CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) Page 8

  Was there no escape for her?

  She slid down to the cold stone floor and sat with her back against the door. Even if she somehow managed to get out of this chamber, through the castle and out the gate with no one seeing, what good would it do her? She would die of cold and starvation wandering the hills alone, if bandits did not murder her first.

  She did not, however, like her chances of surviving the queen’s wrath much better.

  The only sensible choice left to her was to submit to James Finnart. She brushed a tear from her cheek, annoyed at herself for giving in to self-pity. She certainly would not be the first woman to exchange her body for protection. Women were forced to make that choice all the time. What had ever made her think she could escape that fate?

  Sybil’s hand went to the black onyx pendant at her throat. Her mother had given each of her daughters a similar pendant, cut from a large stone that she believed held magical protective power. Sybil ran her thumb over the smooth, glossy surface. She did not believe it was magical—she was, after all, captive in a locked room—but it gave her some comfort.

  As she held it and squeezed her eyes shut, Rory’s face filled her mind’s eye. Her reasons for not going with him had been good ones, but she wished with all her heart that she was with him now.

  Wishing never did a lass any good. She sniffed and brushed a tear away. She must find her own way out of this trouble. She was strong. She could survive being Finnart’s mistress. It would not be as bad as marriage because she could leave him when the political winds changed.

  Though she knew she had no other choice but to accept Finnart’s offer, she could not persuade herself to agree to it. Not yet.

  Soon, perhaps. But not yet.

  CHAPTER 10

  Rory galloped through the storm with rain streaming into his eyes and a growing sense of urgency gnawing at his gut. Lightning cracked, briefly lighting the rain-drenched road before plunging him into darkness again. He would feel like a damned fool returning to Drumlanrig Castle. Yet he could not shake the feeling that Sybil was in danger and needed him.

  For two days he ignored that feeling and rode away from her and Drumlanrig. He told himself that Sybil had made her choice, and it was better for both of them. But the unease that crept up his spine would not listen to reason, and he finally gave in and turned around.

  How had she gotten under his skin in such a short time and when he’d done no more than kiss her? She had deceived and made a fool of him, and yet he would have taken her with him in a heartbeat.

  And now he was going back for her.

  It was deep in the night when Rory finally reached the castle. He dismounted and patted Curan’s shoulder, which was slick with rain and sweat. Curan had a big heart. Another horse could not have done that ride for him.

  He walked to the gate and hoped the guards would remember him.

  “Surprised to see you back here,” one of the two sleepy guards greeted him.

  “My horse fell lame.” Rory gave the only pretext he could think of to explain his return and get inside. If it failed to work, he would have to silence the men quickly. “Your man Thomas has a gift for healing horses, or so he told me.”

  “That he does,” the other guard said. “But you’ve been gone two or three days. Why would ye ride all the way back here on a lame horse?”

  “He stepped in a hole not two miles north of here. I made camp and stayed put, hoping rest alone would heal it, but he still favors that leg.” Rory stroked Curan’s neck. “He’s a horse in a thousand. I don’t want to lose him.”

  The guard grunted and eyed both Rory and the horse. “The laird has an important guest and won’t like being disturbed.”

  “No need to trouble him,” Rory said. “I’ll just go see Thomas in the stable.”

  The other guard jerked his head to the side. “Go ahead, then.”

  Relieved he would not have to kill them, Rory returned the blade he held up his sleeve to the sheath on his belt. When he reached the stable, he woke Thomas and explained as best he could why he’d returned. He did not really understand it himself.

  “’Tis pleased I am to see ye,” Thomas said. “Ye have cause to fear for the lass.”

  “What’s happened to her?” Rory said, gripping the front of the old man’s shirt.

  “Perhaps nothing, but the laird let those damn Hamiltons into the castle.” Thomas spit on the ground. “I haven’t seen Lady Sybil since they arrived. That Finnart has always had his eye on her.”

  “Finnart is here?” Blood pounded in Rory’s head. “I’m fetching her now.”

