by Tracy Brogan
Simon sighed with impatience. “Yes, I jest, John. Would you have me keen and wail like the women? We must behave as though we have accepted this. If the Campbells smell deceit, we are done for. We need time, and we need their trust.”
“Still, if Fiona knew her days with them were temporary, she could steel herself and not lose hope.”
Simon shook his head. “We cannot risk it. It will take months to band together the Highland chiefs and prepare for an assault. As distasteful as it is, it’s better for Fiona to believe we have given her over to them.” He took another draught of the wine, spilling some on his tunic in his haste. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth and handed the glass to John. “Drink, brother. Today we have cut in half the number of our enemies.”
John took the wine. “Until we double them again by attacking the king.”
CHAPTER 5
THE NEXT MORNING, Fiona rode away from the only home she’d ever known.
Her green cloak dulled the wind’s fierce bite, but did nothing to ease the cold piercing from the inside out, like icy waves breaking on the shores of Moray Firth. Her good-bye with Margaret had been cut brutally short by Cedric’s declaration that they must depart after the morning meal. But perhaps, after all, that was best. She sought to show only a brave face to her little sister, but the effort had drained Fiona like a bloodletting.
The brevity of her farewell to Simon and John troubled her less. Their inquisitive, falsely sympathetic gazes stirred no forgiveness within her, nor did it bring moisture to her eyes. She did not weep when her brothers and the Campbell chief examined the bedsheets, seeking evidence of her lost virginity. But now, outside the village walls, away from her people, she let the tears flow, hot and bitter, scalding away her Sinclair identity. She was a Campbell now, wedded and bedded, and all but banished from her homeland by her brothers’ shortsighted cowardice.
How long would this truce hold? A week? A month? A year, perhaps? Simon and John were gullible as sheep if they thought peace would spread as easily as her thighs. How long before Cedric’s lust for twisting his blade into a Sinclair heart surfaced and the feuding erupted once more? In the end, she would have been sacrificed for nothing.
The wind spun again, sending up the musky scent of horses on the move. The steady clip-clop of their hooves mixed with the chatter of the traveling party. Both man and beast seemed glad to be heading homeward. Of course they were. They left satisfied, having obtained what they came for. She left as nothing more than spoils to the victor. The gray-speckled palfrey she rode upon held more worth than she in these men’s eyes.
She rubbed away those tears at last and stared ahead, for there was no looking back now. She was a fallen leaf, adrift upon a sea of Campbells. At the front of the procession, Myles and his father rode side by side, their equally broad shoulders swaying in unison with the tide of their men. When father turned to son, their profiles were so physically alike her gut gave a violent churn. That face—Cedric Campbell’s face, so much like her own husband’s—was the last vision her mother had ever beheld.
Yet last night, Fiona had lain beneath Myles, timid as a field mouse when she should have roared like a lion. The memory of her acquiescence—nay, her encouragement—scorched in the light of the day. A true warrior would’ve faced the morning with a bloodied lip and blackened eye, for if she’d fought as a Sinclair should, surely he would’ve struck her and she could parade her injuries, bold and proud, before her brothers. But she had not fought back.
No, far worse than that. She’d quivered and sighed like one of his paid whores, and today, shame burned her at its stake.
“I’ve little fondness for riding, miss. You tell that graceless brute to find me a cart.” Bess rode up beside her, on a nag so old and rheumy they nearly looked related, both swaybacked and toothy.
“You should not have pleaded so to come, Bess. You sacrifice too much. You were supposed to stay and care for Marg,” Fiona said to her old nurse. “And what good will come of it? You think you can protect me with those scrawny arms of yours?”
Bess held out one arm to examine it. “No, but I can bear witness to all I see. And they know that.” She nodded, triumphant at her faulty wisdom.
“You’ll see nothing but the inside of a pit if you cross them.”
The woman’s well-intentioned meddling had gone too far. This morning, the sweet, old ninny had knelt at the foot of the Campbell himself and asked if she might come along to see to her mistress. She’d nearly tripped him with her eagerness.
