Highland Surrender (2 page)

“Why?”

“Because then they will covet you, for certain, and I cannot risk it. You must stay here, safe with Bess at Sinclair Hall.”
Until our brothers betray you too.

Margaret flung her arms around Fiona. “But if they take me too, then I could live with you, always.”

Fiona blinked away a hot tear. “No, sweeting, you cannot. I will manage well enough amid our enemy, but I shall rest easier knowing you are not in harm’s way.”

For Margaret, she’d put on a brave face. For Margaret, she would offer herself to the Campbells to do with her what they
may. But none of them would see her quaking in her slippers or shedding girlish tears. Hugh Sinclair had sired sterner stuff than that.

She kissed Marg’s cheek and set her aside, walking toward the bed. “Bess, please help me don that gown. You’re right. ’Tis time.”

Fiona stood at the top of the staircase leading into the great hall. The room teemed with people, enemy and kin all eager to see if she’d be weeping and frail, defiant or obedient. How could they not? ’Twas a day in history when a Sinclair laid down weapons and embraced a Campbell.

Well then, let them ogle in their morbid curiosity. Let them gaze upon the virgin sacrifice her brothers placed at the altar of the king. She lifted the hem of her skirt with one hand, clenching the brooch in the other, and descended. An angel doomed to Lucifer’s pit.

Simon extended his hand to guide her. She ignored him. In moments, he would no longer be her laird, the only blessing of this unholy mess.

The room hushed.

She searched the crowd, seeking the one who would be her husband. But how to know among so many strangers? There was a redheaded giant with a beard so thick one could scarcely tell if there was a mouth in there.
Please, Lord, not that one.
Next to him was another man, tall, broad of shoulder, but with hair halfway to silver.
Not him. Too old.
And yet another, so broad in the beam his saffron shirt could double as a tent at market. These tiny facts her mind absorbed while trying to block out reality.

And then she saw them.

Father and son, of that she was certain. They stood, heads nearly touching as one murmured to the other. With garments
too fine to be practical this far north, they stood within the crowd, yet separated by some invisible barrier. The earl possessed an arrogant, regal bearing, like a peacock in full plumage, while his son had the dark look of a warrior, and one accustomed to having his own way. His broad hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and foreboding clutched at her like brambles of a thicket.

Her foot faltered on the last step as he turned and looked her way.

CHAPTER 2

M
YLES BARELY HEARD
his father’s words for the din in his ears. The hall itself was not loud, but the pulsing of his heart muddled all other sound. They’d ridden without fanfare or mishap into the thick of the Sinclairs’ nest, and now he stood amid men he’d sooner skewer through than dine with. He pulled at the neck of his shirt. It was the finest linen from France, and yet today it scratched like a peasant’s rags.

His father squeezed his shoulder. “Easy, lad. The men will watch our backs and see no harm comes.”

Myles said nothing. It wasn’t a fight that had him rattled. In fact, he’d relish the chance to have at it and dispose of these Sinclairs once and for all. No, it wasn’t a brawl that made him quake. It was the thought of her. His
bride.
The word choked, even inside his own mind.
Unjust
was the next word that came.

King James had promised him a tender mademoiselle. Odette was her name, a sweet bit of French fluff with skin like fresh cream, and lips plump and succulent as a strawberry. She wept when she learned the king had called him home from France. Myles promised to return, but instead, he was standing here, inside a pit of vipers, waiting for a coarse Highland wench with two surly brothers and a vendetta against his family.

The room hushed. A tiny movement caught his eye. There she was upon the step, wearing a threadbare gown well past its days. It was too small and nudged her breasts skyward in a most sinful way. She faltered and rebuffed her brother’s outstretched hand. Her eyes sparked with defiance. No wilting miss was she.

The chasm between clusters of his men and theirs widened as she made her way toward him and his father. Her brothers flanked her on either side, the stocky, brooding one to her left and the tall, observant one to the right. As they approached, her eyes flickered over Myles, like a rabbit in a snare, and then settled upon his father. The tilt of her chin extended.

The earl’s arm dropped from his son’s shoulder as he turned to face them.

The dark one spoke first. “My lords, I am Simon, laird of the Clan Sinclair. This is my brother, John, and our sister, Fiona.”

John nodded once in acknowledgment, his lips pressed tight.

But Myles’s betrothed did not speak or nod or even blink. Her eyes bore into his father. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths.

With some reluctance, Myles tore his gaze from her tantalizing cleavage. She was lovely, his bride to be, and he had not expected that. He thought she’d be plain or freckled, but she was neither. Her skin was flawless, her blue eyes brilliant though rimmed red with recently shed tears, and her hair, so rich in hue it was nearly burgundy, wound round her head in braids with a few curls, defying an attempt to tame them, falling loose. He swallowed and gripped his sword more tightly.

“Greetings to you. It is our honor to be welcomed into your home,” Cedric said.

Myles heard not a hint of sarcasm in his father’s voice, though certainly the honor was entirely the Sinclairs’. This keep was a rickety pile of limestone and mortar held together by piss and
mud. Why the king had sent him here to claim his bride, delicious though she appeared to be, was beyond his comprehension.

Cedric reached out his hands to Fiona’s. “And you, my dear, how lovely you are. May the Lord bless and keep you.”

She kept her hands fisted at her sides. “The Lord has abandoned me, sir, for had He not, you’d be this moment smothering beneath a pile of dung.”

Gasps went round the room, followed by furious whispers. Her words struck Myles like a kick to the head. Not even the noblest of men insulted Cedric Campbell and lived to tell the tale. He turned to his father, expecting rage, but the earl smiled. Not a grand smile, but a genuine one.

“I see you’ve your mother’s spirit,” Cedric said, eliciting more whispers.

