by Paula Quinn
“Did ye nae like it?” she asked.
He opened his eyes to find uncertainty clouding hers. He reached up to touch her face. “I dinna kiss ye back, Sibylla, nae because I dinna want to. I dinna kiss ye because I kenned I would only want more.”
“And do ye?” she asked breathlessly. “Want more?”
It was not the response he’d intended to evoke. “Aye. I do.” There was nothing else for it. Unable to resist any longer, he drew her closer, slowly closing the inches between them until their lips were but a hairsbreadth away. Gently cupping her head, he pressed his mouth to hers, testing and tasting in a gentle exploration. He felt awkward and unschooled at first but let instinct guide him.
With a sigh, Sibylla twined her arms around his neck, fitting her body to his. Warm, and responsive, her lips met his. Their mouths melded and breaths mingled as the kiss lengthened. Alex experimentally flicked the corner of her mouth with his tongue. She opened on a tiny gasp. A puff of her breath entered his lungs, making him suddenly lightheaded. More. It wasn’t enough. He needed more.
He licked again along the seam of her mouth. She parted her lips. The first contact of tongues nearly blinded him with sensation. The tender torture intensified as each slick stroke of their tangling tongues stoked the flame. This was so much more than just a kiss. It was as heady and powerful as a magical potion. Passion made his pulse pound and dulled his mind.
God in heaven. I am truly lost.
“Sibylla,” he moaned her name.
He broke the kiss to explore her face and neck with his mouth. Moving his hands up her arms and shoulders, he lightly skimmed her silky smooth skin. With trembling fingers, he grazed her breasts, wanting to feel her soft, feminine flesh in his palms. She pressed her hand on top of his over her beating heart. Her actions silently indicated that she wanted the same thing—to feel his hands on her skin.
Loosening the neckline of her tunic, she bared one milky white shoulder and then the other. His eyes feasted. Biting her lip, she let the gown slip lower until the tops of her breasts were bared. They were small and firm, and would fit snugly in his palms. He wanted to see more of her. Much more. He wanted to touch and taste every inch of her, but he had already gone much farther than he’d meant to.
Guilt mixed with the fire that raged in his blood. He’d never before understood how King David had broken faith with God over his desire for Bathsheba, or how the mighty Samson had succumbed to the seduction of Delilah. But now he was beginning to comprehend the overwhelming power of passion. ’Twas passion that drove men to reckless acts. Through the fog of desire, Alex came slowly back to his senses. He had not yet dishonored her, but anything more could not be undone.
With a supreme effort of will, he pulled away from her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked with a pained look that made his heaving chest ache almost as much as his throbbing ballocks. He’d allowed lust to run rampant, his body ached for relief, but that would be his penance.
“Please, Sibylla!” he pleaded. “We canna do this. God in heaven knows how much I want to. How much I want ye, but ’tis nae right to dishonor ye with my body.”
“Is it dishonor if I want it, too?” she whispered. “Ye dinna force me.”
He struggled to reply as the tightness rose from his chest into his throat. “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, but I canna. I have nothing. I can give ye no home. No security. ’Tis wrong to go forward when I ken this.” He cupped her face. “Please, lass, try to understand. I ne’er intended this.”
“I ken that. ’Twasna ye who started this. ’Twas me. If anyone is to blame, ’tis me.” She pushed herself upright and began straightening her clothes. She was obviously hurt and perhaps even a bit vexed at his sudden rejection but it was because he cared for her that he could not take advantage of her.
Alex gazed up at the clouds. Splashes of orange and pink streaked the sky. “Daylight fades. We must head back before we’re missed.”
She bit her lip. “What if we’re seen together?”
“Ye’ll go first and I’ll follow ye.”
Twilight made a rapid descent on Cnoc Croit na Maoile, cloaking the forested part of the path in deep shadow and making the way difficult. Twice, she stumbled and a short while later, caught her foot on a root that sent her sprawling to the ground.
Alex was there swiftly to help her back up. “Are ye a’right, lass?”
“Aye. I’m nae hurt,” she lied.
He could clearly see that her face was scratched, her palms were scraped, and her tunic had been torn by a limb. He gently brushed away the dirt and tenderly kissed her palms before entwining his fingers with hers. “’Tis best if I lead ye now.”
Although the rest of the way was easier, Alex was reluctant to release her hand.
“Ye still havena told me what troubles ye, Alexander,” she said, breaking the silence.
“I’ve learned some things about my family since coming here,” he said.
“Aye?” She stopped to face him. “How did this come about?”
“Yer uncle recognized my sgian-dubh. He says he kent my faither.”
“He did? How? What did he tell ye?” she asked.
Alex drew a great breath into his lungs and released it on a sigh. There was so much he wished to confide, but what could he tell her? How much did he dare to share? “Only that my faither was an enemy of the king.”
“The king has many enemies,” she replied, “especially in Moray. Did ye ken my máthair’s faither was a king in his own right? His lands stretched from one sea to the other, but his son, Angus, forfeited everything when he rebelled against the crown.”
“But what of Kilmuir?” Alex asked.