“Don’t be peevish, girl. ’Twas your welfare I was thinking of. Margaret will be fine. She’s stronger than you give her credit.”
“She’s a child.”
“But she’s not your child. You’ve coddled her too much since your mother died, and it’s no wonder. But soon you’ll have a babe of your own to care for, and you’ll realize Marg can fend for herself.”
A child of her own? Her senses reeled, nearly toppling her from the saddle, and for the second time in as many days, she fought to keep her breakfast. With a fist pressed hard against her belly, she sent up a silent prayer to the God who had forsaken her, begging for a barren womb.
A Campbell babe inside her? How could she not despise it? Just one more thing tying her to Myles. And to Cedric Campbell.
As the traveled distance grew, so burgeoned Fiona’s nauseating fear and the certainty that destiny was hers alone to shape. Like a tiny seed, an idea germinated. As the miles passed, she nurtured it, as she would never nurture any child of the Campbell bloodline. And as they stopped in a glen next to a stream to make camp for the night, Fiona knew what she must do.
Myles stretched his back and tried to rub the tension from his neck. ’Twas near dusk when his father reined in his own mount and instructed the men to make camp. With military precision, each Campbell dismounted and went to his duties, assembling a tent, building fires, or tending to the horses. They were a troop of twenty brawny lads, each hearty and hale. Men he’d taken into both battle and brothel. Men he trusted with his life. Someday he’d be their laird, and they would serve him well, as they had the earl. He swung a leg around and climbed down from his destrier, stiff but glad to be away from Sinclair holdings. A great, gaping yawn escaped as his feet landed on the soft forest floor. His uncle Tavish cuffed him on the shoulder and laughed, the sound muffled in the depths of a thick red beard. “Not much sleep last night, aye, lad? ’Tis one disadvantage of marriage. But there are advantages aplenty.”
Myles grimaced with the memory of Fiona’s bitterness. “Advantages or disadvantages, I’ve yet to see which carries greater weight.”
Tavish laughed again, scratching his head as he nodded in Fiona’s direction. She and her maid were still perched on their ponies, looking exhausted and bewildered. “Eh, don’t worry about that one. She’ll come around, once she sees we’re not the butchers she’s been led to believe.”
Myles tilted his head to crack his neck. “Any ally of King James is an enemy of hers. I am guilty simply by association. I fear there will be no swaying her.”
His uncle spit on the ground. “That’s women’s logic for you. I suppose if I fart, she’d blame you for the stink?”
Shallow laughter came from Myles. “’Tis apparent she blames me for a great many things I had no part in.”
Tavish leaned against a tree trunk, scratching his back against the bark like a playful bear. “Aye, this business about her mother is an unholy mess. I’ll flay from beard to bollocks any cur who says your father had a hand in her death. I’d bet my eyesight the bastard who started that wicked lie just got put in the ground.”
“You mean Fiona’s father?” Myles cracked his neck in the other direction.
“Aye, Hugh Sinclair. Bad blood between the two of them ever since their days at court.”
Myles had heard those stories often enough. When James was but a boy, Scotland was ruled by a board of regents, with the queen’s husband, Archibald Douglas, at the helm. ’Twas a time when Hugh Sinclair and the e
arl had shared friendship and an equal measure of power. In a show of solidarity between their clans, Myles had even been betrothed to Fiona.
But as greed and politics are often wont to do, allies became foes. Sinclair sided with Douglas in holding the boy king captive, but the Campbells sought to free him, and succeeded.
“Sinclair chose the wrong side,” Tavish said. “If he’d joined your father in helping the young king escape to claim his throne, things would now be different.”
“Not so very different,” Myles said. “I’d still be married to Fiona.” It seemed fate had cast his lot, and the ploys of men swayed little. “And if Aislinn was still murdered, we might be in this spot once more.”
Tavish plucked at his ample waistband and pulled out a flagon of wine. He took a long draw from it and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Aislinn’s murder set much askew, but as sure as I’m standing here, it wasn’t a Campbell who struck the life from her. She was a lovely thing at court. I cannot fathom who might wish her harm.”
