Hemlock and Honey

by Elizabeth Preston

  He rolled onto his chest and then swam hard, lapping from the loch’s edge to the centre, then back again. He would have preferred to swim to the opposite bank, but that would not be wise. He needed to stay within reach of his crib.

  Sybilla might believe herself well enough to run and to escape her captivity, but she wasn’t. She wouldn’t get far without hurting herself, and anyway, she had an important job to do before she fled. Eoin could wait.

  Sybilla didn’t trust him; that was obvious. He was trying to prove to her that he meant no harm, no further harm anyway. He’d cherish her trust, but all he really needed was her cooperation. He was prepared to protect her with his life, but the one thing he could not give her right now was her freedom. Maybe one day she would understand.

  It was a weakness of his, wanting the lassies to like him. And if truth be told, he wanted this lassie’s admiration more than he’d wanted any other. Heaven knew, he was drawn to the girl in the same way a wave was pulled to the shore.

  He must conquer this weakness and his want. Sybilla would cure his people, and that’s all that mattered. Whether she thought him striking or as ugly as a boar’s butt mattered not.

  He dragged his dripping body from the loch, scooped up his plaid blanket, and wrapped it around his hips. He would rise above the needs of the flesh, but, angel-in-heaven, her flesh was mighty tantalising.

  He saw her through the open doorway even before she heard him approach. She was sitting on the edge of his cot, cradling her bad shoulder. She rocked back and forth, as if silently weeping. Lord above, he hated it when women cried.

  She’d been holding everything in since yesternoon. He’d noticed, time and again, her eyes damp with tears, and the way she gritted her teeth. Her pluckiness was shaking his resolve. He’d have preferred her to charge at him with that small blade she kept hidden under her skirt. The fight would be good for her—a release of sorts. It wasn’t like she’d be able to harm him, but she might enjoy trying.

  He paced forward towards the hut loud enough for a hibernating mole to hear. She must have heard his footfalls crunch the grass, yet still she didn’t turn.

  He poked his head through the opening? “Would you like a wee dram of uisge beatha?” Remembering that she didn’t speak Gaelic, he translated, “Water of life. Tis a fine Scots whiskey made from the best barley.”

  She nodded but kept her head down. He fought his way into the tiny cabin. Next to her, he was as graceful as a daft bull.

  She accepted the tot and then raised her head to meet his face. Her eyes were puffed and scarlet. Her sadness weighed heavily upon his chest.

  “Why, why give me such a grievous wound?” she asked. “Why was that necessary?”

  He rubbed his hand through his hair. “Yesternoon didnae go as it should have. Life often doesnae go to plan.”

  She appeared frightfully small, huddled on that pallet, with her big owl eyes staring up at him, defiant yet desperate to feel safe. He wanted to put his arms around her, but she might mistake the gesture and scream. And rightly so, too. It was monstrous of him keeping her here against her will. She hadn’t quizzed him about his horse again either, and for that he was thankful.

  Aah, there was no point in fooling himself. She knew well enough that there was nothing wrong with Storm. He could have ridden over to Scrabbly Castle any time of the morn or in eventide. Storm was the best stallion coin could buy.

  “I’ll say it again,” he said softly. “I’ll nay hurt you. You have my word.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is the word of a rogue plunderer worth having?”

  He’d give her that. It was nothing less than he deserved.

  She sighed then straightened her back. “So, is this the deal we have, if I help you, you’ll promise not to hurt me, and you’ll deliver me safely back to Scrabbly?”

  “Correct.”

  She nodded, like the promise she was about to make delivered her straight to hell. It was there in her eyes. As far as she was concerned, she was sealing a deal with the devil.

  Gus scowled. That Eoin of Scrabbly, he didnae deserve her any more than he, himself did. Eoin had no right to claim such a beauty. And, what’s more, a wooden castle like Scrabbly was no place to house such a treasure. Make no mistake, Sybilla was a treasure of the highest order. It would take naught more than one true arrow to burn Scrabbly Castle to the ground. Nay, it wasn’t right that Sybilla live in a castle made of sticks.

