She froze, taking too long to answer. “Why?” she asked warily. “Surely we need enough wood to burn throughout the night?”
He wanted to pull her to him, to feel the press of her body against his. Then he wanted to ravage her like the wild beast he really was.
“I want to know why you are determined to marry that castle fool,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Eoin. The marriage makes no sense to me.”
She scratched her nail across her palm, clearly agitated. “I have no choice in the matter. A daughter marries whomever her father chooses, surely you know this.”
“Of course.” But she was in the Highlands now, through no fault of her own. She need never return to wed that wedeling Lowlander. She could choose a Highlander to marry instead, a much-preferable option. A real man—like him.
“You have been stolen. Do you not see, tis an escape of sorts?”
He had to look at the ground to say the rest. “I, and all the good folk of Caithness, would be honoured to have you live amongst us in our castle. You may marry a Highlander if you wish, anyone of your own choosing. Or remain unwed, if that is to your liking.”
It wasn’t till the words were out of his mouth that he realised how unsatisfactory that arrangement would be. How could he stand by and watch her wander about his castle, wed to someone else? That fate would be insufferable.
“But your people are sick, are they not?”
“Not for long. We have you now to see to that.”
Already she was shaking her head, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips too.
“Thank you, Laird, but clearly you do not understand still. You see, I must marry Eoin, or some other Scot from a prominent Border Reiver clan, and none other. A handful of years back, my father bequeathed a daughter to the Border Scots in exchange for their protection. The marriage bonds our two warring people and keeps my father’s people safe.”
He had naught to say to that.
She looked older than her years when she spoke next. “So you see, as much as I might want to marry anyone other than Eoin, I cannot. If I fail in this duty, the obligation will fall to Juliette, my sister after me. And if she fails too, then poor sweet Vienna must marry a Border Reiver. As first-born daughter, the fate is mine. I have no plan to burden Juliette or Vienna with such an unsavoury match.”
Gus’s heart felt as heavy as slate. He knew all about being bound to one’s destiny. It was his duty to be as good a laird as his father had been before him, or better. Sadly, that was a hopeless task. No matter how hard he tried, he kept failing.
He’d proved well able to protect his people from warring Scots. But he was as useless as teats on a bull when it came to protecting his people from disease. His castle folk were dropping like flies in a frost. As Chief Laird and protector, that made him a dismal failure.
Angry at himself, he stomped to the woodpile. Using a flint, he lit the bulging kindling. He continued to add more fuel as the fire soared. The blaze was roaring, licking at the branches above the flames, yet still he fed it, angry at the world. He was lost in his own thoughts when a cry came from the woods.
“Tis Morgann.” Gus snatched his bow and unsheathed his broadsword. “He’s likely hurt himself. You’ve never seen such a clumsy hunter as he. I best fetch him.”
He bolted into the green.
The hollering grew louder, making it easy for Gus to follow. It took him naught more than ten minutes to reach the fool. He was grateful to find Morgann in one piece, but strange and troubling too to see his brother-in-law tied to a tree. He’d been gagged, although his captor had made a poor job of silencing him. He was still hollering like a lovesick cat.
Gus removed the kerchief from Morgann’s mouth. “What the blazes?”
“I was ambushed, brother. Didn’t see him coming.”
“Aye, obviously. What did he steal from ye?”
“That’s what puzzles me. He took nothing, not even those two rabbits I killed with my bow. Why would he tie me up and take naught?”
Gus sliced through the rope, freeing his brother. Then, like a bolt, the idea struck him. He knew exactly why Morgann had been tied to that tree; he was the bait. Morgann was meant to holler and make a fuss. Then of course Gus would charge through the woods to his aid. While Gus was busy rescuing Morgann, Sybilla was left alone and vulnerable.
“Sybilla,” he yelled, feeling sick to his stomach. He’d seen this stunt afore, and yet he’s still taken the bait. . .
“Sybilla,” he yelled again, bolting through the bracken as swiftly as if his body were alight with flames.
He reached the clearing soon enough and above the crackle of the fire, he heard Sybilla’s muffled cries.
She was being held on the ground, pinned down by a rogue’s body, her skirts tossed over her head. A ruffian cur was leaning over her, fiddling with his belt.
It took Gus naught but a second to be at her assailant’s throat, his knife pressed into the bastard’s neck.
“Slow and steady, move away from the girl,” Gus said.
Twas as if the fool had not heard a word. He had his braies down and his filthy shaft in his hand.
The fool looked up at Gus, his eyes wild as Gus’s blade nicked the skin on his throat. The fool must have been drinking or smoking something—something so toxic it addled his thinking.
Gus spoke again slowly. “I said, move away from the lady.”
Instead, the rogue pressed his hips towards her, trying to sheath himself.
Gus felt a wave of something unidentifiable rush through him. Sybilla’s muffled cries tore him in two.
“I’ll share her,” the rogue dared to say, “but that’s all I’ll agree to.”
Gus almost laughed. The man clearly did not have the measure of the situation.
“Last chance,” Gus said, “afore I slice you through.” Normally, he wouldn’t bother to give such a lowlife a last chance, but he knew that if he killed him while he was stretched over Sybilla, some of his vile blood might splash onto her skirt.
