CLAIMED BY A HIGHLANDER (THE DOUGLAS LEGACY Book 2) (23 page)

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.

CHAPTER 24

Sybil had not spent years around court intrigues to let this threat go unanswered. Lovat had gotten the better of her once. He would not succeed again. Now that she knew his scheme, she would teach him a lesson.

But first, she needed sustenance. Fueled by pure determination, she made her way down to the kitchen in the undercroft. Like all castle kitchens, it was busy with servants chopping leeks, turning spits, and scrubbing pots. When she entered, all activity stopped.

“Go on with your work,” she said with a smile. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but I found I’m too famished to wait for supper.”

“Ye needn’t have come here yourself, m’lady. I’ll send someone to your chamber with whatever ye wish.” The man who spoke stood at the center of a long worktable with a brace of pheasants beside him and a large cleaver in his hand. He appeared to be in charge of the kitchen.

“No need to send it up when I’m already here,” she said, and pulled up a stool. “Is that venison stew I smell? I’ll have some of that, if ye please.”

“But—”

“I’m a bit homesick, and that smells like the stew our cook used to make,” she said, turning her charm on. “When I was a wee girl, I was always sneaking down into the kitchen. I loved the smells and the bustle, and the servants spoiled me with sweet buns and such.”

A middle-aged woman in a kerchief took a bowl from the open shelf, spooned a hefty scoop of the stew into it from the huge steaming pot that hung over the fire, and set the bowl on the worktable in front of Sybil.

“There ye are, dear,” the woman said with a kindly smile. “And here’s a nice big cup of ale to wash it down.”

“Thank ye kindly,” Sybil said, and dug in.

There was no chance that a bowl from the common pot would have poison in it.

“’Tis nearly time for supper,” the cook said between vicious whacks on a head of cabbage with his cleaver. “Ye don’t want to eat too much and spoil your appetite.”

“Don’t fret about me,” she said. “I expect to thoroughly enjoy the meal tonight.”

***

Every person has a weakness, and Lovat’s was his eldest son. Alain was a cocky young man about Sybil’s age. Up until now, she had avoided him as much as she could because of his unseemly fascination with her breasts.

Tonight, however, she waited in the stairwell for him.

She was playing a dangerous game, but she had to take drastic measures or she would have to worry about being poisoned by Lovat or his surrogates for as long as she lived in the Highlands—or at least until Rory set her aside.

Of course, she could take all her meals in the kitchen and tell Rory when he arrived, but he would not handle the problem with the necessary pragmatism. At worst, he would run his blade through his uncle; at best, he would refuse to accept Lovat’s support. She needed to handle this on her own. The tricky part was teaching Lovat that he threatened her at his peril without jeopardizing his support for Rory.

She stayed hidden until Alain entered the hall with two of his companions and timed her own entrance to cross paths with his. Alain bowed and remained bent over her hand with his gaze fixed on her chest until he finally remembered to straighten.

“We’ve had great success hunting this afternoon,” he said.

“I’d love to hear all about it over supper,” she said, taking his arm. “Will ye sit beside me tonight?”

She felt Lovat’s disapproving glare as Alain guided her to the table and took the seat next to her.

“You’re not sitting in your usual seat?” Lovat asked, and gestured to the seat next to him.

“Sorry, Father, but Lady Sybil is a damned sight prettier to look at than you.”

When the rest at the table laughed, his father could not object without appearing surly. Sybil gave Lovat a level look to let him know she’d planned it.

“How are ye feeling tonight, my dear?” he asked.

“
Much
better, thank you.” She gave him a bright, false smile to make him wonder what she was up to.

He watched her like a hawk. Good, her host was worried now.

The meal seemed interminable with Alain leaning over her and attempting to rub his thigh against hers. Sybil drank deeply from the cup of wine she shared with him, knowing it would be safe from whichever servant was dispensing the poison for Lovat. At the end of the meal, as she expected, the cook himself brought her a small bowl of honeyed pears that smelled strongly of cinnamon.

The cook failed to notice the silent signal Lovat attempted to give him before he set the bowl in front of her. When the cook looked up and saw Lovat shaking his head, he reached for the bowl.

But Sybil was quicker. She thrust her wine cup into his open hand. “More wine, please.”

“M’lady, let me take those pears back to the kitchen,” he said. “I apologize, but I see that the bowl was not properly cleaned. I’ll have the lass who washed it punished severely.”

“Nonsense,” Sybil said, gripping the bowl with both hands. “’Tis perfectly fine.”

When he tried to take it from her, Alain intervened.

“Leave it,” he said in a sharp tone.

Sybil toyed with the dish of pears with her spoon as she chatted with Alain. When she glanced at Lovat, there was a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Alain,” she said, raising her voice just enough for Lovat to hear, “’tis rude of me to eat these delectable pears on my own. Let me give ye a taste.”

She held her spoon out. If Alain did not take his gaze from her breasts, she just might give it to him instead of spilling it at the last moment. She had been eating the poison for three days now, so one spoonful would not hurt him much.

“I’d like a taste of more than your pears,” Alain said, and slurped the spoonful up before she could pull it away.

“Don’t!” his father shouted a moment too late.

“Please forgive my rude remark, Lady Sybil,” Alain said, misunderstanding his father’s outburst.

When Alain squeezed her thigh under the table, she was tempted to feed him the whole bowl of pears, but she satisfied herself by giving him a hard pinch.

“Behave yourself,” she whispered, then raised her voice. “I hope you’ll sit with me at every meal until Rory returns for me.”

“Of course I will,” Alain said.

Sybil turned to meet his father’s gaze. “Would ye like some pears as well? Or have we all had enough?”

“Quite enough.” Lovat dipped his head, conceding that she had bested him. “As the lady wishes, there shall be no more.”

***

The next morning, Lovat gave her a trunk of his dead wife’s gowns as a peace offering.

“I hope ye know I had no intention of doing ye permanent harm,” he told her over more excellent wine. “Just a bit of encouragement to leave.”

“At first I did think ye meant to murder me, but the poison ye chose was too weak,” she said. “While I disagree with your method, I understand you were trying to protect Rory.”

“Rory has a difficult path, and I did not believe a Lowland noblewoman would be up to the tasks ahead.” He raised his cup to her. “I admit I was wrong.”

“I want to protect him too, so ye needn’t worry that I’ll tell him about this…incident,” she said. “That would cause a breach between ye and serve him ill.”

“Of course,” he said. “You’re far too clever to make that mistake.”

“I do understand that Rory will need a different wife.” Despite herself, her bottom lip trembled. “I’ll not stand in his way when the time comes.”

“I see,” Lovat said. “What is your plan, my dear?”

She gave him a weak smile. “I don’t have one yet.”

“Don’t be in a hurry to leave,” he said, patting her hand. He hesitated before he spoke again. “I’ve done something ye ought to know.”

“Besides poisoning me?”

“The day ye arrived, I sent a message to Edinburgh, to your uncle the bishop,” he said. “I told him where to find ye.”

The message would fall on deaf ears. None of the men in her family had troubled themselves over her plight before she escaped. And they’d all known where to find her.

When Rory rode through the gates a short time later, Sybil’s heart swelled with joy, and she ran across the courtyard to meet him. He appeared tired and weighed down by troubles until he saw her. He caught her in his arms and spun her around, laughing.