She had even done it for her poor, long-suffering mother. It was harder pretending to Mother that she knew nothing of Father’s dalliances and numerable offspring, but she had made it work. Mother was skilled at pretence, too, and thundered at anyone careless enough to mention the name of one of Father’s many lemans.
Aye, Sybilla thought with a sigh, she had survived thus far on her wits and mimicry, so she’d survive this escapade as well.
Gus’s windswept words pulled her from her thoughts. “You all right, lass? Your shoulder’s not troubling you too much, I pray?”
“No, not overly. Have we much farther to go?”
“We’ll stop for the night in an hour or so.”
“Stop for the night? But we are miles from anywhere. Where are we to sleep? Not outside surely? It is about to snow, heavily, I fear. A freeze is coming. I can feel it in the air. The snow will be here by morn, for certes. We cannot sleep outside in such heavy snow. The snowdrifts will put out the fire we build, and we will freeze and be dead by morn.”
“And the sky might fall in too,’ he added with a grin. “Ahh, nay. I’ve slept outside plenty o’ times afore. I’ll build a mighty blaze under a canopy of trees. If the snow gets really thick, we’ll build ourselves an ice cave and crawl into that. What do you think of that idea? A house made of ice? How’s that for adventure, aye?”
Sybilla felt her stomach fall.
“It takes me back to when I was a lad. I loved to sleep outside in a frozen cave under the ground, until my da caught on and dragged my hide back inside for a thrashing.” Gus smiled, as if charmed by the memory.
She eyed the ever-thickening white air. Every so often, a powdery ball of cold fell onto her cape. Her face must have echoed her misery because he gave in and owned up.
“Ach, I’m jesting lass. You’d nay find me sleeping outdoors this late in the season, nay any more, not if I have a choice. My bones are too thick for that sort o’ fun. I have a friend no’ too far from here. I’m sure she’ll let us shelter under her roof till dawn.”
By time Gus slowed his horse and signalled that they were done riding for the day, it had started to snow properly. A few more yards on and a small wooden house with licks of smoke rising from the roof drifted into view.
When they came to a complete stop, Sybilla wanted to yelp with delight. Her thighs and bottom were somehow numb and painful all at the same time. She dropped to the ground, desperate to stretch her legs. But she didn’t get further than a few feet before the door to the little house burst open.
A woman sauntered out. She was young too, not much older than Sybilla and pretty as a picture. But it was what she wore that had her gaping: a skimpy length of material. Worse than that, the material was lacy like a spider’s web. The garment barely covered her breasts and was doing a sorry job of keeping her decency. Sybilla looked away and blushed on her behalf.
“Welcome.” The woman beamed at Gus, an outlandishly suggestive smile at that. Was the woman blind? Couldn’t she see how little she had on, and how improper her getup was? Mayhap she was that sort of woman. But why was she making eyes at Gus? Surely, she could see that he’d arrived with a woman, a maiden no less? Or mayhap she simply didn’t care?
That wasn’t clothing. Nay, it was a whore’s outfit she wore. The cold had to be bitting into her skin, although she appeared not to feel it. Let her suffer the cost of being so blazon.
Leaning towards Gus, Sybilla hissed into his ear, “What have you brought me to?”
Morgann slid from his stallion and bolted up to the woman, his grin wide enough to split his face.
Sybilla could feel her own features harden.
Morgann glared down at the woman like he’d not eaten for a full phase of the moon, and she was made of strawberry cake. “What have we here? A sweet sight indeed for two weary travelling men.”
The woman did not return Morgann’s enthusiastic welcome. She looked through him, her eyes searching for Laird Caithness.
Sybilla’s lips pinched tight. She was not accustomed to this feeling, to taking an instant dislike to someone.
“Are you no’ coming in then, Laird? Tis not like you to tarry. You’re usually off that horse and through my door quicker than a rat at a peach.”
