I've been in a writing mood lately and I'm trying desperately to hold onto it. The next chapter of Man's World is nearly done and I have part 13 of By Tomorrow all planned out. I've also got a random drabble in the works!
Henry opened his eyes when he was sure Sybil was really asleep. Her hand still rested against his cheek, and he turned his face to kiss her palm before slipping out of the bed.
He was relieved that she didn’t wake up. It was strange for him to kiss her like that. He wasn’t entirely sure why he did it and he wasn’t interested in discussing it.
He grabbed a few spare plaids and made himself a nest on the ground beside the bed. She probably didn’t want him in the bed with her after what he’d done, and a bit of space would do him some good too.
For hours, sleep eluded him. He gave up and climbed back into the bed before dawn. Sybil sensed the disturbance and rolled over until she was pressed directly into his side.
He stiffened, suddenly afraid to touch her despite his usual tendency to do so — all the times he lifted her onto his horse or into his arms without even giving her a warning.
It seemed different now, though, because while he was taking liberties before, he wasn’t crossing any lines. He’d have to pull back now to remind Sybil that he didn’t think he was entitled to touch her, that she could refuse him and he would obey without complaint, and he had to show her that.
Because after the events of the past night, between their bedding, the Macleans arriving, Henry confessing more of his mother’s dark past – he wasn't sure he would be able to put the words together, let alone say them aloud.
***
Sybil didn’t know what time it was when she woke. The cottage was dark and she didn’t want to open her eyes. She wasn’t ready to come back to the world yet, to deal with the reality of her situation.
She clung to the last remnants of sleep as tightly as she possibly could but they still slipped away from her. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.
Henry was nowhere in sight. Part of her was relieved because she wasn’t sure how to face him now. The other part was disappointed and terribly lonely.
She couldn’t face him but she couldn’t be alone. Not now. Not with her stomach churning and the memories of her father’s friend swimming in her head. She had to get out.
It was late morning. People’s windows and doors were open to let in the cool air and the sun but hardly anyone was outside. They were still on alert after the Maclean incident.
Sybil didn’t care about that. She just wanted to see her friend.
It was unladylike to run and difficult to do so with long, heavy skirts but Sybil didn’t care. She nearly fell on her face a few times and was grateful that so few people were there to see.
Sybil was nearly to the keep when she caught sight of Catherine headed in her direction.
“Sybil!” She was still running toward her friend when she began talking. “Did you hear about what happened to the boy after you left?” She came to an abrupt stop a few feet away when she saw the silent tears streaking down Sybil’s face.
Catherine knit her brows in concern, even though it was probably nothing serious. Sybil cried at just about anything. “What is it?”
Sybil shut her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what? Can’t tell me what’s wrong?” Catherine took Sybil’s hands. “Why not?”
“I can’t,” Sybil whispered.
“You can,” Catherine insisted. “You can tell me anything and everything. You do tell me everything.” Her attempt to lighten the mood fell flat.
“You’ll think differently of me.”
“Well we won’t know that until you tell me, will we?”
Sybil took a shuddering breath. “I slept” – she sobbed – “with Henry.”
“I don’t understand,” Catherine said, her face contorted in confusion. She could understand why that would be upsetting, but this was beyond Sybil’s usual disproportionately dramatic reactions. “Was he not – did he not treat you well? The first time can be terribly uncomfortable – painful, even – and I’m sure Henry feels –”
Sybil shook her head. Her stomach twisted, the words bubbling in her throat like vomit. She couldn’t hold them back. “It wasn’t – he wasn’t the first.”
***
Henry joined a hunting party to seek out the stag that had drawn the Maclean boy into Cavill territory. When he went back to the cottage to tell Sybil he was off and would be gone for at least one night, it was empty. Catherine wasn’t in her rooms, either; Henry figured that at least they were together.
Perhaps a night alone with Catherine would do Sybil some good. Settle her nerves. Make her feel at ease, since that was something he seemed unable to do.
He rubbed his forehead, trying to get at the ache behind it.
This hunt was supposed to be a distraction, but of course they couldn’t begin the hunt until picking up the stag’s trail. So here he was, still trapped in his thoughts but now with a dozen men by him.
Fuck. He hated being married, Henry decided. It was exhausting and difficult, just as he knew it would be. This was why he hadn’t wanted a wife: He knew it would be nearly impossible to be the sort of husband his wife deserved.
Not that he wanted to give up his wife – he’d rather sever a limb than lose Sybil. But he did wish they’d had more time. He wanted to have courted her, earned her trust, demonstrated his value. All his hard-won progress with her was forfeit now.
Henry set down his horse’s reins in his lap to rub at his head with more vigor.
Arran nudged his horse closer to Henry’s. “Did you sleep at all last night?”
His nephew kept his eyes forward and grunted.
“And the girl? How is she after last night?”
Henry swallowed hard, which did not go unnoticed by his uncle. “She is with Catherine today.”
Arran knew Henry in a way the others did not. He’d been a father figure to the boy growing up, and he was the only person Henry could tolerate having a deep conversation with, though Henry’s idea of a deep conversation was giving the shortest answers possible to any questions about his feelings – and now his wife, too. If anyone else asked him about Sybil’s state after the consummation, he’d likely break the fool’s nose.
“She’s a good woman,” Arran said. “And she is good for you. She’ll come around.”
Henry grumbled in reply. If Sybil were here, she would’ve been able to translate his nonsense sounds into words. He frowned at the thought. How was she supposed to come around if she was afraid of him? Again.
***
Catherine was silently fuming, her hands shaking as she moved them over Sybil’s back soothingly. She wanted to say something but God, what could she say? What could anyone say?
