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.
The son she loved so much would suffer for the pain she caused him. He clenched his fists as he recalled the grave wrong Rory himself had done to him. Never again.
Hector’s mood lifted as he watched Rory shake his fist and shout at the guards to no avail. Ha, this is only the beginning of your disappointments, nephew.
Rory was obstinate as hell, a fierce warrior, and a crafty opponent. Unlike Brian, who was weak and easy to manipulate, this nephew would be a challenge.
Hector lifted his cup to the window. Rory would test his skills, which would make crushing him all the more satisfying.
***
Rory’s temper rose as the guards kept him waiting in front of the castle gate.
“I am Rory Ian MacKenzie, the son and brother of MacKenzie chieftains, as ye well know,” he shouted, and shook his fist. “Open the damned gate!”
Angus Macrae, the captain of the guard at the castle, appeared on the wall.
“My apologies, Rory Ian MacKenzie,” Angus called down, “but I cannot let ye inside.”
“Have ye lost your wits?” Rory shouted back. “It would be foolish to challenge the MacKenzie clan.”
“Aye, it would,” Angus said. “’Tis not my intention.”
“Then explain yourself.”
“Hector of Gairloch has ordered us not to open the gates to ye.”
Rory should have known Hector was behind this. “Hector is not the chieftain of the MacKenzie clan. He has no right to deny me entry to any MacKenzie castle!”
Fury burned through him. Hector had used the time of Brian’s minority to establish himself in the minds of their clansmen as the only man who could lead them. When the king demanded a hostage from every Highland chieftain’s family to assure their clan’s good behavior, Hector had sent the young chieftain to Edinburgh when he could have easily sent another. Brian was held there for two years, giving Hector a free hand.
“Hector gave the order on the MacKenzie’s behalf,” the Macrae called down.
“He no longer has the right to issue orders in my brother’s name,” Rory shouted.
Brian had failed to put Hector in his place after he came of age, and that had been the source of all conflict between Rory and his brother. Hector was a wolf in the guise of a loyal dog. Brian, along with most of the clan, failed to see that Hector’s intent was to undermine the young chieftain’s authority and hold power himself at all costs.
“My brother would never agree to such an order!” Rory had to believe that. Though they had exchanged angry words, Brian knew Rory only meant the best for him.
When Macrae turned to confer with one of his men, Rory hoped he was finally recognizing the seriousness of his error.
While the Macrae commander was distracted, one of the other guards, a man Rory had fought with at Flodden, took the opportunity to draw his finger across his throat and nod toward the hills in a clear signal that Rory was in danger and should flee. Apparently, he had at least one ally among the Macraes.
Rory wanted to pound his fists against the gate and challenge the guards to try to take him. But the soft warmth of Sybil’s body pressed against his back penetrated his violent thoughts and reminded him that she was in danger too.
Without hesitating another moment, he turned Curan and galloped back across the bridge.