Victoria Roberts: To Wed A Wicked Highlander

Although Sybella’s loyalties lay with her father, she couldn’t help but feel somewhat deprived. She would never know the feeling of what Angus and Mary shared. She would never know love, because her marriage was nothing more than a ruse.

While Mary continued to ramble, Sybella fell back on the bed and studied the stone walls of her prison—well, her permanent residence for the rest of her days. The bed in which she lay had tall, carved corner posts, and its heavy wooden frame took up the majority of one wall. A beautiful golden coverlet displayed fine needlework, something she would surely never master, and was draped over the feather mattress, which was surprisingly comfortable. On the far side of the room, a painted portrait of someone she had assumed to be Alexander’s mother hung above a fairly large stone fireplace. And her cousin-by-marriage currently occupied the small sitting area, refusing to cease her incessant chatter.

“Angus and I tried to tell ye—”

Sybella pressed both hands over her eyes as if they burned with weariness. She was tired, drained from another lecture.

“God’s teeth! Will ye cease ?” asked Sybella, spacing the words evenly. “If the MacDonell decides to call off the wedding, it will nae be because of my lack of comportment.”

As if her arse was afire, Mary flew to her feet. “I only look after ye, and your first impression was far from a good one. Do ye want your betrothed to see his bride as some uncivilized, unmannered woman? Ye didnae let him assist ye from your mount, and then ye stared verra boldly at him. Ye barely spoke to the man at sup, and must I remind ye again of how dreadful your posture was at the table? Ye sit as a man, Ella. If I may be so bold, ye have made enough errors in judgment that ye should be taking my instruction willingly. Now if ye will excuse me, Angus awaits. Mayhap we will be able to speak again on the morrow when ye arenae so sensitive.”

Sensitive?

“Mary, I love ye dearly, but take your leave before I strangle ye with my bare hands,” Sybella warned.

Stunned by Sybella’s bluntness, Mary snapped her mouth shut. She turned on her heel and strode out the door. Even though it pained Sybella to admit as much, Mary did have a valid point. She had barely conversed with Alexander this eve. She needed to remind herself to make it a personal goal not to call him Alex. God forbid she surrendered that easily and gave the rogue the satisfaction of knowing she’d lowered her defenses.

Taking a deep breath, she drew the conclusion that this was probably not the best way to start a marriage. She hadn’t tried to speak or make pleasantries with the man because frankly, she didn’t give a damn about him. But granted, the last thing she wanted to do was disappoint her father. It was important she please him, make him proud. Laird Kenneth MacKenzie was truly a great man and deserved a daughter who was not an embarrassment to the clan.

Sybella rose from the bed and straightened her gown. What she needed was some fresh air, a new perspective. Perhaps a brisk walk on the parapet would help to clear the haze. She was proceeding out the door when a scraping noise sounded from the opposite end of the hall.

“Is anyone there?” asked Sybella. When no one answered, she closed the door and continued with her purpose.

When she reached the door to the parapet, she saw a disheveled man who had his arm draped over a voluptuous woman with fiery red tresses. Sybella presumed the drunken man was a MacDonell from his bawdy laughter—well, that and the fact that he was wearing a MacDonell plaid. The man pulled the woman roughly, almost violently, to him against the stone wall.

Sybella’s temper flared.

She was about to defend the helpless woman when she froze midstep. The woman responded—by burying her lips against the MacDonell man’s throat and sliding her leg up around his waist. Suddenly, she didn’t appear as helpless as Sybella had initially thought. When the woman proceeded to slip her hands underneath the MacDonell man’s kilt and his expression tightened with strain, Sybella’s eyes rounded with comprehension.

The woman did not need saving.

It wasn’t as if Sybella hadn’t spied on Colin enough to know how the act was done, but she couldn’t disguise her body’s reaction to the sight displayed so openly before her eyes. The man and woman pawed at each other out in the open, not in a bedchamber. At least her brother had enough sense not to be so visible. He would’ve taken his leman to a bed or at least sought a hidden hayloft. But no matter how disturbed she was by witnessing their carefree touches, Sybella could not find the strength to pull away.

The man repositioned himself, and when he let out a guttural moan, Sybella could not help the loud gasp that escaped her lungs. The man’s head turned slightly toward her, and then he gently pushed the woman away from him.

“M’lady.” He attempted to give her a low bow as his companion steadied him. The woman tried to straighten her clothing while the man spoke, his words barely comprehensible. “We were heading to the p-p-parapet. Unless of course, ye w-w-wanted…”

Sybella was glad of the semidarkness that hid the flush on her cheeks. “Nay, I was returning to my chamber. Thank ye.” The last thing she wanted was to be in the middle of a lovers’ tryst, let alone spying on one. What the hell was the matter with her? Why hadn’t she fled when she had the chance?

She walked hastily through the halls, thoroughly embarrassed by the scene she had witnessed. She should’ve stayed in her chamber and sought her bed. That’s what she wanted to do in the first place. Now she was paying a humiliating price for her stupidity.

She had almost reached the safe confines of her bedchamber when she spotted someone ducking into one of the rooms at the end of the hall. In fact, that certain someone looked vaguely familiar.

Moving quietly down the hall, Sybella approached the room. But as soon as she bent over to see if a light was illuminated from underneath the door, the chamber went dark. She hesitated, questioning what she thought she saw. Perhaps it was only her imagination, but she could have sworn…

She lifted her hand and gently knocked on the door. When no one answered, her curiosity was most definitely aroused. This may not have been one of her brightest ideas. Who knew what she could be walking into? The thought barely crossed her mind when someone reached out and pulled her abruptly into the room.

She gasped.

“What the bloody hell are ye doing here, Ella?”

Alexander reveled in the aftermath of the celebration. A few MacDonell men were passed out with their heads down on the tables, not to be outdone by the MacKenzie men who were splayed upon the great hall floor. He never thought he’d see the day when MacKenzie men slumbered on the MacDonell crest inlaid in the stone floor. In any event, Alex sat in the laird’s chair, his father’s chair, pleased at conclusion of the day’s events.

“I see your betrothed has retired for the eve.” John pulled out a chair and sat down. “Did ye fire her ire, or did she run back to Kintail with her tail between her legs?”

Alex chuckled in response and poured John a tankard of ale. “I donna know. In either instance, at least we have the cattle.”

“I hope to hell ye know what ye’re doing.”

Imposing an iron control, Alex spoke confidently. “We already had this discussion. ’Tis a lot of cattle for our clan to be fed and the MacKenzie has taken so much from us already. Think of it as them paying us back for all the things they’ve taken.”

John lowered his voice. “I didnae mean the cattle. Ye’ve shackled yourself with a wife—and a MacKenzie one at that.”