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write-r-die · 11 months

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By Tomorrow - Part 11

Masterlist

A/n: Hopefully this isn't garbage. Part 5 of Man's World is also in progress.

Henry felt satisfied and guilty in equal measure. Guilty enough to apologize, something he avoided at all costs. Though he supposed he’d apologized about Sybil losing her brother when they met.

A woman’s first time was never pleasant; her husband had no choice about hurting her the first time he took her to bed. But Henry should have at least had more time to prepare her.

Henry believed above all things that a man shouldn’t hurt his family, particularly his wife, under any circumstance, and it weighed on him. Now she’ll work herself up into a fine state and be frightened of me again.

He certainly shouldn’t have left her alone in their cottage with only her racing thoughts for company. He wished at least that he could send Catherine to care for her until he returned, just so she wouldn’t be alone, but Catherine was certainly barricaded in her room in the keep by now.

There were half a dozen unfamiliar horses in the courtyard being guarded by two Macleans; the Cavill warriors watching them looked less angry than bored. None of them acknowledged Henry as he went past; they didn’t trust the Macleans enough to take their eyes off them, even for a moment.

Henry slipped through the massive doors into the keep. Everyone looked up.

There were three young men gathered by the table where the Maclean boy - no doubt their younger brother - lay.

All three wore their yellow hair pulled back and though Henry wasn’t close enough to see their eyes, he knew they were all blue.

Alexander was easy to pick out, since he was the largest and surliest of the three. He and Henry had never spoken directly to each other or even been introduced, but they knew each other well. It’s always wise to know one’s enemy, especially if the enemy in question is the future laird of an enemy clan.

Cameron and Donal, the second and third oldest in Maclean’s large brood, respectively, seemed innocuous in comparison to their older brother.

Cameron was a decent fellow. He always sought out Arran when all the clans came together for the highland games and was sure to pay his respects. He made a point to hold shallow but pleasant conversations with Henry. It was clear that he wished to end the feud between their clans and let peace reign, though Alexander would certainly never reconcile with the Cavills, and Alexander was expected to take his father’s place as laird. But the practice of tanistry - the same practice that would make Henry laird someday instead of one of Arran’s sons - could technically see Cameron elected instead.

Donal was rude and rash but constantly smiling. Alexander at least had the decency to look nasty. Donal just had one of those ridiculous smirks on his face at all times, like he knew just how much he was frustrating those around him and absolutely delighted in it.

The fourth of Laird Maclean’s sons, Ramsey, the only one with dark hair, was nowhere to be seen. Most likely, he’d stayed behind at the keep while his other brothers came to attend their youngest brother, Maclean’s fifth son.

Ramsey was as nasty as Alexander and smiled as much as Donal. Something was broken inside him; it was clear in his eyes. They say he used to kill dogs for sport. Henry was relieved to see he’d been left behind.

Maclean had two daughters, too, but one was married off to a clan faraway, and the second died in childhood.

It seemed another insult to the Cavills that Laird Maclean should remarry and have so many children when Helen died delivering her only one.

Henry crossed to his uncle. Donal, not smiling for once, was the first to look back down at his baby brother. Cameron nodded subtly in greeting. Alexander continued to glare for a long while, his eyes only leaving Henry’s face to look at the crumpled fabric in his hand.

“Is it done?” Arran murmured.

Henry grunted.

“And . . . do you have the necessary proof?”

Henry didn’t grunt so much as growl, and he didn’t hold the fabric out to his uncle for inspection as he might be expected to. Instead he kept it clenched in a white-knuckled grip.

No one was going to see it. It was private. Checking bedlinens for blood was an absurd tradition on its own, and Henry wasn’t going to broadcast what he was sure had been an incredibly uncomfortable experience for Sybil.

Henry wondered for a split second about Maclean’s bedlinens after his wedding night with Henry’s mother.

Arran lowered his voice further. “And the lass – how is she?”

Henry just grunted again.

He didn’t want to tell his uncle that she was overwhelmed and confused and probably frightened. Henry was supposed to be able to remove her burdens and eliminate her fear because that’s what husbands did, or at least what they ought to do, and he couldn’t, and now she was alone, which Sybil, of all people, should never be, and he couldn’t even send her Catherine. Catherine would know just what to do, be able to bridge whatever gap that had just opened up between them.

Henry endeavored to sound casual when he asked, “Where is Uncle Patrick?”

“Finn came out of Catherine’s room to see what all the fuss was about. Catherine stepped out after him.” Arran settled his eyes on the eldest Maclean. “I told him to go back with them.”

Henry could imagine the situation. The Maclean boys had probably looked up at Catherine, and while Cameron’s gaze was surely respectful . . . Alexander’s certainly wasn’t.

