***
Rory was roused from a deep sleep by misery and lust. The wound on his leg felt as if a blacksmith was pounding on it with a fiery axe, while Sybil’s soft rump pressed against his groin ignited another kind of flame.
Still fighting sleep, he buried his face in her midnight hair. It felt like silk against his cheek and smelled of summer flowers. Instinctively, he reached for heaven, gripping her hip and pulling her against his throbbing cock. Her shrieks jarred him to full wakefulness as she scrambled away, arms and legs flailing.
Oof! Pain sparked across his vision as her heel landed squarely on his wound.
He opened his eyes to find Sybil staring down at him looking both furious and impossibly beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her hair tangled.
“What do ye think you’re doing?” she demanded.
Thinking had nothing to do with it, and what he had been doing was obvious, so he did not bother answering. By the saints, his leg hurt. He found the half-empty flask of whisky and drank deeply to take the edge off the pain. When he set the flask down, Sybil was still glaring at him.
“You’re drinking whisky before breakfast?” she said, asking another question she knew the answer to. “God help me, I’ve run away with a drunkard.”
One drink in the morning, and he was a drunkard. Lord, was she that kind of lass? If she was, he supposed he would not have to spend too much time with her out of bed. As he took another deep swallow, his gaze caught and held on her full, perfect breasts. Her bodice had become so loose in the night that the pink tips were nearly showing.
With a huff, she sat back and drew the blanket around her shoulders. Without the view of her breasts to distract him, Rory finally took note that the sky was light. How had he slept so late? His wound must have taken a greater toll on him than he realized.
“’Tis past dawn,” he said. “We must go.”
They should have been gone already. He gritted his teeth against the blinding pain as he got to his feet, then began packing up.
“There’s blood running down your leg,” Sybil said. “We must see to your wound before we go anywhere.”
“Nay. We’re leaving now.” He picked her up off the blanket so he could roll it up. His leg hurt like hell, and his swollen cock did not help his mood. “If ye have needs to see to, do it quickly.”
“You’re a stubborn man,” she said.
“’Tis a good quality in a man,” he muttered under his breath as he picked up the saddle.
He looked up in time to see her turn in a swirl of skirts and flying locks. He could not help smiling as he paused to appreciate the sight as she stomped off in the direction of the burn. His bride was going to be a trial, but he did like her spirit.
While he waited for her, he kept an eye on the hills surrounding their camp. He did not know how persistent those royal guards were. If they were not reason enough to spur him on his way, his brother was. God only knew what their uncle Hector had persuaded him to do in Rory’s absence. Or done in Brian’s name.
Rory regretted the fight with his brother and leaving angry. Most of all, he regretted leaving Brian alone with Hector.
What in the hell was taking Sybil so long? His patience gone, he headed for the burn.
***
As Sybil walked along the burn looking for a spot that was not slippery with mud, she began to form a plan. Somehow she must persuade the Highlander to take her to one of her sisters. Though her brothers were a bitter disappointment, her sisters would do anything for her, just as she would for them. She felt uneasy about possibly adding to their danger, but all three had powerful husbands. And what else could she do? She had no one else to turn to.
How would she convince the Highlander to take her? She could not risk telling him the truth. He did not strike her as a man who would take learning he had been duped lightly. Nay, the stakes were too high. But once she reached her safe haven, she would reveal the truth to him.
She bit her thumbnail—a bad habit. How would he take it when she finally did tell him? His pride would be hurt. If he were one of the vain peacocks at court, she might be amused at his expense. But her Highlander was nothing like them. He had come for her out of a sense of honor—though why he waited eight years she had yet to find out—and he had risked his life to rescue her. There were not many men like that in the world, at least not in hers.
It did not sit well with her to mislead him, but it was not as if the Highlander truly wished to wed her. Nay, she was an obligation, a duty that must be borne. That should not irritate her, but it did.
Giving up on finding a dry spot to wash, she pushed through the brush and knelt on a patch of moss. She rubbed at a scratch on her face and thought of all the times she had laughed and talked with the maids while soaking in the steaming tub in her bedchamber at Tantallon Castle. Would she ever have that life again?
With a sigh, she leaned over to splash water on her face—and caught her reflection. By the saints, she looked like an ill-used tavern wench! Dirt streaked her face, and her hair was a mass of tangles. When she tried to smooth the dark curls with her fingers, she pulled out bits of leaves from her hair. Leaves.
She looked down at herself and surveyed the rest of the damage—her torn and filthy gown, mud-covered slippers, and blood-streaked sleeves. Her disheveled appearance was a small matter and by far the least of her problems. She knew it was foolish to care, and yet losing control of this one last aspect of her life was just too much. Intent on setting herself aright, she flung her hands into the burn and scrubbed her face in water so cold it made her gasp.
***
Rory quickened his steps. It did not seem possible the lass could have wandered off and gotten lost, but she was a Lowlander. He was relieved when he found her leaning over the burn, washing her face. For a long moment, he forgot his urgency and watched her. She looked as beguiling as a wood nymph kneeling amidst the greenery with her long, dark tresses trailing into the water. He regretted having to disrupt her.
