#conner macleod

Arran waited with his hands clasped behind his back. Patrick and their sons stood further off.

“Laird,” she said with a smile, dropping into a curtsey. 

“There’s no need for that,” Arran said, guiding her back to her full height. “Welcome.”

Catherine appeared at her side. “She’s English, uncle,” she said. “Failing to curtsey is the equivalent of spitting in one’s face.”

“Catherine!” Sybil chided. “There’s no need to be vulgar.” She turned back to Arran. “She is right, though. I would hate to offend you in any way, especially after failing to greet you properly yesterday. I am terribly sorry about that, by the way, but Henry is terribly pushy and I was quite tired. Though I’m sure you know how bossy your nephew can be, since he is, after all, your nephew. . .”

Everyone’s eyebrows seemed to rise in unison as Sybil spoke. They looked at Catherine and Henry in amusement or disbelief or a combination of the two. 

Patrick outright laughed when he saw the look on Henry’s face.  

Sybil fell silent, cheeks reddening with embarrassment. Of course they would laugh at her – didn’t everyone always tell her how annoying and odd she was? She wanted to melt into the floor.

Catherine and Henry both shot death glares at Patrick. It was hard to tell which cousin was angrier at his rudeness. Even Arran turned to frown at his brother. But that was just Patrick’s way.

“Forgive me, niece,” Patrick said, still chuckling. “It was the look on Henry’s face that amused me.”

“Oh. Of course.”

Sybil made an effort to speak less while they eat their breakfast but she was too curious and excited for it to make much of a difference. She wanted to ask a thousand questions of each of her new family members.

Catherine, God bless her, knew this and steered the conversation to fit her friend’s desire without Sybil having to speak too much. 

Patrick really hadn’t meant anything by laughing – Sybil was already mostly recovered from the incident; everyone else at the table had already forgotten it – but Henry was still furious. It was his job to make sure Sybil was comfortable and happy in her new home. So far Patrick wasn’t helping.

Henry was distracted from his anger by a tug at his shirtsleeve. Finn stood at his elbow. Henry relaxed immediately. “There you are,” he said. “Are you pleased to have Catherine back?”

Finn nodded. “New horse,” he said, gesturing in the general direction of the stables.

“Yes, he was a present from the MacPherson’s brother,” Henry replied.

“MacPherson gave you a horse?” Hamish piped in.

“We were traveling on foot,” Sybil explained. “The first horse abandoned us after we fell down the slope. He said it was a wedding present. Henry neglected to thank him,” she added.

She expected his family to react to his rudeness somehow, but they didn’t. Perhaps they didn’t hear her right? She looked to Catherine, who rolled her eyes and shrugged. This was just one of his peculiarities to them.

They finished eating. Sybil offered to help the two serving girls carry everyone’s dirty dishes back to the kitchen. One of them thanked her and insisted that Sybil not trouble herself. The other girl ignored Sybil entirely.

“Don’t be upset,” Catherine said to her friend. “She’s only sour because she fancies herself in love with Henry.”

Sybil deflated. “Oh.”

“He never liked her,” Catherine assured her. “She can’t hold a candle to you anyway.”

The breakfast party disbursed. Sybil stood by the foot of the stairs as she pulled on a pair of borrowed boots and wrapped a spare plaid around her shoulders as a shawl so she would be comfortable as Catherine showed her around.

Henry appeared at her side.

“Catherine’s chosen a cottage she thinks will suit,” he said. “She’s done something or other to it, but it’s yours now. Make it however you like.”

“Henry,” she said softly, putting a hand on his arm to catch his attention. “I’ll be glad to go back to our cottage with you, but I don’t think it will work for the two of us to go to bed together at this point – both for practical and religious reasons, as I’m sure you understand. The Church says –”

Henry’s nostrils flared. “You’re speaking in tongues.”

“It’s only for a few days.”

“A few days?” he repeated.

“Usually six.”

“Usually?”

“Yes, that’s generally how long it lasts.”

His patience was at an end. “How long what lasts?”

“My courses.” Henry kept looking at her. “My monthly courses.” 

It took a long moment for Henry to work out her meaning. He half-growled, half-grunted, and walked away without another word. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he was embarrassed. 

They’d begun just this morning, not a moment too soon. she didn’t know what she would have done if they came while she was traveling.

Henry reappeared a few minutes later when Catherine announced her intention to show Sybil around the village. He took her arm and pulled her aside; only Arran took note of iy.