She felt sick at the thought of her friend being abused and hurt and being too afraid to tell anyone what had happened. Even if she did confide in someone, Sybil’s horrid father would blame her for it. She was so, so grateful to Henry for marrying Sybil and taking her away from that man.
Catherine always knew how lucky she was to have a husband like Garrett, who was considerate and kind and handsome and strong. They’d grown fond of one another in their time together; many married couples detested one another their entire lives.
Sybil would have that fondness with Henry. She already did. And Catherine was sure, soon enough, that fondness would develop into something more.
“What did Henry say when you told him?” she finally asked.
Sybil pulled away, fresh horror on her face. “You’re the only person I’ve told. He doesn’t know. And you can’t tell him, Catherine, please.”
“In God’s name, why?”
Sybil shook her head. “I don’t want him to know. I don’t want him to think differently of me.”
“He wouldn’t,” Catherine insisted. “You are his wife. He would —”
Sybil shook her head again. “Please, just don’t.” Her tears had run dry for the moment, exhaustion overtaking her sorrow.
“I won’t say anything,” her friend murmured. “It’s not my story to tell.”
“Thank you.”
Catherine stood and held her hands out to help Sybil to her feet. “Henry and the others have gone off hunting. I doubt they will be back until morning. Come stay with me tonight.”
Sybil smiled sheepishly. “You are my dearest friend. Do you know that?”
Catherine looped their arms together. “I suspected as much, but it’s always nice to hear you say so.”
***
It was Hamish and Kier’s idea to give the stag to the Macleans once they killed it as an offering of peace. They had to catch the damn thing first, though.
It was swift and clever and Henry was no help at all. He completely gave up on the charade of stalking the deer and started using his bow and arrow to take down rabbits instead. Owen was the only one to call him out on it, and he gave up when it became clear that Henry was paying no attention to him.
Henry offered no excuse when he headed back to the keep; he didn’t tell anyone he was leaving, either. They’d figure it out for themselves.
The hillside was quiet as he rode home. The hall, usually teeming with activity so close to supper time, was all but abandoned.
Two serving girls were scrubbing blood from the stone floor, and the table on which they’d set the boy was nowhere to be seen. They would break it down and burn it, most likely, if they couldn’t clean all the blood from it.
Henry wondered errantly what they had done with the Maclean boy’s severed leg. Did his brothers take it back with them? Would they bury it? Burn it?
He shook his head to clear it and stepped deeper in.
The midwives and healer who attended the boy were still gathering their supplies from the hall. There was a bluish purple flower among them. Henry wordlessly crossed the room to the midwife, everyone’s eyes on him.
He stopped a few feet away and she stared up at him, unsure of what to do or say. After a moment, he pointed to the flower. “Can I have that?”
The woman’s eyes flashed to the flower and then back to his. She wordlessly plucked two of them from the table and gave them over.
Henry examined the delicate lavender sprigs in his hand. He would give these to Sybil and draw her a warm bath like the ones she had as a child. That would make her smile. And he wanted to make her smile more than anything.
I’m having feelings lately and this picture made me snuggly.
The plane was huge. There was more than enough seating for the few of you on board, but of course Kal claimed the bed and spread out on it like a starfish, making it impossible for you to slip onto the mattress beside him. You gave him a gentle shove at one point when he didn’t obey your command to scooch over; he raised an eyebrow as if to ask why you dared disturb his nap.
“I’m tired too,” you said to him. “Scoot.”
Kal sighed through his nose and shut his eyes.
“Ugh!”
Henry was sitting in one of the puffy leather chairs, but not one of the ones that bent all the way back into a bed. No, he was sitting at the worktable buried amongst his things, phone in one hand and a script in the other.
You inelegantly climbed over him and flopped down on the seat beside him. It was a miracle you didn’t hit his laptop with your ass or knock over the elegant, half-empty teacup beside it. Henry didn’t look up but he was smiling at his phone. “You could’ve asked me to move over.”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” you said, making him chuckle. You downed what was left of his tea.
“Bear won’t let you sleep with him?”
“No. It’s very rude.” You grabbed his arm and lifted it to tuck your head under. You wiggled until you found a comfortable position against his chest and then set the arm down around you. Your legs stretched out over Henry’s lap, your feet over the arm of the chair.
“I’m working, you know.”
“That’s okay,” you said, shutting your eyes as you pressed your cheek against the soft green cotton of his sweatshirt. “You’re not bothering me.”
He smiled again, still looking at his phone, and kissed your head.
You hovered halfway between consciousness and sleep tucked up against him. You didn’t know for how long. Even when he needed to use both of his hands for something, he kept his arm around you so he wouldn’t disturb your sleep.
Henry, the stoic heir apparent to Clan Cavill, travels to England to retrieve his cousin from her home there. While there, he impulsively accepts an unexpected opportunity to anger is sworn enemy, Laird Maclean, by marrying the woman meant for the laird’s son. Now a pawn in someone else’s game, Sybil sets out to understand the mystery surrounding Henry’s childhood and the cause of his endless feud.
Masterlist
“I swear I’ve had the smell of shit in my nose since we crossed the border,” Owen said, wrinkling his nose.
Henry grunted in agreement with his friend. He had no interest in coming to England in the first place, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He was heir apparent to Clan Cavill, and Catherine was his cousin. Of course he would be the one to travel to her home in England to bring her back to Scotland now that her husband of two years was gone.
She had no children and therefor no lasting ties to the country, and her relatives – especially her cousin Henry - didn’t want to leave her in an English shithole when she could just as easily come back to the highlands.
She, too, was eager to return. Her heart ached to see her little brother.
Word of Garrett Hampton’s death took a few months to work its way up through Scotland and reach Clan Cavill. They hadn’t liked the idea of giving Catherine to an Englishman in the first place, but Scotland’s and England’s kings both liked the idea of wedding a one of Baron Hampton’s children to a Highlander. God only knew why.