“Sybil,” he said in a low voice so as not to startle her. “Are ye ready, lass?”
“My gown is a disaster.” She looked up at him with wide eyes and touched the mass of unbound, glossy black hair that fell in waves over her shoulders and breasts. “Is my hair as bad?”
She looked so beautiful that he had trouble breathing.
“Ye look…fine,” he managed to say. “And there’s no one to see ye but me.”
The look she gave him confirmed his answer had been a poor one indeed. He was usually better with women than that.
“We must go.” He looked around, his sense of urgency returning with the force of a fist to the chest. “Now, Sybil.”
“First let me tie a new bandage on that leg of yours.” She motioned for him to sit beside her and pulled the dirk he’d given her as if she’d done it a hundred times before. The lass was a quick learner, he would give her that.
“Not now.” He took her arm and pulled her to her feet. “We must put a few more miles between us and the queen’s men.”
“The bandage will take but a few moments,” she said.
Must the lass argue? Ach, she was stubborn. “We’re going now.”
Rory barely got the words out when he heard a twig snap behind him.
CHAPTER 5
Sybil’s throat went dry. The keen alertness radiating from the Highlander signaled that something was dreadfully wrong. When he put his finger to his lips and shifted his gaze to the side, she gave a slight nod to show she understood that someone was hiding in the foliage behind him.
“Ye look so lovely,” the Highlander said in an easy tone, and touched her cheek.
Evidently, he did not wish to alert whoever was creeping toward them that they were aware of his presence. She wiped the fear from her face and made herself keep her gaze on the Highlander’s face instead of darting glances into the brush.
“Ye must have had all the men at court following ye around like puppies,” he said in the same flirtatious tone.
Despite the danger they were in, she was struck by how easily compliments flowed from his tongue when he was under pressure.
“I would have preferred puppies,” she said, forcing a smile, “but the courtiers did make better dancing partners.”
The Highlander laughed. Then, in a startling blur of movement, he spun around and sent his dirk flying through the air. It found its target with a sickening thunk, followed by a man’s cry and the sound of something heavy falling into the brush.
Before she could take in what had just happened, she was grabbed from behind and hauled backward. She lost her footing, but she still had her dirk in her hand, and she flung her arm wildly, trying to stab her attacker.
Just as suddenly as he appeared, her attacker fell backward and released his hold on her. As she fell, she saw the Highlander plunge a dirk into her attacker’s neck. He caught her around the waist before she landed on top of her attacker.
It all happened so quickly. Her scream was still caught in her throat when Rory hauled her against his side and covered her mouth.
“Quiet, lass,” he said in her ear. “There may be others.”
Others? When she nodded, he released his hand from her mouth.
“Curan is saddled,” he whispered. “We’re riding out of here as fast as we can.”
He took her hand and led her through the brush toward their camp. When she caught sight of the second man’s boot poking out beneath a bush, she drew in a sharp breath.
“Don’t look,” Rory said as they crept forward.
She ignored his advice and wished she had listened. The dead man was on his back with the hilt of Rory’s dirk in his chest and his eyes bulging with the surprise of his last moment. When Rory jerked the blade out, Sybil started to weave on her feet before she got hold of herself. This was no time for weakness.
“These men wear the queen’s colors,” she said in a low voice.
The Highlander had killed two of the queen’s men. If anyone learned of it, he would be in grave danger. This was all because of her—and the lie. Though it was not her lie, she had let him believe she was his to protect.
“My guess is that they split up to search for us,” Rory said. “Let’s hope none of the others are nearby.”
At the edge of the brush, he paused to scan the rolling hills and valleys in both directions. He started to step into the open, then halted. He stood perfectly still, his gaze fixed on a point in the distance.
“Shite!” he said under his breath as a rider emerged between the hills.
Sybil’s heart thudded in her chest as one rider quickly became two, then three, then a dozen.
Rory clicked his tongue, and Curan came at a trot. Under the cover of a clump of spindly alder trees, Rory lifted her onto the horse. Leading Curan by the reins, he splashed through the middle of the burn at a run for several yards before crossing to the other side.
As soon as the horse’s hooves were on dry sod again, he leaped onto its back behind her, and they took off at a gallop.
***
Rory cursed himself as he crossed streams, changed directions, and rode as fast as he dared. That had been too close. After he was certain no one was on their trail, he forced himself to slow Curan to a walk to spare the horse.
Less than a day after he collected his bride, she was nearly captured before his eyes. How could he have let that happen? Sybil’s long silence felt like an accusation.
“I should not have let those men get that close to ye,” he said. “I’ll not let it happen again.”
So long as he kept his wits about him and avoided the places her enemies would expect her to go, they should not run into them again. Keeping his wits about him would be considerably easier, however, without her sweet bottom pressed against his groin and her open thighs rubbing against his.
“I’m the one who ought to apologize for bringing ye into such trouble,” Sybil said.