The cur moved even closer, still intent on stealing her maidenhood.
The decision easily made, Gus sliced his knife clean across the bastard’s neck. The blood spurted over the three of them. Oh well, nothing could be done about that.
“I warned ya, you bastard,” Gus said.
The man fell forward, but quick as anything, Gus wrenched him off Sybilla, tossing the bleeding cur into the grass. He kicked him aside.
“Did he hurt you, lass?”
Sybilla shook and sobbed, her words coming in hiccups. “So close, almost, nearly.”
Gus grabbed her then, nestling her into his chest. “I’m sorry, lass. Please forgive me. I should not ha’e left you alone. It won’t happen again. You have my word.”
They both looked over at the body. “The sot was mad, not right in the head. But you understand why I had to kill him, don’t you, Sybie?”
Sybilla covered her face in her hands. “I don’t care that you did,” she whispered.
“I’ll bury him in the forest. Don’t you think on his death, not for one moment more. I did Scotland a favour, ridding the place o’ him.”
She nodded, wiping her eyes.
“I think I’ll make Morgann bury him. I daren’t leave you alone again.”
She sighed. “You probably should have just beaten him a bit then sent him on his way. I wonder. Does that mean his death is my fault—do you think?”
“Nay, not at all,” Gus soothed. “I killed him, and I was honoured to do so. He threatened your safety, and that was unforgivable. Besides, I enjoyed killing him. Just seeing him threaten you the way he did, well, I could barely hold myself back.”
“Okay,” she said, smiling through her tears. “I suppose you did wa
rn him—twice.”
“Aye, two times more than he deserved.”
“And if he’d moved off me, would you have spared his life?”
Gus was quiet a moment. He wanted to say yes, but that would have been a lie. And if he could help it, he’d rather not lie to the girl.
“Nay, lass. He sealed his own fate. As Laird of Caithness, many people depend on me for their protection. What sort of protector would I be if I let a cur like that threaten a lady I was with? It’s unthinkable.”
She nodded, moved away from her attacker, and headed for the far side of the hearth.
Morgann then wandered into the clearing. He pointed.
“Aye, that be him.” Morgann said, not even trying to hide his grin. “Fool. No one threatens Laird Gunn’s woman and lives to tell the tale.”
Sybilla’s back shot upright.
Gus shook his head, silencing his brother. “Hold ye tongue, man. Sybie’s spoken for. Now do something useful, and go dig a grave.”
Morgann dragged the man away by his feet.
Gus tossed his own blood-spattered shirt into the fire and went to his bedroll, looking for another. He washed his hands in wine, wiped his knife, and laid it by the fire to heat and clean.
At last, he smiled at Sybilla, knowing she’d watched his every move. He strode over to her, intent on being gentle. She’d suffered a terrible shock. Bobbing down, easy as he could, he scooped her up into his arms. She sank against his chest.
“I’m so sorry, lass. I’ll nay leave you alone again. Can ye forgive me?”
He felt her nod.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded again. “Not your fault,” she said softly.
“Aye, it was. I left the bonniest lassie in all of Scotland alone out here to fend for herself.”
She was watching him with—dare he say it—trust in her eyes. Twas more than he deserved. He lowered his lips till they rested against her hot cheek.
He knew he had no right to do this, especially after what had just happened, but the desire in him burnt strong. He wanted to protect her, and more. Aye, the stirring things he wanted to do.
Slowly, he pressed his lips against her mouth. But he had not expected to find her lips so inviting. She actually opened her mouth, as if inviting him to kiss her properly.
He placed his hand around the back of her neck, slipping his fingers under her plait. He pulled her closer into him holding her firm, feeling the press of her breasts against his chest. And then he kissed her properly, showing her just how beautiful and desirable she was. Oh, the feeling and the sheer joy of it all. He’d longed for this kiss since the moment they met.
He was gone already, too far gone to be able to turn from her now. He would hold nothing back; he was not able to. He needed to give passion and savour hers in return. Now she was responding with the same fierceness as he—tasting him, exploring him, and yearning for him. He heard her sigh, and the sound was almost his undoing. Grabbing her to him tighter, he relished her eager mouth, her heat, and her hunger. He’d never dared hope she’d be like this.
She shuddered and clutched him, her fingers digging into his back. With his mouth still pressed into hers, he scooped her up and carried her to his pelt.
He lowered them together, leaning over her, refusing to let her free. He kissed her till he had no air left in his lungs, till her lips were surely bruised. His shaft was solid as stone and throbbed with longing. Right now, he’d give everything up to just once be buried betwixt her thighs. But this wouldn’t do. ‘Twould mean he was little better than the animal before him.
He tore his lips away and instantly missed her touch. Her eyes were vivid, her cheeks burning with passion. Her lips were still open, inching forward towards him again, as if they hungered for more.
“Arg, I’m sorry, lass. What came over me?” He stepped right away and jumped to his feet. “You are promised to another. It seems as if I need a lot of reminding.”
