Whispering, his hot whiskey breath assaulting her senses, he said, “And if not, you’d better be good at pretending.”
Her father continued to pull her along the hall until he reached the far end. Then he stopped, released her arm, and rapt on the very last door. Each pound screamed of surly impatience. Finally, the door creaked open. Father kicked the door with his foot till it gaped wide and shoved her inside. She stumbled forward.
“Look who I just found,” he said.
It took a moment for her eyes to grow accustomed to the dimness of the room, but when they did, she did not like what she saw. Eoin was sitting in a chair, his face twisted and steaming. If she considered her father to be vexed, then Eoin was naught short of enraged.
“Where, in all hellfire have you been?” Eoin demanded. “Do you realise that I have hunted for you, high and low till I am fit to drop?”
Father butted in. “She was taken—kidnapped by one of your Scottish lairds. English Lords don’t kidnap young maidens, but it appears that Scottish lairds do. That’s the difference between us, I suppose. The English are honourable. The Scottish are not. There you have it in a nutshell.”
Eoin sat in muted silence, shifting in his chair and clearly uncomfortable. He wore a querulous expression.
As if seeking to salvage the situation, her father’s voice rose again. “We’ll right this wrong. Together, the Border Reivers and the Huntindales will show this Highlander laird our fury. We will burn his retched castle to the ground.”
Sybilla’s chest tightened. She would die rather than bring more suffering to Caithness Castle.
“I take it then, Sybilla,” Eoin said with a sneer, “that you are no longer a maiden? I must marry a maiden.”
Her father rushed to quell that suggestion. “Rest assured, she is one still.”
Sybilla closed her eyes. When she could bear it, she spoke. “Tis true. I am still a maiden.”
Eoin’s face reddened till it was more livid than before. “Rubbish and hog wash. How can you be? Why would he steal you if not to take his pleasure? This makes no sense.”
Sybilla moved away from them both. “I was taken to Caithness Castle to help with the illness that befell . . .”
Eoin’s eyes stretched wide. “You have been living in Caithness Castle all this while?”
“I have. And I am pleased to say . . .”
Eoin reeled backwards. “But that is home to a plague. You carry the plague seeds.” He began waving his arms about as if to scatter chickens. “Get out. Get out of my room, at once, before I alert everyone. You carry the contagion.”
Sybilla turned. “Father, they have no contagion, no plague. They ate the cockspur, and that is why they suffered so. Many of their numbers have died as a result of the poisoning. You came back from France with a name for the illness, remember? St Anthony’s Fire.”
Eoin approached her, fist clenched. “What foolery you speak, girl. I, for one, will not listen. The Highlands are abuzz with talk. Everyone gossips about the evil that has befallen Caithness Castle. No one in their right mind will go anywhere near the place. I certainly will not. Now leave at once.”
He almost pushed her from his door, but her father intervened. “Hold on a moment, Master Eoin. You may not have heard of St. Anthony’s Fire, but I learnt of it in my travels in France. I believe it is an illness caused through poisoning. Furthermore, I believe that the barley or rye grain . . .”
Eoin waved his arms through the air again. “Lord Huntingdale, I do not care what you believe. Know this for certes: the wedding is off. I would never bring a plague-ridden girl to Scrabbly to infect the whole castle, and I most certainly would never wed her. My father would have my head.”
“You sir,” Lord Huntingdale thundered, “are being most unreasonable.”
“Leave at once before I alert all in the good town of Dornoch where your hussy daughter has come from. Go. Go now. If you do not, I will shout this news from the rooftops. All will know your daughter is blighted with plague. No one will let you two sup in their halls or rest your heads upon their linens.”
“Come Father, let’s leave at once. You are Lord Huntingdale. You do not need to listen to his empty-headed comments, or to his vicious tongue.”
She coaxed her father from the room, and the minute their feet hit the hallway, Eoin slammed the door behind them.
Both stood outside Eoin’s room a moment, adjusting to the newness of their situation. Her father’s face was ashen and woeful, but Sybilla could not keep the smile from her lips. Her blood rushed with relief.
“Well, Father, it looks like the wedding is off for certes, and there is nothing either of us can do about it. You saw how adamant Eoin was. I will never be welcome in Scrabbly Castle, and that is just fine by me.”
“Do not sound so pleased with yourself, my girl. Do you not realise, no one will want to wed you now? You are tainted. Your future is bleak indeed. You will remain a spinster until you die alone.”
Sybilla headed for the stairwell. “Oh, Father, you are quite wrong. Very wrong. You see, Laird Caithness himself wishes to wed me, and I’m about to accept his offer. Mayhap we will even marry this eve before we leave Dornoch. I have it in my head to become his wife tonight, so that tomorrow we may journey home—to my real home, Caithness Castle.”
Chapter 23
Holding hands, Sybilla and Gus sprinted towards the house, the one with the yuletide wreath upon the door. Once there, she was about to rap on the wood, but Gus stayed her hand, and instead, he took her into his arms. They clung together.
