Despite the fact that his wound must sting like the very devil, especially after pouring whisky on it, he stared at Sybil’s calf as if he’d never seen a woman’s stockinged leg before. This Highlander was far too handsome for her to believe he had not seen a good deal more of a good many women. She shook her head. Men.
“Give me your knife,” she said, and held her hand out for it.
“Ye don’t carry a dirk?”
“Why would I need one?” she said as she took the blade from him.
“To defend yourself, of course,” he said. “Every lass should carry one.”
“I’ve managed to live one and twenty years without one.” She held the wicked-looking blade up and thought of the times she had been cornered by men like James Finnart. “But I will admit that a blade like this could have been useful.”
“Keep that one,” he said. “I have others.”
When she met his gaze, the burst of heat that flashed between them drove the damp chill from her bones. Mercy, what was that about? She pressed her lips together and concentrated on cutting a strip of cloth for a bandage. The blade was so sharp that it sliced through her linen shift as if it were thin parchment. When the Highlander took the strip from her, their hands touched, sending another unexpected jolt of awareness through her.
By the time she recovered her senses, he was preparing to bandage his leg himself. He was already pale and sweating from the ordeal of removing the arrow. Could the man not admit he needed help?
“You’ve already proven you can do this on a galloping horse,” she said. “Why don’t you let me do it this time?”
“Aye, that would be better, for certain,” he said, and leaned back on his elbow.
His ready agreement surprised her until she noticed the smile curving his lips and the devilish gleam in his eyes. Her sensible half regretted her offer, but her other half—the one that liked to play with fire—smiled back at him. Her poor mother had despaired of taming her wild side.
As she reached around his bare, muscular thigh with the strip of cloth, she was keenly aware that without his bloodied trews there was nothing but Highlander beneath his knee-length tunic. Goodness, other men’s legs were like scrawny chicken legs compared to his. If she was tempted to touch more of his thigh than strictly necessary, it was not entirely her fault. It was becoming difficult to see in the growing darkness.
As she worked the cloth around his leg, she felt more than saw the unnaturally smooth skin of a long, jagged scar that ran up the side of his thigh from his knee up to his—well, she did not know how far. Curiosity was another aspect of her nature that her mother had urged her to control with little success.
“How did ye get this?” she asked, touching the scar with her fingertip.
“Ach, ’tis nothing.”
“Nothing?” She raised an eyebrow.
“I was injured at Flodden.”
Mention of Flodden always reminded her of her father, who was killed in the disastrous battle. Her eyes stung, and she was grateful it had grown too dark for the Highlander to see her clearly. She still missed her father.
If he had lived, everything would be different. Archie would not have taken their grandfather’s place as earl and the queen’s advisor. He would not have had the opportunity to seduce the queen and cause all the trouble that followed. Sybil would be safe at home with her family at Tantallon Castle, rather than sitting outdoors in the middle of nowhere at twilight with a strange Highlander.
“The English threatened to cut off my leg to save my life,” the Highlander said, interrupting her thoughts.
“I’m surprised they didn’t,” she said. “Does the old injury still pain ye?”
“Nay.” He shrugged. “Not much, anyway.”
“I believe that’s a lie,” she said.
He gave a low chuckle that caused an odd flutter in her stomach.
“Ye must allow for a man’s pride,” he said. “But I will admit that the arrow didn’t improve my leg any.”
He kept his gaze fixed on her as he brought the flask to his mouth and took a long drink. Despite his wound, there was no mistaking the lust in his eyes, which brought her thoughts to the night ahead with a jolt.
When he grasped her arm and leaned close, Sybil’s heart went to her throat.
“I didn’t mean to make ye uneasy,” he said, holding her gaze. “You’re mine to protect. Ye needn’t fear me, ever.”
His pledge, spoken with that intense stare, was reassuring but not exactly calming.
“Thank you,” she managed to say. “But I’m not afraid of you.”
That was a slight exaggeration, though she did believe she was probably safe so long as this fierce Highlander believed he was honor-bound to protect her. But heaven help her if he learned her brothers had played him for a fool and he had risked his life for a woman who was not his betrothed.
“A burn is just over there through the brush if ye want to wash.” He struggled to his feet and held out his hand.
With that wound, she should be helping him up, but he was surprisingly steady on his feet. The man was made of iron. What she really needed was a privy. She left him to find some privacy behind the bushes.
“Don’t go far,” he called after her. “I’ll wait for ye at the burn.”
She felt on edge with him out of her sight and quickly joined him at the burn. They knelt side by side to wash the blood and dirt off their hands, arms, and faces. It felt so odd to share the commonplace but intimate activity of washing with a man. She stole glances at him as he splashed water on his face and neck and watched the water stream down his muscled forearms in the last rays of sunset. When he caught her staring, she quickly finished her own washing, and they returned to the blanket.
“We’ll have to make do with dried venison and oatcakes tonight,” he said, as he opened a cloth bag that he had untied from the saddle earlier. “I’ll hunt tomorrow.”
He sounded as if he were apologizing for not being able to hunt with his injury. For heaven’s sake. She could not recall ever feeling an urge to soothe a man’s pride before, but the urge struck her now.