His breathing was rapid and troubled, and when he looked back, it shocked him to see that her own breath was uneven and gasping. Was there ever such a woman?
~ ~ ~
Sybilla turned away from him and lowered her head. Inside, she was all a churn. She should have been furious with him for kissing her so, yet she was equally to blame. What was she doing? This was wrong. She must remember Eoin, and she would remember him, if only she could picture his face. She’d been gone from Scrabbly no more than a sennight, and already she could no longer picture the features of the man she was to marry. She looked back up at Gus.
“We’re headed home, lass,” he said in reply.
“Really? You’re taking me back to Scrabbly Castle? Right now?” Why did she feel a flutter of panic in her chest?
“Nay, lass, home, I said. I’m taking you to my home, to a real castle. Wait till you see Caithness. Tis the most stirring spot on God’s earth.”
Chapter 12
Eoin’s eyes narrowed at the news. “What? Sybilla’s father, Lord Huntingdale, rode here last eve?”
Maisie nodded, her eyes skittish like a frightened bird.
“Lord Huntingdale is here, in Scrabbly Castle right now? Surely not? What nonsense you speak!”
“Tis true, Master Eoin.” The servant girl gathered an armful of linens and made for the door.
“Wait on, Maisie. Before I let you run, you must tell me all you know.”
“That’s about the extent of it, m’lord. Lord Huntingdale rode in last eve while you slept. He and his friend, Lord Lucas, are here to see for themselves.”
Eoin’s eyes beaded like a snake about to attack. “See for themselves? Whatever do you mean?” He had a fair idea, but surely he was wrong. How quickly events had escalated. Was there no end to the trouble Sybilla caused?
Maisie scooped up a fallen tunic near the door. “Aye. ‘See for himself.’ Those were Lord Huntingdale’s exact words.”
Eoin felt the blood run from his cheeks.
Worried that he still did not understand, she elaborated. “He’s here to see with his own eyes, if it be true. Have you really, truly, gone and lost his daughter?”
“What insolence! His daughter ran off, pure and simple. Any nimble-headed twit could see that. It is I who deserves compensation—not the other way around.”
Maisie bowed and pulled the door closed behind herself. Eoin turned, spied the smelling salts boxes on his side chest, and with one vicious swoop, sent them flying. He would not go into the feasting hall. That much was for certes. His father was insufferable enough with all his threats and innuendos, but now her father was here, too. Lord Huntingdale’s voice was a powerful one to add to the chorus of blame flooding his way. Nay, he was no longer hungry.
He was about to send for a tray when he heard footsteps pound along the corridor. Pray the search party had returned and was reporting that they’d located the wench. He opened the oaken door and poked his head out.
He almost crashed into his father’s thundering chest.
“Father, this is an honour indeed. I cannot remember the last time you visited me in my chamber. I am not ill.”
“Pah, your body does not ail, but your mind . . . that is a different matter. To be honest, your mind has never been up to much, has it?”
“You’re a delight as always, Father.”
His father’s brow gathered weight. “I am not here to bring you pleasure or to delight you, you, you feeble-brained coot. Get yourself ready. You shall be leaving forthwith. You are to go off with Lord Huntingdale and search for your bride.”
“But, that is preposterous. I have already dispatched a search party to track her down. They have not yet returned. If trained trackers have not found Sybilla, then what on earth do you expect me to accomplish?”
His father grabbed him by the scruff
of the neck. He mumbled close to Eoin’s face, spittle landing on his cheeks. “You really are a pathetic excuse for a man. No wonder young Sybilla ran off. In her shoes, I would have done just the same. What I expect is for you to go and find the young lassie, and do not return to the castle till you have found her. Am I making myself clear?”
Eoin wrestled himself away, ignoring his father’s poisonous words.
Taking a deep breath, the old man thundered, “Do I make myself clear?”
At that moment, Eoin’s hatred for his father reached a new level. “Perfectly. Now if you will excuse me, I must don my riding attire.” With that, he slammed the door in his father’s face.
Eoin vowed he would find Sybilla all right, and when he did, the Sassenach was going to get the tongue-lashing of her life. He could barely wait to drag her to the tower and turn the key.
A while later, he set off with a few of the castle’s best men and with two angry English lords in tow.
In a booming righteous voice, he said, “We will search all of Scotland and leave no stone unturned.” His words were for the benefit of her father, of course. He had no interest in overturning any stones or looking anywhere at all. This charade was proving tiresome.
Lord Huntingdale scoffed and flung his cynical words in Eoin’s face. “Listen to you, you weasel, you snake-in-the-grass. I’m half expecting to find my daughter dead. Dear Sybilla might have passed on for all you’d know. She could be sitting upon a cloudy throne in heaven, looking down on you right now, and plotting her revenge.”
Eoin doubted that. Heaven and Sybilla just didn’t go together.
“And what would my daughter be thinking, I wonder? I dare say something along the lines of, ‘A whole castle of Lowlanders are as much use as tits on a rooster. Why, they couldn’t even keep one snippet of a girl safe.’
“She must be wondering how her dear, old father could have promised her to such a sorry rubble of folk. That’s what she’ll be thinking, and rightly so.”
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