“Father never speaks of court. Or his thoughts on Aislinn’s death. What more do you know of it?”
Tavish looked to the ground, kicking at a thick, knobby root embedded in the ground. “If you’ve questions on it, ask the man himself.” He nodded over Myles’s shoulder.
Cedric approached, his gait stiff. The ride had been arduous enough for Myles, so surely his father’s bones must be set to rattling, though anyone saying so risked finding his blade to their throat.
“Father, are you well?”
Cedric nodded and took the wine from his brother. “I will be if Tavish shares his bounty.” He drank and then passed it to Myles, nodding at him with a wink. “Your bride held up well today. Once she stopped crying.”
Her tears had been an embarrassment. She’d kept them silent, but for a mile or more, they’d streamed down her face and left her nose bright red in the sunlight. He’d not abused her in any way, yet she acted as if he’d dragged her behind the pony instead of letting her ride on one. Tomorrow, he’d put her and that scarecrow maid in the back of a cart. Let them bounce about in one of those for a day and she’d have something to cry about.
“Thank you for letting her bring the maid, Father. I’ll make sure they don’t slow down our travels.”
The earl nodded again. “’Tis slow enough on rocky roads with these carts, but with a few good hours in the morning, we should reach Inverness and the boats. Help young Darby with your women now. They look ready to keel over. Oh, and you and your bride may have the tent.”
Myles looked toward Fiona, who had at last dismounted with the aid of his squire. Smudges of exhaustion were dark against her pale face. She was dusty and disheveled, but ever defiant as she shook away Darby’s offer of further assistance. Myles had avoided her much of the day, preferring the pleasant company of his uncle and father to her forlorn sighs and red-rimmed eyes. But he’d face her now. Exhausted or no, she was his wife and his responsibility.
Her body ached like joints pried apart with fire tongs. But Bess was even worse for wear, her arthritic hands bent as if they still held the reins. Fiona rubbed Bess’s back lightly, trying to ease the woman into standing straight.
She ceased when her husband approached.
“’Twas a long day in the saddle, ladies. But tomorrow, we reach Inverness. From there, we’ll take barges down Loch Ness and the traveling will be easier.”
Faster, he meant. Today had been harsh, but at least she’d had the open Highland air to breathe and a fool’s chance of riding away into the mountains. And every mile brought her plan closer to fruition. But tomorrow, if she boarded a boat, all her scheming would come to naught, for by the time they disembarked she’d be too far away.
“Will there be food soon, or is it your plan to jostle and starve us to death?”
Her husband stared a moment; then his lips quirked into a smile and he turned to the wide-eyed squire. “Darby, get the women something to eat while we set up camp.”
“Yes, Lord Myles.”
Myles rubbed his hand across his jaw. “And see to it that the old maid has a thick pallet near the fire, and an extra blanket.”
“Yes, my lord,” the boy said again and scampered away.
Unease prickled over Fiona’s skin. “And what of me? Am I to have no pallet near the fire?”
“We’ll be in the tent. I shall keep you warm myself.”
No, no, no. That wouldn’t do. Her plan would not work if she must lie with him throughout the night. There must be another solution.
Myles chuckled. “You needn’t look so distressed, Fiona. Appreciate my offer of a soft bed, if not my affection.”
“But my maid is stiff from riding in the cold. I’d rather sleep near her, to offer my warmth and ease her sore muscles.” What a fast and clever liar she could be.
“You show an unusual concern for your maid.”
Oh, not so clever after all. She could tell by his tone she’d not duped him. “She’s old,” Fiona protested further. “Only the heartless would refuse comfort to an old woman.”
Myles crossed her arms. “Very well. She may join us in the tent.”
“No!” Fiona’s voice was sharp as a dagger, but little could she alter that now.
Her husband’s expression hardened.
“I could not have her with us. I...” she faltered, looking up at the trees and pressing her lips tight. “No. I refuse.”