So, this was how Gus spent his free time. Oft, during their journey, she’d wondered how Gus had coped with the loneliness of his past months in exile, living in that tumble-down croft all alone. Now she knew. From the friendly flush on the woman’s face, Gus was no stranger to this place.
Sybilla drew the thick wool cloak tighter around her body, her way of showing the woman just how inappropriately dressed she was. But it was to no avail. Sybilla seemed to be the only one finding the woman’s clothing unsettling and distasteful. Her two male companions looked more than happy, transfixed even.
Gus went right up to the hussy and, bold as brass, wrapped his giant arms around her near-naked body.
It took Sybilla all the strength she had to still her tongue. He as good as pawed a naked woman right in front of her. Had he no shame? She wanted to slap that look of enchantment right off his face.
The leman opened the cottage door and ushered both men in. Sybilla stood still on the snowy ground outside, shocked and appalled. Obviously, the woman cared not one whit if Sybilla remained outside.
Just before the door closed in front of her, the woman flung her harshly spoken words into her face. “Hurry up if you’re coming. Otherwise stay there. Suit yourself, but hurry. I’ll not waste any more of the hearth’s heat on you.”
Sybilla refused to move.
As if suddenly remembering his hostage, Gus stepped back out through the doorway and was at her in two impatient strides.
“Oh, you remembered me, did you? I thought I’d slipped your mind.”
With no explanation, he grabbed her by her good arm and dragged her inside. The almost-naked woman closed the door firmly behind them, shutting out the cold.
It took Sybilla a moment to grow accustomed to the flickering firelight inside. The hearth was roaring, and in any other circumstance, she’d have said the room was warm and toasty and wonderful. There was a generous supply of beeswax burning, the rich scent of honey flavouring the air. But that was all she liked about the place.
Five other girls were inside the den of decadence—all scantily clad, too. If she pieced all the bits of material together that each woman wore, she’d barely have enough to sew a blanket.
Then she noted a cluster of men tucked into the far corners of the room, hiding in the shadows. No doubt they had wives at home, awaiting their safe return. Ha! If only their wives knew.
Morgann wasted no time. He had one hand around a tankard and the other over a hefty bosom of a woman whose loose breasts jostled freely, begging to be snatched. Morgann smiled, forgetting that he had an ailing wife in need of rescue.
Sybilla’s face burned, and she knew she must have looked as scarlet as the rouge on the tavern girls’ lips. “You’ve brought me to a whorehouse—you really, truly have.”
“Now lass, dinnae fash so. You’re warm and dry, and you’ll get something good in your belly soon.”
A red-haired woman darted past, wearing a snippet of dried gut, the likes of which Sybilla had in her wardrobe too. But Sybilla used the gut to tie up her braids. This woman wore the skin strip across her bare bottom.
Worse still, she stopped abruptly when she recognised Gus. Her smile was blatant enough. It said, Toss up my skirts. If only she’d been wearing one or two to toss up.
“Three bowls of mutton stew, if you please,” Gus called out to no one in particular. He spoke as if they were in a regular dining hall in a castle or manor house.
Sybilla, on the other hand, could barely find her voice. She would have liked to roll her eyes, but they were glued straight ahead, fixated on the
row of pallets lined up against the far wall. There was a filmy row of curtaining covering the pallets, but it was more of a token than a shield. Clearly, privacy was not valued in a place like this.
Morgann laughed. “Aye, we need to sate our hunger, afore we sate our hunger. You ken?”
The girls giggled at his bawdy humour, although Sybilla found it not the least amusing or clever.
She’d had enough. Turning to Morgann, she said, “Aren’t you fretting about your poor wife? Isn’t the ailing Brenda’s life in peril?”
Morgann reached across and pinched the wench’s bottom, as normal as you please. It was as if he was doing no more than pinching grains of salt from a seasoning bowl.
Gus leant towards Sybilla’s ear. “Lassie, you dinnae need to join in the fun, if ye don’t want to.”
Join in? Had she heard right? “Surely you are not implying that I become part of this.” She waved her arms about, her fury now beyond control. “This is not a place you come to dine or spend the night. It is a den, a place to feast on the flesh. I wouldn’t join in for all the candles in Christendom.”
