CHAPTER 23
Sybil drew in a deep breath as Rory led her up the steps of Fraser Castle. It was her own damned fault they were here. She was the one who had advised Rory to seek Lovat’s support and to delay going to Castle Leod until he gathered his supporters.
This was a fine time for a man to finally take her advice.
Rory’s decision to leave her had caught her by surprise, and she’d shown unpardonable weakness by giving in to panic. She would not do that again.
He had not deceived her yet. As she had no choice, she decided to believe he would not abandon her here.
They were escorted into the castle’s great hall, where they were greeted by Lord Lovat, a tall Highlander in his forties with fading red hair, sharp green eyes, and thin lips.
“This is Lady Sybil,” Rory introduced her, omitting any mention of her family name or explanation for her presence.
Lovat examined her closely down his long, narrow nose as if trying to place her, but perhaps he was merely curious as to who she was to Rory. Then again, she may not have gotten all the cinders out of her hair.
“I have news that’s best discussed in private,” Rory said.
Without a word, Lovat turned and led them through a hidden doorway at the back of the hall that was disguised as a panel and into a windowless room. Lovat made frequent use of this private domain, judging by the glowing brazier, which thankfully kept it warmer than the hall, the lighted lamps, and the table on which rested several parchments as well as a flagon and cups.
Lovat gestured for them to sit, poured whisky for each of them, then took the third chair and fixed his gaze on Sybil.
“I know you.” It sounded like an accusation. “You’re Archibald Douglas’s sister.”
“She’s a MacDonald now,” Rory said. “Lady Sybil is my wife.”
Lovat’s face flushed in unbecoming blotches. Ignoring his uncle’s obvious displeasure, Rory proceeded to tell him about his brother’s death.
“Brian had no Fraser blood in him,” Lovat said. “If he had, he wouldn’t have let Hector of Gairloch use him like a puppet on a string.”
Sybil refrained from mentioning that Brian had the blood of the MacDonalds, who were famed for their warriors and unrelenting rebellion.
“He would have made a good chieftain in time,” Rory said. “Don’t speak ill of him to me.”
“Ye always had a soft spot for that MacDonald spawn,” Lovat said.
When Rory looked as if he wanted to punch Lovat, Sybil gave his arm a gentle squeeze to remind him this would not help his cause.
Rory told Lovat what happened at Eilean Donan.
“Guidh mallachd air.” A curse on him. Lovat downed his drink and pointed a finger at Rory. “That Hector is no fool. He always knew you were the real threat to his power.”
“He’s sure to challenge me for the chieftainship,” Rory said.
“You have the better claim, as both Brian’s heir and as your father’s eldest living son,” Lovat said, “while Hector’s claim goes back to your grandfather.”
“Hector has chieftain’s blood,” Rory said. “That’s all that’s required if the clan wants him.”
“By Highland custom that is true, but the crown will only recognize you as the heir under the king’s law,” Lovat said, lifting his cup to Rory. “The MacKenzies would be fools to choose a man the crown won’t recognize. Your clan has gained half its territory from royal grants of lands forfeited by the MacDonalds and other rebels. There will be no such grants to a chief the crown does not recognize.”
“You and I know the crown’s recognition is important, but it will not weigh heavily on the minds of most of my clansmen,” Rory said. “What will matter is whether our powerful neighboring clan, the Frasers, will be a strong ally if I am chieftain.”
“Your father should have named ye heir in the first place, rather than his son by the MacDonald woman,” Lovat said. “You’re my only sister’s son. Of course I will support ye.”
***
Sybil tossed and turned, alone in the big bed, waiting for Rory. How quickly she had become accustomed to going to sleep with his arms about her. She wrapped one of the blankets around her shoulders and went to look for him.
On her way down the circular stairwell, she saw a thin line of lamplight beneath the door to the chamber below theirs. Sybil started to tiptoe past when she heard the low rumble of Rory’s voice and the high-pitched tones of Lovat’s through the door.
Since they were having this conversation in Lovat’s chamber rather than in the hall, she assumed they did not want to be overheard. She had been taught by her family that this was precisely the kind of conversation that was the most fruitful to listen to. On the other hand, she wanted to believe Rory would tell her anything they discussed of importance, and he surely would be offended if he knew she’d eavesdropped on his private talk with his uncle.
With a sigh, she turned to go back up the stairs—but then she heard her name. Lovat spat it out as if it was spoiled food. No woman could be expected to walk away after hearing that. She put her ear to the door.