Sybilla did not need words to know that his embrace spoke of love and of anticipation. As Gus held her tightly against his body, she revelled in the depth of his need for her and in the feel of his muscles, too. The door to the cottage creaked open, and they separated. Their faces flushed.
An elderly woman poked her head out of the door opening. “Are you two here to be wed?”
Gus caught Sybilla’s hand. “Aye, we are.”
“Wait there then. I’ll go fetch the minister. He’s across in the inn, supping his ale. Shan’t be a moment.” The woman slammed her door closed, leaving them on the doorstep. She shuffled towards the town’s alehouse.
Gus smiled down at Sybilla. “I hope that minister isn’t too soused. They serve mighty good ale in the village inn.”
“As long as the minister can stand and say the words, I don’t much care what state he’s in.”
Gus leaned towards her, his mouth finding her lips. The kiss was light at first, his tongue caressing, but then she felt his desire strengthen. She pressed her breasts against his chest and tilted her hips, so she could feel her need, too.
He murmured, “If the minister doesn’t get here soon, we shall become man and wife before the ceremony is done.”
She smiled. “If he won’t wed us this day, no matter. We shall consummate our marriage tonight without ceremony and vows said. We can exchange those later.”
He was leaning in for yet another kiss when they heard the old couple approach.
The minister blustered onto the top step. “Let’s get this done. I have a full mug of ale awaiting me, and you two have your own reasons to make haste, do you not?” He raised his wrinkled brow.
Sybilla led Gus through the door.
It was all over in a short while, and that pleased her. She had no interest in a grand, drawn-out ceremony. Gus was all she wanted.
Afterwards, it was her, again, that led the way, hurrying her beloved towards the inn and their awaiting bed.
Without a word, they climbed the stairs. As soon as their room door was shut, their lips met in a smouldering kiss. Gus held her close, as if by clinging tight, he could make her meld into him.
He whispered, “I will keep you safe and give you all that I can. I promise to love you
always.”
Taking his hand, Sybilla led him to the bed. “Make me yours, Laird Caithness. And do it now, please.”
He unfastened her clothing, one garment at a time, his hands shaking and fumbling with the tiny fasteners. She helped him too, but her own desire made her want to rush and rip the cloth away.
At last they stood in front of each other, totally naked.
“You’re so beautiful and have such creamy skin and such curves . . .”
She claimed his mouth, silencing him. He nuzzled into her neck and covered her face with kisses. Then he let his mouth linger lower to her breasts. As he caressed a nipple, he slid one hand down her body to the thatch betwixt her thighs.
She felt the trace of his fingers, and her nerve endings jumped and tingled. His fingers were on her sex now, and gently he followed and traced her female form. She gasped with the sudden pleasure.
Then his fingers delved deeper, stroking her slick folds. Her breaths grew loud and laboured. He found her bud and worked his magic until she cried out. He kissed her neck, her mouth, her breasts, and all the while, his fingers stroked.
The feelings inside her were building. She tightened her thighs and pressed hard against his hand, encouraging him on. He caressed her core with his thumb, and then he slid his fingers deep inside.
She moaned and rocked against him. They stood together kissing, his fingers unrelenting in their seeking and probing. She could not get enough of his hand, willing him to be firmer and deeper.
The sensations were strong, growing and aching, and making her want to cry out. Twas as if a storm was about to unleash, a storm trapped within her own body. He must have sensed her readiness because he moaned too, probing and circling with his hand, ever harder. His mouth kissed and tugged at her breasts.
She could take no more of it. Her release was like a mammoth wave that hit and burst forth, dousing her body. His fingers eased, letting her enjoy each wave, each tightening shudder.
“Baby, you are perfect,” he said, snatching her up in his arms.
She was slick with moisture, and he was so hard and ready. Yet he held off. Once again, he continued to gently caress.
She eased his shaft towards her opening. “I am not afeared. I want to feel you inside me.”
He kissed her hard, once again gently smoothing his thumb over her bud. She let his fingers work afresh, forgetting that it was time for him to take his pleasure. She touched his readiness, but her own mounting pleasure consumed her thoughts.
All at once, she cried out again, saying his name over and over. When her second release hit, it was as if her whole body shuddered and shook.
He entered her then, and although she felt the sting, the afterglow of release eased his way. He closed his eyes, as if revelling in the responsiveness of her body and the wondrous feel of her womanhood. Soon he, too, was on the edge. She gripped his back and urged him into her, deeper still. He groaned, and then he collapsed in climax.
Lying in his arms, she felt tender, but so very happy. Soon, the dull ache between her legs would ease. The happiness she could give him was what counted.
She was his now, really his. There would be no more living on the Borderlands between England and Scotland, nor would she ever live in the Lowlands again.
She was a Highlander now. She was Sybilla, Lady of Caithness Castle. More importantly, she was Gus’s wife. And she’d never felt more elated about anything.
Hemlock and Honey Page 19