“Are you lying to me about having your courses now?” Henry murmured.

“Why would you think that? You think I wanted to tell you?” she asked, tone dripping with revulsion. “Of course not! It’s private. And you’re a man. Men aren’t supposed to know such intimate –”

“Husbands should,” Henry interrupted.

She disagreed, “Well, you know already so I don’t have to tell you again. Why are we discussing this?”

“I wondered if you were lying,” he said casually. “It’s a fine excuse.”

“Excuse for what?”

Henry sighed. “I know you’re worried about the bedding,” he said, “but you have no reason to be.” She began to speak but he silenced her by holding up his massive hand. “We can wait until you’re more comfortable with me to consummate our marriage. But I won’t wait forever.”

“That’s . . . very reasonable,” Sybil said after a moment. “Thank you.”

He grunted again – more of a frustrated growl this time – and walked away.

That’s very reasonable. Had she expected him not to be?

***

Catherine spent the rest of the morning leading Sybil from place to place and introducing her to everyone they passed. Finn flitted in and out of their company like a woodland fairy. 

Catherine explained early on that her little brother had free reign within the clan, able to come and go as he pleased. But wherever he went, he seemed welcome. 

He had difficulty focusing or staying still for very long; he and Sybil had that in common.

The children stared at her and whispered to one another as she and Catherine ambled down the hillside where the bulk of the cottages were laid out. 

The boys’ parents told them the English had horns and cloven hooves; the girls were intrigued by her relative exoticism and the fact that she’d snapped Henry up as her husband at first sight. They were in love with him, of course, the way all little girls are in love with all older boys who are handsome and sweet.

Sybil greeted everyone in broken Gaelic, but her horrendous accent quickly exposed her as a foreigner. Not that everyone didn’t know already. Henry’s unexpected marriage to an Englishwoman was a hot topic of conversation ever since Catherine and the others returned and explained what happened on their journey.

It was so sensational, in fact, that hardly anyone paid attention when Cameron Maclean, the laird’s second and most decent son, sent his condolences to Catherine in a note wrapped with a lovely purple hair ribbon.

Patrick and Arran were a bit leery of the offering – Cameron, like all living men (including his brothers) – fancied Catherine. But it was a polite, innocuous gesture. He actively sought to smooth relations between the Cavills and Macleans, though everyone knew it was a futile effort.

They made the wise decision not to share the news of this gift with anyone else. Henry was liable to throw a table if he found out. 

Catherine intended to tell Sybil eventually, but now was not the time. She had too much on her mind as it was.

“Sybil here is my very best friend,” Catherine said congenially to one particularly displeased old Cavill woman. She looped her arm through Sybil’s in a subtle show of solidarity. “We are blessed that my cousin chose to take her as his wife. Don’t you agree?”

The woman relented, politely inclining her head at Sybil, before stalking off.

“I appreciate your loyalty, but you don’t need to threaten old ladies on my behalf,” Sybil said. “I’m English. Your countrymen naturally dislike me.”

“I didn’t threaten her. And hating you for no reason other than your heritage is ridiculous.” Sybil was surprised by the passion in Catherine’s voice. “I would have been a Scottish pariah in England were it not for you. I intend to return the favor.”

“You were not a pariah.”

“The women all hated me at first,” Catherine countered.

The men, however, were too busy worshipping at her feet to have a care for her nationality. It made Sybil furious sometimes. Catherine was married yet drowning in male attention; Sybil was as forgettable as she was single. But it wasn’t Catherine’s fault.

“And before you say it, I don’t consider any of those Englishmen to be friends,” Catherine said as if she heard her friend’s thoughts.

Sybil cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I dare say they were very friendly with you.”

Catherine rolled her eyes and then grinned. “Come. Let me show you your cottage. I’ve had it all made up for you.”

Sybil looked out at the vast body of water at the very foot of the hill. “Can’t we stop and see the lake first?”

“Loch,” Catherine corrected. “And no.”

The cottage should have been underwhelming to a noblewoman such as Sybil – she was accustomed to luxury – but she found it charming. It was one large room with a dirt floor. The furniture was sparse to say the least: a bed, two wooden chests, a table, and a handful of stools. The bed was piled with quilts, pelts, plaids, and pillows. It looked almost as luxurious as Sybil’s bed at home. 

She was so overwhelmed by her friend’s kindness that she started crying. She covered her face with her hands. “Thank you.” Her voice was muffled. “This must have taken a long time. It’s lovely.”