  “’Tis better if ye don’t show your face inside the keep,” Thomas said, holding Rory’s arm. “I’ll find Lady Sybil and bring her here.”

  Rory paced between the stalls while he waited for Thomas to return with Sybil. He was making the horses nervous, so he made himself stop. Finally, he heard hurried footsteps approaching and the rustle of a gown. He rushed across the dark stable, ready to gather her in his arms. When he saw the woman’s silhouette in the doorway, he came to an abrupt halt, and his spirits fell. This woman was not Sybil.

  “Praise God you’ve come back.” Lady Margaret was distraught, and she gripped his hands. “Ye must take Sybil away from here before my husband does something dreadful.”

  ***

  A flash of lightning lit the room, followed by a roll of thunder that shook the floor beneath Sybil’s feet. The violent storm brewing outside echoed the turmoil inside her. As she listened to the rising wind and watched the lone candle flicker, she wondered how many hours she had until dawn, when Finnart would take her away. She guessed it was well past midnight, but the passage of time was difficult to gauge when one had nothing to do but wait.

  She fought sleep, not because she expected to conjure up a means of escape, but because she knew there was none. She refused to lose her last hours of freedom to sleep.

  When the latch rattled, Sybil’s heart froze in her chest. But the night was still black. The guards would not come for her until dawn, and they would never be so quiet. Her sister must have slipped away from her husband’s bed and come to comfort her. Sybil scrambled to her feet and put her ear to the door.

  “Margaret?” she whispered.

  Relief washed through her at the answering click, click, click of the key turning in the lock. Praise God, Margaret had the key!

  Sybil stepped back as the door swung open. “Mar—”

  Her sister’s name died on her lips as James Finnart filled the doorway.

  “I’ve waited far too long to wait another night for you,” he said, and pulled her against his hard chest. “Sybil Douglas, you belong to me now.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Sybil managed to grab the candlestick from the table as Finnart backed her against the wall. When she raised her arm to strike him, he lurched backward and crashed to the floor. She stood still, holding her candlestick over her head as she stared down at Finnart’s body sprawled at her feet.

  Slowly she looked up from his inert form and blinked at what surely was an apparition.

  “Sybil.” Rory stepped over Finnart’s body and swept her into his arms.

  “It’s really you.” She sagged against him and buried her face in his chest. Praise God! After so many others had deserted her with far less cause, she could hardly believe it.

  Her Highlander had come back for her.

  “We haven’t much time, mo chròi.” Rory turned to Margaret, who had hurried into the room behind him and closed the door. “Sybil will need a set of warmer clothes. We’ll be traveling through the mountains.”

  “But how did—” Sybil began.

  “We’ll talk later.” Rory held her face between his hands, and the intensity in his eyes silenced her. “Every moment ye remain in this castle, you’re in danger.”

  “I keep some old winter clothes in here,” Margaret said from across the room, where she knelt before an open chest. She gathered a bundle of clothes, tied them together, and gave them
to Sybil. “Ye must go quickly.”

  “I hate leaving ye here.” Sybil embraced her sister. “I’ll worry about ye.”

  “You’ll worry about me?” Margaret said. “You’re the one traveling through the wilds to God knows where.”

  “Come with us.” Sybil turned to Rory. “We can take her, can’t we?”

  When Rory nodded without hesitating, Sybil wanted to smother him in kisses.

  “We’d have to steal a second horse,” he said, as if that was a small matter.

  “I beg ye, come with us,” Sybil said, gripping her sister’s hands.

  “My place is with my husband. Besides,” Margaret said, placing her palm on her abdomen, “I can’t travel with a babe coming.”

  Sybil could not argue with that. Margaret had difficulty carrying a babe without riding for days, or perhaps weeks, through rough terrain.

  “What about James?” Sybil nudged Finnart’s boot with her toe. “He’s not dead, is he?”

