He watched as she waded further into the water; her bottom was a ripe peach, lush and ready. He wiped his sweaty hands on his paid and tried again to calm his thumping heart. He needed to retreat and move backwards through the reeds and brambles. He must bar his eyes from this delight and be gone before he did something stupid. He really must not risk frightening her away. If she saw him now, she’d dash and likely never return, and then where would his plan be?
He would go back. The way he was feeling now, his heart drumming up a maelstrom, he could think of nothing he wanted more than to rise up, force her thighs apart, and demand she scream his name.
How do you willingly turn your back on a lass so lovely, a naked one at that? That English lassie was made for loving. Nay, this thinking had to stop.
He gritted his teeth and forced his legs to make a backward move. Once he’d begun his retreat, he surprised himself by slipping away with stealth. For a man of his girth, and for the lowly height of the grass, it was no small feat. But then all warriors knew how to use their bodies, how to fight and how to silently advance and slip away again.
He rubbed his sweating palms against his chest, brushing his fingers against the deep scars that marred his ribs. True, he’d seen more battles than most. Would such a fine lassie, as she, flinch at the sight of the sword wounds and knife cuts that crisscrossed his body? She could hardly find them pleasant. After all, they were a reminder of the violent man he was.
He drew a deep calming breath and, being far enough away from her now, he was able to stand upright. Soon he was a good distance from the water’s edge and almost at the door of his croft. He turned his back on her and faced his hut.
This was his lonesome home, but it would not be for much longer. He stared at the miserable lump of stone skulking under the lichen trees. Still staring at the sad place, he chose not to go inside, not on such a fine, leaf-fall day.
That lassie had lit a fireball inside him, a devil fire that would take some quelling. He was far too restless to settle, but it was imperative that he rise above this thunderous desire. He would not let the ripeness of her body, the sheer joy of her form, distract him from his path. He knew what he must do, and the time had come to do it. Praise God.
He’d heard it whispered about the market place that the Sassenach girl was gifted. Some of the village folk called her a fae or cunning woman, but he’d also heard the wives say more disturbing things. They whispered that she oft refused to use her gifts and went even further than that. She denied they existed. That was blasphemy. When the Almighty bestowed healing talents, then those gifts should be used.
Folk also whispered that she was able to charm the birds from the trees, and he knew that piece of gossip to be true. With his own eyes, he’d witnessed her doing just that. Well, no longer would she shirk her powers, at least not around him. He would ask, nay, he would demand, and she would provide.
They called her Sybilla. It was such a pretty name, too, and apt. Aye, he must capture her soon, very soon, before she wed that wedeling Eoin Robison, the Border Reiver Laird’s eldest son. It had to be wrong for such an exquisite creature to marry an idiot, and the young Robison lad was one of the worse fools he’d seen. That whipper-snapper, Eoin of Scrabbly Castle, might belong to the fierce Border Reiver clan, but he wasn’t nearly good enough for Sybilla. Most women deserved better than him, and this lassie deserved the best of all.
Gus shook himself, trying to rid his head of such thoughts. He would not, must not, covet the lass. Better instead to focus on the job. The lives of several hundred people rested in his hands, or would, any day now.
He would act soon, and it must be before Sybilla and Eoin wed. Even a befuddling fool like Eoin of Scrabbly would be able to plant his seed in such fertile ground. And if she was with child, Gus knew that would be the end of his plan. He could not bring a quickening woman with a child in her belly to a land blighted by sickness.
He paced back and forth, his boots kicking up clouts of mud. He must take her without haste, in the next sennight or sooner. He’d smuggle her into this tumble-down croft of his without anyone being the wiser.
She could recuperate from her capture here afore they undertook their long journey home to Caithness. When she lay within these crumbling walls, he’d need all his strength, and then some, to quell his desires, especially when she rested in his bed. He groaned aloud, startling two finches from a scrubby hedge and rushing them into a safer tree. Yes, when she warmed his pellet, he would need every ounce of strength to stay his hands at his sides.
