Highland Surrender (4 page)

He rolled to his side and propped his head on one arm. With the other, he pushed the hair back from her face. She did not flinch. A minor victory.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he prompted softly.

A tiny noise escaped her throat. “What?”

“Just any little something so I might know you better.” Female chatter typically grated on him, but he would welcome a
bit of conversation from this statue in the bed. Anything to draw her out and open her up.

“There is nothing of me to remark upon.” She plucked a loose thread on the edge of the cover.

A chuckle bubbled in his throat, for if ever a lie were told, that was one. “On the contrary, I’m sure there are a great many fascinating things about you. But if you’re feeling shy, I’ll go first.” He readjusted the pillow, moving closer to her. “I don’t like hawks.”

She turned her head and looked at him with some curiosity.

He pulled her hand into his again and gently toyed with her fingers. “Never have, never will. Hawks are too cunning by half and always glaring like they’d sooner peck your eyes out than do your bidding. Falcons too. They’re even worse.”

She gave a small laugh, if indeed he could term it as that. But at least it was a noise of interest and amusement.

“Have they married you off to me because you are a simpleton?” she asked.

His own laughter caught him off guard. This wife of his bore a sense of humor—when she’d a mind to share it. “Perhaps. Do you like hawks?” He let her hand fall to the bed and ran one finger along her forearm.

“I never thought about it. We haven’t had any in quite some time. None trained, at least.”

“What happened to them?”

She regarded him a moment. “Our falconer died during a raid.”

“Ah, I’m sorry for him. Whose raid?”

She gave a tiny shrug, making the sheet rustle from her movement. “The Grants, I think. Maybe the MacPhersons. Any ally to the king is an enemy of ours. It keeps us busy.” She tried to fold her arm back to her body, but he followed with his hand, sliding it along her collarbone.

“Then this marriage is a good thing for the Sinclairs. The raids should stop now that you’ve the might of the king’s army behind you.”

She stared at the canopy above them, but her pulse was rapid beneath his fingers as they traveled along the column of her throat. “The king is far away in Edinburgh. Even his arm cannot reach this far north,” she said softly.

“Times are changing, Fiona. The king plans to sail around the Isles from Oban to Inverness, gathering oaths of fealty from the Highland chiefs. Those who refuse will feel the wrath of his army. But his friends will be rewarded.” He nudged at the neckline of her shift, slipping his fingers underneath the fabric. “Tell me something about you now.”

She let out a deep breath. Her voice was small when at last she spoke. “I had a pony.”

“And?” he prompted when she said no more.

“Her name was Gwynlyn. She was a lovely soft gray with a white blaze and boots, and she would come when I whistled.”

“And where is she now?” He plucked lightly at the top ribbon tie of her shift.

“She died when I was fourteen. Father never gave me another one.”

His heart twisted in a way most unaccustomed. She’d lost much in such a short life, for she was little more than seventeen. “Dempsey has a fine stable full of mares. You may have your choosing.”

She frowned. “I did not tell you such so you might offer me a gift.”

“I know. But I offer one nonetheless.” The tie came undone, and he almost with it. It was such a small matter, the offer of a pony, and yet it seemed to distress her. She saw a trick where there was none. What a combination she was, at once fierce and
fragile. Her hair, in the firelight, glowed like the garnets of her ring. He wanted to feel the weight of it and twist those tresses between his fingers. Bedding her would not be such a chore, after all, if she stayed sweet like in this moment. He leaned over and pressed a kiss against her shoulder.

She gasped at the contact. His mouth on her skin seared like a brand. “Must you do that?”

He looked at her, surprised. “What?”

“Kiss me. Is it...necessary?”

His head crooked, along with his smile. “Necessary? No. But it’s my preference.”

She didn’t like it. Not one bit. It singed, and not just where his lips met her skin, but other places too. “Well, it’s not my preference. Could you proceed without it?”

His laughter was rich, a deep rumbling sound like faraway thunder. “I could,” he said. “But the kissing...helps.”

Why? It seemed most distracting to her. Everything about him was bewildering. He was her enemy sworn. A cruel, detestable, violent Campbell. And yet, tonight, this man in her bed seemed none of these things. None of those things that she needed him to be to stoke the fire of her anger. Instead, he was gentle and inquisitive and patient. And naked, stoking another kind of fire entirely. Her mind, which all day had been assailed with unpleasant thoughts, was now roaming to places it had never conjured previously. And she was awash with the shame of it.

“Fiona, do you understand what must occur between us?” He twisted the second tie of her nightdress loose.

Fire lit her cheeks like cinders. “Of course. My nurse explained it.”

He laughed again. “Your nurse? You mean that old sack of bones who hovers around you like a fly? What did she tell you?”

“If you don’t know, than I shan’t enlighten you.” She pulled the covers up higher and tried unsuccessfully to push his hand away.

Instead, he tugged the covers farther down and nudged her jaw with his thumb, turning her face toward him. “Did she frighten you?”

“Not as much as you do.” Her answer was out before she could pull it back, yet how she wished she could. Hugh Sinclair must be turning in his grave at her admission. Myles might think only a fool fought a battle already lost, but her father would say only a coward gave up before he was dead. So what was she to do, really? Was it more courageous to fight him until death? Or live, and perhaps win the war another day?

She thought of Margaret and knew her answer.

Fiona’s heart felt like ice in her chest, brittle and cold as she stared back at her husband. Something about his gaze seemed almost familiar, but of course it would, for he had been staring at her all day, pulling her toward him with an invisible string.

“You can trust in me, Fiona.”

This was it, then. No more talk of hawks and ponies and unnecessary kisses. She heaved a sigh from deep within. “I don’t know what to do,” she said, more to herself and God than to her husband.