The way he looked at her a few years ago when he saw her at the Highland Games – he was practically licking her.

Henry and Alexander had sparred after that, but had to be forcibly stopped when what was meant to be a friendly match turned too violent. Neither man had inflicted enough damage on the other to be satisfied.

“And Patrick agreed to just leave?” Henry asked.

“I insisted.”

Henry grunted. “Will the boy die?”

“He will if they don’t sever the leg,” Arran said. And he might still die if they couldn’t control the bleeding or if the wound caught an infection.

Henry grunted again.

“Laird,” Cameron called, approaching with measured steps.

“Cameron,” Arran replied. They clasped forearms in a show of good faith. Cameron would have offered his arm to Henry, too, but he was intensely focused on glaring at Alexander and Donal as they spoke quietly to one another.

Cameron’s eyes flickered to the fabric balled in Henry’s fist but wisely did not mention it. “May we borrow a wagon from you?”

“A wagon?”

“To bring him home.”

“If you think it wise,” Arran said carefully.

“I would not like to be in a strange place were I in his condition. He belongs at home.”

“You can’t move him in this condition,” Henry said. Arran and Cameron both seemed taken aback that he had actually spoken.

“No, we can’t,” Cameron said. “We know the leg must be removed,” he said reluctantly. “But I don’t want my brother to die in a strange place.”

Henry couldn't help but imagine himself in Cameron’s place, imagine that Will was lying helpless among strangers, or Hamish or Alistair were. He smothered that train of thought before his mind could conjure an image of Finn in such a state.

He would do anything for any of his cousins, but Finn – Finn was different. He was the heart of their family. He was the only person Henry allowed himself to love without reservation.

Cameron and Arran agreed that the best course of action was to amputate the leg here and get the bleeding under control before taking the boy back home. Donal and Alexander were in agreement, too, though they mostly refrained from joining in the conversation.

Henry moved to the edge of the hall where a servant had set out food and drink. He stood by the table as he ate, keeping his eyes trained on the Macleans.

Across the hall, Donal met his eye. As with Cameron, Donal’s gaze flicked to the scrap of linen still balled in Henry’s fist, but he allowed his gaze to linger a moment before dragging it back up to meet Henry’s.

And he smirked.

****

Henry’s knuckles were bleeding where they’d made contact with the glass pane.

Glass was rare and expensive and he was stupid to break it, but it was either the glass or Donal Maclean’s smirking fucking face.

Donal was a right little shit and he wanted to get a rise out of Henry and it bloody well worked, but at least Henry had sought some privacy before he started breaking things - relative privacy, at least. He’d gone belowstairs, and in the short corridor from the stairs that ran between the barracks and the rooms of food stores, he lashed out, breaking everything within reach, including the pane of glass that was to be installed in Catherine’s window as a welcome-home gift from the triplets.

Henry looked down at his bleeding hand and wiggled each of his fingers with varying degrees of success. When he looked up again, Jamison was standing before him, probably going from the barracks to the foodstores.

Jamison’s gaze flicked to Henry’s bleeding hand, the one that still held that scrap of linen. He may not have realized what it was, but if he did he was smart enough not to mention it.

His dark eyes returned to Henry’s pale ones. “Do you want a drink?”

They sat on cots near the door to the barracks. Other warriors were scattered about, murmuring to one another as they cleaned their weapons or played cards. None of them slept, and none of them would so long as Macleans were on their land.

They drank in silence at first, Henry keeping his focus on his cup as he opened and closed his fist. The bleeding had stopped but it grew sorer by the minute.

After a long silence, Jamison cleared his throat and spoke up. “I know it’s never pleasant when the Macleans are near, but it must be especially difficult with your wife so close by.”

Henry grunted. He did not want to talk about what was happening, especially not with Jamison, but the other man wouldn’t be deterred.

The two had always had a strange sort of rivalry growing up, their relationship tense at even the best of times. But Jamison had matured considerably the last few years, especially after his father died and he no longer felt the need to prove himself worthy of his love.

“I never thanked you for choosing me to accompany you to England,” Jamison said. “You had many good men to choose from.”

“I don’t want you to thank me,” Henry said flatly. If he were going to say something kind to the other man, now would be the time. He didn’t.

“You don’t want any apology either, I’ll bet. And I’m not the one who should be giving it to you.”

“I don’t want anything from you. You don’t owe me anything. I don’t owe you anything, either.”

Jamison’s father owed Henry the apology – owed Henry’s mother the apology. But they were dead now, both of them, and death was as close to resolution as anything would ever come.

“I bet you do want something from me,” Jamison said after a long silence. He grinned. “I bet you want me to stop trying to have these conversations.”