But word was that Catherine and Garrett got on wonderfully, and that Catherine was happy. She was said to be joined at the hip to one of her husband’s sisters. Laird Cavill, Henry and Catherine’s uncle, was relieved to hear that she was content in her marriage and had found a friend in her new home.
“Well, Jamison,” Hamish, another of Henry’s cousins, said over his shoulder to their fourth companion, “you’re half English. You ought to be used to the smell.”
***
Sybil couldn’t sleep last night. Not that she ever slept well, but she would usually get at least four or five hours. Not last night.
It was her final night with Catherine before her kin came to fetch her and return her to Scotland, and she was determined to savor every moment with her friend. Catherine fell asleep, of course, despite her promise that they would spend all night together. Sybil couldn’t very well blame her for it. She had ten long days of travel ahead of her, after all, and from what Sybil understood of the Scottish landscape, they would be far from pleasant.
And how would Catherine readjust to her old life? Scotland was a wild, savage place where the men wore gowns and threw trees for sport. It was nothing short of a miracle that Catherine had arrived with any understanding of civilized behavior at all.
Perhaps the two years she spent in England had refined her too much to return. The gowns, the jewels, the security, the leisure. Now she’d have to go back to living in a hole in the ground.
Sybil didn’t envy her friend’s fate. She herself would be doomed without pleasant things like music and gowns.
Now they stood along the parapets, peering into the distance to catch a glimpse of the Cavills’ arrival. Catherine was buzzing with excitement. When she finally spotted a handful of riders on the horizon, she went tearing through the fortress in her hurry to get outside and greet them in the courtyard.
There were four Scots altogether: a young one with auburn hair and ruddy cheeks, one with sandy blonde hair and a matching beard, and two large ones with dark hair and beards. One of the dark ones appeared as big as his horse even from a distance. Sybil subconsciously took a step backward as he and his beast came close.
Unlike the others, who went straight for Catherine, the big one dismounted and greeted the baron. He didn’t even glance at Sybil.
He offered a polite if cool greeting to Baron Hampton on behalf of his kin, who were still flocked around Catherine.
“Ah, yes,” said the baron. “I believe we met at my son’s wedding to Catherine. How pleasant to see you again.”
“Indeed.”
Hampton seemed a decent enough man, but he was English. Nothing could overcome that horrible truth.
“These are my sons, Geoffrey and Samuel,” the baron said. The two dark-haired young men beside him dipped their heads. There were other boys, of course, but Geoffrey and Samuel were the oldest. “Geoffrey is now my heir after Garrett’s passing.”
“My uncle, the laird, was sorry to hear of it,” Henry said after a moment. “He seemed a fine man when I met him at his wedding to Catherine.” He nodded toward his cousin.
There was a girl with straight, dark hair beside her. Henry didn’t bother to look at her, but he heard Catherine introduce the girl as Sybil, her late husband’s sister and dear friend.
“I must say, it makes me feel better about sending my oldest girl to the highlands next summer, knowing her husband’s land is close to yours. She and Catherine can visit,” the old man said. He gestured to the dark-haired girl beside Catherine.
“Which is his clan?” the Scot asked in his deep, monotone voice, watching his kinsmen excitedly reacquaint themselves with his cousin. Catherine wasn’t offended that Henry wasn’t showering her with affection; that simply wasn’t his way. He hadn’t even embraced her yet.
“Maclean,” Baron Hampton said. “Sybil is to marry the laird’s eldest son.”
Henry’s ever-present frown deepened, changing into an expression of fury rather than boredom. Maclean.
The baron's sons didn’t miss the way the Scot’s jaw tightened, muscles flexing subconsciously as if preparing for an attack.
“I’ll have her,” he said abruptly.
He hadn’t even seen the girl’s face but it didn’t matter. She could have claws and a beak and he’d have her all the same. If a Maclean intended to have her, then Henry would take her away from him. Anything to damage Laird Maclean’s pride, though ripping a wife out of his hands wouldn’t hurt him too badly. But nothing Henry did would ever hurt him enough to compare to the pain Laird Maclean inflicted upon his own first wife.
Henry couldn’t stand to think of it.
Hampton and his sons had to do a double take to be sure they’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
Henry slowed his words and raised his voice. The Englishmen weren’t sure if he did it to be mocking or accommodating, as his horrid accent was thick and he was, in fact, difficult to understand. “I’ll have her.”
The Hamptons stared at him silently until he finally elaborated, “Our kings want another marriage to replace Catherine and Garrett’s, so I’ll have her.”
The silence continued. The baron’s eldest son finally spoke. “Why?”
“It will satisfy the kings and Sybil and Catherine can stay together.” It was the truth, though not all of it.
“She is already contracted to the Maclean,” the son, Geoffrey, said. “If the contract is broken –”
“I will take the blame for it,” Henry said dismissively. “Your family’s honor won’t be impugned.”
Baron Hampton shook his head. “I’d be happy to keep my ties with your clan through a new marriage – Catherine’s been a blessing to our family – but . . .” He studied the Highlander thoughtfully. “Would you at least like to take a look at my other daughters? Perhaps one of them would be more to your liking.” Sybil was no great prize. She was pretty enough, but most of her family found her vexing. Catherine and sometimes Garrett were generally the only ones that could stand to be in a room with her for more than an hour.
Henry sneered in disgust. They were talking about human beings, not brood mares. It was repulsive that a man could speak of his daughters as though they were simply property to be traded. But the man was English after all. Henry shouldn’t have expected any better.
“Will you send one of your other daughters to the Macleans if I take Sybil?”
“I suppose not,” the baron said on an exhale. “Our kings would be satisfied that a marriage –”
“Good. I’ll have her.”