Catherine chuckled “You’re welcome. Oh, don’t cry.”

“You know I can’t help myself,” Sybil said. “Leave me be.” She kept talking but her voice was too muffled for Catherine to understand. She finally wiped her cheeks, cleared her throat, and straightened up. “It really is wonderful, Catherine.” She sniffled one last time before her thoughts, as always, turned to other matters.

“I will need at least two more chests, though, for my gowns.” She walked the perimeter of the cottage, poking at just about everything she passed by. “And before you say it, yes, I know I won’t be wearing gowns here but I do like them. I’ll find a way to make them work. Maybe if I separate the tops from the skirts? In any case, I shall find a use for them. And I’ve got to make Henry new clothes now, too. Have you seen the state of his shirts?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have a tough time trying to civilize the fellow.”

“He will have a tough time trying to remain uncivilized, you mean,” Sybil corrected.

A male voice came from the doorway. “Who’s uncivilized?”

Sybil turned to see the man step into the cottage and away from the door.

It was her husband, but it wasn’t. The man before her had only stubble dusted along his cheeks and jaw, was missing at least two inches of curls, and looked some ten years younger. But there was no mistaking it. This was Henry.

“What have you done to your beard?” Sybil asked once she was composed enough to speak. Catherine slipped out of the cottage and her cousin quietly shut the door behind her. 

“Trimmed it,” Henry said flatly.

Sybil shut her eyes to keep from rolling them. “Yes, but why?” Would she really have to drag every word from this man for the rest of their lives? Each attempt at conversation was like pulling teeth.

“You said I was too furry.”

Sybil was so surprised she actually stepped back. “I beg your pardon? I said no such thing.”

“Aye, you did,” he countered, doing his best to bury the smirk attempting to crawl onto his face. “On the road.”

“Henry, women in England are raised with etiquette. We do not say such things to our husbands, especially when we’ve only known them for a few days. Perhaps Scottish women do, but we in England are far more civilized. Furthermore, I have no recollection of ever -”

“That night in the cave after the storm. You were asleep,” he said, the slightest smile playing over his full lips. Lord, she was long winded. One of these days he would have to measure how long she could go on for without stopping for air.

Sybil’s blood drained from her face. She looked absolutely horrified. 

“Did it upset you that I said that? I do apologize. That’s a terrible thing for anyone to say, especially a wife. It’s certainly not my intention to make you self-conscious, and I was asleep so I can’t be held entirely responsible for whatever I may –”

Henry grinned, flashing his immaculate teeth. “No, you did not upset me.”

The smile threw her a bit off-balance. “Then why did you change your beard?”

To please her, of course. 

Sybil realized that as she spoke. Henry was large and quiet and cryptic, but he wanted to please his wife. 

Under normal circumstances, she would’ve wept at that kindness – she wept at everything, especially now when she had her blood – but she managed to restrain herself.

She was hesitant at first as she rocked up on the balls of her feet and reached to brush her hand over his short whiskers. He didn’t tense or flinch, but he followed her with his eyes like he was worried she’d pounce. “You look much younger than before,” she said.

“Did I look very old?”

“Older than you are, certainly, but not old. Not exactly. I couldn’t see your face properly under all that hair. And you’re always frowning.”

He began to scowl at that but caught himself and neutralized his expression before she could say anything.

“You should have let me do it for you,” she continued, brushing her fingers through his hair. It was uneven, but his curls made it hardly noticeable. It was surprisingly soft.

Her touch felt divine. Henry couldn’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. He didn’t understand why it mattered so much.

Sybil wanted to thank him, but like two nights ago when she simply leaned against him, she wanted to do it without words.

She impulsively put her voluptuous lips against his. It was the best way to let him know that she appreciated his actions and what they represented, she decided.

When she pulled away he looked curious and cautious and amused. She looked confused by her own actions. Her eyes didn’t meet his, instead resting on his plush lips. They were surprisingly soft, like his hair.

Henry slowly leaned forward, lowering his head until they were face to face. He stopped just before their lips met and waited, knowing he might drive Sybil away if he was too aggressive. But the moment she closed the distance between them, he became ravenous. 

This was very different from when he kissed her at their wedding. 

She suspected she felt his tongue then; she knew she felt it now. Not poking or prodding like she imagined it might be, but all soft and warm and lingering. She started to relax against him, leaning into him, and his hands – which were previously folded behind his back – came forward, his arms encircling her waist.