“Lady Sybil is a beauty to be sure,” Lovat said in his nasal voice, “but she’s a Douglas, for God’s sake.”
“Aye,” Rory said, “that she is.”
“No matter how high and mighty her brother was,” Lovat continued, “he’s in exile now, and her family is branded as traitors.”
“They are,” Rory said in the same calm tone, which seemed to agitate his uncle further.
“Ye couldn’t have made a more unfavorable match if ye tried,” Lovat said. “Why not just bring a lass from an Edinburgh whorehouse home to be your wife?”
A chair scraped against the floor. A moment later, Sybil jumped as something thudded against the wall. Desperate to see what was going on inside the room, she pressed her face to the crack and peered through it with one eye.
God have mercy, Rory had his uncle by the throat against the wall.
“Sybil is my wife,” Rory said. “I’ll not hear ye speak another ill word about her.”
“I didn’t mean to insult her, for she is certainly charming and well bred,” Lovat said.
With a start, she realized the two men were crossing the room. She feared she’d be caught before she could run up the stairs, but then they settled back into their chairs.
“However, there’s truth in the old saying that a man’s best fortune, or his worst, is his wife,” Lovat continued. “A Lowland lass from a disgraced and powerless family is of no value at all.”
Lovat was changing tack but not conceding. And Sybil had to agree with him. A different wife would better serve Rory’s ambition to be chieftain.
“Now there you’re wrong,” Rory said. “She’s of great value to me.”
“If ye want my help, you’ll listen to my advice,” Lovat said. “Set her aside and take a wife whose clan will be of use to us against Hector.”
“I’ll listen to your advice on other matters,” Rory said, “but I’ll not tolerate your interference regarding my choice of wife.”
“Ach, you’re as stubborn as your sainted mother,” Lovat said. “Do ye want to be chief of the great MacKenzie clan or no?”
“Not without her,” Rory said.
“Have ye lost your wits?” Lovat said.
“I know ye don’t understand this, but Sybil is the wife I need,” Rory said. “And I’ll make a better chieftain with her at my side.”
Sybil closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the door, overwhelmed by what Rory said about her. Men had flattered her, professing boundless devotion, but she’d always known they were empty words, just part of the game played at court. At least at this moment, Rory meant what he said to his uncle. She would hold that to her heart.
At the same time, Lovat’s persistence told her she was right about the strong opposition Rory would face if he claimed her as his wife. Even Alex and Malcolm, who liked her, had told Rory she was a detriment. His supporters and advisors would urge him to take a wife who would bring a useful alliance to the clan. They would make their case again and again.
In the end, Rory would do what a great chieftain ought to do. He would set his personal desires aside and do what best served his clan.
At least he wanted to keep her. And that meant everything.
***
Sybil felt at loose ends after Rory left, with nothing to do except wait and fret. Rather than spend time in the hall, where she would have to talk with Lord Lovat, she wheedled parchment and a quill from Lovat’s scribe and returned to her guest chamber to write letters to her sisters.
Letters she would never send and they would never receive.
The knock on the door sometime later startled her. When she looked down, she saw that instead of writing letters, she had filled the parchment with drawings of Rory. There was one of him as she first saw him, looking dangerous and handsome as he stood over her with a scowl on his face and his claymore in his hand. In another, he was rubbing Curan’s nose, and she could almost hear him murmuring in Gaelic.
Knock, knock, knock. “Lady Sybil?”
When she heard Lovat’s voice, she quickly flipped the parchment over and called out, “Come in.”
She stifled a scream when she glanced down and saw Rory in the nude on the back of the parchment. She managed to sit on it just before Lovat opened the door.
“I brought some excellent wine that I hope you’ll share with me,” he said, holding up a flagon. “You and I need to have a wee talk.”
A talk that required excellent wine was unlikely to be pleasant. She smiled and gestured to the only other chair in the room. “Please sit down.”
“I’ve witnessed a few marriages between Highland men and Lowland women in my time,” Lovat said as he filled their cups and handed her one. “I’ve yet to see a happy one.”
“Really?” Sybil knew when a message was being sent. She took a sip and watched him over the rim of her cup.
“I can tell that you’re stronger than most of your kind,” he said. “But our Highland ways are rougher than you’re accustomed to.”
“Rougher than court politics?” she said. “I find that hard to believe.”
Lovat laughed. “Rough in a different way. This is a harsh land and prone to violence.”
His insistence that she was not suited to this life she was forced to enter was getting under Sybil’s skin, but she was not about to let him see it. She propped her feet up on the stool between them and crossed her ankles. “As ye say, I’m stronger than most of my kind.”
