CHAPTER 13
“The Grant and Munro clans are threats to us.” Hector slammed his fist on the table. “We must strike them before they strike us.”
He moved his gaze from man to man of the select group of MacKenzie warriors gathered around the high table in the great hall at Eilean Donan Castle. These were the most respected men of the clan and served as a council to Hector and the chieftain. Hector neither wanted nor needed their advice, but he had spent years cultivating their support.
Some of the men nodded their agreement, others were uneasy but silent. None openly challenged him until he came to Malcolm, an old warrior who had served as captain of the guard when Hector’s father was chieftain and as a close advisor to Hector’s brother.
“With respect, this is no time to break with good allies like the Grants and Munros,” Malcolm said. “We should save our strength to fight the MacDonalds. They are a powerful enemy and our greatest foe.”
Hector nodded, pretending to acknowledge the advice as worthy of consideration, while his fingers itched to plunge his dirk into Malcolm’s heart. Rory had been whispering this same advice in Brian’s ear for months. Hector needed a war to galvanize the clan behind him. The graver the danger and the more enemies they faced, the more his clansmen would realize they needed him, an experienced warrior and victor of many battles, to lead them.
“We ought to persuade the Grants and the Munros to join forces with us against the MacDonalds,” Malcolm droned on, “not make them blood enemies by attacking them unprovoked.”
Hector could not lay hands on the revered old warrior here in front of the others, but the old man had challenged him for the last time.
“You’ve served the clan well for many years,” Hector said. “If ye no longer feel ye have the heart to fight, we’ve plenty of young MacKenzie warriors who—”
“I don’t lack courage,” Malcolm said.
“Good.” Hector walked around the table to clamp a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Then I’ll grant ye the honor of leading our next battle.”
Hector would make sure Malcolm did not survive it. That was one obstacle removed from his path.
Unfortunately, Malcolm’s objection caused rumbling among the other warriors at the table. Hector could always find a way to provoke the Munros into attacking first, and then these men around the table would be shouting for vengeance.
“Before we attack these neighboring clans who have been our allies in the past,” one of the others said, “our chieftain should give the command.”
“Aye, we should wait for the MacKenzie,” another said. “Where is he?”
That was a question to which Hector hoped to have an answer soon. If all went as planned, there would be no shackles on his authority.
“He’s gone hunting,” he lied. “And of course we must wait for the MacKenzie.”
He stifled a smile. They could be waiting a long, long while.
After they left, he met with a different sort of advisor. He opened the secret stairway to an old woman who had knowledge of the dark arts and a sweet granddaughter she did not want given to Big Duncan.
It never hurt for a man to hedge his bets.
***
Rory grinned as he watched the sister-in-law to the queen cooking oats for their breakfast over an open fire. She spooned the steaming porridge into two cups and handed him one.
“Not too bad,” she said, frowning after she took a taste. “Better than yesterday, wouldn’t ye agree?”
“’Tis perfect,” he lied.
“As good as any Highland lass could make it?” she asked, tilting her head in a fetching way that he imagined she did when she flirted at court.
“Aye,” he lied again, and was rewarded with a smile that shone in her eyes.
Last night when he returned from hunting with a pheasant for their supper, Sybil had a good fire going and their camp set up. She had adapted to the rough travel better than he would have imagined. From the start, she had shown herself to be determined and clever, but her desire to undertake these mundane tasks that he would have gladly done for her surprised him.
Did she do it out of pride, or was this an indication she had decided to accept becoming his wife? If she’d made up her mind, he wished to God she’d tell him. Sleeping beside her every night without touching her was torture. If she made him wait much longer for their wedding night, it just might kill him.
“Wear your extra stockings today,” he told her. “We’ll see snow in the mountains.”
“Already have them on,” she said, and gamely lifted her skirts to show him.
“A bit higher,” he said. “I can’t quite see them.”
“You’ve seen all you’re going to see,” she said with a laugh. “Now, if you’re done lazing about, shouldn’t we be on our way?”