Henry was doing his best to be careful, taking all his cues from the way she responded to him. The last thing he wanted was to scare her off. But there was no danger of that. Sybil was enjoying this just as much as he was. Too much.

Henry’s heart sank when she put her hands on his chest and pushed herself away from him. He loosened his grip on her but didn’t let go.

“Wait,” she gasped.

He grunted questioningly. He sounded concerned. If that was possible. Could someone grunt in a concerned fashion? 

Sybil still couldn’t meet his eye. They’d have to work on that, Henry decided. 

She shifted her weight uncomfortably. “It’s just – we ought to stop now since we cannot . . . because of my courses . . . and it can cause men pain when they can’t be fulfilled – you know – if they don’t complete – and I do not want to cause you injury –”

Henry arched an eyebrow. “What?”

“I said – I – you know what I said, Henry. Please don’t make me say it again.” She was already flushed with embarrassment – and from something else, something Henry had stirred inside her, but that she was reluctant to name.

“Where did you hear that?” he was clearly suspicious. “Who would say that in front of you?”

Her father’s friend told her so when she asked him to stop. She didn’t want him to be in pain, did she? She didn’t want to damage his health or injure him, did she? Of course not. So she mustn’t ask again. She must be quiet and let him – 

“I must’ve overheard the servants talking,” she rushed out. 

He grunted. He shouldn't be surprised she heard that – it was probably a common excuse among Englishmen when their wives were unwilling – but he didn’t like that she heard it.

“That’s not true,” Henry said. “It’s unpleasant not to finish once you’ve started, but it doesn’t cause any harm.” It was downright painful actually, but it didn’t cause any harm. He decided to keep the painful bit to himself.

Sybil stared down at her hands, probably too embarrassed about it all to meet Henry’s gaze.

He ducked his head low to catch her eyes. His voice was all gentle and soft. “Any time you want me to stop, I’ll stop. Whether or not you have your courses.”

She looked up, surprise clear in her warm brown eyes. “You will?”

“Yes.”

“Always?”

“Yes.”

So not only would he wait to bed her, but he would also stop dead in his tracks if she asked him to when the time finally came? That didn’t make a bit of sense. 

Henry grabbed his wife under the arms and hauled her out of the cave without first attempting to wake her. She was deeply asleep, and therefor couldn’t register the alarm she should feel over being hauled out of her cave.

She wavered when Henry set her on her feet, still more asleep than awake. He didn’t have time to wait for her to rouse herself. He grabbed her clothes and started dressing her without much fanfare. She was awake by the time he was done.

“I’m not a child,” Sybil said sternly. “I am capable of dressing myself.”

“You would’ve taken too long,” said Henry. He climbed back into the little cave to check if they’d left anything behind. He came out holding the delicate white ribbon Sybil had been wearing in her hair. It was frayed and muddied. He held it out at her and prayed she wouldn’t be upset over something so inconsequential.

Sybil took it. she started to use her free hand and her teeth to tie it around her wrist. Henry grunted disapprovingly and took over the task himself. 

“Can you tie a bow?” Sybil asked. Henry had to look at her to tell if she was being serious. She was. 

Should he even attempt it? What did it matter? What a silly thing! He heard Catherine’s voice in his ear, hissing that this was a difficult journey for poor Sybil, and this what literally the least he could do to comfort her.

He returned to his task looking none too pleased. He had nimble fingers, Sybil noticed, despite their size. He frowned in concentration; she nearly laughed at the expression on his face. He grunted and stepped back when his task was complete. The bow looked like it was made by a child, lopsided and ugly, but it was indeed a bow.

Sybil turned her face up to look at Henry. He was frowning down at his handiwork, his curls falling forward the slightest bit. If she didn’t know better, she would say he was embarrassed.

“Thank you.”

Another grunt and they started walking.

Sybil started monologuing and Henry tuned out so he could think. She was very feminine, his wife. He wasn’t sure what to do about it. He liked it, he supposed, but he didn’t think it was very practical for a life in the highlands. Still, he was confident between the two of them – him and Catherine – they could keep her in good health. Catherine might even be able to keep her in good humor.

Henry soon outpaced her.

She looped her arm into his and held on; he was either going to shorten his stride or drag her to their destination. She refused trot along like a horse trying to keep pace with him.

“You walk too fast,” she said. 

His usual grunt.

“Your legs are far longer than mine. And you’re not tripping over your skirts – no, yours is trimmed short.”

His arm felt more like a tree limb than a human appendage. Her grip did nothing to slow his pace.