Right now, he had much to ready. He must locate hemlock, honey, and all the ingredients needed to concoct his sleeping potion. Sybilla oft chose this spot to linger and water her horse. And now it seemed, she came here to bathe too. Next time she visited the loch, he’d pounce. Best to use a potion to subdue the wee thing because if he was forced to capture her using his loutish unholy hands, then who knew how that would end.
Chapter 2
“Sybilla! Where are you? Answer me at once.”
Eoin thrust his head out of the tiny opening in the keep wall, an opening not much bigger than an arrow’s vent. He shouted, flinging his wrath about the bailey for all to hear.
“Girl, do not test my patience so.”
Sybilla heard his angry words; how could she not? Trouble was, everyone else wandering about heard them too. She gazed far up the wooden keep wall, squinting into the sun. Right at the very top, she spied Eoin’s spikey hair protruding from a narrow opening. His puny head poked out of a square in the giant timber wall. There was something about his look that reminded her of a turtle.
Eoin’s face was scrunched and wrathful, and it looked way older than his five and twenty years. He spotted her too. “Stay right where you are, wretched woman.”
Down in the bailey below, all ears pricked. The hour was just afore noon, so there were many hungry bellies dashing about.
Sybilla studied the outline of the man she would soon wed. He really did have a tiny form, but that was not important. She was doing the right thing, not only for this Border Reivers clan, but the people in her father’s manor lands would also benefit from this alliance. Their hand-fasting ceremony would be celebrated throughout the day and night. Together they united the border English Lords with the troublesome raiding Scots. And it wasn’t like she had a choice. Upon her birth, she’d been promised to this Scots family. If she tried to wheedle out of the marriage, then one of her sisters would be forced to take her place and honour the commitment. She could not do that to Juliette or Vienna.
The wedding was set for a few weeks hence, during the time when the last of the autumn leaves fell. Their marriage would be toasted not only by both castle and manor lands but also by all that dwelt in the surrounding counties. The Scots had secured barrel upon barrel of the finest malt whiskey, uisge beatha as they called it. The good folk of Scrabbly Castle looked at the waiting casks with dreamy eyes and with a great thirst upon their lips.
Sybilla swung her gaze back up the wooden keep wall. Eoin’s colour was ruddier than usual this morn, his temper hovering about him like an eagle over an ailing sheep.
“Eoin,” she cried out, with as hearty a voice as she could muster. But even to her own ears, her voice sounded dejected and miserable. “I am here.” And then she quickly added the words, my love, for the sake of the many folk about. Best not to unsettle the castle. Laird’s sons were sought-after prizes, a dream for any maiden. It wouldn’t do to appear ungrateful. She willed a smile upon her lips and struggled to keep it there.
Shame that the bailey was brimming. Of course, everyone heard the temper in Eoin’s tone. They dashed about with blank faces in a flurry, all desperate not to be caught listening. No one wanted to witness a row between the pretender Laird and his young bride. No good could come of that.
Sybilla also thought about scurrying away. Perhaps she
, too, could pretend that she had not heard his command. But before she could bolt, Eoin pulled his head back into the keep proper and thrust his arm out instead. He waved the sleeve of his tunic back and forth. It flapped about in the breeze as if his sleeve was the castle pennant itself.
Sybilla rolled her eyes. Please, not another scene, not on this beautiful fine morn. But deep down, she knew her silent plea would go unanswered. Eoin had had many tantrums in the months since she arrived at Scrabbly. She recognised the telltale signs now and knew for certes that another was brewing.
True enough, she was more than a little frightened by the madness of his moods. But, please God, with the passage of time and with her new title as wife, her fears would prove unfounded. Perhaps once they wed and shared everything as man and wife should, they’d grow together. In time, she’d learn how to pacify her husband. She must learn how it was done for the peace of the whole castle.