The baron turned to his sons. He took a deep breath. “Samuel, go fetch your sister.”
**
Henry didn’t officially meet Sybil until they were inside the chapel at her father’s keep two hours later. He had to say he was relieved that she was beautiful: black-brown hair, warm brown eyes, and full red lips. Though the redness and possibly the fullness was probably due to the fact that she’d been gnawing at her lips.
Henry’s kinsmen had, unbidden, given him their thoughts on the marriage in the hours before when he told them what he intended.
“Have you lost your bloody mind?!” Owen had roared in Gaelic. “You’ve barely laid eyes on the woman!” That was common enough - Garrett and Catherine had never met before their wedding, and they both noticeably relaxed after confirming that the other was attractive. “Worse than that, she’s English.”
“English, Henry,” Hamish piped in.
Jamison was silent on this issue, as his own mother was an Englishwoman living on the border with Scotland when his father, a well-respected warrior of Clan Cavill, came across her.
“What about Catherine?” Jamison asked. Hamish furiously nodded his agreement. “She and Sybil have lived together for two years. Surely she had something to say about it.”
A man of few words, Henry shrugged. “That Sybil likes to talk.”
***
Sybil didn’t say a word about her surprise marriage after Samuel told her of it. That’s how Catherine knew she wasn’t well.
Sybil was constantly speaking, constantly in motion. She detested silence and simply seemed uncapable of being still for any amount of time. She had trouble sleeping, and even when she did sleep she rolled around restlessly and muttered things to herself.
Catherine helped her pack her things – actually, she packed her things for her, since Sybil seemed frozen standing in front of the fireplace. The Scot did her best to fill the silence by talking about the clan her friend would be joining. “My uncle, Arran, is laird over the clan. He has three sons – triplets, like I told you – and you won’t be able to tell them apart. They all look just like Hamish. They’re younger than we are. Arran is my father’s older brother. And they had a younger sister called Helen. She was Henry’s mother.”
She could swear she saw Sybil twitch at Henry’s name.
“Owen and Jamison are just members of the clan – though technically, they are related to us. Everyone is related to everyone else by some degree, you see, and that’s –”
“Catherine,” Sybil said. She didn’t turn to face her friend. “I love you dearly, but I beg of you to stop speaking.” She’d heard all of this information before.
“It would be all right, you know,” Catherine said, putting a hand on her friend’s arm. “Henry is a good, handsome man” – these facts were equally important in Catherine’s mind – “and he will treat you well.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do know that,” Catherine said. “Henry is –” She cut herself off.
Sybil turned to look at her friend. “Henry is what?”
Catherine shook her head, making her glossy blonde hair move. “He will treat you well.”
“He will resent me,” Sybil countered. “I cannot keep quiet to save my life. No man wants that. I swear Mother and Father would’ve sent me to a nunnery if they thought any of them would accept me.”
“Why wouldn’t they accept you?”
“The vows of silence, Catherine! Honestly, do you even listen to me?” She began pacing the room. “He could dash my brains out for being too loud and restless. I didn’t get a good look at him, but he seems large enough to do it without much effort.”
“He won’t knock your brains out,” Catherine said.
“You don’t know that,” Sybil repeated. Her thoughts, as always, turned to something only tangentially related. “Honestly, I’m surprised my stepmother hasn’t laid hands on me. Before you came, she was the one I spoke to the most. Her and the little ones, I suppose, when they were too young to speak back. Really, Catherine, you should have hit me by now, too, or at least dumped wine in my lap for all my chatter. You are so strange. A civilized Scot! And not only do you let me talk, you actually listen to me.”
“You just said that I didn’t,” her friend pointed out.
Sybil turned a furious gaze on her friend. “Please don’t interrupt me, Catherine; I’m trying to have a conversation.”
It continued like that until Geoffrey came to escort the ladies to the chapel, and silence reigned once more. The baron offered Sybil his arm near the church’s entrance and guided her inside.
The chapel was filled with eight of Sybil’s siblings, half-siblings, and stepsiblings. Her half-siblings by her father’s mistress were not invited. Her two middle sisters, fraternal twins of thirteen years, whisper-shouted to each other about the visiting Scots and did not even acknowledge Sybil’s arrival.
The Scots at least kept their voices low when they spoke, and they stuck to Gaelic to keep from being overheard. Sybil figured they weren’t saying much of import since Catherine didn’t react to anything. Shortly before the ceremony, they heard from Sybil’s brothers that she was destined for a Maclean and all their protests against the marriage died on their tongues.
There was no arguing with Henry when it came to the Macleans. He had not experienced their cruelty firsthand like his uncles did, but all these years later, he was still the one suffering because of it. If he wanted to wed this woman, let him. He may very well be doing her a favor. If he disliked her later on, she was easily avoided during the day, though she would still be his wife when he climbed into bed with her at night.
Sybil’s father unceremoniously deposited her at the end of the aisle and suddenly she was face to face with her new master.
His expression did not change.
Henry’s most obvious features were his size, beard, and violet eyes – just the same as Catherine’s. He was enviously handsome beneath his beard, and his hair was darkly and gently curling. Sybil spent the rest of the ceremony trying to measure her size to his and the logistics of their wedding night, which she knew very little about. She knew that the bigger a man was, the more it would hurt, though.
She was so focused that she didn’t listened to the priest’s words, only said yes when he said her name. Henry at least went to the trouble of saying, “I do.”
Just like that it was over. Before Sybil knew what was happening, Henry put his hand on the back of her neck and tilted her head back. Then his mouth was on hers. It was slightly open, and Sybil thought she felt his tongue dart out and brush over her lips, but it was over too fast for her to be sure.
Is that it? she wondered. She never dreamed of a fairytale wedding or marrying a prince, but she had hoped there would be flowers in the chapel and that her groom would be someone she cared for. She imagined him smiling after he kissed her. That, at least, she deserved. But it was not what she got.