“Not a skirt,” he grunted. “Kilt.”

“Yes, yes, kilt. Do you wear them in the winter? Don’t your legs get cold? Why don’t you just wear trousers?”

“Why don’t you?” he countered.

“Henry, don’t be absurd.”

He huffed. “Trousers are constricting.”

“I suppose that’s true. You know, my brothers’ tutor said that the Romans always wore skirts – I’m certain it was skirts and not kilts – and they thought it was barbaric to wear trousers because the men in most of the places they conquered wore them, and the places they conquered were entirely uncivilized.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“They were in England, you know – the Romans, I mean – but they never took Scotland because the Scots were too wild. That’s why they built Hadrian’s Wall, to keep the Scots away from their civilization. I don’t think they conquered the Irish, either. They are truly wild. Wilder than the Scots, even.”

Grunt.

“Is Scots even the right word? I think perhaps your people were called Picts in those days. In any case, the Scots or the Picts or whoever it was in the Roman days painted their faces blue, I hear. Do you still do that? What for? If you’re attempting to camouflage yourself, I assure you blue is not a choice color for it. Green, perhaps. There are lots of green things in Scotland. And grey things. Does everywhere in Scotland look like this? Are there flowers anywhere? I’ve only seen thistles so far – not that those aren’t lovely, of course. I heard that thistles saved Scotland from being conquered by Vikings because the Vikings fought barefoot and when they stepped on thistles . . .”

She went on like that for a good hour. Henry tried to tune most of it out, though he grunted sometimes to give the impression that he was listening.

“. . . but then, of course, so are most things. Do you know what? I think we ought to –”

“We’re almost out of Armstrong territory,” Henry interrupted.

“Oh, well that’s good. Whose territory will we cross into? Are they friends? I hope so. That way you can relax.”

“The MacPhersons’. Allies,” he said, “And I never relax.”

“Unfortunately, I think you’re right,” said Sybil. “You ought to try a hot bath with lavender. When I was younger my mother made me take hot baths with lavender nearly every night. It was the only way I could calm down enough to sleep. The servants were furious over it. They hated lugging water up and downstairs every night, not to mention heating it, but it had to be done. I still try to bathe once a week if I can. I know it’s strangely often, but bathing every night got me into the habit.”

Another twenty minutes, and they crossed the border into MacPherson territory.

Sybil only paused her monologue to complain that she was thirsty.

Henry fought the urge to tell her that it was because she was talking too much, and if she ceased, her problem would, too. They stopped at a clear pond.

Sybil daintily scooped up handfuls of water and drank from her palms. Henry just leaned his head over the water and drank straight from the pond. Sybil did little to disguise her distress.

“You should do the same,” Henry said, wiping his mouth on his wrist. “It’ll be faster than what you’re doing now.”

“What?” Sybil asked. “Drink like a horse from a trough?” Henry just looked at her. “It’s not very ladylike.”

“Good thing you’re not a lady anymore,” her husband said. She lost that title when she married.

She frowned. “Lairds have ladies.” 

“Aye, but I’m not a laird.”

Sybil considered for a moment. “You mustn’t look.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t proper and I don’t want you to watch me do it and think I’m some . . .”

Henry was genuinely confused. “I just did it.”

She gave him a slightly disgusted look as if to say, Yes, that’s my point exactly.

“I’d still like you not to watch.”

They stopped early to camp. Henry sat down, leaned his broad back against an apple tree, crossed his arms over his chest, and promptly fell asleep. 

Sybil never rested easily. It always took her ages to fall asleep, and even then she woke for a few hours two or three times a night. That was usually all right because she slept alone, so there was no one to bother, but she’d soon be sharing a bed with her husband.

She was able to push the memory of his part out of her mind for most of the day, but now that he was asleep, she worried it might appear again. Well at least it wouldn’t be digging into her backside this time.

She could use him as a pillow, like she’d used his arm the night before. But she did not think it would be proper to lay her head in his lap, especially since his legs were bare. Her eyes lingered on the defined muscles of his thighs.

No, she certainly could not lie in his lap. What if he crossed his legs in his sleep? He’d either smother her or crush her skull. Not to mention all that hair. 

How large would their bed be? They would certainly have to share one; despite all the empty space around them, highlanders supposedly preferred one-room cottages. Like peasants.

Sybil was a peasant now, at least until Henry succeeded his uncle as laird.

She exhaled loudly through her nose and lay down on her back. Then rolled to her side. Then huffed and rolled onto her back again. She just couldn’t get comfortable.

