Page 40 of Claimed by a Highlander
“’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 asthe 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.