“’Tis an empty title. My uncle is thane in name only,” she explained. “All of these lands should have been his and much more, but now the king holds all of the lands—and extracts payment from us.”
“My faither found himself in a similar situation,” Alex said. “There was substantial… property… that should have come to him by right through his faither, but the king disagreed.”
“’Tis the Cenn Mór way to do such things,” she said.
“Dinna ye also carry Cenn Mór blood?” he asked.
“Only a quarter,” she corrected. “And I dinna regard that part of me any more than my sire regarded his Scots blood. He was a lowlander by birth who chose to be Sassenach. I, on the contrary, choose to be a Highlander.”
Her answer evoked a chuckle.
“Ye should do that more often,” she said.
“Do what?” he asked.
“Laugh. ’Tis the first time I heard ye laugh.”
“Monasteries dinna encourage much laughter,” he said dryly.
“But yer nae there anymore, are ye?”
“I am nae.”
“Then ye need to laugh more freely,” she insisted.
They’d emerged from the forested path, Alex halted and turned to face her. “If ’twill please ye,” he said. “I will try.”
“Aye,” she said. “But ’twould please me even better if ye would kiss me again.”
Alex instinctively leaned toward her, wanting to give her the kiss, but knowing where it would lead. “I canna, Sibylla,” he said, stroking her cheek. “This should ne’er have happened between us.”
“But it did,” she said. “Do ye regret it so much, Alexander?”
“Regret? Nae.” He shook his head. “I only regret that it canna be.”
He’d gone to the promontory seeking solace for his distressed spirit, and found balm in Sibylla’s kiss. He knew it was far more than carnal lust, but it was futile to think they could ever be together. “I am no one with nothing,” he said. “This can go nowhere.”
“But things can change Alexander,” she said. “I believe our destinies lie in our own hands.”
“Ye do nae have faith in Divine Providence?” He wondered again at her lack of piety.
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“I do. I believe God sets many things in motion but the choices we make, for better or for ill, are ours alone. I believe ye came here for a reason, Alexander. I believe our meeting was meant to be.”
Alex, once more, recalled the eerie words of her grandmother. “Lady Olith said as much.”
Her eyes grew wide. “My grandmother spoke of us?”
“Aye.” He hesitated to say more, but found himself compelled to ask, “Is she right in the head?”
“She’s a seer, Alexander,” Sibylla answered. “She has visions.”
“Have they ever proven true?” he asked.
“Many times. She kent her son, Angus, would be killed in battle. She also kent that Domnall and I would come here… what did she say to ye?”
“I dinna remember it well,” he lied. He remembered every word but speaking more of it would only give credence to what he could not, would not, believe.
“Surely ye recall something of her words,” she insisted, “else ye would nae have spoken of it.”
“Sibylla!” A shout startled them apart before Alex could respond; it was Domnall galloping toward them. “What is this!” He flung himself down from his mount with an accusing stare. “Where have ye been, Sibylla? The entire clan is looking for ye.”
His gaze darted from Sibylla to Alex and back again, and then narrowed in suspicion as he took in Sibylla’s torn gown and scratched face.
He took a step toward them with his hand on his sword. “What were ye doing with my sister?”
“Nae, Domnall!” Sibylla quickly interposed herself between them. “’Tis nae 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!” Domnall pierced Alex with a challenging look. “What have ye to say about this, monk?”
“I dinna dishonor yer sister,” Alex said. “I give ye my sacred vow.”
Domnall considered him for a long, tense moment. There was no sign of their earlier camaraderie in his expression. Would he draw his sword? Alex fingered his sgian-dubh, praying he wouldn’t be forced to defend himself.
“In my experience, a vow is only as good as the man who makes it. And I still dinna ken what to make of ye. Come, Sibylla,” Domnall commanded. “Ye will ride back with me.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Alex as she passed, her gaze downcast.
Alex warily watched as Domnall lifted her onto the horse. 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 he had perished under Domnall’s sword, he could never regret meeting death with Sibylla’s sweet kiss still lingering on his lips.
*
Sibylla sat behind her stiff and silent brother as he urged his horse into a bone-jarring trot. She hadn’t considered the true danger of being caught with Alexander until Domnall had put a hand on his sword. Her brother had a quick temper and was far too prone to acting on it. For a moment, she was terrified that Domnall would kill Alexander, but he’d responded with unusual restraint. “Ye judge him unjustly,” Sibylla broke the lengthy silence.
“’Tis nae Alexander who most vexes me,” Domnall replied tightly. “Tis the wanton I call sister.”
“Wanton?” she repeated on a gasp.
“Aye. What other kind of lass arranges a secret lover’s tryst?”
“’Twas no such thing!” she insisted. “I often go to Cnoc Croit na Maoile. Alexander only went there to pray. Our meeting there was pure happenstance.”
But the kiss was not.
Sibylla hadn’t considered the repercussions when she’d flung herself from the tree into Alex’s arms. She hadn’t thought at all. She’d only wanted to claim the kiss that Alexander had previously denied her. But what had begun innocently had quickly become something completely beyond her knowledge. Her brother would never understand if she told him what she believed with all her heart—that Alexander’s appearance had been the work of fate.