After about an hour of twisting and huffing, Henry finally stirred.

“Go to sleep.” Henry didn’t even open his eyes when he gave the command.

“I can’t. I never can.”

“Last night you slept like the dead.”

“Last night I nearly was dead.”

“Shall I take my clothes off then? Perhaps we should recreate the circumstances.” He cracked an eye open to see her reaction; her back was turned to him. Too bad. He would’ve liked to see the expression on her face. 

She said nothing and remained still. Henry shut his eyes again, figuring she finally fell asleep, when she sniffled. 

And then she sniffled again.

And again.

Henry was about to order her to blow her nose before he realized that she was crying.

“Are you weeping?!” he said, incredulous.

“No.” She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Yes. You’re supposed to be sleeping. Go to sleep.”

If only that were an option.

“Why?”

Sybil turned to see his expression. Was he joking? “Are you really asking my why I’m crying?!” Her voice was shrill.

Henry just looked at her. Was he not supposed to ask? He thought he was being considerate for asking after her feelings but apparently not.

There were a number of reasons, the foremost being that she was frightened so far from home. Also she was tired and cold and hungry and she didn’t like sleeping outdoors and she didn’t have Catherine there to allay her fears. And Henry – she didn’t know what to make of him or how to act around him. And she was due to start bleeding any minute now. She would have started already if she weren’t so anxious over her situation this past week of traveling.

Henry should at least be able to guess at one of these reasons.

He shuffled away from the tree and lay flat on his back. He extended his arm towards Sybil as he did the night before and made her rest her head on it.

“Quit shoving me around,” Sybil snapped, but she instinctively nuzzled into the crook of his elbow. Her back was still to him. “I don’t like it when you toss me about like a doll. If you would just speak, just ask me to do something, I would. Like waking and dressing this morning! Or getting on a horse. I can do things myself.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. 

Henry was at a loss. “But it’s easier and faster if I do them for you.” 

“That’s not the point,” she hiccupped.

If that wasn’t the point, then what was? It was probably best not to ask, but he needed to stop her crying somehow. Husbands should look after their wives, including their feelings. He wouldn’t fail. Too many people failed his mother and he’d rather have his guts pulled out in front of him than be like them.

That gave him an idea. He was shit at comforting her so far, so maybe distracting her would be a better course of action.

He clenched his jaw and gathered his courage. If only he had some ale. In a gravelly voice, he said, “My mother was married to Laird Maclean. For a short time.”

Sybil turned to look at him in shock, but Henry’s gaze was fixed on the night sky. His expression was no grumpier than usual but the poorly masked tension in his voice told her all she needed to know.

What did that mean? Was Henry the Maclean laird’s son, then? His mother must’ve left her husband and returned to her clan and perhaps obtained an annulment. But why was Henry still a Cavill? No man in England or Scotland would allow his wife to steal a son, especially one as hearty as Henry must’ve been as an infant. And he'd grown into a fine specimen – wouldn’t Maclean want him back, to make Henry his heir? 

Maybe Henry was the product of a second marriage. That made the most sense but it seemed too clean, too simple. Catherine never discussed Henry’s father with Sybil. Why hadn’t he come up in conversation in the two years they spent together?

There was more to the story. There must be. But Henry was reluctant to give her even this morsel of information; the full explanation wouldn’t be coming any time soon. 

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked when she was able to speak again.

“You asked me why I hated the Macleans. That’s why.” And then, gently, “Go to sleep.”

Sybil’s instinct was to hug him but she didn’t think he’d welcome the embrace.

She couldn’t sleep for a long time. Neither could he. So they lay in the dark with nothing to say. 

“For the love of –” Catherine raised her eyes heavenward. “Anything. Speak to her about anything. You could tell her about the Highlands –”

“Why? She’ll see them herself soon enough.”

“Then ask her something.”

“Like what?” he asked, turning back to his work.

“Something about her family, about what she likes and dislikes.”

Henry conveyed his ambivalence with a grunt.

“Henry Cavill,” Catherine said through her teeth. “You’re the one who decided to marry her. The least you can do is be polite.”

Henry sat beside Sybil as the group shared their evening meal around the fire. Catherine sat on his other side so she could subtly nudge or whack him if he didn’t keep up the conversation. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?”

“Oh, quite a great deal,” Sybil said. “My mother and father had four children together – I was the third to be born, and the first girl – and my stepmother had two children from her previous marriage. Then she and my father had another six, though only five of them are still living.”

