For the first time, it occurred to her that she might actually end up married to him.
How had this happened? For years, she had successfully thwarted her brother’s efforts to marry her off—and she had planned to continue thwarting him for a long time to come. Quite to her surprise, she did not find the idea of Rory as a husbandwhollyobjectionable. He was forthright and steadfast, uncommon qualities among the men she knew. She enjoyed his company and felt closer to him than the court friends she had known for years.
And then there were those kisses. They had led to wicked thoughts of what it would be like to share a bed with her handsome Highlander.
In truth, if she ever did want a husband—which she most definitely did not—Rory would be a better choice than most.
The prospect of living the rest of her life in the wilderness amidst his wild heathen clansmen, however, sent chills up her spine. From what she’d heard, even highborn Highlanders lived in hovels with nothing to eat all winter but soggy oatcakes.
She imagined herself trapped in a life that was so foreign to herforever. Nay, that could not be her fate. She had to believe that one day it would be safe for her to return to her home and her own life. Until that day came, she would have to survive whatever came.
God help her.
***
Rory stared bleary-eyed into the small campfire he’d built after they ate the trout he had caught and cooked for their supper. He was tired as hell, and his injured leg throbbed. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes to savor the burn of the whisky down his throat. After riding through the night to retrieve Sybil from Drumlanrig and then riding hard all day, he hoped the drink would revive him for the talk he needed to have with her.
“I wouldn’t mind a drink of that, if you’re willing to share,” Sybil said.
He poured her a cup from his flask. After taking a surprisingly long pull, she coughed and choked until her eyes watered. Rory started to reach for the cup, but she pulled it away and gulped down another long drink. This time she barely coughed at all.
He leaned back on his elbow and watched his bride as she made a determined effort to get roaring drunk. Knowing that the prospect of being bound to him for life was what drove her to drink did not sit well with him, but at least he need not worry about his wife criticizing him for taking a nip now and again.
“So tell me,” she said, weaving a bit, “why did ye come back for me?”
“I was wrong to leave ye there in the first place,” Rory said. “I should have known that a man who treats his wife the way William Douglas of Drumlanrig does would have no qualms about putting a kinswoman in harm’s way.”
“That doesn’t answer it,” she said. “Why are ye still willing to claim me after I…after I…”
“After ye made up your mind to set aside our marriage contract and part ways with me?”
She dropped her gaze. “I didn’t mean it as an insult.”
“I understand it’s hard for ye to leave all ye know for an uncertain future with a stranger.” This bit of wisdom had been slow to come to him. He patted his chest, where their marriage contract was tucked under his tunic for safekeeping. “I didn’t destroy the contract, so we’re still bound.”
“I expect my dowry has been forfeited to the crown, along with my family’s other properties,” she said. “On that ground alone, ye could abandon any obligation ye may have to me.”
“What kind of man would I be if I abandoned my bride when she most needed my protection?” Rory brushed his knuckle against her cheek. “Ye must trust that I’d never do that.”
“Then I fear your Highland pride has gained you a useless bride,” Sybil said, lifting her cup to him. After tossing back the contents, she held it out for more.
“I wouldn’t say useless,” he said, fighting a smile as he poured her a tiny measure. “Ye told me yourself you’ve planned twelve-course feasts for three hundred guests.”
“Aye, I know who to sit next to whom,” she said, slurring her words a bit, “because I also know who pretends to have power and who really does, and who is sleeping with whose wife.”
“And ye can read and write,” Rory pointed out. “That’s impressive.”
“Ahhh, those are necessary for sending and receiving secret missives,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. She leaned against him, her soft warmth sending a shot of desire through him, and spoke in a loud whisper. “I was taught all the languages spoken at court and to listen for the hidden meanings and unspoken motives behind the words.”
“Your family taught ye all that.” Rory kept his tone light, but he thought it damned shameful the way her family tossed the lass in the snake pit of court politics to serve their interests and then failed to protect her.
“Oh, aye, I know agreatmany useless things.” She took his flask and drained it, then gave him a broad wink. “But I can pick a lock with the right tool, and that’s something.”
Rory admired how Sybil managed to keep her sense of humor. He was, however, losing his. His bride could not drink enough to cope with having to follow through on their marriage.
Until her plans went awry at Drumlanrig, Sybil had never intended to honor their marriage contract and become his wife. She had used him, just as her family had used her. He told himself that she had only done as she had been taught. And yet it stung.
He’d be a fool to ever trust her.