“Let me see,” she said. “You are claiming that my attack had nothing to do with you. Is that right? You were out walking and came upon me.” Please God, let it be true.
“Aye.”
Then he tilted his head to the side as if considering her version. “Ach, nay. Truthfully, I’d not say that.”
Her heart sank.
He put his knife down and came back to sit on his stool.
“Ya see, I’ve been spying on you from a long way back for quite some time now.”
She blinked. Was she hearing this correctly? Did he really just admit to spying on her for a long while, too? What was a long time? A sennight? A full phase of the moon? The warning bells inside her head were ringing so hard, they were almost off their ropes. Clearly, she was no random find. This was going from bad to worse.
He stood again as if tired of the conversation. Was this boring him? How so? She couldn’t remember ever being less bored. He ducked his head to avoid the low, sloped roof and stood stooped over a pot of bubbling food.
“Aye, well, before you rode into the clearing, I’d been watching you. From the moment, you were naught but a speck in the distance, I had you in my sights.”
Yes, he is blatantly admitting to stalking and spying. No man she’d ever met would admit to such a lowly act. Nothing good e’er came from a man who spent his days in the bushes. He was a kidnapper after ransom, and that was the best she could hope for. Perhaps she should have paid more attention to Eoin and his rantings after all. Hadn’t he repeatedly warned her of the robber/murderers skulking about outside the castle?
She cleared her throat again, her way of telling him to listen up.
“You seem different to most Scots I’ve met thus far.”
She would refuse to say just how different. He would not like the answer.
“If I be different, it’s most likely because we’re in the Lowlands here, and I’m not from these parts. I’m a Highlander, ya see.”
Her heart skipped a beat. She recalled Eoin’s words: “Highlander is naught but a fancy word for whoreson of the north.”
She said nothing more. Instead, she studied the crumbling stone wall beside her bed. Her captor stirred his pot and whistled. She sat quietly, or at least it appeared that way. In reality, her innards were jumping and screaming.
Calm yourself, Sybilla. Think this through. He’s some sort of maiden-taker who is not in the least disturbed by his crimes. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be whistling.
True, she wasn’t exactly sure what his crimes were, but he’d clearly committed many. She watched him as he stooped over his makeshift table, spooning something into a bowl. She wanted to ask why he’d been spying on her for so long. But then, if she asked that question, she’d have to listen to the answer, and she was far from sure she could handle the truth. The cold hard truth could wait till the drum inside her head hushed up a bit, and she could sit up proper.
“You didn’t aid my attacker, did you? I mean, you weren’t part of my attack in any way?” Inwardly, she begged him to be outraged at the mere suggestion. She wanted to beg him to lie. She closed her lids and prayed under her breath. Finally, she opened her eyes and faced him.
He wasn’t looking as insulted as he should have been.
“Now, think on it, lass. If I wanted to harm you proper, I’d not have made such a mess of it.” He made flying gestures with his arms, which she assumed were to illustrate just how easy it was to capture and kill someone.
Sybilla forced her lips into a weak smile. It was a decent answer, all things considered. At least for now, it would do.
“But,” she said, “if you were spying on me, as you claim, then surely you saw what happened to me? You must know who is responsible for this crime. Surely you saw who attacked me?”
Why was she questioning him and his story? Hadn’t she already decided to play along and accept whatever he said until she could escape? Once she was safely back in Scrabbly Castle, Eoin could put a constable on his tail.
The man remained silent, so she pushed the story along.
“I think you might well be my rescuer. And my saviour—the man I should thank?”
Likely story!
“Aye.”
She nodded and tried for a genuine smile. It was more than she could manage. She couldn’t bring herself to thank him properly either, considering she didn’t believe one single word.
She glanced around his stone hut. At best, it was a dubious place to live. He was certainly down on his luck.
“Where are we?”
“Are your eyes not good? Can you nay see much at all then?” He inched a little closer as if she was totally blind.
She jerked backwards and nearly hit her head on the cold stone wall behind her pallet. “My eyes are just fine.”
Her eyes were not fine. There was nothing fine about the way she felt inside her head. And her wrist hurt like blazes too. Actually, her whole arm ached almost beyond endurance. And then there was her shoulder wound. That throbbed as if it had grown a heart of its own.
Again, she stared at the crumbling walls that would not suffice as shelter when it rained hard or when the wind blew, as it did most days.
“Is this your home?” she asked. “From Beltane through to yuletide, this is where you live?”
She was still clutching on to that faint hope that all was not as it seemed. There was still time for him to jump up in indignation and insist she withdraw the insult—that he was no highwayman living rough.
“Tis my home. For now.”
So, that was it then. Clear as day. He was in hiding. This was a robber-pirate’s hideout. He was one of Eoin’s whoresons. No one, not even the poor serfs, lived in these old ruins anymore. These stone buildings were naught more than remnants left over from the height of the Viking invasions. This particular rubble might have been a whole house at one time, but it had long since crumbled away to nothing more than a cave. Most of the walls were missing. She didn’t even have to get off her pallet to see the loch. It was a brazen blue streak shining through the holes in the stone. Many folk from hamlets and small crofts came to places such as this to scavenge and help themselves to the free quarry.