Henry cracked a half-hearted smile. “Especially when there are Macleans upstairs.”

“Jamison!” Alistair trotted into the room. “They’re about to sever the boy’s leg. We need help to hold him still.”

Jamison paled but he made no protest. His hands were steady as he set down his ale and rose to his feet. Henry rose too.

“Not you,” said Alistair. “Father wants you to go back to your wife.”

Henry nodded, swallowing his pride. Not being needed here made him feel useless, but he supposed Sybil needed him more. Being a husband was a different sort of usefulness.

It was for the best that he leave, anyway. Jamison’s almost-apology had him thinking of his mother.

***

It was a long time before Sybil was able to rise from bed. She was too uncomfortable to sleep, though crying had drained her of most of her energy.

She dipped a rag in a pail of water and used it to wipe herself down before dressing. It was the middle of the night but a mere nightgown didn’t feel right, didn’t feel like enough. She had the urge to hide her body under every article of clothing she could find.

The utter darkness outside made her anxious. She felt trapped. She was trapped - not just by the laird’s decree for everyone to remain in their homes, but by the highlands themselves. There was nothing and no one for miles. Her friend was out of reach, as was her husband. But Sybil wasn’t sure that she wanted him within reach.

She paced the cottage, braiding and unbraiding her hair over and over as she wished there was someone here she could speak to, because she refused to speak aloud to herself like some doddering old lady, and keeping her thoughts trapped inside her head was like trying to corral a thunderstorm. She’d rather be needlepointing than braiding but the light was far too low.

Had she behaved strangely during the bed? Had something about it felt strange to Henry? What were the chances that he would accept the awkward encounter the same way he accepted her other peculiarities? Would he ask her questions she could not answer?

How was she supposed to talk to him at all after what they’d done? She’d never been so embarrassed in her life - which was truly a feat, considering her propensity to talk without thinking.

Thoughts of her father’s friend kept trying to sneak in. not thoughts of that awful hour in the bathing chamber, but thoughts of him today. Did he think about it at all when he was comfortable at home with his wife and his family? Did he even remember what he’d done to her? Were there other girls he’d hurt?

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard someone at the door - Henry, no doubt.

She leapt into bed, turning her back to the door, and shut her eyes. There was no way he’d believe that she was asleep, not when she was fully dressed and out of breath, but she hoped he would at least be kind enough not to call her out on it.

It was painfully obvious to Henry that his wife was awake. It was also obvious that she was terrified.

He’d ruined things by rushing her. And for what? So Donal fucking Maclean could smirk at him?

Alexander had barely looked in his direction tonight. His indifference was infuriating. Henry wanted him to be angry, so angry that he couldn’t see straight. That was why he’d married Sybil, after all. To take something from a Maclean. To wound one of them.

He wanted Alexander to look at him – maybe even see the bloody cloth in his hand, the proof that he’d stolen something – and be blind to everything else.

He wanted a reason to fight him and beat him and humiliate him and humiliate the whole Maclean clan and its dying laird.

That was why he married Sybil. To use her as a tool, to further his game.

And he felt like shit for it.

He’d been good to her – tried to be, at least. Whatever his motivation to marry her had been, he’d treated her as best as he possibly could. And it wasn’t just out of a sense of duty. At least not anymore.

Henry moved very slowly to the bed and lay above the covers on his back, looking up at the dark ceiling. His wife was rigid beside him.

He had to speak, to tell her about his mother. It wasn’t that he needed someone to know – the whole clan knew; they just never spoke of it. He wanted to tell her because he needed someone to understand.

“My mother . . .” he started. That familiar, sore lump was already swelling in his throat and he swallowed it down. “No one knows exactly what happened when. . . she never told anyone who my – who he was –”

Sybil cautiously turned toward her husband. His eyes were closed, his jaw locked, and he looked frustrated with himself for being unable to speak. She didn’t understand what he was saying but she understood his tone. This was something painful to him. Something important.

He kept his eyes shut as he pieced together the story. “No one knew at the time, but . . . My mother was already with child when she wed Maclean. It was not his . . . I was not his.” He flicked his tongue over his lips. “He found out somehow.”

The story wasn’t complete by any means, but Henry knew that was all he would be able to say tonight without being overcome by emotion, at which point he would probably break something – again.

But that would upset Sybil to the point where she might run screaming from their little home. And he didn’t want to upset her. Not ever.

Sybil’s hand was on his cheek before she knew what she was doing. Henry tensed even further for a moment before relaxing into her touch the slightest bit.

She wasn’t sure what to say to him to make him feel better. There probably wasn’t anything that anyone could say to do that.

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