he started talking. “It was a dark night, perfect for reaving. That was how I knew the Danzel would be about such business. I caught Vincent and two of his friends stealing my cattle. ’Twas na’ worth more than a bit of a stay locked in my castle waiting on a ransom, but na’ to Danzel. Oh, nae. That lad went berserk. He turned into a demon and started slicing his way through the clansmen I had with me. It wasn’t my plan to lose more than twelve of my men to the whelp. And it wasn’t planned for the elder Carrick lad to get cleaved in two by a broadsword. That’s just what happened. In defense.”
“Edward Carrick died by the sword?” Sybil was stunned. It sounded in her voice. She watched him smile at her reaction.
“He was the image of his brother, true. Only the elder son was a man to the bone. I canna’ blame the Carricks for their hatred. If it were me, I’d feel the same. Only it will never be me! God damn my eyes! And my loins!” The agitation in his voice was accompanied by a surge of movement as he pushed out of the chair and went to his fireplace to look within it.
“Why did you whip them?” Sybil whispered the question.
He snorted. “He would na’ break. I had nae other recourse.”
“You marked him. He’s scarred. Severely.”
“Perhaps he shouldn’t be so close-mouthed.”
“What did you want?”
“Revenge. The same thing I still want. He’d just sent thirteen of my clansmen to their graves. And then he had the daring to laugh at me. Me!”
“How were you going to get your revenge?”
“I wanted the location of the secret tunnel into Castle Danzel. The one that would allow me access to their inner sanctum, right to the heart of them. I wanted revenge.”
“So you whipped him until he told you?”
He spun from the fireplace and put his hands on his hips and glowered down and across at her. “Nae. He collapsed without telling. I had him roused with a dunking in the burn, and then I started whipping on his companion. It near took my arm off before he gave me what I asked.”
“He gave you the tunnel…to save his friend. Oh dear God.” Sybil wasn’t even whispering anymore. Her voice didn’t have that capacity.
He nodded.
“And then, when you had the location, you torched the castle?”
He sighed again. Heavily. “Nae. I dinna’ set fire to anything. That was the Danzel laird’s doing. We surprised him in his bed. With his wife. It was…na’ my finest time. I was filled with a lust for blood and tried to turn it on her. The wife. There is no mercy I can ask for what I’ve done.”
“You raped—?” She couldn’t say it. The shock was too great.
He shook his head. “Nae. I would have, though, if the Danzel hadn’t gone as mad as his son and set the place afire. And if the sister hadn’t heard all the commotion and come to her parent’s aid.”
“Mary Elizabeth was there? And Vincent’s father set the fire? To his own castle? Is this what you wish me to believe?”
“I doona’ have to tell you any of this,” he answered.
Sybil nodded. “How did he do it?” she asked.
“The torches. We had torches. The tunnel was dark, and my men were having issues with witches and banshees and the like. I had them light their torches. That’s what the Danzel laird used. The bedroom was afire before I had her clothing ripped off. I had to retreat. Back through the tunnel. I grabbed up Mary Elizabeth as I went and tossed her over my shoulder. I hauled her kicking and screaming back through the tunnel. The laird and his wife should have gone another way. They had time.”
They didn’t have another escape access. Sybil had already noticed that. It was tragic. And sad. And it was probably worse. “Where was Vincent during this time?” she asked.
“I doona’ ken. He was supposed to be tied up. At the camp. He was na’. When we got back, he was gone. Both of them were.”
Sybil put her hands to her mouth to keep the cry in. She didn’t have to question where Vincent had been. He’d have raced back home. To warn them. With his back torn into shreds and in pain, he’d probably been in time to see the fire. She only hoped he hadn’t heard the screams.
“How much longer must we sit and do naught?”
Vincent tossed down the wimple he’d been given to wear with complete disgust. He’d used such force that the material about the piece unraveled as it rolled across the chamber floor.
“Patience, dear cousin. Aside from which, we just got that swelling down.”
