Someone had defiled the pages inside. Using a quill and black ink, someone had written jottings on the fine parchment. What a shame.
Whoever the rightful owner of this book was could read as well as write. Twas not possible that Gus could do both. She recalled the sound of his voice. He had a heavy Scots accent, true enough, but he was not coarsely spoken. Come to think of it, he spoke awfully well for a robber rogue. Maybe someone in his birthing hamlet had been educated and, in turn, had educated him. Or perhaps, he’d grown up under the guidance of a monk.
She flipped some more pages, and the further into the book she went, the more notations she found. The owner had read this book from cover to cover, and more than that, had commented on nearly every section. Under the heading, Spells, Chants and Curses, nearly every phrase was underlined.
Sybilla read aloud, her voice filling the small hut and bouncing around the stone walls . . . this curse, placed by the Almighty himself, can only be lifted by a white witch or one of the cunning folk . . .
And then she couldn’t read anymore because the light darkened and a shadow hid the words. It was as if the sun had suddenly slipped from the sky. She squinted through the darkness, towards the shape filling the door.
Gus.
The silence between them was thick as treacle and alive with trouble. Sybilla struggled to meet and hold his gaze.
His voice boomed out. “Tis curious you chose that section to read aloud.”
The blood rushed about her ears, pulsing, making his dark words hard to hear. She found it difficult to meet his eyes for more than a moment because his pupils had darkened and looked so menacing.
In a voice filled with ice, he said, “You ken what they say, don’t you?”
She struggled, quite unable to find her voice. This man disturbed her in every possible way.
“Folks say that a white witch has a keen sense of smell. They say that a witch can smell out a curse, and her nose will always lead her to a book of spells.”
“What?” She could barely focus on his words and certainly could not make sense of them.
In a slow cadence, as if talking to a child, he said, “Witches have a way of knowing things.”
What was he on about? All this talk of witches. What was he saying?
“Do they? Witches know things. Okay, if you say so.” At least she’d found her voice. He wasn’t making any sense, and she’d no idea why, but at least she had her nerve back.
“Aye, and they say that one witch can sense another.”
Mayhap he’d also suffered a bump to the head? “What are you implying, Gus, that you and I are witches? Is that it? Seriously? Is that what you are trying to tell me now?”
He gave her a wry smile. “I’m nay one of them, as you well know. If I was a warlock, I’d not be needing you, now would I?”
Chapter 5
Sybilla’s head hurt. But the throbbing inside her skull had more to do with the craziness of Gus’s words than with her injury. Forgetting that she held the heavy book of spells, she relaxed her grip, and the volume thudded to the ground.
“You need me?” she asked, her voice whispered and cautious. “Why would you need me?”
Like two circling cats, they eyed each other.
Sybilla took a step back. “You’ve already admitted to stalking me. Did you hurt me deliberately—to keep me passive—so that I would be a weak prisoner and therefore easy to handle?”
“Nay. Your capture went horribly wrong, and for that I’m truly sorry. You fought hard and fell and hurt yourself. And I do blame myself. You are right about the stalking bit, though. I’ve been watching you for quite some time.”
“How long?”
“Often enough over the months, through a spy glass, like I said afore.”
“When I went riding, you spied on me?”
“Aye, and in the village too.”
Sybilla raised her good arm to her head. “I still don’t understand. Why would you single me out? Surely, you’d get a better ransom price if you kidnapped the Laird’s oldest son rather than me. I’m afraid you won’t get as much as you’re hoping for because I’m not that popular with the Border Reivers, especially not those with coin and influence. You’ve made a costly mistake. You could have kidnapped Eoin with ease. He says that he is too valuable to fight anyone. He believes he must stay unharmed. If he’s attacked, he’ll not fight back. He’ll just give in and surrender.”
Gus moved into the hut, blocking the doorway.
“No more talk of that yellow-bellied runt, if you please. I was after you, and you alone.”
“Me?” she whispered.
“Aye, first time I watched you out of pure curiosity. Then I saw how you were with animals. And the more I watched you, the more curious I became. After a while, I started asking folk in the village about you. I got to know your movements. The more I learned, the more fascinated I was.” He coughed.
“Aye, I’ll not lie to you. Sometimes I watched you for pure pleasure, and I’m not proud of it.” He looked down at his shoes, and she saw a hint of embarrassment upon his hardened features. Surely, he hadn’t watched her bathe?
Please, Lord, no!
“Living alone, I nay get to see many pretty girls, ye ken?”
Her heart fell into her stomach. He had. He’d watched her frolic in the loch. She wanted to die.
He took a step forward. “I saw you once carrying a cat, on horseback no less. Not too many lasses carry a black cat around with them when they go off riding, especially not when they’re galloping about the fields. That piqued my curiosity, as you can imagine.”
“Black cat? Pah, what nonsense.” She thought for a moment more. “Unless you mean the kitten. I collected a stray kitten from the Dale hamlet once, as a gift for someone.”
“And last-day, I spotted you with a wild bird tucked into the palm of your hand. Lass, the wild bird was nestled in, contented-like.”