“I don’t mean to insult ye, but to offer my assistance.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And what assistance would that be?”
“If ye should decide that ye wish to return home,” he said, “come to me, and I’ll see that ye get there safely.”
“I fear you’re under the false impression that I have someplace else to go.” Sybil set her cup down carefully. “I assure you, I do not.”
“Don’t be modest,” he said. “You and I both know that a lass with your looks and wits is never without choices.”
His words brought back memories of how she had been primped to be shown to the king at thirteen, propositioned countless times at court, and offered Finnart’s protection when she was nearly desperate enough to take it.
“I hope you’re not suggesting,” she said in light tone, “that I become some man’s whore.”
“Mistress is a more accurate word for it. And isn’t that what ye are to Rory?” he said. “For ye cannot be his wife.”
“Then why are ye so worried?” She stood. “I appreciate the wine, and our talk has been informative, but now ye should leave.”
“Think of Rory,” he said when his hand was on the latch. “He needs a marriage alliance with a clan that has warriors to fight for him. Defeating Hector will be no easy task. And then there are the MacDonalds.”
“I want Rory to succeed,” she said. “I’ll help him in whatever way I can.”
“Then we are in accord,” Lovat said. “I, too, will do whatever he needs me to do.”
***
Sybil blinked to clear the black spots that danced before her eyes as she crossed the castle courtyard. She hoped a walk in the fresh air would do her good, but she still felt sluggish and lightheaded.
“Good day to ye.”
Her host’s appearance at her side unnerved her because she had not seen him coming. What was wrong with her?
“I see you’re taking advantage of the break in the rain for a wee stroll,” Lovat said. “May I join ye?”
She could hardly object as it was his courtyard, and she did not truly mind. After his initial attempt failed, he seemed to have given up on persuading her to return to the Lowlands. In the days since, Lovat had shown her nothing but courtesy.
Her vision went black for a moment. When she started to stumble, Lovat caught her arm.
“Are ye well, my dear?” he asked. “I can see that waiting for word from Rory is taking a toll on ye.”
That was true. She worried constantly and missed him even more. But worry and heartache did not generally cause dizzy spells, sweaty palms, and shortness of breath.
“Come inside,” he said. “I’ll send to the kitchen for something to eat and drink.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re wasting away,” he said, patting her arm. “Rory will be disappointed if ye lose that fine figure of yours.”
If she were not feeling so weak, she might have kicked him. Instead, she gritted her teeth and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as they walked back toward the keep.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said when they reached the hall and he offered again to send for refreshments. “But I’ll just lie down and have a rest.”
“Certainly, my dear.”
Sweat broke out on her brow as she climbed the stairs. The wheeled steps seemed to go on forever and made her head spin so badly she had to keep one hand on the curved wall to steady herself. Once she finally made it to her chamber, she collapsed on the bed.
This was so unlike her. She was never ill. A wave of loneliness swept over her, and she suddenly missed her mother very badly. She wrapped her hand around the black stone pendant her mother had given her. Each of her sisters had a similar one cut from the same stone, which their mother claimed had magical protective powers. Whether it did or not, holding the pendant made Sybil feel closer to her mother and sisters. She drifted off to sleep with it clutched in her hand.
When she awoke, she felt somewhat better. She had slept like the dead. She sat up and saw a tray of food and a flask of wine on the side table. Her host must have asked a servant to bring it while she was asleep.
Her throat was parched, and she was starving. Because she was still a bit lightheaded, she took care as she eased herself to the edge of the bed to reach the tray.
She was so thirsty. She poured herself a cup of the watered wine, but something made her stop. While she tried to bring forward the wisp of the dream she’d had before waking, her hand went to her pendant. She stroked the smooth stone with her finger.
The dream was more of a memory, something from her mother’s tale about the stone. Her mother had seen a mysterious old woman appear out of the mist. Was that it? Nay. Suddenly it came to her.
Poison.
Her mother’s three sisters were poisoned. While her mother walked along the river and met the old woman who gave her the black onyx, her sisters consumed poison with their breakfast. They were dead by nightfall.
Sybil sniffed the plum wine and the honeyed pear with cinnamon. Both had sweet, strong flavors that could disguise a poison. She thought Lovat had instructed his cook to use a heavy hand with the cinnamon, an expensive spice, to flaunt Lovat’s wealth. After the first evening when she remarked on how delicious the spiced pears were, Lovat had instructed that a bowl of it be brought to her at every meal.
She had thought it a kindness. And he’d meant to kill her.