Sybilla plonked herself on a stool. Her throat ached with the effort it took to hold back the tears. Being attacked and kidnapped all at once was bad enough, but then to be bought to a place like this . . . it was too much. Moreover, she was being forced to spend the entire night here. That meant that she would have to try to sleep while Gus did lusty loud things to eager woman. Not that Gus meant anything to her, of course.
Right then, what she wanted to do most of all was scream and throw things. But everyone was watching. Instead, she took a deep calming breath and forced herself to think. She needed to gather her wits and use this situation. The smart thing to do would be to see this latest hurdle for what it really was—an opportunity.
If Gus and Morgann drank heavily and then went to their beds with whores, soon enough everyone, except her, would be sound asleep. Then she might just have the chance she’d been waiting for. She could escape on Morgann’s horse. His stallion didn’t look nearly as fierce, nor as disciplined, as Gus’s monster, Storm.
Morgann’s horse was most likely compliant and poorly trained. His proud stallion would be happy to be stolen. It would be in the horse’s best interests to find himself belonging to a more considerate and far more responsible owner. In the morn, Gus and Morgann could ride on to save Brenda, sharing the one giant beast, Storm.
By time the men awoke, Sybilla would be long gone. By morn, she might be well on her way towards Eoin’s welcoming arms. Actually, being a tad more accurate, she’d be racing back to Scrabbly Castle. To be thoroughly truthful, Eoin’s arms were never open, and they certainly were not welcoming.
Soon enough the tavern girl, draped in a scarlet loincloth and her black hair falling free all over the food, brought them bowls of stew. Sybilla realised she was starved, so she felt grateful and kindly towards the girl for the briefest of moments. But then the loincloth-clad woman sullied her good deed. As bold as brass, she coiled herself around Gus and slithered onto his lap.
Her mouth falling open, Sybilla felt her eyes stretch to the popping point. Stay calm and remember your plan. She had an escape plan, a good one, that would most likely work. Yet she still couldn’t shake off her anger. Why had she expected more from Gus? She had to keep reminding herself that he was nothing more than a rogue, a womanising kidnapper, and a whoreson of the north. Strangely, she’d expected a whole lot more from him.
She watched Gus nuzzle into the woman’s neck. Nope, he wasn’t any different from all the scoundrels she’d met afore: her father, Eoin’s father, and Eoin himself. Men were all the same. All they wanted was to be inside a woman’s sheath, and it didn’t matter one hoot who that sheath belonged to. She was done with men—over them completely.
Without an appetite, she ate her stew slowly. As she chewed, she watched the men guzzle jug after jug of ale and get bawdier as the night stretched on. The wenches laughed and encouraged the men, measuring out mouthfuls of whiskey.
It wasn’t long afore Morgann dragged a girl behind one of the flimsy curtains. Sybilla had to turn her head not to see and stop her ears, so she did not hear.
She had done nothing wrong, so why did she feel like a sour green apple amid a table of juicy apple pies? Twas not a pleasant feeling. She sat for a whole hour more, her back ramrod straight, ignoring her bowl of cold stew in front of her face. She steadfastly refused to hear the groans and giggles of pleasure all about her ears.
Finally, Gus remembered that she was sitting opposite him. He leaned across the bench, over his empty bowl and even emptier stash of tankards. “You’re a slow eater tonight, Sybilla. Is there aught wrong with your stew?”
There was a lump the size of a draught horse at the back of her throat. Eventually, she found her breath and when the words came, there was no stopping their slippery dash for freedom.
“I’ve been near killed. I’ve been kidnapped, accused of being a witch, dragged halfway across Scotland, and for what? I’ll tell you what for. So that I may lay my head in a whorehouse. In the morn, you intend to drag me north some more until I reach your homeland. And when I reach this heathen place of yours, I must pretend to all that I am indeed a white witch, although almost everyone gathered will know instantly I am not. I know nothing of healing and witchcraft, and that will become blatantly obvious, even to you. And then what will happen to me, when I fail to meet everyone’s expectations? I fear to think.