Myles rolled closer. “Let’s take off that shift, and I will teach you.”

CHAPTER 4

S
HE WAITED FOR
lightning to strike from heaven as angels came to rescue her, but heard only the common crackle of the fire and her husband’s shallow breath.

His hand slid down her body and caught the hem of her garment, raising it slowly, pushing it into a bunch about her waist. Reluctantly, she shifted, granting him access while trying to evade any additional contact. But his hands skimmed along her skin like petals blowing over water and her lungs fluttered inside. She sat up and turned her back, raising her arms. He tugged the last of the shift over her head, and the fabric slipped away and floated to the floor, along with all her defenses.

She fell back against the mattress as if pushed, and closed her eyes tight, wishing him away. But he leaned closer and ran a fingertip down her face, between her eyes, and over her nose, letting it linger on her lips. One finger joined another and another as he traced the soft curves and tiny valleys of her ears and jaw and throat. Her pulse thrummed, like the flap of a thousand swans leaving the surface of a loch.

When his lips brushed, feather soft, against the corner of her mouth, she nearly bolted upright. But she fought the urge to flee,
and instead lay unresponsive as he trailed tiny butterfly kisses following the path where his fingers had explored.

A sweet, unexpected torment.

And always, he’d come back to the edge of her lips, never kissing her full-on. She flushed with heat and nearly turned her mouth toward his just to end the teasing. But she could not. Would not. A Sinclair could withstand any torture, no matter how it was delivered.

She felt the moisture of his lips on her skin and the cool aftermath as the night air continued the kiss. She tried to think of Margaret or her father, or anything besides the sensations swirling within her. She should hate this, despise him, writhe away from his grasp. To find pleasure in his touch would be her ultimate defeat.

But his hands traveled lower, growing bolder and more firm, sliding over her shoulder and along one arm, then back to cup her breast. Her eyes popped open then, and she caught him by the wrist, trying to still his ministrations. But he persisted, gently squeezing the fullness of it and rubbing his thumb over the tip. It sizzled like fire from his fingers. She gasped and would have begged him to stop had he not chosen that moment to at last kiss her mouth. Traitorous relief flooded through her.

This was no chaste peck like he’d given her upon the chapel steps. That kiss had been for God and for the priest, but even in her innocence, she knew this kiss was for Myles himself. He pressed firm, teasing her mouth with his own. His lips were soft, so much softer than she expected, and felt at delicious odds with the scrape of his jaw. He smelled of wine and cloves and leather, a scent mingled with the fragrance of her own body, creating a potent mixture.

He bent his head lower, gently nipping at her skin and then soothing away the tiny injuries with his tongue. She moved to
escape the tender assault, but he followed and pressed his leg between her own, pushing them apart. She felt unraveled. Adrift. Disloyal. He was a despicable Campbell, but somehow her body had forgotten and overruled her mind. She grabbed at his arms in useless defense, for with each movement, he somehow melted closer, like hot wax, conforming to her every peak and valley. His hand caressed her hip, pulling her tight against him, then pushing her back so he might slip his hand between them.

Her face turned toward the wall as his fingers sought out her most feminine folds, but a shameless whimper betrayed her shock of pleasure as he easily slipped within them. Faithless, perfidious limbs, useless now when she needed her strength. This enemy had tapped her will like sap from a tree, but with all she had left, she brought her leg up, pushing against the mattress to twist herself free. To no avail. Her pitiful actions only granted him more generous access to her very core.

“Ah, God, Fiona,” he murmured against her breast and drew his tongue across its center, “what perfection.”

She tried to push his head away, but his close-cropped hair beneath her fingers felt of mink, enticing rather than repelling. Oh, what a traitor she was, giving up all Sinclair thought to simply
feel
beneath this Campbell’s touch.

She was sweet as a peach and ripe for the plucking, her skin silky smooth and pliant beneath his hands. As he savored each kiss and caress, the reckless urge to take this coupling to its completion assailed him. He had sought to woo her, to gently introduce her to the ways of sin and sacrament, but her body was primed, slick with want as she twisted against him. She was as eager as he to take this journey onward. He could tell by the
flush of her skin, the pant of her shallow breath. Awash with need, he felt the last of her resistance give way to invitation.

He caught up the back of her knee with his hand and found his mark, piercing into her tender flesh and claiming her as his own. ’Twas a swift move, meant to make the initial pain pass quickly, but Fiona gasped at his intrusion, pushing against his chest as he tore through the delicate barrier of her virginity. He felt a moment’s remorse, for he would have spared her that discomfort, but it could not be helped. ’Twas the cost for maidens. Soon he’d soothe her with his touch and show her all the pleasures of this union. He moved against her, slowly, hoping to carry her with him, but she was hot, surrounding him with such tight sweetness. He’d been weeks without a woman, and his will evaporated in a misty haze of desire.

His pace increased. She moved upward, her legs pressing against his own in glorious surrender. She was with him, his bride, ready to receive his full measure, and soon his senses overtook reason. He plunged with his full might. She rose up again, a willing partner. His mind went blank as instinct and need claimed sovereignty over patience. Fast and bold, he thrust, until his taut nerves reached their zenith and he erupted into her, spilling himself in joyful release.

He collapsed in utter relaxation, breathing as if he’d run to the crest of Ben Nevis and back. But this summit was so much the sweeter. Closer to heaven than the tallest mountain. She had welcomed his attention, sending through him a jolt of bliss. He’d left her behind at the last, true enough. But he’d make it up to her. She was untutored after all, and surely maidens required more guidance. Still, this woman, his woman, might not make such a bad wife after all.

He lifted his head and smiled down at her, his body gratified, his soul content.