  Gus shook himself. He must be business-like about this. Tough and ruthless was the way ahead.

  She wore his huge linen shirt, and her legs were bare from the knee down. Many would call that indecent. Nay, there never could be anything indecent about the girl. But, it was high time he gave her back her skirt.

  She paced away from him, boxing herself into a corner.

  “I have your skirt. It is a little bloodstained, but you best put it on till I can arrange a clean set of clothing for you—a fine outfit as befitting your position.”

  She spun on her heals. “Organise another set of clothing? And how are you going to manage that? Do you have a dressmaker chained up somewhere around here? I thought we were all alone, stuck in the middle of nowhere with one sick horse and no one else for miles.”

  This was a pause. They were far from stuck, but it was not in his best interests to point that out.

  “Right, so I’ll go get your skirt . . .”

  She spun away, her long plait cutting the air. “Your horse isn’t really sick, is he, Gus?”

  He didn’t want to answer, would have done almost anything to avoid it. Instead he returned her gaze.

  “That’s right, lass. Storm is no poorly.”

  “Then I really am your prisoner.”

  He rolled his eyes. “There are other ways to look at this situation between you and me.”

  That was all he said before the hard clomping of horse’s hooves against the cold ground echoed throughout their clearing. Then the approaching horse stopped, and a rider jumped down. Footsteps approached the hut. Gus reached for his broadsword and whispered, “Stay put.”

  Instead she ran for the door, bolted outside, and straight into Morgann’s waiting arms. Sybilla froze. She thought she was about to be rescued, that much was obvious. Mayhap she’d be waiting for the constable from Scrabbly Castle to arrive. Instead, she’d flung herself into the arms of another hostile.

  She looked up at Morgann’s dirt-crusted mug, into his leering smile, and tried to push herself away.

  Morgann laughed, easily holding on to her flaying arm. “Aren’t you a sight, m’lady, and straight into m’ waiting arms, no less.”

  The stench of old ale and onions wafted from Morgann’s skin. “I’ll be quick, lass, don’t you worry. I don’t tarry when a windfall drops into my lap.” He winked at Gus.

  Chapter 7

  Stalling, Eoin stood outside his father’s bedchamber. The guarding manservant, Gillies, waved his arm forward as if to show the way.

  “I shall go in when I am good and ready and not before.” Through clenched teeth, he said, “Who’s in there with my father? Speak up, man.”

  “You must go through now, young laird. They all await you.”

  Eoin blinked, his temper burning his eyes. “Answer my question, you impudent sod.”

  “Your Aunt Heather and your cousin, the maiden Adeliza.”

  Eoin felt his temper rise. When his father died, and that would hopefully happen any day now, then that idiot manservant better die quick-smart too. Because if Gillies outlived his father by more than a few sennights, then he, Laird Eoin, would boot that old fool out on his ear. What did he care if the idiot starved?

  How dare Gillies, a mere servant, emphasise the word maiden when he spoke of Adeliza. What was he implying? Or worse, what did he know already? The thought of shovi
ng that old sod’s bony body through a gap in the keep wall cheered him enough to step forward towards his father’s door.

  Gillies bowed and trailed his hand through the air, as if he, the Laird’s son, didn’t know the way to his own father’s bedchamber.

  Eoin pushed past the servant’s frail body and thrust the oaken door wide. The solid doorway was excessively grand, a mark of status. He would relish claiming it soon enough—when his father’s body was naught but dust, and he could call this chamber his own.

  The door slid open, revealing those inside. He saw dear sweet Adeliza first—of course he did. How could he not? Every time he looked at her, it was like gazing at the early spring buds after a long frost.