It was not right that the good folk of Scrabbly should witness their future Laird acting like a spoilt lad still in nursery linens. Eoin’s father was oft poorly these days, his illnesses lasting for many moons at once. The castle folk whispered that old Laird Robison would be lucky to live to see yuletide next year. When he died, Eoin would take his place, King Alexander willing, of course.
Have patience, Sybilla. There is much you can do for this man. By the time you are finished with Eoin, he will be the finest laird in all of the land, and you will be his worthy and dutiful wife. And think how proud your parents will be then. The patience of a saint and the perseverance of the most devout cleric, they were the qualities she must find. And quickly.
Sybilla waved back at her betrothed and, whilst she did, wondered how best to lighten his mood. It was important that she nip this tantrum in the bud; otherwise, Eoin’s anger would fester throughout the day. If his temper was left unchecked, it would grow into an ugly, bulbous thing that would sully the whole castle.
But, on this fine beautiful morrow, she could think of no quick way to shake off his maudlin mood. She let her eyes drift up the wooden keep wall, and all the while wished herself far away from here. How she would love to be back on her father’s meadows, on that lush English soil, romping about with her sisters.
She missed Juliette and Vienna, the manor folk, and last, but not least, Jasper, her scruffy little English dog. The sky above this Scottish land was marred by heavier cloud and a fiercer wind. But, she must move onwards and do less grizzling.
She smiled at the serving girls that rushed from the great hall, their eyes downcast as they hurried past her. Trying again, she smiled at Tim the ironmonger. He also looked away and quickly bolted past her as if he was being chased by a rabid dog.
Jean was out that morn, too, crisscrossing the muddy courtyard in search of his chickens. And Lucas followed, striding out in giant steps, puffing from pulling his vegetable cart. The turnips wobbled as he made haste. Yes, ‘twould be better if the castle folk did not see their future Laird acting in such an ignoble manner.
Eoin’s head popped out of the tiny high opening one more time. “Wait there, Sybilla. Don’t you dare scamper. I shall be most displeased if you leave that very spot.”
She nodded. While she stood, she breathed in the heady aroma of malt wafting from the brewery door. There were gaps in the wooden slats wide enough to let a castle rat through. She peeked into the brewery and caught the brewer’s eye. Quick smart, he ducked his head and hid.
Sighing, she slumped and, just as Eoin ordered, continued to wait, trying not to leave that muddy patch of ground. But a glance at her feet jolted her memory.
She remembered the wet, bark painting hanging from her fingers—the one smearing pigment upon the grass. Perhaps it would be prudent to put the painting down before Eoin arrived. She spied a stool near the water barrel and hurried over. Brushing the chicken droppings from the seat, she laid her painted bark slab atop, so it could dry flat in the noon sun.
Eoin burst through the castle door and out into the courtyard like an ox after a turnip. The fluttering leaves rushed about his soft leather boots. It took him naught but a few strides to reach her.
“See what you have done.” He held his arm aloft, and his fancy tunic sleeve dangled no farther than an inch from her nose. She stepped back and saw that his sleeve was splotched red, and big stain marks marred the fine yellow needlework. But his cheeks were what shocked her most. They were pock-marked and crimson like the late-summer raspberries left too long in the sun, ruined and riddled with worms.
She knew what all that colour meant. Now would be the right moment for her to gasp and flutter and look mollified at the mess she’d made on his fine sleeve. No doubt it was her paint that had soiled his tunic, and that had to mean trouble. After all, Eoin’s clothing cost a hefty coin—enough to keep a family of serfs in food until Hogmanay.
Now was the time for her to look stricken. And she knew very well that the more repentant she acted, the better the outcome. It would be best to beg his forgiveness and grovel a little, too. He could then chastise her with his raised voice and nasty tongue. He hadn’t struck her yet, and for that she was grateful. Once she’d been thoroughly reprimanded, he’d expect her to say something that would repair his mood and put everything to rights again.