He was in hiding. A few days of shelter in fine weather was all this pitiful shelter was good for. At home, in her father’s manor on the English border, the cattle lived in better conditions. Why, a tree would work as well as this.
She wouldn’t question the highwayman anymore. The less she knew of him, the safer she was likely to be. What she must do now was tarry her time, and when the right moment presented, she’d sneak away. He had to sleep sometime.
She was in his cot, the only pallet in the cave. There was an old straw mattress by the fire, so he likely bunked down there yester night. The fire in the hearth was burning still even though the sun showed that they were well through the morn.
Morn! Eoin would be beside himself with worry. She had to get home—god-speed.
The Highlander rose from the stool and again stooped his head to avoid hitting the roof. His height was towering. He was a man built like a giant oak and was far too tall to live in a lowly, broken burrow like a mole.
In that gruff, abrupt way of his, he said, “You must be famished. I’ve cooked up a fine broth. You will eat. Food is what you need. It will give you the strength to recover.”
What she needed was to escape. “Just a drink will do me, if you please?”
He fetched a goblet. “A drop of ale will serve you well too, might even improve your mood, if I’m lucky. Although I fear we might need a whole jug of ale and not a mere goblet. There is much mood to improve, is there not?” He winked.
She glared, too taken aback to utter a word. What was he saying? That she was sharp-tongued? That she was snappy? She would not rise to the insult. He could insul
t her all he wished, as long as he kept his brutish, club hands to himself.
He thrust the goblet forward and almost into her face. She accepted the drink, but before pressing her lips to the rim, she peered suspiciously into the ale. Of course, she inhaled deeply, too. Could she detect a suspicious scent? No, but that might be because her head felt as thick as a forest, and her nose was not working properly. If there’d been a loaf of bread rising inside the cup, she doubted she’d have smelt the dough.
She certainly felt groggy. Mayhap she’d already been drugged as well as physically attacked. If he’d drugged her during the attack, there was every chance he’d use his poisons on her again.
He sat himself down again, back on his stool, and sipped his own ale. If there was a drugging potion in the liquid and she drank it, she would likely sleep like the dead, and that would give him free reign over her body. She could not let that happen. She dipped her finger into the mug and rubbed the liquid across her lips.
He watched her and then growled and cursed, as rude a sound as ever she’d heard. Why was he making such a fuss? He should have expected her to show caution and be suspicious of him. He should have made allowances. But no, instead he chose to make a theatrical show of her fears. He rose from his stool like a volcano with a blowing head and snatched her mug right out of her hands.
He then gulped half her ale himself, barely swallowing and letting it glug down his throat. When he was done, he released his breath and sighed, blowing the scent of ale all over her.
“Happy now?” he asked, his wide smile showing her how good the ale was.
She wasn’t happy. No. Now she was forced to share a drinking vessel with a muddy, unkempt ruffian. Lord in Heaven knew when he last bathed. Although, to be thoroughly truthful, he did not smell bad. In fact, he smelt of leather, brook water, and loch grass. His smell was almost pleasant. There, that was a surprise. Most of the men in Scrabbly smelt of stale sweat and manure. Even her Eoin carried the scent of the privy with him where ever he went. When they wed, he would need to bath more often and use soap. Somehow, she would see to it.
Sybilla raised the goblet to her lips again, and this time she dared to take a sip. The ale was wet and good and slid down too easily.
He nodded approvingly. “Now that you’ve risked your life and swallowed, how about some ground willow bark for the pain? You are the most distrustful lass I’ve e’re seen. Could ye hold your trust long enough to swallow down one of my healing potions, do you think?”
Yes, she decided, she would trust him that long because she was desperate for pain relief. But first she needed answers.
Sybilla knew she shouldn’t question him, but holding her tongue did not come naturally to her. “Why haven’t you asked me where I’m from or why I was out riding in the fields alone? You haven’t even asked my name. I find that curious. Do you not want to know the name of the woman in your bed, or do you not usually bother asking?”
“Women in my bed? Haven’t been too many of those of late, mores the pity.” He smirked, and then he stood, at least as much as he could, considering the low stone roof. He pulled his stool away from her bedside, dragging it towards the table of stones against the wall.
“And why would I need to ask your questions when I already have all the answers?”
Her back snapped straight, sending a shooting bolt of pain down her arm. She closed her eyes and held her breath while she waited for the pain to abate. While she waited, she listened to the sound of him grinding his pestle against a stone, pulverising his herbs.
“I reckon sooner rather than later, you’ll accept my help. You’ll nay cope with the pain in that arm on your own for long.”
She slowly let her breath ease out of her lungs before she opened her eyes. “What were you saying? You already know who I am? I don’t understand. How can that be?”
“It would nay take a sleuth. The answers are obvious. Such a fine-looking English woman, one as bold and cheeky as a robber’s dog, and yet a woman naïve enough to roam the Scottish woods unescorted must only come from one place—Scrabbly Castle.”