Henry dared to hope she was finished speaking when she paused, but it was only to catch her breath.

“Then of course there are my father’s other children.” Illegitimate, she meant. It was surprisingly polite of her not to call them bastards. “There are four of those, though the girls were sent away to a nunnery. The boys still live with us. Garrett was fond of them, but the others are. . . not. Really, most of my brothers and sisters are awful, except the one that is too young to speak, though I’m sure he’ll be a terror now that he can walk.”

Catherine cleared her throat when silence fell. 

Henry scrambled for something to ask. “What are their names?”

Henry was exhausted by the time his wife finally went to sleep. If Catherine considered this to be Sybil being shy, he shuddered to think what she’d be like when she was outgoing.

Sybil didn’t sleep much – she never did – but that night she was more restless than usual. She kept looking across the clearing at her husband’s sleeping form. There wasn’t enough moonlight to see his features, but his enormous silhouette was perfectly outlined as he reclined against a tree.

In this moment he seemed less like a bear and more like the tree he leaned against: strong, silent, sturdy, and large. He no longer seemed predatory, though he was still terribly intimidating. 

And handsome. Damn if he wasn’t the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on.

Henry was also awake, watching his wife from across the clearing. She was a restless sleeper, tossing and turning every few minutes, but she seemed settled for the moment. She lay facing him on her side. He found himself wishing he could make out her features.

He wondered what she thought of him. Did she like him better now that he’d made an effort to engage her in conversation? He wanted her to like him. Under other circumstances, he wouldn’t care, and part of him found it silly that he did. But they were married now, and he was determined to be a good husband. And that meant his wife ought to like him.

***

They rode side by side for the next three days. 

Sybil spoke and Henry pretended to listen. He was distracted by the heavy sky and by the state of Sybil’s horse.

There was clearly a storm on the way, a bad one by the looks of it. The sky darkened from a pale grey to a deep shade with became almost purple. It looked like a bruise.

He did not know how Sybil might handle the rain. Would she melt? Catch an illness? Complain? Regale him with a drawn-out tail or her last experience with rain? 

The horse was clearly struggling to keep up with the others. The journey to the Highlands was difficult and long, and Henry feared his wife’s pampered steed wasn’t cut out for the journey. He should have noticed when he examined the beast before leaving the keep but he'd been distracted.

Unfortunately, he was right. 

The horse broke its ankle on its way up one of the many steep, stony slopes they crossed daily.

Sybil fell so hard that the wind was knocked from her lungs. She lay on the grass, speechless and stunned, as the men hustled to help her.

Her husband crouched near her face – not so near that she could see up his kilt – and frowned. “Is anything broken? Does anything hurt?” He didn’t sound overly concerned. 

Sybil struggled to answer him, but her lugs wouldn’t expand. Fear clutched her heart like a fist. Her hand flew out, grabbing a hold of his arm, and she dug her nails into his skin as a look of terror came over her.

“Don’t panic. You’ll be able to breathe in a moment.” He held her eyes and nodded encouragement until she managed to suck in a breath of air. The others lifted the crying mare from Sybil’s legs; Henry put his hands under her arms and hauled her back a few feet before she could shout at him to get that horse off of her.

“Sybil!” Catherine appeared beside her. “Are you well? Were you harmed?”

But Sybil wasn’t paying attention. Her eyes were locked on her horse and on the men tending to it. A bone peeked through the flesh of the animal’s leg. There would be no saving it.

“Sybil.” Henry took her chin in his hand and turned her head away from the animal so she was forced to look at him. His calloused hand was rough but warm against her face, his touch feather-light. “Are. You. Hurt?”

“No. Just bruised.” Henry released her and she turned her head back. Owen had produced a knife and was deciding where best to stab the animal. “My horse –”

Henry grabbed her chin again. “Don’t look.”

She ignored him, turning back for a final look at the grey that had been her companion for as long as she could remember.

She gasped and shut her eyes when Owen plunged his dagger. 

“I told you not to look,” Henry said. He sized her up, wondering if she would regularly ignore what he told her despite her apparent willingness to please and awkwardness around him.  Not that he planned to ask much.

He hauled his wife to her feet while the others discussed what to do with the carcass. 

“We should at least pull it into the bushes to hide it,” said Hamish. “We don’t want Clan Armstrong to know we were on their land.”

Jamison shook his head. “No, let’s keep riding. We’ll be out of Armstrong territory soon enough. It won’t matter if they see it.”