“Is that so?” Domnall asked. “Then how do ye explain the hand holding?”
“He was only helping me after I tripped on a tree root.”
Domnall made a scoffing sound. “Even if I could swallow that tripe, which I dinna, that still doesna answer the hungry way he looks at ye. ’Tis dangerous to tempt a man, Sibylla.”
“But I wasna! I dinna! Alexander told ye the truth! He dinna dishonor me!”
“I would nae have left him standing had I disbelieved him,” Domnall said. “But that doesna excuse ye.”
“And who are ye to lecture me?” she demanded. “Did ye nae kiss Ailis, Yuletide last?”
His body went rigid. “What did she tell ye?”
“Only that.”
“I kissed her once,” he confessed, “but ne’er since.”
“Dinna ye care for her?”
Domnall shrugged. “’Twas just a kiss. I dinna mean anything more by it.”
“So it’s all well and good for ye to kiss whoever ye fancy, but a woman canna?”
“’Tis different for a man,” he mumbled. “A woman must heed the value of her maidenhood.”
“The value of her maidenhood?” She released a bitter laugh. “And just what price does one place on such a thing, I wonder? How many spring calves would ye say it’s worth?”
“Dinna make light of what I say, Sibylla! A man wants a virgin for his bride. Do ye think so little of this family, and of me, to throw yerself at the first one who looks at ye?”
“Throw myself? Is that what ye think?”
“I ken what I see,” he answered. “Ye willna speak with him again.”
Sibylla seethed. “What right have ye to tell me who I can speak with?”
“As yer brother, I have every right,” he replied. “And if I’m to have any hope of claiming my birthright, I need ye to help me.”
“Me? What have I to do with it?”
“’Twill soon be time for ye to wed. I have already spoken of it to MacAedh. He agrees ’tis yer duty to strengthen our position with a good marriage. He will be much displeased to learn of yer dallying with Alexander.”
“Is that all ye care about?” she asked, nearly choking with anger. “Ye only fear I might diminish myself as yer bargaining tool?”
He pulled up the horse and turned in the saddle. “What do ye want me to say, Sibylla? Ye ken how ’tis.”
“Have I no say in this?” Sibylla asked. Had Domnall and MacAedh been plotting her future without her knowledge? Was that the reason he was so furious about her feelings for Alexander?
“Ye will marry,” he declared resolutely. “And given yer conduct, ’twill be sooner rather than later.”
Chapter Eight
It was no surprise that Domnall didn’t appear the next morning. Alex greatly feared the second episode involving Sibylla had destroyed the fragile rapport he’d worked so hard to build with her brother. He and Domnall had come dangerously close to exchanging blows—or worse. Was there any way back or was the damage irreparable? MacAedh had overlooked the first time they’d been alone together, but what would he do if Domnall told him there was a second, and even more incriminating incident?
His mind kept wandering over the events that had come together to shatter his tranquil existence—the revelations of his past and Sibylla’s kiss. If pressed, he knew he couldn’t even say which of these had unsettled him more.
Though he wished he could refute them, he couldn’t deny his feelings for her. He’d never felt so drawn to another person. The kiss had nearly been his undoing, but marriage was out of consideration.
Although most of the clergy in the Scottish kirk chose to live in celibacy, there was no actual doctrine prohibiting marriage. Only the Catholic Church forbade clerics to wed. Even if h
e were to take holy vows, only his state of poverty stood in the way. But even if he were not penniless, her family surely had a better match in mind. They would want someone who would not only provide her with security but who would be an advantageous ally to the clan—a noble husband with lands, power, and influence.
These thoughts led him, once more, to wonder about his own family and birthright. His kinsmen had once held extensive lands in Fettercairn. Did they still? If his parents were indeed dead, would not some of these lands be his by right of birth? Was this even a matter he wished to pursue? To do so would surely place his life in danger, given his uncle’s treacherous history. But what choice did he have?
Not long ago, he’d thought himself content and would have willingly spent the rest of his days in study, transcription and prayer. But the disconcerting revelations from MacAedh and his growing attachment to Sibylla were making him question everything. A month ago, he would have been ready to commit his life to the monastery, but now he was no longer so eager. He could not go on as he’d once planned. Too much had happened. He was not the same man who’d come to Kilmuir. He didn’t even know who he was anymore.
He’d never felt so confused. Never had he been in greater need of wisdom and guidance, but there was no one he could trust. No one he could fully confide in aside from God Himself.
Alex sat down to resume copying some psalms for a Book of Hours, but Sibylla and their passionate kiss wouldn’t stay long from his thoughts. Although he willed himself to keep his focus on his letters, when he laid down his quill and scanned his work for errors, only to realize he’d written the same verse twice.
Raking his hair with a deep sigh of dismay, Alex abandoned his work and set out for the chapel. He spent the next few hours in fervent prayer until the candles sputtered out leaving him in near darkness. His body was chilled, and his legs were numb from kneeling on the cold, stone floor, but to his dismay, no answers had come to him.