Henry released her neck and moved his hand to her lower back. He turned to his traveling companions. “Time to go.”
Henry, the stoic heir apparent to Clan Cavill, travels to England to retrieve his cousin from her home there. While there, he impulsively accepts an unexpected opportunity to anger is sworn enemy, Laird Maclean, by marrying the woman meant for the laird’s son. Now a pawn in someone else’s game, Sybil sets out to understand the mystery surrounding Henry’s childhood and the cause of his endless feud.
Masterlist
Sybil was surprised that Henry and the others intended to leave immediately after the wedding – she thought they would at least stay the night – but she did not protest. A wedding night in the forest would be unpleasant, but then all wedding nights were said to be unpleasant. At least they wouldn’t inspect the forest floor for blood as proof of consummation the way they would examine bedsheets.
Would they?
Henry watched her from afar, helping his kin to ready the horses for the journey. The stablemaster brought out Sybil’s mare for Henry’s inspection. It was a long journey to the Highlands over rough terrain; he wanted to be sure the animal could survive the trek, though he seriously doubted it.
He went through the motions of inspecting the beast but kept his eyes locked on his new wife the entire time. She was on the other side of the courtyard, standing amongst her family. She looked uncomfortable; she shifted from foot to foot and wrung her hands like a child waiting impatiently for their turn to speak on some important matter. Henry thought she looked afraid. He couldn’t blame her for it.
“She’s a pretty little thing, I’ll give you that,” said Owen. He was standing by his own horse, securing a satchel of food to his saddle. “Pretty Englishwomen are hard to come by, so they say. You’ve had a rare stroke of luck.”
Henry grunted neutrally. Truthfully, he was relieved that Sybil was beautiful. She wasn’t strikingly attractive like Catherine and Henry were; hers was the subtle sort of loveliness that became more apparent the longer one looked at her. and he fully intended to keep looking.
Henry realized Jamison was watching Sybil just as intently. Jamison must have sensed Henry’s glare on him, for he swiftly turned back to his work. Jamison had always been jealous of Henry, and undressing Henry’s new wife with his eyes certainly didn’t help their uneasy friendship.
Sybil’s goodbyes to her family were quick and largely unemotional, as were Catherine’s. It seemed to the Scots that Sybil and her siblings didn’t like each other very much, particularly the sisters, for while Catherine embraced all of them, Sybil only clasped their hands. The baron, whom Henry now thoroughly disliked, was more upset over Catherine’s departure than the loss of his daughter.
The Scots lead the horses over to the women, catching only the tail end of the family’s conversation. He moved silently to stand behind his new wife, who had no idea he was there.
The moment Sybil was done, Henry grabbed her hips from behind, making her yelp. He carried her the two meters to her horse and set her down on her grey mare. She was so surprised that she nearly screamed. How was it that such an enormous person could approach so silently?
She was surprised again when she realized how gentle he was with her. She half expected him to have paws instead of hands when he reached for her, but he held her hips as gently as one might hold a baby or a piece of fine pottery. Sybil often thought her hips were too wide, but they looked delicate when compared with his enormous hands.
“Thank you,” Sybil said awkwardly. Henry didn’t reply, choosing instead to wordlessly stare, so she smoothed out her skirts and pretended not to notice.
Gentleness was a good sign, she decided. It meant he was less likely to split her in two tonight when they stopped to make camp. There would be no helping his size, but Sybil was now reasonably confident that he would actively try not to run her through during the act.
Henry noticed the delicate embroidery on her gown – she wouldn’t wear the clan’s plaid until they reached the Highlands – and the cream-colored ribbon woven into her braid and secured with a bow. She liked pretty things, then. Henry couldn’t think of anything she might find pretty in the Highlands. Maybe the landscape, but he couldn’t very well give her a boulder as a trinket. His mother left behind a handful of items when she died; they seemed trivial to Henry, but Sybil might enjoy them.
“My condolences for the loss of your brother,” Henry said after a long moment. “We heard he and Catherine were happy together and that he was a good man. I am sorry.”
Were those the first words he ever spoke to her? Sybil thought so. She might’ve preferred a polite greeting, but she was pleased that he cared enough – or at least possessed the etiquette – to offer condolences.
“Oh. Thank you.”
They rode two by two, with Hamish and Owen at the front of the procession, Catherine and Sybil in the middle, and Henry and Jamison in the rear. Sybil was very conscious of her husband’s eyes on her. She knew he was studying her as a painter studied his subject. She didn’t like it.
Catherine did her best to include Sybil in the conversation during the first two hours of their journey, but she was too eager for news of her younger brother to do much.
“He was furious for a month after you left,” Hamish said in English. He was trying to include Sybil in the conversation too, then. Otherwise he would certainly have spoken in Gaelic. “Slept in the stables near a week.”
Jamison leaned forward on his black stallion. “Do you know about Catherine’s brother?” he murmured.
Sybil’s eyes flickered to Henry. He seemed vaguely interested in the conversation but he was very interested in Sybil’s answer.
“Of course,” she said simply. Catherine was her dearest friend, and she made no secret of it, anyway.
Finn was about ten years old now, still a child, but his clan had known for years that he was that special sort of person fated to stay a child all his life. Catherine was fiercely protective of him. She wept for him constantly when she first came to England, but dearest Sybil made it her mission to distract her from her grief.
“I don’t think he quite understands you’re coming back,” continued Owen.
Henry hadn’t listened to a word of the conversation; he was too busy staring at his wife. His wife. Lord, what had he gotten himself into? He had no particular interest in being married, though he’d always supposed he’d find a wife one day. He could draw from a deep pool of admirers any time he liked – and the pool was deep indeed. Select a pretty woman to give him children. Share her company. Let her cook and clean for him. No, he wasn’t opposed to having a woman. But he wasn’t excited about it, either.