Despite the hardships, Sybil’s natural cheerfulness shone through now that they had put many miles between them and her former troubles. But they were in the Highlands now. Spring had not yet come this far north, and their route would take them into increasingly rugged terrain. He worried it would be too hard on her.
“I had no notion any place could be as beautiful as this,” she said, pausing to gaze at the shimmering surface of Loch Lochy and the rich green hills on the opposite shore.
When he stood beside her, she hooked her hand through his arm. Now that she was at ease with him, she touched him often without seeming to notice that she did or the effect it had on him.
“This is a bonny spot,” he said. “Almost as bonny as MacKenzie lands.”
“How long before we reach them?” she asked.
“A few days or more, depending on the weather,” he said. “MacKenzie lands are vast, stretching from sea to sea in the shape of a giant wedge of cheese, with the wide part in the west and the narrow point in the east.”
Sybil laughed and leaned against him. “To which part of the cheese are we going?”
“The west.”
The route east to the MacKenzie strongholds near Inverness would be easier than the mountainous journey west, for they could travel through the Great Divide, an endless valley and chain of lochs that ran at a diagonal across the Highlands. That route, however, would take them through Grant lands and directly past Urquhart Castle, the Grant chieftain’s fortress on Loch Ness. Rory intended to avoid the Grants until after he and Sybil were wed.
“We go west to Eilean Donan Castle,” he said. “My brother, our chieftain, should be there.”
Rory was anxious to make things right between him and Brian. And they needed to discuss how to mollify the Grants now that there would be no marriage between Rory and the Grant chieftain’s daughter to heal the breach between their clans.
As Rory turned Curan westward into the mountains, an uneasy sensation passed through him. His grandmother would say someone had walked on his grave. He thought he heard a voice chanting, but there was not another soul in sight on the barren, windswept hillsides.
“What’s wrong?” Sybil asked.
“Nothing at all,” he said to reassure her, but he kept a sharp lookout. As a warrior, he knew better than to ignore the unease that pricked like an itch on the back of his neck. Curan was on edge too.
A lone raven flew across the sky and cawed three times. The old folk said that was an omen of death.
***
Sybil tucked her chin down against the wind whipping at her face and pressed more tightly against Rory’s back as they rode. The plaid he’d wrapped around them kept most of the rain from penetrating her clothing, but the damp cold still seemed to seep into her bones. Ever since they turned westward, the journey grew harder each day.
By the time they finally stopped for the night, she could not feel her hands and feet.
“Ach, you’re shaking.” Rory enfolded her in his arms and rubbed her back. “I should have stopped sooner. Why did ye not tell me ye were frozen?”
“I didn’t want ye to think me weak,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“You’ve too much pride by half,” he said, and kissed her hair.
After bundling her in a blanket, he quickly set about building a fire and preparing their dinner. Sybil felt too worn out from fending off the cold to make even a feeble offer to help.
“Rain’s coming tonight,” he said, glancing up at the sky.
Coming? It had been drizzling all day. Rory set up a makeshift lean-to with a wool blanket that had been treated with some kind of fat to shed the rain. She crawled under it and must have dozed off, for she awoke to the delicious smell of the rabbit cooking on a spit over the fire.
“Feeling any better?” Rory asked.
“Aye.”
“This is what ye need.” He poured a steaming liquid into a cup, added a large measure of whisky to it from his flask, and handed it to her. “’Tis the Highland cure for whatever ails ye.”
The first sip sent a welcome warmth all the way to her frozen toes. She smiled as she breathed in the steam and watched Rory over the top of the cup as he removed the rabbit from the fire. His unrelenting kindness was making it hard to protect her heart.
The rabbit was delicious, and the fire, food, and hot drink revived her. But no sooner had they finished eating than the wind picked up bringing with it a driving rain. Rory put his arm around her and pulled her farther back under the protection of the lean-to.
“We’ll have to sleep verra close together to stay warm tonight,” Rory said over the sound of rain pelting against the blanket overhead.
That sounded dangerous in a very appealing sort of way.
“We could get warmer still by not sleeping.” His tone was light, but the desire in his eyes warmed her more than the whisky had.
“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.”
“Set 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.