Still fighting sleep, he buried his face in her midnight hair. It felt like silk against his cheek and smelled of summer flowers. Instinctively, he reached for heaven, gripping her hip and pulling her against his throbbing cock. Her shrieks jarred him to full wakefulness as she scrambled away, arms and legs flailing.
Oof!Pain sparked across his vision as her heel landed squarely on his wound.
He opened his eyes to find Sybil staring down at him looking both furious and impossibly beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her hair tangled.
“What do ye think you’re doing?” she demanded.
Thinking had nothing to do with it, and what he had been doing was obvious, so he did not bother answering.By the saints, his leg hurt. He found the half-empty flask of whisky and drank deeply to take the edge off the pain. When he set the flask down, Sybil was still glaring at him.
“You’re drinking whisky before breakfast?” she said, asking another question she knew the answer to. “God help me, I’ve run away with a drunkard.”
One drink in the morning, and he was a drunkard. Lord, was she that kind of lass? If she was, he supposed he would not have to spend too much time with her out of bed. As he took another deep swallow, his gaze caught and held on her full, perfect breasts. Her bodice had become so loose in the night that the pink tips were nearly showing.
With a huff, she sat back and drew the blanket around her shoulders. Without the view of her breasts to distract him, Rory finally took note that the sky was light. How had he slept so late? His wound must have taken a greater toll on him than he realized.
“’Tis past dawn,” he said. “We must go.”
They should have been gone already. He gritted his teeth against the blinding pain as he got to his feet, then began packing up.
“There’s blood running down your leg,” Sybil said. “We must see to your wound before we go anywhere.”
“Nay. We’re leaving now.” He picked her up off the blanket so he could roll it up. His leg hurt like hell, and his swollen cock did not help his mood. “If ye have needs to see to, do it quickly.”
“You’re a stubborn man,” she said.
“’Tis a good qualityin a man,” he muttered under his breath as he picked up the saddle.
He looked up in time to see her turn in a swirl of skirts and flying locks. He could not help smiling as he paused to appreciate the sight as she stomped off in the direction of the burn. His bride was going to be a trial, but he did like her spirit.
While he waited for her, he kept an eye on the hills surrounding their camp. He did not know how persistent those royal guards were. If they were not reason enough to spur him on his way, his brother was. God only knew what their uncle Hector had persuaded him to do in Rory’s absence. Or done in Brian’s name.
Rory regretted the fight with his brother and leaving angry. Most of all, he regretted leaving Brian alone with Hector.
What in the hell was taking Sybil so long? His patience gone, he headed for the burn.
***
As Sybil walked along the burn looking for a spot that was not slippery with mud, she began to form a plan. Somehow she must persuade the Highlander to take her to one of her sisters. Though her brothers were a bitter disappointment, her sisters would do anything for her, just as she would for them. She felt uneasy about possibly adding to their danger, but all three had powerful husbands. And what else could she do? She had no one else to turn to.
How would she convince the Highlander to take her? She could not risk telling him the truth. He did not strike her as a man who would take learning he had been duped lightly. Nay, the stakes were too high. But once she reached her safe haven, she would reveal the truth to him.
She bit her thumbnail—a bad habit. How would he take it when she finally did tell him? His pride would be hurt. If he were one of the vain peacocks at court, she might be amused at his expense. But her Highlander was nothing like them. He had come for her out of a sense of honor—though why he waited eight years she had yet to find out—and he had risked his life to rescue her. There were not many men like that in the world, at least not in hers.
It did not sit well with her to mislead him, but it was not as if the Highlander truly wished to wed her. Nay, she was an obligation, a duty that must be borne. That should not irritate her, but it did.
Giving up on finding a dry spot to wash, she pushed through the brush and knelt on a patch of moss. She rubbed at a scratch on her face and thought of all the times she had laughed and talked with the maids while soaking in the steaming tub in her bedchamber at Tantallon Castle. Would she ever have that life again?
With a sigh, she leaned over to splash water on her face—and caught her reflection. By the saints, she looked like an ill-used tavern wench! Dirt streaked her face, and her hair was a mass of tangles. When she tried to smooth the dark curls with her fingers, she pulled out bits of leaves from her hair.Leaves.
She looked down at herself and surveyed the rest of the damage—her torn and filthy gown, mud-covered slippers, and blood-streaked sleeves. Her disheveled appearance was a small matter and by far the least of her problems. She knew it was foolish to care, and yet losing control of this one last aspect of her life was just too much. Intent on setting herself aright, she flung her hands into the burn and scrubbed her face in water so cold it made her gasp.
***
Rory quickened his steps. It did not seem possible the lass could have wandered off and gotten lost, but she was a Lowlander. He was relieved when he found her leaning over the burn, washing her face. For a long moment, he forgot his urgency and watched her. She looked as beguiling as a wood nymph kneeling amidst the greenery with her long, dark tresses trailing into the water. He regretted having to disrupt her.
“Sybil,” he said in a low voice so as not to startle her. “Are ye ready, lass?”
“My gown is a disaster.” She looked up at him with wide eyes and touched the mass of unbound, glossy black hair that fell in waves over her shoulders and breasts. “Is my hair as bad?”