“So, ask yourself this, Gus, why might I be feeling a little out of sorts?”
He shrugged, as if the riddle befuddled him.
Then his brow raised as if an idea had suddenly struck.
“Twill be your injuries that are acting up and putting you in this pepper mood. Sybilla, you must get to your bed immediately.” He pushed the wench off his knee.
“The only bed I want to get into is my own, in Scrabbly Castle.” It wasn’t entirely true. She was feeling very tired and in desperate need of rest. Any bed, other than one next to Gus, or more precisely, next to Gus in a whorehouse, would do.
“Ahh, so you’re harping on about that little weasel Eoin again. Even his name wearies my bones.”
“Marchella,” Gus said, waving one of the women over, “two pellets for the night, side by side, if you please. I must keep a watchful eye on young Sybilla here. Don’t want her slipping off her pallet and into the arms of another traveller man. That would nay be good for business. We can’t have your patrons getting their heads bitten off for no good cause. Because, be warned, Sybilla bites.”
Marchella and he smiled, sharing the joke. Sybilla bristled. What did she care if they jested and made fun on her behalf? Let them have their jokes. It worried her not.
The buxom Marchella led them both to the far end of the room and pointed to the spare pallets on the floor against the wall.
“For two meals and two beds, that be one silver coin only.”
Gus raised his brows.
“Well, I can hardly charge for a girl now, can I, seeing as how you brought your own?”
Gus fished a coin out of his belt.
Sybilla pushed past them both, chose the mattress closest to the corner, and plonked herself down. She tried to ignore her aching shoulder, and tried even harder to pretend that she did not hear Marchella whisper.
“Next time, come on your own, my lovely, and I promise you a better time than you’ll get from that ice maiden you have in tow.”
Sybilla squeezed her eyes shut. Just as she was drifting off, she felt the weight of Gus’s cloak fall over her body. It was a heavy garment and smelt of woodlands, horses, and strong men. Strangely, the weight of the cloak was reassuring, and the smell of him was a comfort. She sank into a deep slumber.
She woke again in the dead of night. Even before her lids opened, she heard the wheezing and snor
ing sounds of the men about her. The reek of stale whiskey and merry-making reminded her that she lay in a house of disrepute. The air about her pallet was still and heavy with slumber, as if morn was still a long way off.
She stared up at the ceiling. The coals in the hearth glowed red, casting shadows up the walls and onto the rafters. Then, turning her head ever so slightly, she looked directly at him.
Sweet Lord, Gus’s face was no more than a foot from her pillow. Somehow, through the night, she must have rolled off her pallet and onto his straw mattress. Actually, her situation proved graver than that. Their heads were close, but their legs were even closer. Her right leg was entangled in his! Just the thought made her heart skip. How would she disengage herself without waking him up?
She could feel Gus’s bare skin against her exposed thighs. He was hard and hairy, and his muscles pressed into her soft flesh. She breathed deeply, calming her tripping heart. It might have worked, if she’d not noticed the placement of his hand. It, too, was upon her body, resting against her waist as if holding her in place.
How had that happened?
Like the man himself, his hand was a weighty thing, clamping her down. The heat of his hand burnt her skin, and she knew danger lurked. But there was something nice about the feel too, something reassuring. Slowly, carefully, she let her breath out.
His eyes were shut, thankfully. His lashes rested on the top of his cheek, and by rights, were too long and lush for a man to own. Those lashes should belong to a beautiful woman. Her gaze wandered to his lips. It was such a wide mouth and had generous lips, too, so soft and inviting. She could well imagine what the young girls in his castle thought of those. No doubt they jested about stealing kisses. She’d never kissed a laird afore. In fact, she had only kissed one lad in her life, and it was rushed and naught to remember. What would it be like to kiss a powerful warrior?
Hemlock and Honey Page 10