  Her mother, Aunt Heather, stood beside Adeliza, patting her daughter’s hair into place. As usual, he felt irked by Aunt Heather and her intrusive ownership of Adeliza. Aunt Heather was taunting him, that’s what she was doing, openly running her withered hands all over his darling cousin. He should have been the one to straighten her bliaut or free the dust from her skirts. In public, he could not lay a finger on Adeliza, but when there was no one watching, things were different. Oh yes, he touched her alright then, in ways that would make Aunt Heather’s wiry grey hair curl.

  “Eoin,” his father roared, as was his way. “Come in and shut the door. You are late. Only a lowly cad would keep a sick father waiting.”

  Eoin mumbled apologises that were filled with insincerity. When Father turned away, Eoin winked at his cousin. Aunt Heather watched on, her lips drooping. Let her face scrunch up like a dried leaf. He did not care.

  Adeliza giggled in the most charming way. Just the sound of her sweet voice made his shaft stiffen.

  The door clanged behind him.

  “Can’t you even walk into a room without causing a disturbance?”

  He ignored his father’s grumbles and moved towards the stool by his bed.

  “Father, how is your leg today?”

  The old laird turned away. “Don’t think you can fool me, son. Caring words may spill from your lips, but they are naught but bitter, meaningless mumbles. If you don’t care Eoin, best you do not ask.”

  Fine by him. Of course, he did not care about his father’s gout-ridden appendages.

  Eoin looked about him. He loved this room and its oversized fireplace that stretched the length of the back wall. The tapestries above Father’s bed were threaded with gold. Reluctantly, he forced his attention back to the old man. One day soon he would wear Father’s ruby and emerald jewels on his own cloak. They would look far more impressive upon his taut chest and far better than they looked on the current overfed, lumpy laird.

  The laird’s heavy brows lowered, deepening his scowl. “I believe you have brambles for brains, my son.”

  Eoin tried to roll his eyes at Adeliza, but his cousin was looking down at her delicate feet. She was the picture of innocence.

  “The whole castle gossips about you two. You realise this, don’t you?” The old man tossed his bed covers aside and attempted to stand.

  “Eoin, you are to wed the English lassie, Sybilla, whether you like it or not. Do you hear me?”

  How could he not hear? Even Gillies outside would hear, as would every other servant this side of the keep.

  Aunt Heather rushed to her brother to help him stand, but he pushed her away. “And you, sister, you are no better. Did I not instruct you to keep these two children apart?”

  “Brother, let me pour your mead. Or something stronger, perchance?”

  He waved at the jug. Aunt Heather, ever obedient, at least to his father’s face, scurried towards the honey brew.

  “I have told you all, and I will say it again: this marriage will be the alliance we need between the Border Reivers north and south. We need this marriage. Can I put it plainer than that? And furthermore, it is set to happen at the first fall of snow.”

  Aunt Heather brought the vessel to her brother’s lips. He drank nosily, offering none around.

  Eoin clenched his jaw in an attempt to hold his temper. “Have I not said, many times, that I will obey your wish, Father? I will marry that English weed when the first snowflakes fall. The weather will be miserable, and so will I be. Now, let us all drink to my betrothal.”

  Adeliza giggled. What could his father say? It was what he wanted, a union between the English and Lowland raider Scots. As usual, Father would get his way. Eoin poured three more measures of the castle’s best honey mead and then passed the goblets around. When he got to Adeliza, he squeezed her fingers as she accepted the cup.

  The squeeze was brief but sharp nonetheless. Tonight, he would squeeze her hard in other places too, and she would welcome his touch. He liked lying between her thighs best of all. His cousin always whispered no, but everything about her said yes. He knew all too well that her protestations were there to excite him. And they worked. Just thinking of his cousin’s low moans make the tunic over his hips rise.

  Eoin lifted his mead. “Let us drink to our alliance with the English.” And under his breath, he whispered, “And may the alliance wilt and die.”

  His father raised his mead, too, and then belched.

  The old laird wiped his dribbling chin on his sleeve. “Now, it is my turn for a toast.” He cleared his throat. “I hope that my weakling son may find the strength to keep his hands off his first cousin, especially when he becomes a married man.”