She shook in fervid denial, his intent becoming clear. “No, you’re wrong. I freed that robin from an old pigeon net, tis all. I fed the hungry neglected mite some of my bannock. It was near starved, poor babe.”
He was shaking his head too. “Wild birds don’t eat out of someone’s hand, lass, especially not if they’ve been trapped in a net for some time and are scared witless. The first thing they do is fly away to safety. That bird was unrestrained, and yet it chose to stay with you.”
Sybilla touched her thigh, feeling her small blade tethered there. She didn’t like the way this conversation was headed, not one bit.
Too many folk still believed in the old ways. Openly they prayed in Christian churches, but in their hearts, they believed in the old pagan rituals and rules. Gus had gotten it into his head that she was a witch. Being accused of witchcraft was worse than being accused of spending the night alone in a cabin with a strange man.
He pointed towards the pallet. “Sit down.”
She stayed standing.
“I need the space, lass. If I’m to grind up more of my herbs for your relief, I’ll need to reach the table. I dinnae want to hurt you.”
She swallowed.
“By my reckoning, your pains will be back soon, if they’re not here already.”
The pains were back, for sure, and in a vile mood. Her arm throbbed like it was doing a jig on its own. But she had more pressing worries than mere pain.
“I’m fine, not too bad really,” she lied.
“Sit then, will ya, before I bang into you.”
She lowered herself onto the pallet.
He grabbed his mortar stone. “You’re nay fine at all. You’ll drink this down and fix yourself proper.”
“Before I drink anything, I want to know what you’re accusing me of and why you’ve kidnapped me. The truth, please. You think I’m a
witch. That much is obvious.”
Snatching a handful of herbs, he said, “I nay think it.”
She let her head fall into her hands. “Thank goodness.”
Pounding his stone upon the mortar, he continued, “I nay think it because I know it. I know it to be true.”
Sybilla bit back a groan. Her head was really hurting now, and yes, more than anything, she wanted him to make his potion and take her ailments away.
Taking a deep breath, she decided to try using reason. “If I’m a witch, why wouldn’t I simply cure myself? I’d walk out of here, or fly, or do whatever it is that witches do. For that matter, if I was a witch, I wouldn’t have let someone attack me in the first place. I wouldn’t have let you attack me.”
He settled himself onto his stool beside her. “Sybie. May I call you that?”
She shrugged. He was holding her captive. He could do as he pleased.
“You’re a white witch, one of the cunning folk. Now both you and I know that being a white witch is nay the same as having magical powers.”
“Gus, I’m not a witch of any colour.”
“Ah-ha. And I’m nay Scottish.” He picked up his pestle again and continued to grind handfuls of his pain-relieving herbs.
“If you’re nay a witch,” he said, “what are ye then?”
“Just an English Lord’s daughter. Soon I’ll wed Eoin and be mistress of Scrabbly Castle, and best yet, fulfil my family obligation. That’s all. There is no more to my story. Sorry to disappoint, but I fear that you have kidnapped the wrong person.”
“Really?” he said, shaking his head as if she was the one talking rubbish. “You’re a young lassie that can read as well as e’er I’ve heard. I’ll wager that you can read in your head too?” He raised his brow in question.
“Tis nothing special, no special skill.”
He rubbed a hand across his bristled chin. “Some call reading in your head mighty suspicious, especially if it is done by a wee lassie. So, let’s see: you’re a Lord’s daughter who can read aloud and in her head, something ver’ few people can do, and I’ll wager you can write as well?”
“My uncle taught me. He was a man ahead of his time.” Then she bolted upright, alarmed at what she’d said. “That’s just a saying, Gus. I didn’t mean it literally. My uncle can’t travel in time.”
“So, let us see again. You’re a Lord’s daughter who can read aloud and in her head, and you can write. You can tame wild beasties willy-nilly, and you can carry them about on your horse, as you please.”
She’d have laughed if the accusation wasn’t so serious. And her head ached too much for merriment.
“Tell you what,” he said, swirling the ground herbs around in a little ale. “If you help me out with a wee problem I have, I’ll deliver you back to your beloved Eoin in no time.”
She accepted the mug, almost snatching it from his fingers. She gulped without restraint this time and had the lot down in two mouthfuls.
Sighing with relief, she handed him back the mug. “You, Gus, have yourself a deal.”
“Right,” he said, raising his own ale in a toast. “That’s grand.” He gulped his ale too and wiped the droplets off his whiskered chin. When he was done, he slammed the goblet down on the stone table.
“I’m going to be upfront with ya now, Sybie.”
“And not a moment too soon.”
“Right. Well, here it is. Are ya ready?”
“Never more so.”
His hand was back over his chin, disturbing his whiskers. “That wee problem I was talking about.”
“Still listening.”
“It isn’t so wee.”
Sybilla closed her eyes, waiting for the herbs to kick in. She could just imagine Gus’s problem. A lassie would be at the heart of it, for certes. After all, Gus was the sort of man girls were drawn to. Everyone was after a strong man to keep them safe. And if that man was big and handsome, as well as gentle, and to be fair to Gus, he did have a gentle side, then he’d be in demand. Men like that were not easy to come by.
