Highland Surrender (18 page)

Myles relinquished the cup and cleared his throat. Half his work was done if the girl had on no clothes, for he’d come to find her with every intention of enjoying his marital rights. “Ruby, that won’t be necessary. Ladies, clear your things. This room is far too crowded for my liking.”

“Myles.” Vivienne took a step in his direction.

But he shook his head, not taking his eyes from Fiona. “Thank you for your attentions toward my wife, Vivi, but you’ve done quite enough. Leave us.”

Vivienne cast a glance at Fiona and started to speak, but Myles cut her off.

“Now,” he said.

The women jumped to action, scurrying like mice to scoop up the fabric and trims and baubles strewn across his bed. He bit back a smile. With one simple request, they did as he asked. No arguing, no defiance. Just calm obedience. ’Twas good for Fiona to see that. Perhaps it might teach his bride a thing or two about proper respect.

Ruby picked up a bit of tan linen from the floor and moved closer to the bed, letting it slide from her hands into Fiona’s.

Well. So much for respect.

Fiona pulled the garment over her head. It appeared to be nothing more than a shift. That should not slow him down by much.

It took only moments for the others to gather their items and leave the room. Vivienne was the last to exit. She paused at the door.

“Remember, Myles, if you crush a flower, it cannot be undone,” she whispered.

He looked to her and saw something vulnerable in her gaze and wondered at her words. But she was gone before he could ask.

And then his wife stood up, turning all his thoughts her way.

She was indeed clad in nothing but a shift, her arms crossed over her breasts like an impenetrable shield, her cheeks and throat flushed pink. “I should very much like to get dressed.”

He paused, letting his eyes take a brief journey over her curves. “And I should very much like to take you to bed.”

She took a step back. “But...it’s the middle of the day.”

He chuckled. Women were so illogical. As if the time of day had any bearing on desire. In afternoon light such as this, he’d be able to see her face and her body. He could watch the red-gold strands of her hair glimmer and watch her skin flush beneath his touch.

His mouth went dry as his palms went moist. Yes, it was the middle of the day, and never so fine a moment to be her husband.

He would enjoy this, taking his time and savoring her like a fine meal, for her body was a banquet to be lingered over. His own body responded, tightening in arousal and realization. This was how he’d tame her. By teaching her of all the pleasures he could bring.

Perhaps he’d not taken enough time with her that first night. Virgins were a different breed altogether, and he should have considered that. But now the barrier had been breached, and there was nothing denying her of satisfaction, save her own stubborn will.

He took a step closer. “It
is
the middle of the day. And you should be well rested, for I watched you snoring on my bed ’til the sun was high in the sky.”

“You watched me?”

“Briefly.” He hadn’t really, but no sense telling her that. Let her mind stir with the implications instead.

She crossed her arms more snugly. Her pert chin tilted upward. “I don’t snore.”

He walked closer still. She took a step back, and another, until she bumped up against the wall. His hands went out on either side, corralling her inside his arms but not touching. She looked up, her frown ferocious as a kitten’s, and his need to taste those lips doubled.

He leaned forward, staring at her mouth. “You needn’t be embarrassed,” he said softly. “’Twas a very ladylike snore. More of a...huffing sort of breath.”

Her lips tightened, until she said, “I don’t huff either.”

He smiled, all his agitation upon entering this room now gone. A pale, delicate vein ran up the column of her throat. He wanted to trace his tongue along it, and would. Soon. “I’d say you’re huffing a bit right now.”

And indeed she was, with short puffs of breath. Her breasts swelled and retreated against her arms. His eyes drifted lower, watching. Lord, she was a prize worth earning.

She was rattled by his nearness, but not afraid, and the realization thrilled him. He plucked at the loose tie adorning the neckline of her shift. She looked to the ground, but he caught her
chin with the fingers of his other hand and brought her face to his once more. “Are we back to this again? The reluctant maiden? You kissed me eagerly enough at the inn.”

Her eyes went round and dark, and she smacked his hand away. “’Twas the bath I was eager for, not you.”

He smiled, knowing how a hawk must feel when swooping down to catch its prey. “Ah, Fiona. More lies?”

“’Tis the truth. I want nothing at all to do with you.”

He cupped her chin once more and whispered against her lips, “Prove it, then. Resist me.”

Vivienne’s words stampeded through her mind as Myles’s lips pressed soft against her own.
Make him want you.
But every ounce of her common sense railed against those traitorous words.

Vivienne was wrong.

Of course Fiona must resist. She was a Sinclair.

She pushed against his chest with all her might and broke the kiss. “Did Odette resist you?”

His face blanked, then suffused with color. His hands dropped to his sides like anvils. “What do you know of Odette?”

Fiona turned away. At last, a chink in his armor. “I know you wanted to marry her. And the king refused. ’Tis tragic, really, that you should be torn from the one you love and left with me instead. I must be a pale imitation.”

His dark brows pinched together. “Odette is none of your business.”

“Oh, but she is. Didn’t you promise God and the priest to love me, and me alone? For all the lies you accuse me of, it seems you’ve told a few of your own.”

She was aiming in the dark with blunt arrows and no clear target. But she thought only to distract him from his original
purpose. Anything to change the course of his mood so he might leave her alone. After all, what should she care if some foolish little French girl had designs on him?

“I’ve told no lies, nor made any false promises. I will honor you with the same dedication in which you honor me.” He strode back to the tray upon the table, picking up the cup and tipping it to his lips. He tapped it to get the last drips of wine. Then he plunked it down again.

She’d made him angry. Good. She knew better how to deal with him when he was angry. It was his gentleness against which she had no weapon. When his voice rose and his face turned red, she could answer with her own fierce temper. But when he was kind, that was when she felt the worst sort of fear.