  The laird was the only one to drink to that toast. Aunt Heather looked aghast and poor sweet Adeliza blushed. Such a touching sight. The dear girl was mortified. How could his rotten, embittered father hurt his sweet cousin so? The sooner the old man was in the ground, the better for everyone. As far as Eoin was concerned, his father’s passing couldn’t come soon enough.

  Fortunately, it was dim inside the chamber, the only light coming from the fireplace at the far end of the room. The sconces in the walls were not lit. The old sot was enjoying himself. He delighted in creating trouble and in making his family squirm.

  Unlike her brother, Aunt Heather didn’t cherish the awkward silence. “Where is Sybilla anyway?” she asked. “I did not see her last eventide? Was she in the hall for the bard’s reciting?”

  Eoin tossed his arms in the air. “Where, indeed? That girl goes off like a feeble-brained rabbit. She does not appreciate the arts. No doubt she hid herself away, so none of the bard’s wisdom could flourish in her tiny brain. She is not one for learning and bettering herself.”

  Aunt Heather should not have gotten him started. He could grumble all day about his intended.

  His aunt had already said too much. Anyone would think that by now she’d be old and wise enough to recognise topics to avoid. But no, off she went again.

  “But surely Sybilla is somewhere in the castle? Someone knows of her whereabouts, I pray?”

  Eoin felt his father’s talon-like eyes clawing away at his flesh.

  He sighed and added, “Last I heard, Lady Sybilla went off riding somewhere.”

  Aunt Heather jumped in with yet another annoying comment. “Aye, and when was that?”

  Eoin rolled his eyes. “Last day.”

  He felt, rather than saw, his father’s pupils pop. “She is with a companion, I pray?”

  “Of course, Laird. The stable boy told me that a group of the gardeners accompanied her. Apparently, she went off to buy a hawk.”

  The old laird nodded and released his breath. “I like the girl. She has fire and grit. She’s more like the son I should have had.”

  Eoin counted to ten under his breath.

  Aunt Heather was in a troublesome mood this day, for certes, and was quite the pecking hen. “Have you checked that she was indeed with others? Had she planned to stay away so long? We all know how dangerous it can be for a young lassie outside of these castle walls.”


  Eoin groaned. He just couldn’t help himself. “Of course, she is with others, and who knows how long she plans to stay away. She is not exactly obedient.” He released his breath to show the room how patient he had already been.

  “My dear Aunt Heather, do not fret so. If Sybilla had half of Adeliza’s looks, then you really would have reason to worry.”

  It was worth the wrathful glare he got from his father. And the look of pure pleasure that washed over his beloved’s face . . . He’d do or say anything to see that look again.

  Buoyed up now, he was quite beyond holding his tongue. “It would be a brave rogue indeed that bedded Sybilla.”

  There, he made Adeliza laugh this time, and the sound was honey to his soul.

  His father tossed his goblet at the flames. “She is the future mother of your sons. Go check up on her. Make sure that your bride to be is safe.”

  “Of course.”

  The laird let the uneasy silence linger a while before he dismissed them all. “Be gone, all of you. I’ve seen more than enough of you lot, for a sennight at least.”

  They scrambled to leave their seats. “And Adeliza . . .”

  She turned, daintily as always, and bowed reverently to the laird. “Yes m’lord.”

  But what did she get in return for her grace? Naught, but a biting remark. “Keep my son’s head out of your skirts.”

  Eoin seethed. He would never forgive his father for that insult! Never!

  Chapter 8

  The sight of the man leering over Sybilla scalded his blood. A few seconds, that’s all it took him to go from calm to seething with rage. Gus clenched his sword, gripping the handle as if heading into battle. How he’d love to run the cur through. But, alas, Morgann was his brother-in-law, so he’d best not kill him yet. Instead, he raised the shiny steel tip and pressed it into Morgann’s cheek.