“Ye showed great foresight in bringing food along,” she said with a bright smile.
He gave her a puzzled look. “It would be foolish to travel without any.”
As soon as he unwrapped the oatcakes and dried meat, Sybil realized she was famished. She picked up one of the oatcakes and took a tentative bite. It was dry as dust, but she was too hungry to care.
“I’m surprised we saw no villages where we could stay the night.” She still clung to the hope that she could persuade him to take her to one tonight. She was nothing if not persevering.
“I avoided the villages. We can’t risk your being seen while the guards are looking for ye.” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’re the sort of lass who would be remembered.”
“But how will your men know to find us here?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder into the increasing darkness. “Will they join us soon?”
“I told ye that I came alone.”
Sybil inhaled dry oatcake and coughed. “I thought ye meant ye came alone to the castle but left your men waiting somewhere for ye.”
He shook his head.
“Ye came all this way with no armed guard?”
He shrugged, so apparently he had.
“You’re telling me ye actually planned to take your bride on such a long journey and through the wilds of the Highlands without a large guard to protect her?” For a moment, Sybil almost forgot that she was not the affronted bride. But this Highlander believed she was his bride, so it was an insult to her. “Why, such a journey could take days—or weeks—through dangerous lands.”
The Highlander was quiet, and she sensed that, whatever his reason for coming alone, he did not wish to share it. She folded her arms and waited for an explanation.
“I was not certain I’d be returning with a bride,” he finally said. “I thought your brother may have wed ye to someone else by now, despite our agree
ment.”
“I see ye don’t think much of my brother’s sense of honor,” she said.
He shrugged again, which was answer enough. Well, at least her rescuer was not a fool.
***
The lass had a spark in her. Though she may be a poor choice for his wife in other ways, Rory felt quite certain they would suit under the blankets. He could almost forget the searing pain in his leg as his gaze followed Sybil’s ivory skin down to where her loosened bodice revealed the top of her breasts.
Even more than her physical beauty, that spark must draw men like moths to a flame.
“I’m starving,” she said, and tore off a bite of the dried venison with her teeth.
Though he was hungry too, he could hardly swallow a bite while watching Sybil’s red lips as she ate and talked through their meager meal.
“This venison is tasty,” she said, ripping another piece off, then she peered into the bag. “Apples for dessert!”
For a lass accustomed to fine meals, she did not appear to be a finicky eater. She devoured an apple with an enthusiasm that had him imagining her other appetites. When she licked her fingers, a groan escaped his lips.
“Hmm?” She raised her eyebrows and looked up at him, then her cheerful expression faded. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, though he knew damned well what she meant.
“Like ye think I’d be willing to have my wedding night lying in the dirt,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “If ye believe that, you’re quite mistaken.”
“So we’re only debating where, and not whether, to have a wedding night?” he asked.
“Ye told me that if I rode off with ye I could decide later if I wished to break the marriage contract,” she said. “I’m holding ye to that.”
“What I told ye was that we could decide to abandon the contract. If we don’t agree, either one of us could demand that it be fulfilled.” He let the word fulfilled roll slowly off his tongue.
“I suggest ye don’t try something you’re sure to regret,” she said. “I do have a dirk now.”
“You’d use my own dirk on me?” Rory could not help laughing. “Ach, you’re a heartless woman.”
“I’ll not decide whether we’re going to fulfill the marriage contract until I know ye better,” she said, wagging her finger in his face. “Far better.”
“As it happens, becoming better acquainted is exactly what I had in mind.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He should not tease her, but she made it so damned easy.
“When I do marry,” she said, “I’ll have a proper celebration with a grand wedding feast, a gorgeous gown, and a hall full of people to witness the vows.”
Rory did not laugh this time. As the daughter of a great family, she had been raised to expect such a wedding. And she should have it.
His own clan had expectations regarding his wedding as well. As he was both the son and brother of MacKenzie chieftains, Rory’s marriage would call for a large clan gathering.
In fact, he suspected that plans for his wedding celebration had already begun—albeit for a different bride. There was going to be hell to pay when he arrived at Eilean Donan Castle with his Lowlander bride.
CHAPTER 3
Hector MacKenzie of Gairloch stood on the outer sea wall of Eilean Donan Castle, where he had a commanding view for miles in every direction. The castle was built on the strategic point where three lochs met: Loch Duich, Loch Alsh, and Loch Long. By controlling the waterways in the rugged land of Kintail, the MacKenzies controlled the valleys, mountains, and even the sky above. And what the MacKenzies controlled, he controlled. He was chieftain in all but name of the great Clan MacKenzie.
He watched the progress of the riders approaching the castle along Loch Duich. As they drew closer, he recognized the lead rider by his enormous size. Big Duncan of the Axe, as he was known, had served at Hector’s side since their youth. He was the man Hector entrusted with tasks that required fearlessness, strength, and a lack of scruples.
He had watched for Big Duncan’s return every day for a fortnight. What had taken him so long to find Hector’s goddamned nephew?
His throat tightened, choking him with rage at the thought of Rory. For the ten years since his brother’s death—which had not come soon enough—Hector had ruled the clan in his nephew Brian’s name. He was not about to let Rory ruin that.
