CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) (14 page)

“Tell me more about your family,” she said quickly, and wrapped her arms around her knees. “Ye seem reluctant to speak of them, but I’ll have enough to learn about living in the Highlands without ye keeping me in the dark about your family.”

Rory heaved a sigh and turned to stare at the rain that was already forming puddles. “What do ye wish to know?”

“Let’s begin with this brother ye fret about,” she said.

“Warriors do not fret.”

Sybil snorted. “Then tell me about this brother ye don’t fret about.”

“Brian is my half-brother, older by six months,” he said. “He is the MacKenzie, the chieftain of our clan.”

Older by six months. Now that was interesting, but a bit delicate to ask about just yet. “What about the rest of your family?”

“I have a younger brother and sister.”

“And yet ye fret about the brother who is chieftain, not the younger ones?” That struck her as odd.

“My younger brother is a priest,” he said, “and my sister is a good and quiet lass who stays at home and out of trouble.”

Those two sounded dull as dirt. “Tell me more about Brian.”

“His mother was a MacDonald, the daughter of the Lord of the Isles,” he said. “Her marriage to my father was intended to end the strife between two great clans who were longtime enemies.”

“A political alliance, then,” Sybil said. “That’s the basis for most marriages among the Lowland nobility.”

“In the Highlands marriages between warring clans are common, despite the fact that they often have the opposite effect intended,” he said. “Here, enmities run deep and can last for generations—long past anyone’s memory of how they began.”

“Did your father’s marriage to his enemy’s daughter succeed where others failed?”

“Ach, no,” Rory said. “They despised each other from the start.”

“Apparently they put aside their differences long enough to conceive an heir.”

“Aye, they did their duty, but the marriage didn’t last long,” Rory said. “Soon after Brian was conceived, my father saw my mother, and that was that.”

“That was that?” Sybil raised her eyebrows.

“He set his MacDonald wife aside,” Rory said, “and sent her home to her father.”

“S
et her aside?
He petitioned the church for a divorce?”

“Highland marriage customs are more accommodating than the church’s, especially for chieftains,” Rory said. “Rome is a verra long way away, and many a chief has set aside one wife to take another—or kept them both—and later asked for dispensation from the church.”

Two wives at once?
Sybil’s mouth gaped open. These Highlanders truly were heathens.

“The Lord of the Isles, this lass’s father, ignored a direct edict from the pope himself demanding that he quit cohabitating with his second wife and take back the church wife he had set aside.”

“Why would he risk excommunication and everlasting hell?” While a Lowland noble might bribe a bishop to gain support for a petition, fear of the church’s power led most men to respect its authority.

“The Highlands is a violent place, and a chieftain needs heirs—the more the better—and alliances that benefit his clan,” he said.
“
’Tis common for chieftains to change wives when alliances shift or a wife cannot give him heirs.”

After the depravity Sybil had seen at court, she should not be shocked. Was this not just powerful men taking mistresses and calling them wives?

“Sometimes chieftains change wives for no reason but to please themselves, as my father did,” Rory said with a shrug. “Chieftains hold all authority in their clan and can do what they will.”

“Then ’tis fortunate you’re not a chieftain,” Sybil said.

“Why is that?”

“Because if I did marry you—and I’m not saying I will—I’d murder ye for such behavior.”

***

Rory smiled at her threat to murder him, for he took it as a clear sign that she was imagining her future as his wife. Despite her claim that it was fortunate he was not a chieftain, he was certain she would be far more amenable to the marriage if he was. Sybil was not raised to be the wife of a second son. Her brother had been the most powerful man in Scotland, and, as the king’s stepfather, he could well be again.

But she was contracted to him, and he meant to have her.

She was wrapped in his plaid and pressed against his side like melted wax on a candlestick, which gave him hope that tonight would be the night she finally said
aye
. He was nearly blind with arousal imagining all the things they would do when the sound of her soft, regular breathing finally penetrated the vivid fantasies running through his head. He heaved a sigh. She was fast asleep.

The rain had nearly put their fire out, but there was just enough light to see her face, which was usually so lively and full of expression. In sleep, she looked serene and innocent. Awake or sleeping, she was so beautiful she took his breath away. When he gently laid her down, he felt a deep longing to make her his, to wake up every day to see her face across his pillow.

Despite his longing and a physical desire that was almost painful, he told himself it was good she had fallen asleep. Sybil was accustomed to a pampered life, and he ought not take his bride for the first time under a rough blanket on the cold, wet ground.

For this sweet lass, he would wait until they made their vows in a MacKenzie castle before his chieftain and clansmen and could spend their wedding night in a huge bed in a comfortable chamber warmed by a roaring hearth fire. Rory wanted everything to be just as it should be on the night he made Sybil his wife.

When he touched his lips to her forehead, Sybil smiled in her sleep, and his heart flipped in his chest.
Ach
, he was a lost man.

Heaven help him if Sybil decided she did not want him.

Rory did not expect sleep to come easy, but as he held Sybil in his arms and listened to the wind whip against the lean-to, he felt himself drifting toward sleep.

Caw caw caw.

He awoke abruptly in the dead of night with his palms sweating and his heart racing. During the hard days of travel through the mountains, he had forgotten about the raven’s cry when they first turned westward, but the raven had come back to him in a dream.

He told himself it meant nothing. All the same, he held Sybil closer, determined to protect her from whatever evil lay ahead. He would be glad when they finally reached the safety of Eilean Donan Castle.

The wind seemed to carry an echo of his dream, and it sounded like a warning.

Caw caw caw
.

CHAPTER 14

“We’ve crossed onto MacKenzie land,” Rory said. “You’ll see Eilean Donan when we crest this hill.”