His eyes widened for the briefest second, then narrowed with a deep frown. He leaned forth to murmur in her ear so only she might hear. His breath was warm, his words hot. “Do not test me, girl. I’ll not stand here bickering in front of my men. You sleep with me inside the tent. The maid sleeps by the fire. Press this issue further and you’ll find yourself in a storm of regret.” He turned and strode away.
She’d been a fool. Of course he’d want her next to him so he might paw and thrust and stain her with his touch. He was his father’s son after all. What respect would he have for her dignity? He’d think nothing of molesting her with only thin tent walls to muffle her complaints. It looked as if her plan would have to wait.
CHAPTER 6
MYLES’S TEMPLE ACHED at her reaction. ’Twas pure generosity, the offer of the tent, but she’d come at him, growling like a badger and making demands. As if she had a say in how this night went forth. As if her tears were not humiliation enough. Already, his father and uncle were winking at one another as if he were some green lad with no idea how to woo a wench. That was absurd. He’d pleased women aplenty. Why, he’d half a mind to drag her into that tent this minute and kiss her senseless. And this time, he’d be sure she reached that sweet oasis. There’d be no complaints from her after that.
He ripped off a chunk of brown bread. Thankless girl. She had no idea how gentle he’d been. Or how grateful she should be that they’d let her bring that scrappy maid. Yet she’d not said one word of gratitude about the beautiful palfrey she’d ridden today. Or that he’d ordered one of his best men to ride an edgy old gelding so she might have a fine mount. No. From her? Nothing but scorn.
Well, enough was enough. He’d not chase his tail like a crazy dog. This woman would learn her place. Maybe he should let her sleep with the crone, out in the cold air and on hard ground. He took a bite of bread and chuckled to himself.
Darkness descended and sounds of the forest filled the air as some woodland creatures settled in for the night and others awoke. The fire crackled near the men’s feet as Myles, Cedric, and Tavish finished their evening meal and the other men bedded down.
“Father, thank you again for the tent.”
Cedric scooped up a bit of gravy with his bread. “Of course.”
“Shall I take first watch?”
Tavish, sitting on the other side of him, rumbled with quiet laughter, but his father smiled. “That won’t be necessary, son. I think you’ll have your hands full enough for tonight.”
Myles bristled at the innuendo. Did they think he could not handle
her?
One simple wench?
Well, not so simple, but still, there was just one of her. He ripped another bite from his bread.
His father clamped him on the shoulder. “I would not think to keep you from your bride. You may not see it yet, but the king did you an honor.”
He could not help the wistful tone from slipping into his voice. “You never saw Odette, Father. She would have been an honor.”
His father nodded knowingly. “And I’m sorry for that. ’Tis no easy thing, giving up a woman you love. But the politics of men often overrule the politics of love, though both are equally complex.” He chuckled at the last. “Give this girl a chance, though. She’s frightened still, but not so rough. Her mother could cut diamonds with her speech.”
Myles saw his opening and plunged forward.
“How well did you know Aislinn, Father? Until this journey, I’ve rarely heard you speak of her.”
Cedric poured himself more wine and a cup for Myles. “We were together at court when King James was still a boy. You knew that.”
“I think I’ll see to the horses,” Tavish said, hoisting his expansive girth up from the log where he’d been sitting, leaving father alone with son.
Myles took a sip of wine and spoke carefully. “I imagine there were lots of people at court.”
Cedric drained his cup and stared into the fire, saying nothing.
Fresh curiosity tingled at the base of his spine, piqued by the earl’s long silence. “I don’t mean to be impertinent, Father, but surely you’ve heard the rumors surrounding you and Aislinn Sinclair. It gives me cause to wonder why the king chose this bride out of all the families in the North he could’ve bound us to.”
“You were betrothed to Fiona the day she was born.”
“Aye, seventeen years ago when our clans were allies. But much has occurred since then.”
“Leave it alone for now, lad. Go make peace with your bride.”
Myles waited, hoping his father might relent and tell him more. But Cedric returned to his food and his silence, and Myles knew he’d get no answers this evening.