Highland Surrender (38 page)

“Come, sit here.” He guided her to a chair not too far from the king, but the others remained standing.

Vivienne moved forward. “Your Grace, may I have the honor of introducing Sir John Sinclair, Lady Fiona’s brother.”

James rose from his chair and now stood with his hands behind his back, his eyes hawkish in their perusal, looking every bit the powerful sovereign. He took John in, from his well-worn boots to the dingy brown cloak.

John shifted on his feet a moment and then stepped forward to kneel down before the king. “Your Grace, I am your humble servant. I pray you forgive this interruption and hear my message.”

The king turned and walked back to his chair. He sat down heavily. “I hope for your sake that this news is worth my time.”

John remained on one knee, his head bowed. “I believe you will find the information useful, Your Grace. Distressing, but useful.”

The king sat forward. “Distressing, you say? ’Tis poor judgment to bring me distressing news, don’t you think? Then again, Sinclairs are not known for demonstrating sound judgment, are they?”

Fiona could tell by his tone that he taunted, and John’s ears burned pink. She could not help but intercede. She rose from her chair. “Your Grace, we are most grateful for the friendship you have offered our clan. It is the spirit of friendship and loyalty which brings us here today to warn you of impending danger.”

The king’s gaze met with Fiona’s, and he relented, waving his hand toward her brother.

“Get up, Sinclair. Tell me what you’ve come to say.”

Fiona thought to step over toward John, to weave her arm through his, but she stood motionless, nerves rooting her to the spot. It seemed he was on his own with this tale of treason.

“It is no secret, Your Grace, that Hugh Sinclair sought to keep you from your throne.” John’s voice was strong, and Fiona felt a surge of pride at his courage, even while wincing at this reminder of their family’s faulty allegiance. “At his knee, I was
taught to wish for the same. However, as a man, I would have you know I pledge my loyalty to you, and you alone.”

James tilted his head, his expression bland. “As well you should. I am your king.”

“Yes, Your Grace, and I know you for a wise and gracious sovereign. However, there are those in the Highlands who seek even now to purge you from the throne and bring Archibald Douglas back to power.”

James stood in an instant, all pretense of relaxation gone. Her brother flinched but held his ground.

“Who among those Highland curs panders to Douglas? Give me their names.”

John swallowed. “I offer you better than that, Your Grace. I can give you their signatures.” He stepped back and removed his doublet while the others watched in curiosity. He laid it on the table, but when he pulled his dagger from its sheath, the other men moved toward the king, as if to guard him, until they saw John’s intentions.

Fiona’s pulse throbbed at her temples, and she sat back down. The king was furious, of that there was no doubt, and she whispered a silent prayer that God might watch over her brother.

John slipped the tip of the blade into the lining of his garment and tugged. The sound of rending fabric filled the air with an ominous hiss.

Myles looked to Fiona, and her heart fractured at the unease in her husband’s eyes, for the doubt she saw there was not for John alone. It was for her as well.

At last, John pulled the paper out from inside his garment and, with a trembling hand, passed it to the king.

James stared at him for a long moment, his lips a thin, harsh line. Then as if to dismiss the rest of them, he eased back in his chair to read the document. His face flushed a deeper hue. His
nostrils flared, and Fiona wondered if steam or fire might come out next. “Who has seen this?” James demanded, looking back at John.

“Only those whose names are on the page, Your Grace,” her brother said. “I offered to deliver it to Douglas myself so that I might bring it to you instead.”

The king rose and shoved the parchment into Cedric’s hands. “Upon my crown, I swear, every name on that list belongs to a dead man.”

Myles had witnessed the king’s temper before, but this was something more. His bloodlust to vanquish Archibald Douglas and his allies showed in the snap of every movement.

“And how came you to know of such a plot?” James asked.

John’s shoulders sagged beneath the burden of this question. His head dipped. “I will not have a lie upon my soul, Your Grace, and so I must confess. I was once one of them.”