“I’ve tired of patience. That’s all you spout! I want action! I want his blood! I want my wife back!” Vincent’s voice cracked on the last words.
“None of that will happen if you doona’ have patience,” Myles counseled from the corner of the room where he was engrossed in partaking of the roasted boar they’d brought for him.
“Easy for you to say. You dinna’ lose your wife to your enemy! Oh, nae. Not you. You have your wife. You have your children. You have—”
“I doona’ have anything at your accursed castle. Look about you. Do you see a wife and twins?” Myles voice warmed on the words. Brentley and Dacia were just reaching their first year and curious about everything. It took a dozen eyes watching ceaselessly to keep them from trouble. Which was why Kendran had stayed behind, despite her pleas.
“He’s ravishing her, and all you do is talk! And eat!” Vincent’s voice shook through the words, showing the depth of emotion he was hiding.
“Na’ so. She’s safe. Has her own chambers and has na’ been near the Laird of MacHugh. Trust me. All she does is slink about the hall and sob. Probably for your sorry arse, although I doona’ ken what it is that any woman sees in you. Never could, truly.”
Vincent flashed a look toward his cousin. “They certainly would na’ find me of interest in this skirt.” He lifted the voluminous amount of material they’d fashioned into a bliaut for him. “Or with these.” He was punching on the pillows that were strapped into place to create a bosom for a woman as large as Vincent Danzel was portraying.
Myles sobered. “You’ll be reclined in the wagon bed most of the time. To rest your poor head. It will na’ be an issue.”
“Patience. Fittings. Reclining. I will be of little use when I most need to be.” He spat the words toward his cousin with more disgust.
“There is nae other way, Vincent. The MacHugh has heard of my arrival. He’s already received my missive. He’s preparing. He’s nae fool.”
“How do you ken all this?” Vincent asked as he went to his knees to retrieve the headdress he’d tossed. Then he was dusting the worst of the dirt from it before rewinding the material back on it while he waited
for an answer.
“Your new squire, Beggin, is with them. Has been since it happened. He rode away with them in MacHugh sett and on one of their horses. They dinna’ even suspect. The lad is of great use.”
“When he’s quiet, mayhap,” Vincent replied. He was sitting on his buttocks, leaning against the bed frame, and holding his head where the huge bump in his forehead had been. Still it ached.
“We canna’ raid a castle such as MacHugh possesses without use of him. Beggin is a great asset. As a spy. MacHugh has them, too. Here. In your keep. I doona’ ken who they are, but trust me. He’s aware of our movements. Outside this chamber. Why do you ken I have na’ let you from here—dressed like that?”
Vincent looked over at his cousin and sobered completely as it felt like ice invaded every portion of him. It could be anyone outside this chamber. He hadn’t any loyalty. He even harbored MacHugh’s cast-off wife.
“I thought you were amusing yourself by forcing patience on me.”
Myles shook his head and swallowed the bite he’d taken. “And here I thought you the cunning one. I had to await your wakening first. You took a blow that usually kills. But nae. Na’ you. You have too hard of a head.”
“’Twas a good thing with the force they hit me.”
“I believe it was your wife swinging a kettle of stew at you, na’ a MacHugh. What say you to that?”
“Not Sybil.”
“You ever hear of a warrior using a pot?”
“Nae,” Vincent replied, grudgingly.
“’Tis a woman’s move. And a woman’s desperate aim behind it. You still have your mouth flute?”
“I doona’ go anywhere without my fipple.”
“Or the wolf, either, I see.”
As if Waif knew they spoke of him, he looked up from where he was reclining beside the door.
“Which will be a problem,” Myles continued.
“Why so?”
Myles pulled in a breath and spoke. Carefully. “The wolf will have to be caged. I canna’ keep him from following you otherwise.”
“Oh, nae. I’m na’ going anywhere without Waif. He’s my only link to her. You doona’ ken how it is with us.” Vincent nodded toward the wolf, and within moments the animal was at his side and they both were facing Myles.