Page 20 of Claimed by a Highlander
“Of course,” she said, and pasted what she feared was a too-bright smile on her face.
Despite her reassurance, Rory kept his eyes on the castle and skirted the wood where they could not easily be seen as they approached it.
“Is your sister Margaret like you?” he asked.
“Nay. Margaret is sweet and obliging,” she said with a laugh. “If William Douglas of Drumlanrig were my husband, I’d have murdered him long ago.”
Rory gave her a sharp sideways glance. “I thought ye trusted him.”
“I dislike him, but he doesn’t have the backbone to cause trouble,” she said.
In dangerous times, trust no one but a Douglas. The last time she saw her brother Archie he’d had the gall to tell her that.She hoped to God she could trust this particular Douglas.
“Besides being sweet and kind, Margaret doesn’t have the Douglas coloring like I do,” Sybil said to turn the conversation away from her brother-in-law. “She’s a tall, fair-haired beauty, like our mother was.”
“I prefer a dark-haired lass with spunk.” Rory gave her a wink and took her hand.
“A man admires a woman’s spunk until he marries her,” she said. “Then he complains that she is too lively, that she draws attention to herself, and that it’s her fault every time a man looks at her.”
“And how would ye know this?” he asked.
“I’ve seen it often enough,” she said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Both Margaret’s husband and Allison’s first one did their best to stomp their spirit out of them.”
“I like the spark in you.” Rory smiled and squeezed her hand. “I wouldn’t want ye to ever lose it.”
Sybil could not help returning his smile because that was sweet of him to say. Of course, he’d change his mind if she became his wife.
How she dreaded telling him that she would travel no farther with him. She hated to hurt her Highlander’s pride, but it was that or marry him—a perfectly ludicrous notion.
She had grown quite fond of him, but she was realistic enough to realize that she was ill-prepared to live in a rude hovel amidst the wild heathen of the Highlands. While that life had its appeal—her gaze drifted over Rory’s fine form—she would feel like a fish out of water.
Worse, Rory would come to regret being tied to a useless wife. Not that she was without skills, but the ones she had were the sort that would help her husband negotiate safely through court intrigues, not steal cattle or whatever it was that Highlanders did.
***
Rory saw no extra guards on the wall or other sign that the castle was on alert and entertaining a party of the queen’s men. He and Sybil proceeded to the gate mounted, ready for a quick escape.
When the guards recognized Sybil and greeted her with respect, Rory was relieved that they did not shout and sound the alarm. Still, he noticed their exchange of nervous glances. And none of the guards offered to escort them into the hall, as if Sybil was bad news they did not wish to deliver to their laird.
If Sybil was aware of the unease her arrival caused, she did not show it. She slid to the ground without waiting for Rory to help her dismount and strode toward the keep as if ready to do battle.
An old man emerged from the stable to take Curan. When he saw Sybil, a smile spread across his weathered face.
“Lady Sybil!” he called, stopping her in her tracks. “’Tis a delight to see you.”
“And you, Thomas.” Sybil took the old man’s hands and kissed his cheek.
“Still stirring up trouble and breaking hearts?” he asked, and gave her a broad wink. “Of course ye are.”
“I’ve become exceedingly dull and well behaved,” she said with feigned innocence.
“Not a chance of that.” He turned to Rory. “I’ve know this lassie since she was a babe in her mother’s arms. Always was my favorite.”
“Is my sister here?”
“Aye.” The old man’s expression turned somber. “It will do Lady Margaret a world of good to see ye.”
Rory gave the old man a few quick instructions regarding Curan’s care, then caught up with Sybil, who was marching toward the keep again.