Every movement ceased for the space of a heartbeat at this stunning revelation. Myles heard his father groan, and Fiona pressed both hands to her chest. Myles’s lungs went hot and hollow when he looked her way, for her expression spoke of heartache but not surprise. She had known of this plot. But for how long?

The king walked a full circle around John, his eyes unblinking as a snake. “You were a part of this?”

“I was, Your Grace, but briefly only. I quickly saw the error of my judgment and beg mercy for myself and my brother. My sister’s marriage was a ploy and the truce with the Campbells was not meant to hold, but upon my life, I pray it stands. I would see no victor vanquish you, for you are the true and rightful king.”

“How magnanimous you are to offer your endorsement of my reign.” The king’s tone sliced at the air, and Myles heard his wife draw in a sharp breath.

Their marriage just a ploy? Was that why she had resisted so?

She dipped her head over folded hands as if she prayed. And indeed pray she ought, for there was little hope that either of her brothers could escape this debacle now. What foolish arrogance had led to this great folly? The king would see them drawn and quartered for such blatant treason.

Myles’s gut twisted with dread. If his wife had had knowledge of this scheme, she’d given no sign of it, and yet she’d duped him time and again. Since the moment she’d descended those steps at Sinclair Hall, he had been blinded by her. Was it possible she’d known of this plot since the day of their wedding?

Christ, was it possible she hadn’t?

He looked at her, and her head rose. A tear spilled over one pale cheek, and his chest turned to lead, for every line of her face spoke of guilt and regret. She had lied. She’d used him like a toy, and he had let her. Memories, too bright and suddenly bittersweet, ran through his mind, tripping over one another as his heart did battle with his mind. She could not have betrayed him so thoroughly.

And yet, it seemed she had.

“The weight of my regret cannot be expressed, Your Grace,” John said, kneeling once more.

The king looked down on him as he might excrement on a royal shoe. “You Sinclairs are more trouble than you are worth.”

Myles’s father stepped forward. “He is not a Sinclair, Your Grace. He is a Campbell—my son—although he has not known of this for long.”

The air pressed like a vice against Myles as he looked to his father. Surely he had not heard correctly. Or perhaps this was a trick meant to protect Fiona’s brother?

But the earl laid a hand on John’s shoulder and nodded down at him in a show of encouragement.

The king seemed as flabbergasted as Myles felt. He stepped backward and sat down in the chair again, his gaze going from the earl to John and back again.

The floor wobbled beneath Myles’s feet. And still his wife showed no surprise, only culpability. She’d known about her brother too, it seemed. What an untapped well of information she had been. If only he’d sought to prod her with the right questions.

“I don’t like secrets, Cedric,” the king said after a moment.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. I kept this secret only to protect the dignity of my wife. I would not have her mocked for my indiscretions.”

Agitation weighed in Myles’s throat like an anchor. ’Twas bad enough his bride had lied and committed treason, but now it seemed his father had been duplicitous as well. The affair with Aislinn was an insult to the earl’s wife. But never once had there been any indication that Myles had a bastard half brother. And one who, until very recently, plotted to assassinate the king of Scotland, no less. Any moment, God was sure to fling bolts of lightning from the rafters down on this unholy mess.

Fiona watched her husband’s expression change from confusion to shock to anger. How she wanted to embrace him, to ease his mind and promise her loyalty, but the look he cast her way shattered whatever hope she’d carried. His eyes were dark with mistrust and contempt. No matter that she had no part in this. He held her guilty by association, just as she had done when first they met.

The king exhaled a mighty breath. “Your son or not, Cedric, he sought to see me dead.”

The earl replied with confidence. “Yet he risks his life to bring you this warning. He puts the Clan Sinclair on trial, the only family he has ever known, his own brother, so that he might now protect you.”

The king’s expression soured further. “If Janet Douglas had, at the last moment, chosen not to pour the poison in my cup, would you expect me to forgive her?”

“I would if she drank it, Your Grace. This young man—” Cedric’s voice hitched. “My son could have gone straight to London. He’d be safe in the English king’s house, but instead, he sacrificed much to come here. I implore you, give the lad a chance to prove himself.”