He believed a man should put his wife and children before all else, and both wives and children required a great deal of energy and attention, and Henry simply didn’t have enough to spare. He’d rather have no wife at all than have one that he neglected.
And of course he’d be comparing himself to his own father, whoever that coward might be, and to his mother’s former husband. He’d rather be torn apart than be associated with the latter.
Sybil’s discomfort had become physical by now. Was this normal for Henry? Should she expect silence and staring every day? And what about tonight – was he just going to casually stare at her while spearing her like a boar? Would he even blink?
“Have any of you been to England before?” she projected to the group in general. Hamish was in the middle of a sentence when she spoke, but thankfully he didn’t seem angry with her.
“Aye,” said Jamison. “My mother is English, you see.”
She thought in passing that he bore a resemblance to Henry. They were the same height, their hair the same color, and the shape of their faces alike. That was where the resemblance ended. Jamison was dark and leonine, while Henry was – she didn’t know the posh word for bearlike but that was the only comparison she could draw.
“Ah, that would explain why you’re the only one of the lot with manners,” Sybil said, giving Jamison a smile, and his widened in return. Henry didn’t like it.
“I’ve never been to England before and I’ve no intention of ever going again,” Owen said without turning around.
Were all Scots this grumpy? Sybil was more and more certain that Catherine was an anomaly among her countrymen: a well-mannered woman from Scotland, like a glistening pearl produced by a rotting oyster.
“I’ve never been to Scotland,” Sybil retorted. “And I’ve never wanted to.” She sighed. “I suppose I made a poor choice by consenting to marry a Highlander.” Not that it was truly her choice.
“I did travel to London once though and that was very fine,” she continued. “Though I don’t think I care for traveling overmuch. I liked the castle, though. Do the Scots have castles? The clans, I mean – I know your king has one. Well, I would hope he does.” Did they even possess the technology to build a castle? Sybil wasn’t sure. They were Scottish, after all. Hell, they barely wore clothes.
Henry felt years of his life being sapped away with each and every word from her mouth. This was hell on earth. It was like an endless tide crashing against the shore. Sybil would be a widow soon if she kept droning on like this.
Jamison opened his mouth to reply but Sybil kept talking. “Is there one fortress to each clan? How many live inside? Do you put it in the center of your territory? How do you know where your territory ends, for that matter? Catherine told me you don’t mark them.”
Catherine looked over her shoulder at Henry and smirked. I did warn you she liked to talk.
Sybil was relieved when they stopped for a short break for lunch. They’d only been on the road a few hours and already her back and legs were screaming in agony. Maybe she would be tired enough to get some real sleep tonight.
She grabbed Catherine by the arm and marched her into a wooded area to relieve themselves.
“Why won’t he speak to me?” Sybil asked.
“That’s just his way,” said Catherine. “Be quiet. You know I can’t go when you’re talking.”
“He seems cold.”
“He’s not –” Catherine cut herself off, frowning in thought. “He won’t be cold to you.”
“He hasn’t spoken a word! No ‘How do you do?’ or ‘How do you like the weather?’ Nothing. All he’s done is stare at me. It’s really quite unnerving.”
Catherine sighed. “I don’t think I have an excuse for that. I think he’s just interested in you. He did just marry you, after all.”
“If he’s interested in my life, then he should just ask me questions. I would ask him questions, of course, but the look on his face doesn’t exactly invite conversation. Is this what it will be like with him forever? Should I just expect him to keep staring at me without a word for the rest of our lives?”
Catherine glared her friend into silence until she had finished her business. “Are you coming?” the Scot asked, moving in the direction of their camp.
“No. I haven’t finished yet,” Sybil said. “Go ahead. I’ll be along in a moment.”
***
Henry watched the trees Sybil and Catherine disappeared through as he waited for them to return. He’d been married for less than a day, yet Henry was already anxious to have his wife out of sight. He couldn’t figure out why, but he didn’t dwell on searching for an explanation. Sybil was his wife and therefore his responsibility, and he couldn’t be responsible for someone he couldn’t see.
He brightened for a moment when Catherine appeared from the woods. His face darkened again when he realized she was alone.
His wife shouldn’t be alone in the woods by herself. Henry assumed from her manner and appearance that she wasn’t the sort to fare well in nature, and someone ought to be with her if she broke her ankle stepping in a rabbit hole or some such thing.
“Where is Sybil?” Henry asked when Catherine was close enough.
“Finishing up,” said Catherine. She set her hands on her hips, frowning at her cousin. “You ought to speak to her. Your silence makes her nervous.”
“Why?”
Catherine nearly shrugged. “She just – she doesn’t like quiet in general, and all you’ve done today is marry her and then stare at her. I can understand her trepidation. Just speak to her. It will make her feel less afraid.”
Henry’s ever-present frowned deepened. He didn’t like the word afraid in that context. She had nothing to fear from him – or from anyone else, for that matter. To cross Sybil would be to cross Henry, and no one crossed Henry without consequence.
“What am I meant to say?” he asked.
“Anything. Anything at all,” Catherine said. “Just start the conversation and I promise you, she will finish it.” She sighed at the expression on Henry’s face. “You did just marry her, Henry. You’ll have to spend the rest of your life with the woman whether you speak to her or not. You may as well say hello.”
“You made it sound like she would be the one to do all the talking,” her cousin said, and he was confident she would.
Catherine rolled her eyes. “It is your job to get her talking. If you want a successful marriage, you’ll have –”
“Was your marriage a success because of your sparkling conversations with your husband?” Henry countered.