Each time he recalled his last conversations with Brian, he grew more furious. But Rory says… My brother disagrees with ye on that… Rory advised me…
On his own, Brian was easy to manage. Hector wondered how his brother had spawned such a trusting soul. It was as if a wolf had sired a kitten.
Rory had the wolf in him. Though he could also be a charmer, a trait he inherited from his mother, he had been fearless from birth. Other lads panicked in their first battle, but not Rory. And from the time his nephews were bairns, Rory had appointed himself Brian’s protector.
Whenever Rory looked at him, Hector saw the wolf that lurked behind his eyes, ready to pounce and tear him to shreds. Well, he would pounce first.
It had always been a mystery to him why Rory, who was clearly the stronger brother, supported Brian, rather than attempt to push him aside. He could only surmise that Rory’s devotion to his half-brother was a devious act. If Rory thought he could take Hector’s place and rule the clan through his weaker sibling, he was mistaken.
The men of the clan, including Brian, were accustomed to following Hector. He had made sure of it. During Brian’s minority, Hector had kept him under his thumb instead of training him to lead. But if Brian had the will now, he could assert his power as chieftain. Thanks to Rory, he was becoming increasingly difficult to control.
There was an obvious solution. Hector nodded to himself as a sense of certainty settled over him. The challenge would be to make certain the blame was not laid at his door.
But one way or another, Rory must die.
As the riders crossed the bridge to the castle, Hector went inside and waited for Big Duncan in the laird’s chamber, which was the largest in the castle and furnished with Flemish tapestries and heavy carved furniture. He had taken the chamber for his own use after his brother died and he was named Brian’s tutor. He had not given it up when Brian came of age. And why should he? He was still the man who ruled Clan MacKenzie, and everyone knew it.
Finally, the guard who stood outside the door opened it to admit Big Duncan, who looked as if he had ridden long and hard to reach the castle. The man was as ugly as he was large, and he had particular needs that Hector supplied to ensure his continued loyalty.
“What news of Rory?” Hector asked as soon as the door was closed.
“I split up the Gairloch men I took with me, and we searched everywhere,” Big Duncan said. “We couldn’t find him.”
“Couldn’t find him?” Hector drained his cup and threw it against the wall. “God damn that Rory.”
“No one has seen him in weeks,” Duncan said. “Not since that argument he had with Brian. Perhaps he’s gone for good.”
Rory had gone before, but he always returned like a bad-luck charm. He would come back to protect his brother. And when he did, Hector would be ready for him.
CHAPTER 4
“We should sleep,” the Highlander said, and stretched out on the blanket beside her.
Sybil felt uneasy with him lying prone so close to her. Though he had made no advances toward her yet, he certainly had looked at her as if he’d like to. Even if she was wrong about that—which she wasn’t—lying next to a man was bound to put ideas into his head. She had learned that at fourteen when she lay on her back watching the clouds with the blacksmith’s son.
“I’m in a verra weakened state with my injured leg,” the Highlander said, “so don’t try seducing me.”
She could not help smiling. She appreciated that he had read her fears and tried to calm them with a jest. All the same, she intended to wait to lie down until he was sound a
sleep. She clutched her knees to her chest and tucked her chin into her cloak. With nightfall, the air had grown icy cold.
“Can we not have a fire?” she whispered.
“’Tis not safe,” the Highlander said. “Tomorrow we should be far enough away to risk a fire, but not now.”
“I thought we lost the queen’s men. Do ye think they’re still following us?” she asked, peering into the black night.
“I can’t say for certain that they’re not,” he said, his voice fading. “Go to sleep, Sybil. We must rise early, and we’ve a long journey ahead of us.”
Their journey together would end tomorrow. Oddly, she was growing rather fond of her Highlander. Though she was safe with him for tonight, she could not continue the pretense of being his contracted bride much longer. She needed a more lasting solution to her problem.
Before long, the Highlander’s steady breathing told her he had fallen asleep. She took down her hair, loosened the laces of her bodice, and gingerly lay down at the very edge of the blanket with her back to him.
Heavens, she would never sleep like this. Though she left as much space as possible between them, they were nearly touching. She could hear him breathe and feel the heat of his body.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the dark night clouds racing across the sky. What was she going to do? The tides of royal politics were bound to turn eventually. Until then, she needed a sanctuary, a place where she could wait out the queen’s wrath. Where could she go?
Small animals rustled through the grass, the wind blew overhead, and a lonely owl hooted in the distance. The unfamiliar sounds of the night made her suddenly feel very much alone. She had been uprooted, taken from everyone and everything she knew. She prepared herself for a long, sleepless night.
“Sybil.” The Highlander spoke her name in a low voice, heavy with sleep, and it gave her that odd, fluttery sensation in her stomach again.
“Aye?”
“Ye mustn’t worry that I brought no other men with me,” he said. “I promise I will keep ye safe.”
She knew better than to trust a man who promised that. Had her brothers not made the same pledge? And yet a deep calm settled over her as she listened to the Highlander’s steady breathing, and she drifted off to sleep.
CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) Page 3
