by Tracy Brogan
“’Tis the only way,” Fiona whispered to Bess as they sat together, heads close.
The maid’s thin lips puckered. “You’re a fool, and likely to perish in the trying. But I’ll do my part if your mind is set.”
“It is set, Bess. And better to die by my own hand than a Campbell blade.”
“Shh, quiet, girl. Your husband approaches.”
They peered at Myles from their seats on an old log, dinner cold and forgotten on their plates.
“Say good night now, Fiona. ’Tis time for bed,” he said.
Bess started to rise. “I’ll assist her.”
Myles put a hand on the old woman’s narrow shoulder, ceasing her movement. “No need. I’ll see to her myself.”
Fiona’s insides quivered with fear and an odd anticipation. In one way or another, she meant to free herself from him. She rose, pulling her green cloak tight. “I’ll see you in the morning, Bess.”
Bess nodded, ducking her head and staring fixedly at the ground.
Myles led Fiona to the tent and held open the flap. It was unadorned inside, small but dry, with a decadent pile of colorful blankets, animal furs, and pillows. It would indeed be a soft place to lay her head, if she had a mind to rest.
To one side sat a basin and pitcher, along with a washing cloth. No Campbell luxury could be more tempting. The longing to bathe her face and hands proved overwhelming. She dropped her cloak and crossed to the basin, dipping her fingers in the fire-warmed water.
He watched her as he removed his belt and scabbards, laying them near the door, but she closed her eyes to the vision of him and let the cloth scrub away some of her tension, along with grit from the road.
“Are you sore?” he asked.
Her eyes opened. Given the circumstances, she could not decide if the question was solicitous or rude.
But he added, “From the riding. On the horse.”
She set down the cloth and turned to face him, surprised he had the decency to blush at the innuendo. “I stopped being sore somewhere near Dornoch. Now I am raw. Does it matter?”
He looked perplexed for a moment and then sighed, folding his hands in front of him. “If it didn’t matter, I would not have asked. In spite of what you think, your comfort is of concern to me. And to my father. Thus, the tent.” He spread his arms out wide and circled around. “I could’ve let you sleep on the ground like a serving wench, but instead, here you are, in a nest of pillows and softness.”
“I’d sooner sleep on rocks than next to you.”
He tilted his head. “So, we’re back to that again, aye? Let me save us time. You hate me. I’m starting to dislike you quite a bit as well. Now lie down on your belly and pull up that skirt.”
His words slapped, hitching breath painfully in her lungs.
But her husband turned his back, relaxed as a cat, and walked to a small trunk in the corner of the tent. He knelt down and lifted the lid, shuffling the contents until he pulled out a vial. “Ah, here it is.”
He turned back to her with no malice in his expression. “Do you need help with that dress? If I tear it, there’ll be no one to fix it until we reach Dempsey. Come over here and lie down, I said.”
He sat down and patted the blanket, just as he’d done the night before, only this time he gestured with the container in his other hand.
She could articulate no protest, though several raged inside her mind. The wood of the table where the basin rested dug into her palms as she clutched it. His intent seemed plain enough, and yet his demeanor was benevolent, as if he offered some sweet bit instead of more callous treatment.
“What’s in the vial?” she asked at length when he said no more but simply sat and stared.
A smile crooked his mouth. “Salve. For your backside.”
“My backside?” She could not contain the gasp.
Her husband’s smile broadened, and she knew he laughed at her expense. “Aye. I don’t imagine you’re accustomed to so many hours in the saddle. This will ease the ache.”
“You keeping your filthy hands off would ease me more.”
“Ah, but where’s the fun in that? Come here, now.”
The teasing lilt softened his command, but command it was. She saw the glint in his eye. He’d not be defied. And if her plan was to work, she needed him sated and deep in slumber. It was a small price to pay. One more night of abuse for an eternity of freedom.
She walked to the bed of blankets and lowered to her knees, keeping her gaze on him. He tipped his head, gesturing to the pillows, and slowly, she sank, until her belly was flat against the surface. She folded her arms up near her face and shut her eyes, praying fervently that her deaf God might finally hear her.