“So, you know where I live, but you can’t possibly know who I am.”
“Aye.” He carried on grinding with his back to her.
If he already knew that she was the young Laird’s intended, then he likely had one thing in mind, ransom. Ransom was popular with bandits and warmongers. She hoped he wouldn’t ask Eoin for too much money, though, because her betrothed held on tightly to his purse strings.
“You best take me back to the castle immediately and before my future husband discovers me missing. He has a wild temper. You cannot know how wild. The longer I am gone, the more angry and unpredictable he is likely to become. I fear for what he will do to you if I am missing for days on end. He will mount a search party, and when he finds you . . .”
He waved all her words away. “I’m nay concerned about that wee runt. I said I know who you are, and I wasnae referring to your relationship with that pretend laird. I meant, I know who you really are. I know what you are. I know of the gifts Our Lord has given you.”
Sybilla tilted her head, and her headache exploded. What is he talking about now? No matter. There was only one thing that really mattered now: she needed to get back to the castle and Eoin before Eoin fretted and came after her.
“It’s morn outside already?” she asked.
“Aye.”
“I’ve been missing since the last midday meal.”
“Aye.”
“Don’t you see? Eoin will be sick with anguish.” At least she hoped he would be.
The Highlander carried on pounding.
“We must saddle up your horse immediately and ride with lightning speed back to Scrabbly Castle.”
“Nay, lass, that’ll not be happening.”
She tried to swallow down the hard lump that was forming in the back of her throat. “Eoin will reward you for my safe return. He’ll likely give you a bag of coins.”
“Actually, it would be one silver coin at best,” the Highlander said with the cheek of a scavenger sea gull. “He’d be nay likely to part with more, if what I’ve heard about him is correct.” He carried on grinding his herbs, his great hulking back bent over the task.
How dare he! Before she could gather her wits and fling a retort, he spoke up again.
“In any case, I’ve no interest in his bags of silver or in anything else he has to offer me.”
What? That can’t be right. Everyone wants silver and treasure. If he wasn’t interested in coin, then what was he interested in? She’d heard about lassies that had been captured, held as pleasure slaves, and only released when they grew old and haggard. Sweat prickled her brow.
“I have a horse,” she blurted, remembering her palfrey. “If you’ll just help me atop him, I’ll not bother you for a second longer.” Looking downward, she said, “I will reward you for what you have done for me thus far.”
She had no idea how. Maybe she could slide him one of her marriage necklaces, and Eoin would not be any the wiser.
The man stopped pounding his herbs and reached for the mug. “You had a horse, you mean. You dinnae own one now.”
Sybilla felt her temper kick-start, but she quelled it down. Best not to antagonise a wild caveman. If annoyed, heaven knew what he might do to her.
He rubbed his hairy jawline with his great paw of a hand. “Someone else owns that palfrey now.”
“Then I shall borrow your horse, and, in payment, I shall replace him with two of the castle’s finest. I will even give you a destrier in exchange if you wish?”
Forgetting all about her arm, she turned to face him and then yelped in pain. She took deep breaths, inhaling through the pain. As she waited for it to pass, she tried to visualise Eoin parting with one of his prized war horses. The heavens would need
to rain destriers before he’d willingly part with a single one.
The man shoved another goblet across the table, pushing it her way. “Do yourself a favour lass, drink this quick-smart. It’ll ease your suffering.”
“May I borrow your horse?” she pushed on, fighting back the tears.
“He’s injured too, much like yourself. I can nay let you ride Storm. It wouldna be fair on the beastie. You’d nay like to hurt a loyal horse now, would ya?”
Her eyes glassed over. He was lying. He had to be. She really was his prisoner. But she refused to let as much as one single tear roll out of her eye.
“What about others? There must be other people living around here. Surely you do not live in this spot all alone? Where are your people? There must be someone else nearby? A farmlet or hamlet perhaps? You must belong to some kin somewhere.”
She hadn’t picked up the fresh goblet he offered, so he stood, scooped the goblet up himself, and placed the potion in her good hand. Then he closed her fingers around the stem. She felt his coarse, leathery fingers chaff against her fine skin.
“There’s no one else here but you and me. Just us all alone in our little corner of the wilderness. No one within screamin’ distance.”
“But, what about Eoin?” she babbled desperately. Her tears were welling up, threatening to spill over. “Eoin will worry himself into an illness.”
“Tell you what, you drink that all down, and then I’ll help you move closer to the fire. I’ll stoke those flames into a fine blaze, and we’ll get some real heat into your bones. Mayhap, once my potion kicks in, you might even sup on a little broth. What do you say to that plan?”
Sybilla stared into the potion-laced liquid pooling at the bottom of his goblet. If he wanted to hurt her, he could do it at any time, at his leisure, slow or fast, torturously or with a modicum of mercy. It would not matter if she was awake or asleep. His arms were as wide as tree trunks, and his back as vast as a river mouth. In comparison, she was a skinny bird—a skinny injured bird that he could easily snap in two. She closed her eyes and swallowed the liquid down in one gulp.
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