Fortunately, she had Eoin, so she had no reason to notice Gus’s manly looks and superior strength. She wasn’t used to strong men anyway—men that filled the room with a strange animal allure.
Thank heaven for Eoin. He was fine and small with tiny hands. Eoin was built for delicate activities, like poetry reading. Come to think of it, he was most particular about the softness of his hands. He oft rubbed sheep’s lanoline into his palms to soften the skin.
Whereas Gus tore, ripped, and hacked things apart. Gus’s hands were rough, calloused, and scratchy. Possibly they were the most masculine hands she’d ever seen. When his fingers brushed her back, it was a reminder of just how wild and brutish he was. When he touched her, her head conjured up words like manly and fearless and superior. No wonder she’d jumped at his touch.
A warning fluttered in her belly. Her skin had never moved when Eoin laid one of his smooth baby fingers against her arm. Her only reaction to Eoin was to quickly brush him aside.
Just as well she was to marry Eoin because a man like Gus turned a girl into a wonton hussy, or so Eoin claimed. Gus was the sort who made women weak and quivery; whereas Eoin was safe because he left women, or her at least, standing rigidly still and unmoved in every way.
It was just as well that the commitment to marry a Border Reiver fell to her because her younger sister Juliette hankered for romance. She, Sybilla, was known to be kind, sensible, and always doing the right thing. She was not flighty and frivolous. She did not get swept away with her emotions. Knee-quaking romance would never be part of her life.
Her father oft called her a wolf because she was single-minded and wouldn’t be deterred from her course. Or was it his course? She recalled her father’s words, “Hunt Eoin down, girl, and let nothing stand in your way.”
They had laughed at the time because they both knew that Eoin wasn’t one for hunting, or combat, or remotely befitting of wild animal metaphors. Instead, Eoin liked to meditate and fill his head with poetry. He’d sit on a bench for hours on end, dreaming up stanzas about clouds and flowers.
As a couple, the burden of tackling life’s difficulties would fall on her shoulders, she knew that. That was why Eoin needed to marry a wolf. He was the bunny.
No matter. Eoin had people to do undesirable tasks for him, tasks like catching wild boar and fighting warring clans. He was above such wild, lowly pursuits.
Gus was as different to Eoin as he could possibly be.
Yes, she could see why other girls might find Gus attractive. Fortunately, she could rise above all that virile male stuff.
“Well, Gus,” she said, pulling herself from her daydream, “are you going to tell me about this big problem of yours?”
“Aye. But first I want to feed you. You’ll nay be of use to me if you wither away.”
She raised her brows. That was something, she supposed. Her virtue might still be in jeopardy, but at least he wasn’t about to let her go hungry. He needed her alive—for something. Heaven knew what, but whatever it was, it was bound to be something a wolf could handle.
Chapter 6
Gus dived into the bracing waters of the loch, waiting for the icy depths to strike back. He welcomed the biting cold water, wanting to feel the sting of approaching winter against his skin. In his mind, the colder the water, the better it was for cleansing, and heaven knew just how much he wanted to wash away his troubles. As each day crept slowly towards year’s end, the days grew steadily cooler, but he’d rarely felt warmer within. Pure excitement really did heat the blood.
The girl was more than he’d expected—much more. He’d captured the right one, no doubt there. According to the soothsayer, Sybilla was the only person in all of Scotland able to cure his people. That in itself was an overwhelming though
t, but he’d nay expected her to be so . . . endearing. Of course, from the moment he’d spied upon her in his looking glass, he’d realised her beauty.
But he’d not expected her to be such good company. There was a fieriness to her nature he admired, and she was quick witted with it—two qualities he relished. Too bad she had to drone on about that weasel Eoin all the time.
Blessed Father, you have honoured me. I will use your daughter wisely. He kissed the Celtic cross around his neck. But Heavenly Father, was it necessary to make my healer so fair of face? A plainer lassie would have been a safer bet. A plainer, less-feisty girl would have meant a full night’s sleep. As things stood, with Sybilla under his roof, he tossed and turned the night through. He was a man, after all.
Although he enjoyed her company, the atmosphere inside his crib was oft tense and highly charged. When she moved, or even when she sat still, he could barely keep his eyes from her face. When she thrashed about in anger and challenged him, bold and brave as a warrior, it was all he could do to stay his feet and stop himself from leaping up and snatching her into his arms.
At least here, swimming through these calming waters, he was at peace. Well, almost.
He cherished all of Mother Earth’s gifts, from the sparrows and finches to the wee fish darting about his feet. Ordinarily he’d lark about in the water like a lad, diving down then resurfacing again, so he could spout water from his mouth like the whale he was. But he was in no mood for those simple joys today. Right now, what he wanted to do most was glide on the loch’s glassy surface and think of Sybilla.
First and foremost, the girl was his savour. He could not return to Caithness Castle empty-handed, without a cure to save all those that remained. Nothing mattered more than that.
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