“It’s good that Finn wasn’t here,” Catherine said, linking her arm in Sybil’s as she led her back toward the other horses. “He has such an affinity for horses. Laird Arran – mine and Henry’s uncle, remember? – once had to kill a lame horse in my brother’s presence. He was inconsolable.” 

Sybil was sufficiently distracted from her own grief for the moment. She didn’t realize Henry was so close behind her, and she was taken entirely by surprised when he lifted her from behind and set her on his own horse.

“Oh, Henry, please don’t do that.”

“What?” he asked, adjusting his horse’s girth. He did not look at his wife. “Touch you?”

“Sneak up on me like that,” Sybil said. “If you continue to do so, I promise I shall die of fright and you’ll have a dead horse and a dead wife.”

He grunted. 

“Do you promise?” 

“Promise what?”

“That you’ll quit surprising me like that. Will you promise?”

“No.” He climbed on behind her and she contorted her face as if she’d just eaten something sour. Henry smothered his smile.

They rode in silence for only a few minutes before Sybil turned to look up at her husband. “Why were they debating whether to hide my horse?”

“So the Armstrongs wouldn’t find it,” Henry said.

“Yes, but why? Do the Cavills hate the Armstrongs?”

“No.” There was a pause before he added, “But we don’t love them, either.”

Sybil sighed. “Do you love anybody?”

He grunted again. She said nothing.

Henry knew her silence meant she was upset over the loss of her horse but didn’t encourage her to speak, and he didn’t dare say anything himself. He was of no use in offering comfort. What’s more, he was annoyed with himself for letting her ride that pampered horse in the first place. He should’ve known at first glance that the beast wouldn’t survive the journey, but he was too distracted at the time.

It was close to nightfall when the rain began. They should have stopped to make camp earlier, but they were still in Armstrong territory. They could not camp until they crossed the border into ally territory, where they were permitted to camp

Distressed by the sudden cold, Sybil wiggled closer to Henry until she was pressed against his chest. Henry couldn’t decide whether he liked it or not. She was all softness and warmth and yes, she was beautiful, but he wasn’t sure whether he liked her personality. Not that a woman’s personality had mattered much to him before.

Anyway, he was pretty sure he scared her shitless.

They kept riding as long as they could before the earth beneath them turned to slick mud that tugged at their horses’ feet, threatening to suck them under. 

Poor Sybil shivered like a pup left out in a winter storm. She looked bloody miserable.

Catherine wasn’t much better off. The wind blew her hair out of its loose braid, and the freezing water glued it to her face and neck. She was trembling worse than Sybil – she had no one to snuggle up to – but she didn’t look half as miserable. She was a Highlander, after all, and had more grit than any English girl.

“We have to stop,” Jamison called in as loud a voice as he dared. “The ground is too soft. The horses won’t be able to keep going much longer.”

“No,” Owen said. “What if the Armstrongs find us? We’re on their land without leave. They would have cause enough to do us harm.”

“Who would come looking in this weather?” called Hamish.

“We’re leaving tracks in the mud,” said Owen.

“They rain will wash them away,” Jamison said. “It’ll wash us away, too, if we don’t take shelter. This is no weather for a woman to be outside in.” He turned to Henry for support. “You must see that I’m right.”

Henry looked first to his cousin and then to his wife, frowning. “We ride as long as we can,” he said.

It wasn’t very long.

Horses were obedient by nature, but they also had an instinct for self-preservation. Henry’s horse was barely more than a yearling. He took it with him to England because it was young and strong and his own horse had recently passed, not because it was a favorite of his.

Now he downright hated the thing as much as it seemed to hate its situation. It was loud and slow, and Henry believed it was purposely making it gait uneven.

And still the storm did not let up.

Sybil was too tired to notice. The chill and exhaustion outweighed her leeriness; now she was practically glued to her husband, which both pleased and annoyed him in equal measure. She was lovely and pleasant and warm but also terribly distracting. He didn’t need to be distracted.

A gust of wind snapped a long, thin branch from a tree; it fell at the horse’s feet at the same moment as lightning flashed in the sky. 

Startled, the horse reared up on its hind legs, throwing Sybil and Henry to the ground. The mudflow weighed down their clothes and tried to pull them down. Henry had a long reach and a strong arm, but there was nothing for him to hold onto for stability, no way to gain a foothold, so he grabbed onto his wife. Hamish and Jamison surged forward, reaching for their friend to pull him onto solid ground.

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 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.