“’Tis not your fault your brother got on the wrong side of the queen and the regent.”
Archibald Douglas and the other men of Sybil’s family should be flayed alive for leaving her to face the danger they created while saving their own skins.
“Ye saved me again today,” she said. “I’ll always be grateful.”
Evidently her brothers’ shameless behavior had given her low expectations of men.
“I expect we’ll reach the Highlands without further trouble,” he said to reassure her. Once in the Highlands, they would have to travel through lands belonging to other clans, which was never safe, but there was no reason to tell her that now.
“Ye believe we’ve truly lost the queen’s men this time?” she asked.
“Aye.”
When she leaned against his chest and dozed off, he was startled to hear himself sigh aloud. The lass did feel good in his arms. So good that a couple of hours later he was in the midst of a heated daydream when she jolted his attention with a question.
“Why did ye come for me after all this time?” she asked.
“The matter needed to be settled,” he said, and that was all the explanation he was giving.
“After waiting more than eight years,” she said, turning in the saddle to face him, “why did it need to be settled now?”
Because he had to know if he still had an obligation to her before he wed the Grant chieftain’s daughter—but only a fool would tell her that. Bringing home his unexpected bride was going to cause difficulties. The clan needed the support of the Grants.
“Why now?” Sybil repeated.
Rory recalled advice he’d been given by Malcolm, the revered old warrior who had served as his grandfather’s captain of the guard. Malcolm said that when it came to women, it generally saved a lot of trouble to apologize right off, whether you’d done anything meriting an apology or not.
“I should have come sooner,” Rory said, and it sounded good.
“Then why didn’t you?”
So much for Malcolm’s wisdom about women. “I had my reasons.”
“Tell me one,” Sybil said.
“Are ye always so persistent?” he asked.
“Aye.”
A wise man knew when to give in, so he told her, “My brother needed me.”
He regretted his harsh words to Brian before he left. And the punch in the face, though his brother had deserved both.
“Your brother needed ye for eight years?” Sybil asked, her voice dripping with skepticism.
“Aye.” Brian still needed him. No matter what his brother thought.
“Truly?” She turned again to look up at him. “Why?”
“Do ye always ask so many questions?”
“I wouldn’t need to,” she said, giving his arm a playful squeeze, “if ye answered the first one fully.”
Ach, the lass had more charm than a sprite and more persistence than a hungry cat.
“Come, tell me.” She rested her palm on his chest and leaned into him. “Please.”
With her touching him like that and fixing those violet eyes on him, Rory had trouble recalling just what she wanted to know and why he did not want to tell her.
“I can see,” he said, “that you’re a spoiled lass who’s accustomed to using her charms to get her way.”
“I am,” she said with a sparkle in her eyes and a smile that could melt a frozen loch.
“You’re dangerous as well,” he said.
“Oh, I do hope so,” she said. “Now tell me all about your brother and the rest of your family. We’ve nothing else to do to pass the time.”
Rory was not about to frighten her off by telling her the full truth about his family, and he could think of far better ways they could pass the time.
***
Odd, the effect this Highland warrior had on her. Sybil thought she would never recover from the horror of the attack this morning, and yet she felt so safe riding with his arms about her that she had fallen asleep.
And teasing him made her feel like her old self for the first time in weeks
. She had lost her usual cheerful nature when her family’s fortunes fell and all her friends deserted her. It felt good to smile again.
She was still grinning over his remark about her being dangerous when he lifted her onto his good leg and dropped the reins. There was a devilish glint of amusement in his eyes.
“I’ve been wanting to kiss ye since the first moment I saw ye,” he said. “I’m going to do it now.”
Sybil could not breathe, let alone form the words to object. When she moistened her lips with her tongue, she felt his heartbeat leap beneath her palm. Her gaze fixed on his mouth as he drew her to him ever so slowly.
She had expected a sweet, teasing kiss, not this explosion of passion that seared through her body at the first touch of their lips. No one had ever kissed her like this before, as if he would die if he could not have his mouth on hers. With a will of their own, her arms wound around his neck and her fingers tangled in his long, thick hair as she pulled him closer.
She was lost in the sensations and long past thought. As his kisses slowly changed from feverish to tender, she felt as if she were floating. She wanted this to go on forever.
When Rory pulled away, she stared up at him, stunned.
“That was promising,” he said with a wide grin.
How could he jest after kisses like that? Apparently they had not affected him as they had her.
“I didn’t say ye could kiss me,” she said, trying hard to gather herself.
“Ye didn’t tell me nay, either,” Rory said. “And ye seemed to like it.”
She did not bother arguing because they both knew she had.
“I’m looking forward to more of that.” He ran his thumb over her swollen lips. “But if I’m to get ye out of the queen’s reach, we must keep traveling. You’ll be safe once we reach MacKenzie lands.”
More of that? Heaven help her! Much as she found the notion tempting, she could not let it happen again. She had enjoyed his kisses far too much. A few of those, and a lass could forget all good sense.
CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) Page 4