He ran a hand through his hair and turned back to her. He started to speak, then halted, as if the words would not form. His sword hand clenched and unclenched. At last, he spoke, his voice far more somber than she’d expected. “Fiona, I’d appreciate it if you would not mention Odette again. I did care for her. But she is forever lost to me. Now it’s up to you and I to make our marriage real. I’ll be a good husband to you, if you can give but an inch.”

’Twas an odd method to trick her into bed, telling her he cared for another woman. She thought to say as much, but saved her words. For in his eyes passed a shadow, new to their depths. Or perhaps she’d only failed to notice it before. Either way, she didn’t understand it, and what good would it do her, even if she did?

Once more, he proved himself less her enemy and more a shared accomplice to this farce of a marriage. Even while declaring his lack of trust in every word she’d spoken, he was asking for her cooperation. Not demanding it or forcing it. But simply...asking.

What fragile stuff her Sinclair loyalty turned out to be, for she heard herself saying, “I suppose I could try.”

His shoulders rose and fell, Atlas shrugging off the mantle of the earth. “It’s all I ask. Just try. Now, would you walk over here and kiss me?”

’Twas another request, not a demand. But even so, it was too much. Too much surrender. Too many steps between them. Too fraught with consequence.

She shook her head. “No.”

That shadow passed by once more, and she could see him carefully choosing his next words. “I thought to come in here and bed you so well you’d never resist me again. But now it seems I want that resistance gone of your own accord. I want you to ask for my kisses, Fiona. And when you do, you shall have a thousand of them.”

His words crackled like kindling. But she could not ask, and she never would. She was a weak and feeble foe, less a Sinclair than ever she’d dreamed imaginable. If she gave in to him, he’d absorb every last bit of her until she was no more. Her mother’s murder would go unavenged, forgotten in the winds of time, and her father would haunt her from the grave for her feminine weakness. “I will never ask.”

He picked up the weight of the world once more. “Then this marriage will be a bitter one.”

They stared at each other, neither moving forward nor away, until an urgent rapping at the door broke the trance.

“My lord,” a voice called through the wood. “My lord Myles, your father is awake and bids you come at once.”

Myles took a few short steps and pulled open the door.

A freckled servant with cap in hand stood in the corridor, bobbing his head. “Oh, good. There you are, Lord Myles. Our laird has awakened and bid me to come find you with all haste. He says he must speak with you.”

Myles turned to her. “It seems our conversation must wait.”

“I believe our conversation has already ended.”

His jaw set. She could see she’d frustrated him once more. But it could not be helped. He kept accusing her of duplicity when all she did was tell the truth. She’d never ask for his kisses, not even if they lived to be one hundred.

Though, deep within, she knew if he pressed his suit, she’d not deny him either.

CHAPTER 19

“W
ELCOME TO
D
EMPSEY,
my lady,” said the yellow-haired priest. “I’m Father Darius. I’ve come to escort you to dinner. Lord Myles regrets he cannot do so himself, but I’m afraid the earl’s fever has returned.”

Fiona didn’t like priests. Father Bettney from Sinclair Hall had the disposition of a badger and always made her skin crawl as if ants were upon it. But this one seemed pleasant enough, with pale freckles and an earnest manner. He smiled and offered his arm.

She had little choice but to take it. She could not spend the rest of her days lingering in this bedchamber. And truth be told, as unappealing as dining with dozens upon dozens of Campbells would be, she was getting restless. She’d spent the afternoon alone after Myles left. She thought briefly to venture out on her own, but decided against it when she heard men’s voices streaming in from the courtyard.

“Thank you, Father. Will my husband be joining us for dinner?”

“I don’t believe so. He and his mother are sitting with the earl. But I’ll keep you company. And Lady Vivienne and Lady
Alyssa will join us too. You can tell us all about your life at Sinclair Hall.”

As they walked along the corridor, passing a dozen Campbell portraits, Father Darius told her bits about each ancestor. Their history was rich, and Fiona had not realized how entwined their clan was with the Stewart monarchy. At last turning a corner, they came upon a narrow staircase, leading down and ending with a door.

The priest paused. “Are you ready to meet the rest of your new kin?”

No, she was not. Though she’d met a handful of Campbells, and most had been cordial, who knew what the rest might be like? Beyond this door would be the knights she’d put at risk, and their resentful wives. Or worse than that, the widows she’d helped create. But Vivienne would be there, and though Fiona was still not certain of the woman’s motivations, at least she’d sit by her and not leave her to the wolves. And perhaps Darby would be there as well. That notion brightened her mood, for she missed her little champion.

Fiona nodded once. “Yes, Father.”

“That’s a good lass. I’m sure you’ll find a most gracious welcome. Though, keep in mind, they are worried for their laird. Tensions are running a bit high, and the mood is somber.”

He pulled open the door, and she stepped through into the most magnificent hall imaginable. It was huge, with blue-and-green banners bearing the Campbell crest hanging from every truss. At the far end of the hall hung another flag, larger than any of the others and displayed in the place of greatest honor. It was embroidered with the king’s emblem—a crowned lion and a unicorn—for Dempsey was a Stewart holding, with Cedric Campbell serving as master of the royal household.

Underneath that magnificent flag was a raised dais, where the family would sit to dine, and throughout the hall were other tables, each covered in crisp white cloth and laden with silver plates and platters of food. Musicians sat behind a screen, playing loudly enough to be heard but not so much as to be disruptive, while servants moved about, efficient in their tasks.

Fiona marveled at the scene. ’Twas so unlike the hall at home, where everything had a dingy pallor and a rustic feel. Exiled to the far north by the king as the Sinclairs had been, she’d known little in the way of creature comforts. And once her mother was gone, Hugh Sinclair’s only focus had been training his sons for revenge, not nurturing his daughters or providing a welcome hearth and home.