The king’s chest rose and fell with his rapid breaths, and Fiona felt her own lungs were near to bursting with anxiety. John kept his head bowed, and she could sense his defeat. She could not sit idly by, doing nothing while John’s destiny swung in the balance.

“Your Grace,” she said, rising and moving to John’s other side. She caught Cedric’s eye, his expression wary. “Your Grace,” she said again, clearing her throat, “do you recall our conversation in the garden at Dempsey?”

The king’s forehead wrinkled in a scowl. “I have no time for girlish riddles, Fiona. Make your point, and make it quick.”

She felt a flush stain her cheeks. “By your admission, it was the earl and my mother who helped you claim your throne. My brother is a product of their union, without a drop of Sinclair blood in his veins. He knows that now, and I attest you will not find a more faithful subject.”

James’s ruthless chuckle held no hint of humor. “And what role did you play in this grand charade, miss? Besides the blushing virgin bride, I mean.”

The stab of his words pierced her chest. Her fate was tied to John and Simon’s, but her greater concern was that Myles might think the worst of her.

John’s head lifted. “She knew nothing, Your Grace. We sought to keep her far removed from any plans.”

“By putting her into a Campbell’s bed? If you are as loyal a subject as you are a brother, then I’d best watch my back.”

Fiona’s mind worked furiously, trying to formulate what she might say to ensure her brother’s safety and proclaim her innocence to her husband, but before she could utter another word, the king continued.

“Guard!” the king called, and one appeared in an instant. “Escort the ladies to a chamber where they might wait in privacy.”

Fiona looked to Cedric and saw concern upon his face. She thought to speak again, but he gave a tiny shake of his head. She must trust him alone to come to John’s defense. How odd it was the bond between King James and Cedric Campbell that would decide her fate and that of her brothers. Though not so odd, perhaps, for in a way, it always had.

The guard gestured toward the door. Fiona turned and faced her husband. The wounded look upon his face tore at her soul. ’Twas as if he doubted every moment they had shared, yet there was nothing she could say just then that might explain her part or her remorse.

Vivienne, however, seemed bent on trying. Sidestepping the guard, she moved toward the king instead. “Lady Fiona had no role in this at all, Your Grace. She knew nothing of the plot to harm you, nor was she in collusion with her brothers regarding the truce. I heard John confess it all to her just days ago.”

The king’s reaction was but a flicker of acknowledgment, but it was Myles’s face that Fiona hoped might change. The softening was subtle, almost resistant, as if he strove to believe the worst.

“Is that the truth?” Myles murmured to her alone.

“You know it is. For all my faults, I have never lied to you.”

She wanted to beg and cry that he might be swayed, but she held her voice to a whisper.

The space of a lifetime passed and yet was over in an instant. She stared into his eyes, hoping against hope he might see her love shining there or give any indication he believed her, but he cast his gaze back to John, and she knew his sense of betrayal ran deeper than her actions. This was bigger than just she and Myles.

The king waved his hand in dismissal. “Leave us, I said.”

Fiona pressed her hand against Myles’s arm, but his eyes remained on John. There was nothing she could do, it seemed, and so she let the guard escort her from the chamber.

As they walked, Vivienne wound her arm around Fiona’s waist. Suddenly, all the traveling and the worry converged, and Fiona became dizzy from the pressure. She clutched Vivienne’s hand as they moved down the corridor.

The guard showed them to a gilded room full of velvet and brocade furnishings, and Fiona collapsed upon a chaise.

“Bring us wine,” Vivienne ordered a servant waiting at the door, “and some food.” There was that imperious tone again.

Fiona tried to smile through her exhaustion. “You would do well in a royal palace.”

“I deserve one,” Vivienne answered. “Now rest awhile. There is no telling how long the men will be.”

“Is there nothing more we can do?”

Vivienne, for once, looked worried. “We can pray.”

CHAPTER 39