“You have ruined my new tunic. Look!” He drew the material so close that it flapped against her cheek. “My best surcoat is all amuck. Thanks to you, I look like something your silly dog sicked up. This is my new gown, Sybilla! This tunic is not yet a sennight old. What do you have to say for yourself?”
It was the moment to be saintly and rectify everything, but that act did not come naturally to her. The temptation to be devilish instead was weighty indeed.
“How is this my fault, Eoin?” She should not have asked that question. She knew that even before the words left her mouth. She must turn this around, right now, before his temper gathered strength and mushroomed into a giant poisonous growth.
As she continued to ponder her response, she knew she should plead his forgiveness. But, it was so very difficult to grovel on such a pleasant day—one of the last before winter arrived. The wind swirled, running wild and free, carrying the scent of foxgloves and wildflowers under her nose. She also wanted to run and run and not stop till she reached her father’s home and her sisters’ arms.
“Your retched paintings did this to me. I have warned you already, Sybilla. You must find something more worthwhile to do with your time. Painting does not suit you. You do not have the knack. Those drawings of yours are a curse. They’re blight-ridden curs that litter my castle. If you insist on this silly hobby, you must keep your heathen pictures well away from me. You left dyes and mixes behind the solar door.
“Deliberately, I warrant, too! Your pigments were lurking there, like a trap for me to stumble into. Your dyes are hounds ready to pounce. I was nay more than a step inside my solar proper before they were at me.”
Sybilla smiled then bit her lip. She would have liked to laugh, but the Laird’s son was not known for his sense of humour.
“I’m in a rush today, Eoin. Get one of the serving girls to tidy away my brushes and pots.”
But it was apparent that Eoin was no longer listening. Instead, his attention was firmly focused on the little stool sitting in the sun. He waved an accusing finger in its direction. “That thing, that painting, it is yours, is it not? I recognise the mess.”
“Yes. Tis a present for the miller’s lad. He is sick in his bed, so I thought I would make a picture of my geese to cheer him up. The boy loves the geese so. I have captured a good likeness, don’t you think?”
Eoin studied the painting from afar, carefully keeping his distance. He stared at it with pinched eyes, as if danger lurked beneath the thick layers of pigment.
“I’m on my way to deliver the present right now, so I best be off. Mayhap you’d like to join me?”
Eoin grabbed her arm. “Oh, no you don’t. My bonnie tunic is destroyed, and it’s all because of that heinous thing.”
The bailey was fuller now than ever. But the usually jovial air of the place was gone. Everyone ran about their business faster than funnel wind.
She scoured the courtyard for a solution, a way to distract Eoin and diffuse this situation. And there it was, right outside the smoking hut. Her new white pup, Moppet, bounded back and forth in front of the smoking-hut wall. Moppet’s intensions were clear: he’d get into that hut come hell or high water and steal himself some smoked venison.
“Here pup,” she cried, drumming her hands against her skirt.
Moppet looked her way, back at the shed, and then looked over at her again. Finally abandoning his futile attempt to reach the meat, he lopped across the bailey, wagging his tail faster than a hand swatting flies.
What an adorable thing he was. She scooped the pup into her arms while he flopped his ears about, making him even cuter. Then, pointing his cheeky spaniel face directly at Eoin, she mimicked a spaniel’s voice. “Hello, my new papa.”
Eoin’s mouth drooped. “While we’re on the topic of your animals, they’ll have to go, too—all of them. Scrabbly Castle is not Noah’s Ark.”
“But why? All the cats are great mousers and, given time, so will the puppies be. And the geese give us eggs, and everyone loves them. They follow me around like ducklings behind their mother. My doting goslings make everyone laugh.”
His eyebrows knotted together. “Not everyone. Has it occurred to you that mayhap I don’t want my bride followed by fowls, as if she’s no better than a goose herself?”
Hemlock and Honey: Highlander Romance Page 2