That went more smoothly than he’d anticipated. Though her thick-lashed eyes were wary as a doe’s, she’d done as he asked with little complaint. And now she lay on the blankets, still as a tree stump. He eased her skirt up toward her knees.
“Ack, no muddy boots in my bed.” He took his time unlacing her boots, brushing away the dirt that crumbled and fell to the covers. He slid his hand up farther, easing down her hose and pulling them off with her boots. Then he bent down and removed his own soiled boots, setting them next to hers, side by side, like two pairs of old mares pulling a wagon.
And still she didn’t flinch or protest. He almost missed her banter. So silent and motionless was she, he finally asked, “Fiona, are you sleeping?”
“Yes,” she mumbled.
He chuckled at her coy response and then turned his attention back to her legs, which he’d not taken the time to appreciate last night. Her calves were slender and peachy pink. A languid sensation warmed his blood as he imagined those limbs rubbing against the back of his thighs, or better yet, caught up on his shoulders. Breath shot like a spear into his lungs, and he coughed once and tried to blink the thought away. ’Twas not his purpose to seduce her. Yet.
Instead, he gathered the hem of her gown and slid it up, over the curve of her bottom, until she was exposed from heel to hip. Bruises dotted the backs of her thighs from jostling in the saddle, and a welt, bright red against the paleness of her skin, ran along one leg where it had rubbed raw against a strap. A stab of remorse slit through his veins.
“Ah, Fiona. You should’ve told me.”
Then, on one thigh, he saw them. A pattern of four tiny oval marks, more faint than the rest, yet causing him more distress than all the others. They were made by his own hand, from where he’d grabbed her leg the night before and hitched it round his own. He had sought to leave his mark upon her body, but not like that. His chest ached from it.
He opened the vial and tapped some of the pungent ointment into his palm, warming it between his hands before sliding them over her battered skin. He took the greatest of care, but a tiny noise escaped her throat. Fear? Pain? He couldn’t tell.
He knew only that, somehow, wounds on her created scars on him.
The calloused pads of his hands scraped like a cat’s tongue on her skin as he massaged ointment over her raw bottom. His caress caused little pain against her bruises, but the humiliation of being bare under his perusal slapped like the sail of a ship in strong wind. She willed herself to lie steady, lulling him with false compliance. His sword lay forgotten, taunting her and just out of reach, his dagger, with jewels glistening in the hilt, next to it on the floor. Her hands itched with the urge to snatch it up and plunge it into his side. But like a true hunter, she waited. It would not do to be hasty, to bash and thrash and act without forethought. No, she must bide her time.
He finished rubbing the liniment into her heated skin and pulled her dress down. That surprised her. She thought for certain those hands would find their way to her center to torment her further. But he nudged her limbs aside and got up from the bed, washing his hands in the basin and putting the vial of ointment back into the trunk. She watched as he paced around, wondering at his purpose. He blew out all the lanterns and lay down next to her, both of them still fully clothed. P
ulling up a blanket, he rolled her onto one side so her back was pressed to his broad chest. He wrapped an iron arm around her middle and pressed his groin against her bottom, scorching it more than his hands had, even through the layers of fabric.
His breath sucked in deep, then released like a fire bellow. “Go to sleep, Fiona. We’ve another long day before us tomorrow.”
She said nothing. Only waited. Surely there was more to come. Soon he’d push her skirts aside and plunder her with his lips and tongue and worse. But he didn’t. He just breathed, in and out, in and out, ruffling the hair near her ear with exhalation, his chest pressing close and then retreating.
She’d been ready for a fight. Had stewed all day about how to give enough, just enough, to placate him, yet not be distracted and give in to his touch. She’d let loose no more careless whimpers or wanton sighs. She’d have no more accusations of spurring him on! Indeed, the very thought galled her. He could take her body, but she’d make certain he knew she wanted no part of it. No part of him.
