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.”