  “Lucky for him, his death would cause us far too much trouble,” Rory said, sounding as if he regretted it. He turned to Margaret. “Once your husband and Finnart learn I was here tonight, they’re sure to guess that Sybil left with me. Tell them I’m a MacDonald from the Isle of Islay. That will send them a long way in the wrong direction if they attempt to follow us.”

  “God go with you and keep you safe.” Margaret glanced over her shoulder at the door. “You’d best hurry.”

  “I don’t know when we’ll see each other again.” Sybil flung her arms around her sister. They were both weeping. “I’ll send word when I can.”

  “It will make my heart glad to know you’re far away from all this with your Highlander,” Margaret whispered in her ear. “I don’t want ye to have a life like mine.”

  ***

  As they crept along the wall toward the outer door of the keep, Rory kept a close watch on the sleeping figures of warriors lying on benches or wrapped in cloaks on the floor of the hall. He did not like the odds here.

  When he eased the door open, the wind whistled through the gap and the torches in the wall sconces flickered. Rory tensed, waiting for someone to sound the alarm. They slipped out quickly. After the door closed behind them, Rory drew in a deep breath, grateful for the cold rain and wind on his face.

  Holding hands, he and Sybil hurried through the dark courtyard to the stable.

  “Praise God ye found her,” Thomas greeted them. “You’re a good man, Highlander.”

  Rory was pleased that Thomas had wrapped a foul-smelling poultice around Curan’s right front leg, which would lend credence to Rory’s story to the guards.

  “God bless you,” Sybil said, and kissed Thomas on the cheek. “It’s a comfort to me to know there is one loyal Douglas at Drumlanrig Castle to keep watch over my sister.”

  “I will,” Thomas said. “Take good care of our princess, Highlander.”

  “How do ye plan to get me past the gate?” Sybil asked Rory. “The guards know me.”

  “I’m going to roll ye up in the blanket behind my saddle.”

  “What?”

  “’Tis dark and blowing so hard the rain is coming down sideways,” Rory said. “The guards won’t leave the shelter of the gatehouse to take a closer look so long as they see what they expect to see—a lone man and a horse with an injured leg.”

  “What if they do take a closer look?”

  “They won’t,” Rory assured her. He exchanged a glance with Thomas and touched the dirk at his belt. One way or another, he would get Sybil past the gate.

  ***

  The voices of the guards were muffled by the blanket, and Sybil could see nothing at all. She held her breath to keep from sneezing from the strong smell of horse in her face.

  Curan came to a halt, and she heard the rumble of Rory’s voice but could not distinguish the words through the blanket. She thought she heard the gate creak, then the horse began to walk again, rocking her head against his side like a sack of oats. With her heart in her throat, she listened hard for the hue and cry that would erupt if her empty chamber was discovered, but she heard nothing but the wind.

  Being trussed and hung over a horse’s back like a goat was uncomfortable. The blood went to her head and feet, the pressure on her stomach was painful, and the motion made her nauseated. Finally, the rocking stopped.

  “Let me get ye out of there,” Rory said.

  After the long silence, the sound of his voice was reassuring. Still blinded by the blanket, Sybil felt herself lifted up and then gently laid on the ground.

  “Time to unwrap the princess.” Rory slowly unrolled her from the blanket until she tumbled out and lay at his feet. He smiled down at her. “I’m going to remember this.”

  She forgave him for being amused at her expense because he had saved her. Again. She could forgive him almost anything now. His amusement was brief. Dawn had broken, gray and damp, and he peered through the mist as he picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “We need to keep moving,” he said. “Ye can sleep as we ride.”

  Exhausted after the long night and her ordeal, she dozed on and off while they rode for what seemed like hours. Rory stopped twice to let her stretch her legs and to rest the horse, but he did not rest himself. They ate the bread and cheese Thomas had packed for them while they rode. As the day wore on, the wind grew sharp and the landscape forbidding.