But he was...doing nothing, save breathing. The steady rhythm of it annoyed her agitated senses. What a numbskull he was, to fall asleep so easily, relaxed as an infant in its mother’s arms. The lack of threat she apparently posed was insulting. She moved abruptly under the guise of resettling herself into a more comfortable position, but she made sure to whack him in the jaw with the back of her head. A mistake, for his jaw was like castle rock. He grunted softly and pulled her closer.
She pushed his forearm lower, farther from her breasts, but he moved it up again without bothering to comment or open his eyes. Another moment passed, and she flopped around once more.
“If you continue to fidget so, perhaps you’d be more comfortable sleeping without your gown.” His voice was low, warm against her ear, and stilled her motions like a slice to the throat. She must remember her purpose. A wise warrior knew patience. Fiona let loose her breath in one last huff and willed her limbs to be still. She must wait until the moment was right.
CHAPTER 7
MYLES WILLED HIS breath to steady, though his heart clamored in his chest at the restraint. She was soft and pliant in his arms, and even a day in the saddle could not erase the smell of vanilla that lingered on her skin. He wanted to press his face into the mass of deep-red tresses now tickling his nose. That damn hair of hers may as well be tickling his balls, for the sensation shot straight to them like an arrow. Her every wiggle was like a stroke to his prick. The girl obviously had no notion what it was like to be a man.
His mind galloped toward lust. He could take her, still. ’Twas well within his rights. She was his wife after all. But the bruises haunted him. They’d ridden hard today, hoping to clear both Sinclair and Fraser land before nightfall. Campbells were unwelcome this far north, and any party, even one as well armed and well trained as his, was at risk from opportunistic marauders. Some would be after their coffers, but as many would attack simply to eliminate a Campbell from their woods.
Fiona moved again, and he considered pulling her astride so he might ease into her and take his pleasure without more damage to her tender backside. But a horse nickered outside, and another answered. The quiet murmur of the men seeped through the tent walls. She’d not be silent if he pressed his advance. And in truth, he didn’t trust his own ability for discretion while undertaking such an ardent endeavor. It was one thing to have his men hear him with some tavern whore, but Fiona was his wife. And as much as he’d like to teach her a lesson in obedience, he’d not do it now. Not here in a tent, surrounded by twenty pairs of interested ears. Tonight, both his bride and his overeager cock would have to wait.
The harsh screech of an owl awoke Fiona with a start. At first uncertain of her surroundings, her mental fogginess cleared, and she remembered. She’d not meant to fall asleep. But there she was, curled up in a ball with her husband snuggled up behind her, like cozy kittens in a box. His quiet breath was soft and rhythmic. She straightened and turned, just enough to see what she could of his face in the pale light, and agitation scoured away any remnants of her slumber.
Torches lit the camp outside, and the fire, tended by the night watch, still burned bright. She could see its illumination through the tent walls, and though the hour remained a mystery, beyond the firelight, darkness beckoned. Her time had come.
Slow and silent as the moon rising, Fiona slid from under her husband’s arm. The blankets rustled like a whisper, but clanged like cathedral bells in her mind. Sweat prickled under her arms and down her neck as she moved from the makeshift bed, slithering like a snake from under a rock. When she at last reached the edge of the covers, out she came, reborn and free from his grasp. She picked up her shoes and hose and then stepped toward the tent flap.
Myles breathed deeply in his sleep and rolled to the spot she’d just vacated. Fiona froze in her tracks, waiting for him to wake up at her absence, but he merely stretched his long leg out and sighed with slumber.
She offered up a silent prayer of thanks, and on the chance her neglectful God might indeed be listening, she offered up a second prayer, asking forgiveness for the sin she’d soon commit. With one eye on her husband’s inert form, she reached down and gripped the handle of his dagger. The blade scraped the scabbard’s side with a metallic hiss as she pulled it loose. And still Myles slept. Leaning farther down, she scooped up her green cloak and swung it round her shoulders. Then she stood, and with one final glance at the body in the bed, she stepped outside the tent.