Catherine frowned, ears reddening. She and Henry both knew that her marriage to Garrett was successful because both of them were young and beautiful and utterly silly. Theirs was a physical relationship, so much so that even Catherine’s family up in the highlands knew about the success of her marriage.
Frankly, they were surprised that Catherine wasn’t with child, assuming all those bawdy tales were true.
“My husband didn’t look like a madman living in a cave,” Catherine retorted. “Just look at you, Henry. For all she knows, there isn’t even a face under that beard.”
He had to grin.
He’d always regarded Catherine as more of a sister than a cousin, and he was truly pleased to have her back.
***
Sybil took a long time to emerge from the woods. She hadn’t had a moment to herself since . . . yesterday? The day before? She pinned herself to Catherine’s side last night, assuming she would never see her friend again. And then Catherine had pinned herself to Sybil’s side once they learned of her impending marriage.
She used her privacy to weep, wash her face in cool water, weep again, and wash her face once more.
Sybil emerged from the woods and sat down on the grass at the very edge of the clearing, folding her legs in front of her. Catherine was speaking with Owen and Hamish, most likely about her little brother.
She would have ordinarily jumped at the chance to join the conversation and learn more about Catherine’s brother, but for whatever reason, she didn’t feel like it today. Besides, Owen’s behavior suggested her involvement might not be welcome.
“Do you want company?” a low voice asked.
Sybil had to tilt her head all the way back to see Henry’s brooding face. He’d once again appeared out of nowhere and was back to looking at her as if he knew all of her secrets.
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Certainly. Please sit down.”
Henry crouched beside her, a green apple in one hand and a knife in the other. He cut a slice and handed it to Sybil then cut another for himself which he ate off the blade. He could probably crush that apple into a pulp with his bare hand if he wanted to. Sybil nearly shivered at that thought. Then her eyes wandered down to his bare thighs, his defined muscles flexed as he squatted. If he squeezed them together hard enough while on horseback, could he break his stallion’s ribs?
His violet eyes studied the woods rather than her now. He seemed perfectly content to eat in silence.
“Do you ever talk?” Sybil blurted after what felt like an eternity.
“Not if I can help it.” He cut them each another slice of apple, though Sybil hadn’t touched her first one. “Do you ever stop talking?”
Sybil was offended for a moment before she realized that he was probably jesting with her, assuming he even knew what jesting was. “Yes. Sometimes I’m asleep.”
Henry smiled widely but said nothing, just kept on eating. So he has a sense of humor, she thought. That’s good to know.
Sybil ate her apple slices slowly before she spoke. “Why did you marry me?” she asked, confusion plain in her voice and on her face. “I know you were not planning to acquire a wife on this errand. Not an English one. Certainly not me.”
She sounded like her father. Henry didn’t like that. “Why not you?” he asked, turning his head to look at her. “Are you in possession of some great defect?”
“That depends upon which person you ask,” she grumbled, and cleared her throat. “Anyway, a man can only have one wife,” she said simply. Henry’s brows creased. She caught herself in the middle of an exasperated sigh and explained, “If you could have two or three, I might understand your decision to wed me, but since you can have only one it seems . . . I don’t think you’ve made a very good choice. You know, my first betrothed broke the contract after his father died because he disliked me. I’m terribly vexing, you see.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Geoffrey once said our mother died just to get away from me. He was horribly unkind when we were young. Garrett throttled him, of course, and I know my mother didn’t mean to die in childbirth, but she did shout at me to be quiet rather a lot. I’m sure she loved me but not that she liked me. And you don’t seem as if you’ll enjoy listening to me all day long, either, and I don’t want to push you to self-murder or tempt you to cut out my tongue.” Her words poured out of her mouth like water from a pitcher. “It is not too late to take me back home. The marriage could be annulled without much fuss since we haven’t . . . I wouldn’t hold it against you. My father wouldn’t, either.”
Henry looked at her for a long moment. Damn his eyes. Sybil felt like he was violating her privacy simply by looking at her, like he could see inside her somehow.
“No. I’ll keep you.” His tone was surprisingly tender. He chucked the apple core away, tucked his knife into his belt, and pulled Sybil to her feet.
She nearly had to run to keep up with his long strides as they returned to the horses. “I still don’t understand why you wanted me in the first place. Clearly there’s no dowry in sight and you did not swoon at my beauty when you first laid eyes on me. So why did you marry me?”
“Real men do not swoon,” he said. “Although Englishmen probably do.”
Sybil shut her eyes to keep from rolling them. “Will you please answer my question?”
“What was your question?” He was teasing her to see how worked up she would get.
She shut her eyes again and gritted her teeth. Very worked up, then. “Why did you marry me?”
“Because I dislike your intended.”
“Why?”
“Because his father is a cruel son of a bitch.”
“It’s impolite to use coarse language in front of a lady,” Sybil said. Henry smirked. “So, you married me to protect me from him, or because you wanted to make him angry?” They came to a stop before the horses.
Henry looked thoroughly amused. “Both, I suppose.” He reached for her to lift her onto her mare but she smacked his hands away. He stared at her in shock.
Sybil hadn’t realized that the rest of their party was already there and had heard every bit of the exchange. They’d seen her smack his hands, too. That wasn’t the behavior of a good wife. Oh, Hell!
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Men don’t – that is, I’m not used to someone touching me like that –”
“Good,” Henry said simply. And there was a note of satisfaction there. He didn’t like the idea of another man touching her. That didn’t mean much but it pleased Sybil all the same. But then it terrified her, remembering just how he would be touching her tonight . . .
He put his hands on her and lifted her into the saddle seemingly without effort. She was once again shocked by how gentle he was. He set her feet in the stirrups as she pretended to smooth out her dress with shaking hands.
She cleared her throat. “Henry?” It didn’t sound quite right to call him by his Christian name when they were still strangers, but she wasn’t sure how else to address him. Thankfully, none of the others seemed to be listening. “May I call you Henry?” she asked quietly.