“A spirit set free too soon. How dare you mention her as if her death was not your doing!” She slapped the palm of her hand flat against his chest with all her apparent might and left in its place a silver brooch.

“This is yours, is it not?” she demanded.

Simon tugged her back roughly. “Fiona, have a care!”

“Is it not?” she asked again.

Cedric pulled the pin from the thick fabric of his garment and stared down at it. The lines of his face deepened and the smile faded from his lips. He flipped the pin to read the inscription. He raised his gaze to Fiona and then swept over her brothers.

“You know it is. But I swear to you, as I swore to your father for all these years, ’twas not by my hand she died. This is our chance to start anew.”

Simon tugged her farther back and whispered in her ear. Her face blanched, and a tiny breath escaped her lips. John turned as well, to block her from view while the brothers plied her with hushed words.

Myles leaned toward his father. “This is going poorly. She appears to have a most disagreeable nature.”

“Would you not expect a beautiful rose to have some thorns?” Cedric whispered back.

“Aye, Father. But this one has talons. Were she a man, I’d kill her for insulting you so.”

Cedric shook his head. “She is impetuous, like her mother. But a spirited mare is far superior to a meek pony.”

Frustration tapped at Myles. “To ride? Yes. To live with? That is another matter.”

John stepped back into his place, and Simon hauled Fiona before them. Her cheeks were splotched with red; her lips quivered as she curtsied before them. “My lords, I beg you, forgive my imprudent speech. I was overcome with emotions. Have mercy and I shall prove a dutiful wife...and...daughter.” The last of this she choked out in a whisper so soft only they could hear.

At her capitulation, Myles felt an uneasy twist in his gut. He was wholly offended by the insults she hurled, and yet her abject surrender and plea for mercy made him feel grotesque, as if he had somehow abused her. Someday he would ask what threats her brothers had used to bend her will, and the thought gave him a start.

She was to be his wife. He had understood that in the abstract, when her name was merely ink scrawled upon parchment and sealed with the king’s insignia. But this woman would stand beside him all his days and nights forevermore. Suddenly, France and his little mademoiselle seemed very far away.

The marriage ceremony was her purgatory, a postponement of that final judgment condemning her to everlasting doom. Father Bettney, sanctimonious as ever, held the yellowed Bible
in his equally yellowed hands. He wheezed the words of God in a nasal monotone. Fiona often thought if rats could speak, they would sound like this priest. He glowered at Fiona, as if he read her mind and judged accordingly. As if she were Eve in the garden and wholly to blame for this sacramental abuse instead of her brothers. Then Father Bettney spoke the words
love, obey
, and
cherish
, and she could not decide which of these was most offensive.

Simon and John kept close, no doubt afraid she’d flee or incite the Campbells to violence with more reckless words. But she bit her lip and kept a vision of her sweet Marg close to mind, as they had prompted her to do.

When time came for her vows, she recited her part, steady and clear, with head held high. She even managed to still the trembling of her hand when her husband slipped a gold-and-emerald ring upon her finger. It glimmered in the light but was a heavy shackle. Fear sliced a wide swath a moment later as she placed her pale fingers against the brown roughness of his own. His were killing hands, honed for battle. And soon enough they’d be on her.

Then her husband pressed his lips against her own to seal this bargain forged in the devil’s own fire, and she wished she might have venom in her kiss, that he might perish in that moment. But he stepped away, alive. And she drew another breath and lived as well.

The crowd murmured its approval, but no cheering came forth. On this day, only whispers of sympathy and predictions of an uncertain future circulated among the congregation.

After the ceremony, the meal was served without the usual pageantry of a bridal feast. There had been neither the time nor the inclination to celebrate. Fiona sat beside her husband on the dais, with Simon to her right. Cedric, thanks be to God, was next
to John, who kept him deep in conversation. What they discussed, she could not imagine.

Father Bettney gave the blessing, droning on about chastity and duty, though through it all he glared at her as if she were Pandora with one hand on the lid.

Next to her, Myles’s nearness swirled like a hot vapor all around. She was torn between wanting to stare and take in every detail of him, and wishing he might burst into flame and turn to ash. He was tall—taller than John, even. His close-cropped hair was dark, his jaw broad, and were she feeling generous, she might admit his clean-shaven face was not repulsive. His eyes were disconcerting, though. Too bright to be natural, an icy sort of green, like a frosted glen in the early spring.

From the trencher before them, Fiona ate little. A few almonds and figs, a slice of apple, but it all tasted of wood pulp in her mouth. It was expected for her to select the choicest bits of food for her husband, but instead, she kept her hands to herself and eyes in her lap. Her disregard appeared to have little impact on his appetite.

“You’re not eating much. Is the meal not to your liking?” he asked at last. At her continued silence, he leaned over so that his lips nearly touched her ear. She felt the warmth of his breath as he whispered, “How pleased and fortunate I am to have such a silent, docile wife.”

She snapped her head in his direction.
Silent and docile?
Then she saw his smile. He had set the bait, and she had scooped it up.

He laughed at her expression and stuffed a piece of veal into his mouth. “Not so docile after all, aye? I wondered where that chit hurling slurs in the hall had gone. Now I see you’ve just tucked her away.” He nodded once. “Good.”

Fiona’s pulses raced. He’d duped her, and how easily she’d fallen. Fine. If he’d a mind to know her nature, so be it. “’Tis the
company which turns my stomach sour. The stink of so many Campbells has ruined my meal.”

He laughed again. “Is that what I smell? I thought it was you.”

Her face flamed with instant heat. Her brothers pinched and taunted readily enough, but little did she think to get the same from her enemy husband. “I’ll roll in manure each day if the stench will keep you away from me,” she said.