Eilean Donan was a rather grand and romantic name for a hovel. Sybil steeled herself for her first look at the home he spoke of with such affection and prepared herself to lie.

“The countryside is lovely.” This much, at least, was the truth. The landscape was wild and magnificent, much like Rory himself.

The “hill” they were climbing was a mountain and so steep that they had dismounted to give Curan a rest. Rory climbed it as if he were strolling, but Sybil was gasping for breath long before they reached the top.

“There it is,” Rory said, and she could hear the pride in his voice. “Home at last.”

Sybil stopped in her tracks, mesmerized by the sight of the castle rising from the morning mist at the point where three stunning lochs met in the valley below. The long, narrow lochs cut through mountains that extended as far as the eye could see.

“’Tis the most beautiful castle I’ve ever seen,” she said as they stood side by side looking down at it.

“Our vassal clan, the Macraes, hold this castle for us, but my brother Brian spends most of his time here,” Rory said. “By tradition, the Macraes serve as our chieftain’s personal guard. They’re known as
the MacKenzie’s chain mail
.”

Though Sybil knew the MacKenzies were an important Highland clan, she had no notion that they had vassal clans, vast lands, and more than one castle.

Rory whistled a tune as they made their way down the trail. Now that they were on his homelands, he seemed to truly relax his guard for the first time since they began their journey. Sybil, however, was suddenly anxious.

“I can’t meet your family like this,” she said, spreading the filthy skirt of her gown. “I look like a tavern wench—one ye had your way with in the bushes all the way home.”

Rory tilted his head back and laughed. “Well, I can’t say I don’t wish the last part was true, but ye look fine.”

“I don’t look fine,” she said, “and this is nothing to laugh about.”

“A wee bit of dirt won’t matter.” As he wiped a smudge from her cheek, the laughter left his eyes, and a wave of hot lust sizzled between them. “Believe me, every man in the castle will envy me the moment ye walk in.”

“And none of the women will forget that I arrived looking a filthy mess,” she said, forcing her thoughts back to the problem at hand. “Your brother is a chieftain. I can’t meet him like this.”

“As soon as we arrive, we’ll get ye out of those clothes and into a hot bath,” Rory said, brushing a tangle of her hair from her cheek. “And I’ll have the servants find ye a fresh gown.”

That sounded as if he planned to strip and bathe her himself. Though she would never allow it, she could not at the moment muster an objection.

She imagined Rory unfastening her gown and letting it slide over her skin as it fell to the floor…him kissing her neck and rubbing her temples as he washed her hair…and then sinking into oblivion as she was enveloped by the heat of the water and the sensation of his soapy hand running down her limbs.

“A bath would be…lovely,” she finally managed to say, and started down the hill to the castle.

***

Rory had made light of her complaint, but the truth was it hurt his pride to see his woman in a torn gown and muddy slippers. He could hardly blame Sybil for not wanting to wed him, given how poorly he had taken care of her. Now that they had reached Eilean Donan Castle, he would see to it that she was pampered, as she deserved.

Perhaps then she could envision herself as his wife.

They remounted Curan when they reached Loch Duich in the valley. As they rode the path along the loch, he could make out the figures of the guards on the wall of the castle, which was built on a small island just offshore at the far end of the loch. At first, he and Sybil were hidden from view by the low trees and shrubs along the loch, but the guards on the wall surely saw them as they neared the bridge to the castle.

The guards should have recognized him and his horse by now and opened the gate. Had they grown lax in his absence? Rory could think of no other reason for their delay. As he turned Curan onto the bridge, he felt the guards’ eyes on him.

But the gate remained closed.

***

Hector sat alone in the chieftain’s private chamber to enjoy the fine meal laid out before him.

“Such a clever man,” he said, lifting his cup in a toast to himself. He should have the news he’d been waiting for any day now.

He took a deep drink and swished the wine around his mouth to savor the flavor. The wine had been shipped from France at great cost, but he deserved to enjoy the fruits of his labor. Of course, it would not do to drink it in front of the men. In the hall, he drank ale like they did. It made them believe he was one of them.

He frowned as he chewed a mouthful of the peacock roasted with exotic spices, a dish that graced the tables of kings and chieftains. In truth, he liked ordinary roasted chicken better, but he ate peacock because he could.

A knock on the door disrupted his meal. He nodded to his servant, who opened the door to one of the Macrae men.

“Ye said ye wanted to know if Rory came,” the guard said. “He’s riding up now.”

So he’d shown himself at last. “You’ve closed the gate to him, as I ordered?”

“Aye, but how can we deny him entry? Rory is the chieftain’s bro—”

“I speak for the chieftain, and I said close the gate to him!” Hector stabbed the point of his eating knife into the table, which proved persuasive.

After the guard bounded out, Hector took his cup of wine with him to the arrow-slit window to watch the scene unfolding below at the gate.

At the sight of his nephew, a wave of hatred washed through him. Rory was so much like his father, Hector’s arrogant half-brother. Rory brought no men with him, as if to tell the world he feared no one. MacKenzie warriors respected that brazen fearlessness.

And the lasses were drawn to it like moths to a flame, as evidenced by the lass on the back of Rory’s horse. Even from this distance, Hector could tell she was a beauty. A memory of Rory’s mother with her hair flying out behind her as she galloped her horse struck him like a hot poker in his eye.

He had seen Agnes Fraser first, had pointed her out to his brother. She was meant to be his. Instead, she chose his brother. Years later, when she humiliated him again, he made her pay for it and took what she would not give him. But it was not the same, and even in death, he could not forgive her.