The moon was a sliver in the sky, a mixed blessing, for any light could be a boon or a curse, depending on her immediate circumstance. The big red giant, sitting several yards away and near the fire, rose from his seat and stared at her. He must be the watch. She pulled shut the cloak, tucking the dagger inside.
“What are you about, lass?”
She stood tall, tilting her chin. “Nature calls.”
He stared another moment, his beard almost glistening from the reflection of the flames. Then he nodded. “Well, then be quick or I’ll be after you.”
She turned and walked past the wagons, past the pallet made for Bess, and into the rows of trees, searching the darkness.
“Psst! Here! What took so long? Surely you haven’t been jousting with your husband all this time?” A voice, thin and reedy, came from just beyond where Fiona stood.
“Bess, where are you?”
“Here!” the maid whispered again, and stepped farther into the tiny clearing.
“Ah, praise heaven. God may be a Sinclair after all. Have you anything for me?” Fiona grasped at the tiny bundle held in Bess’s hands, quickly unwinding the fabric. In the darkness, she could barely make out the shapes.
“There’s bread and a bit of cheese, and some dried meat. I couldn’t find you any water or ale. They keep a closer eye on their drinks than their food.”
Fiona nodded, wrapping the bundle back up. “Thank you, Bess. This is fine. Are you certain you’ve the will to go through with this? I’d not put you in harm’s way without your consent.”
“Aye, I’ve the will. But you’re the one who is sure to get lost in the woods and be eaten by wolves.”
“I’ll face wolves of a different sort if I stay. So, let’s be quick. That hairy red giant is waiting.”
Bess unclasped her gray woolen wrap, handing it to her mistress and donning Fiona’s green one. “And what will you tell the Frasers when you arrive on their doorstep, weary and ragged, and a Campbell bride, to boot? They’ll not take you in if it means facing Cedric’s wrath.”
“Aye, they will. The Frasers hate the Campbells as much as we do. They’ll give me aid, if only to rob Cedric of something he wants. Now stop rattling on and listen to me. You must convince them you wanted no part of this and that I forced you to comply.”
Bess scowled. “That’s the truth of it, close enough! But I’ll convince them and do my part. Your mother would want me to protect you.”
Fiona hugged her, fast and hard. “You have protected me, Bess. Alway
s. I owe you my life.”
“Have you any idea which direction to go?” the maid asked.
“Aye, I heard the men talking. We’re just south of Tain. Balintore is but a few hours’ walk southeast of here. With a good foot under me, I should reach Fraser’s keep by midmorning, no worse for wear. Now, off with you to the tent. And stand up straight, or we’re done for.”
The women embraced again. “Godspeed to you, miss.” Bess’s voice rasped with emotion.
“May God watch over you, Bess. You’ve been a good and faithful servant. I could not have asked for better.”
Fiona looked to the starry sky to get her bearings, and with a final kiss to her maid’s cheek, she stepped toward escape.
CHAPTER 8
MYLES HEARD TAVISH speak to Fiona outside the tent and tried to rouse himself, but days of travel and the burden of getting acquainted with his new wife had taken a heavy toll. When moments later she returned, he fell back into blissful slumber knowing his men were on watch, his wife was back in the tent, though needlessly wrapped in her green cloak, and all was right with the world. When the birds called their morning salutations, there she nestled at the very edge of the bed, her hood tucked firmly over her head.
With bleary eyes, Myles slid over and nudged aside the green woolen fabric, lightly kissing Fiona’s temple. A trickle of alarm crept through his sleep-drugged limbs. Her skin felt peculiar, rough and loose, and the fragrance of vanilla and nutmeg he’d come to associate with his wife was replaced by something sour, a repellent combination of lye and old age. Like Pandora opening her box, Myles slowly pulled aside the cloak and let loose a bellow fierce as Lucifer’s fury. He jumped from the pallet, pushing the woman away as he leapt. The form unfurled on the ground, bones creaking.
“What sorcery is this?” he snarled. “I lie down with a goddess and wake up to an old hag?”