  Sybil stared at the empty hills and valleys as they rode mile after mile. All her thoughts until now had been on escape, not their destination. Now she was keenly aware that she was headed into the unknown—with a man she had met only a few days before and still knew very little about. The farther they traveled from everything and everyone she knew, the more she realized that she was dependent upon Rory MacKenzie for her very survival.

  For the first time, it occurred to her that she might actually end up married to him.

  How had this happened? For years, she had successfully thwarted her brother’s efforts to marry her off—and she had planned to continue thwarting him for a long time to come. Quite to her surprise, she did not find the idea of Rory as a husband wholly objectionable. He was forthright and steadfast, uncommon qualities among the men she knew. She enjoyed his company and felt closer to him than the court friends she had known for years.

  And then there were those kisses. They had led to wicked thoughts of what it would be like to share a bed with her handsome Highlander.

  In truth, if she ever did want a husband—which she most definitely did not—Rory would be a better choice than most.

  The prospect of living the rest of her life in the wilderness amidst his wild heathen clansmen, however, sent chills up her spine. From what she’d heard, even highborn Highlanders lived in hovels with nothing to eat all winter but soggy oatcakes.

  She imagined herself trapped in a life that was so foreign to her forever. Nay, that could not be her fate. She had to believe that one day it would be safe for her to return to her home and her own life. Until that day came, she would have to survive whatever came.

  God help her.

  ***

  Rory stared bleary-eyed into the small campfire he’d built after they ate the trout he had caught and cooked for their supper. He was tired as hell, and his injured leg throbbed. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes to savor the burn of the whisky down his throat. After riding through the night to retrieve Sybil from Drumlanrig and then riding hard all day, he hoped the drink would revive him for the talk he needed to have with her.

  “I wouldn’t mind a drink of that, if you’re willing to share,” Sybil said.

  He poured her a cup from his flask. After taking a surprisingly long pull, she coughed and choked until her eyes watered. Rory started to reach for the cup, but she pulled it away and gulped down another long drink. This time she barely coughed at all.

  He leaned back on his elbow and watched his bride as she made a determined effort to get roaring drunk. Knowing that the prospect of being
bound to him for life was what drove her to drink did not sit well with him, but at least he need not worry about his wife criticizing him for taking a nip now and again.

  “So tell me,” she said, weaving a bit, “why did ye come back for me?”

  “I was wrong to leave ye there in the first place,” Rory said. “I should have known that a man who treats his wife the way William Douglas of Drumlanrig does would have no qualms about putting a kinswoman in harm’s way.”

  “That doesn’t answer it,” she said. “Why are ye still willing to claim me after I…after I…”

  “After ye made up your mind to set aside our marriage contract and part ways with me?”

  She dropped her gaze. “I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

  “I understand it’s hard for ye to leave all ye know for an uncertain future with a stranger.” This bit of wisdom had been slow to come to him. He patted his chest, where their marriage contract was tucked under his tunic for safekeeping. “I didn’t destroy the contract, so we’re still bound.”

  “I expect my dowry has been forfeited to the crown, along with my family’s other properties,” she said. “On that ground alone, ye could abandon any obligation ye may have to me.”

  “What kind of man would I be if I abandoned my bride when she most needed my protection?” Rory brushed his knuckle against her cheek. “Ye must trust that I’d never do that.”

  “Then I fear your Highland pride has gained you a useless bride,” Sybil said, lifting her cup to him. After tossing back the contents, she held it out for more.

  “I wouldn’t say useless,” he said, fighting a smile as he poured her a tiny measure. “Ye told me yourself you’ve planned twelve-course feasts for three hundred guests.”

  “Aye, I know who to sit next to whom,” she said, slurring her words a bit, “because I also know who pretends to have power and who really does, and who is sleeping with whose wife.”

  “And ye can read and write,” Rory pointed out. “That’s impressive.”

  “Ahhh, those are necessary for sending and receiving secret missives,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. She leaned against him, her soft warmth sending a shot of desire through him, and spoke in a loud whisper. “I was taught all the languages spoken at court and to listen for the hidden meanings and unspoken motives behind the words.”