Henry grunted in the affirmative.
“Henry,” she continued, her gazed focused on his beard rather than his eyes, “when we stop tonight to make camp –”
“You’ll sleep beside Catherine until we reach home,” he said simply. “You ought to at least have a roof over your head.”
Sybil was so relieved she could’ve fallen off her horse. She had never made love before, but she had done other things with her father’s friend – or rather, her father’s friend had done things to her – and they were shameful and painful and frightening, and she never wished to do them again, especially not like this.
“Thank you.”
Henry grunted noncommittally and mounted his horse.
He was absurdly large and uncomfortably silent but he was kind. That, at least, was something.
I have like less than a page to write for this new chapter but I’m just dragging my feet because it’s just a doozy, so here’s a (non-spoiler) clip.
Simon frowned, and for the first time, he seemed to resemble Henry. “Will you talk to her about it? About Mercia being there?”
“Me? Why not talk to her yourself?”
“I feel awful asking her to do anything; she’s an angel. And I don’t want to start a marriage arguing.”
Thomasin nodded. “All right.”
She couldn’t be with her family; Simon could and should be with his.
Thomasin went to Elaine the next morning – the morning of the wedding, if Simon had the energy for it – with her words chosen. But her intervention was unnecessary. Elaine had already given in to her daughter’s wishes. “You mustn’t touch him – only his right hand. He’s all bandaged and bruised, so he doesn’t look like he did before.”
Mercia’s relentless joy faltered. “It’s scary?”
“No,” Thomasin assured her.
“His face comes back?”
“Yes,” Elaine said. She knelt before her daughter and adjusted the little girl’s dress. “His wounds will heal soon and he’ll be back on his feet – and you can chase him all around the keep just like before.”
Henry sat by himself, looking up at the sky through a spray of green leaves. How long would it be before he had time to himself again? All his waking moments would soon be divided between Sybil and his duties to the clan. She was a permanent part of his life now, like his Uncle Patrick’s knee injury from his youth that never quite healed.
“Henry,” Sybil called. Oh God – she’d injured herself somehow, hadn’t she? “Will you help me?”
Henry pushed himself onto his feet and followed the sound of her voice to the stream, where she was furiously combing through her hair with her fingers. It was very long and very dark, but Henry was too distracted by all the dried mud in it to admire it. She didn’t look injured at least.
“What?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Can you help me with my hair?”
He grunted in a tone that suggested he required further information.
“It’s filthy,” Sybil said. “I’d like to clean it.”
“We’ll be home in less than a week,” her husband replied. “You can wash it then.”
“Five days is a long time to live with all this dried mud on my clothes and in my hair.”
Silence.
Sybil pressed her full lips into a grim line and glowered at him. “Can you at least help me braid it?”
More silence.
A/N: Hopefully coming this weekend or early next week! I have the next couple of chapters already planned out!
New chapter of Prisoner coming next week. I’m rewriting it for like the third time because I think the story is in a rut and it wants to kill me.
I’ve started writing that Henry Highland romance. Not sure how it will progress/if I’ll make a story out of it (plus no name ideas yet) but here’s a chunk of the chapter I wrote. Starring grumpy Henry!
FIRST CHAPTER NOW UP!
Masterlist
NOTE: this is in the same vein as Prisoner (medieval romance) but I promise it’s different.
British Isles, 1196
“It makes me feel better about sending my oldest girl to the highlands next summer, knowing her husband’s land is close to yours. She and Catherine can visit,” the old man said.
“Which is his clan?” the Scot asked in his deep, monotone voice, watching his kinsmen excitedly reacquaint themselves with his cousin. Catherine wasn’t offended that Henry wasn’t showering her with affection; that simply wasn’t his way. He hadn’t even embraced her yet.
“Maclean,” Baron Hampton said. “Sybil is to marry the laird’s eldest son.”
Henry’s ever-present frown deepened, changing into an expression of fury rather than boredom. Maclean.
The baron's sons didn’t miss the way the Scots jaw tightened, muscles flexing subconsciously as if preparing for an attack.
“I’ll have her,” he said abruptly.
He hadn’t even seen the girl’s face but it didn’t matter. She could have claws and a beak and he’d have her all the same. If a Maclean intended to have her, then Henry would take her away from him. Anything to damage Laird Maclean’s pride, though ripping a wife out of his hands wouldn’t hurt him too badly. But nothing Henry did would ever hurt him enough to compare to the pain Maclean inflicted upon his first wife.
Henry couldn’t stand to think of it.
Hampton and his sons had to do a double take to be sure they’d heard him correctly. “I beg your pardon?”
Henry slowed his words and raised his voice. The Englishmen weren’t sure if he did it to be mocking or accommodating, as his horrid accent was thick and he was, in fact, difficult to understand. “I’ll have her.”
The Hamptons stared at him silently until he finally elaborated, “Our kings want another marriage to replace Catherine and Garrett’s, so I’ll have her.”
The silence continued. The baron’s eldest son finally spoke. “Why?”
“It will satisfy the kings and Sybil and Catherine can stay together.” It was the truth, though not all of it.
Baron Hampton shook his head. “I’d be happy to keep my ties with your clan through a new marriage - Catherine’s been a blessing - but . . .” He studied the Highlander thoughtfully. “Would you at least like to take a look at my other daughters? Perhaps one of them would be more to your liking.”
Sybil was no great prize.
Henry sneered in disgust. They were talking about human beings, not brood mares. It was disgusting that a man could speak of his daughters as though they were simply property to be traded. But the man was English after all.
“Will you send one of them to the Macleans if I take Sybil?”
“I suppose not. Our kings would be satisfied that a marriage -”
