by Tracy Brogan
He released her shoulder, and she crumpled, pressing her palms into the muck and staring at Cedric with blank eyes.
Myles’s fury fell with her. She was his wife. She was his burden. He should help her. But he stood upright and turned away.
Tavish caught his arm and whispered, “Go easy, Myles. She’s had a time of it, and now her maid is dead.”
“So are six of our clansmen, Tavish. Our sacrifice was greater than hers.”
He had no ill will toward the nurse. She was as loyal to her lady as he would expect from one of his own servants. But he’d not offer words of concession to his wife, though they burned in his throat. Sinclair devils or no, his men had been attacked, and had they not divided forces to search for Fiona, his father might now be safe and whole. Still, he was not without heart.
He motioned to young Darby and spoke quietly. “See to my lady. Keep her from my sight, but be sure to keep her in yours.”
Darby nodded and helped Fiona up from the mud, leading her away.
The men finished bandaging Cedric and moved him into the only cart not smashed or burned. Someone had lined it with the blankets. The wounded were tended to, while others set about digging graves for their dead.
“Who do you suppose did this?” Myles whispered to Tavish moments later as they readied the horses for travel.
Tavish spit in the dirt and scratched at his beard. “Hard to say. We’re past Fraser land here, but they could’ve come this far south.”
Myles nodded. “Perhaps. This is MacDougall territory, and they’ve no quarrel with us. But only the Sinclairs knew when we traveled.”
Tavish shook his head. “We were within their grasp for days, both to and from Sinclair Hall. Attacking us here makes no sense.”
He walked to one of the dead assailants, rolling him over with a booted foot and peering at the silent shell as if it might yield some clue. “I don’t recognize any of them. They’ve no clan markers, nothing to distinguish them or who they belong to.”
“My lords!” called out a man-at-arms from twenty paces away. “This one’s alive!”
Myles and Tavish rushed over, kneeling on either side of the injured enemy. Myles grabbed the front of his jacket, hauling him up to a sitting position, and noticed a fierce wound on the man’s leg.
“Who are you?” Myles growled.
The man’s clouded gaze cleared for a moment; then he laughed, a horrid, gurgling sound. “Kiss my arse, Campbell.”
In an instant, Myles ground his elbow into the open leg wound, and the man’s laugh turned into a cry, until he clamped his lips together. Sweat and blood mingled on his brow.
“Who sent you, and what did they want with my father? Answer, and I’ll show you mercy. Refuse, and I’ll slice you open and leave you to the vultures.”
The man said nothing. His head turned. His gaze drifted away from Myles and caught on Fiona. She was leaning against the cart’s wheel, her arms wound around her knees, her dress in tatters.
“My lady is worse for wear by your hand, I see.”
Myles’s gut churned. His lady? What game is this? He flung the man back to the dirt and strode over to his wife. A more pathetic sight he had never seen. But he pushed aside those gentle thoughts and grasped her by the wrist, hauling her up and over to the wounded man.
“Is this your lady?” Myles demanded.
Her expression remained blank.
“Aye,” the man murmured, “my lady.”
His wife blinked, like one coming awake after long, deep sleep, looking to Myles and then to the man on ground. She shook her head and frowned.
“He lies,” she said. “I don’t know him. But whoever he is, his men killed my maid.” She leaned forward and spit in the man’s face.
Myles’s grasp on her arm tightened. More than anything, he wanted to believe his wife had played no deliberate role in this day’s events. Yet why would the man claim false allegiance to her? Unconvinced, he prodded the man with his foot.
“Tell me her name, you wretched cur, and I’ll show you mercy yet.”
The man wiped the spittle from his cheek, glaring. “She was the Lady Fiona Sinclair. Now she’s nothing but a Campbell whore.”
The words burned his ears, engulfing Myles in anger. He pressed his boot against the man’s throat, for the bastard insulted both his clan and his wife with such a statement.
“Myles,” his uncle spoke softly, “have a care. We can gain information from him yet.”
Myles looked at the man writhing on the ground beneath his heel. He could squash the life from this wastrel like a bug. Enjoy it, even. But his wife had seen enough of death this day.
He pressed a moment longer to make his point, then stepped away.
“He’ll last a day or more with such an injury. That leg is sure to fester. But that gives him time enough to tell us all he knows. Bind his wound and put him on a horse.”
CHAPTER 11
HER HUSBAND TURNED guarded eyes her way, confusion and anger at war upon his features. “You’d best tell me all you know of this as well, Fiona. I’ll not be duped by you again.”
His voice was calm, too calm, for she could see the muscle twitching in his jaw. The thinly veiled rage he’d shown the wounded man could just as easily be turned on her. Still, he seemed willing to hear her speak, though she’d given him no reason to trust her.
Her limbs quelled. “The man is no Sinclair. I swear, I know him not.”
“Then why did he say he was?”
“He knew my name, nothing more. And he called me a whore. No Sinclair would besmirch my honor in such a manner.” God save her, she had enemies from every angle. “Ask him another question, Myles. Something only a true Sinclair would know.”
The man rolled to the side and spit blood upon the ground as Myles stared at her, hard and unrelenting.
The sky went white before her at her husband’s silence, but she would not be cowed. She cast her gaze to the dying man and nudged him with her own foot. “Tell me, you wicked liar, in which ear is my brother Simon deaf? That should be easy enough to answer.”
She looked back to Myles, who glanced from her to Tavish to the enemy on the ground.
After a moment, Myles pressed his sword tip into the man’s leg. “Answer the question.”
The man flinched and cried out, “The left!”
Thank God. “Wrong. My brother Simon isn’t deaf at all. ’Tis John who’s hard of hearing.”
“The light is waning, Myles,” Tavish interrupted. “And the longer we delay, the better chance they have of coming for us still. Let me fling this piece of shite on a saddle and we can question him as we ride.”
Fiona scanned the woods at Tavish’s words, and her belly twisted tight. Whoever these marauders were, they’d likely show her the same mercy they’d shown Bess. And for the first time, she found herself wanting to stay very close to her husband’s side, in spite of the mistrustful way he glared at her now. She could see he knew not what to make of the man’s accusations. And in truth, neither did she. Without doubt, none of those men lying dead on the ground were hers. She’d never seen any of them before. But why the man had said she was his lady, she could not fathom.
Myles nodded. “You’re right, Tavish. Finish readying the horses. Benson, see that the cart with my father is ready to go.” Then his eyes met Fiona’s, full of doubt.
“Darby!” he called after moment’s hesitation, and the squire appeared as if from nowhere.
“Yes, sir.”
Myles sighed, and she saw resignation claim him. “Bind the lady’s hands and help her to a horse. But keep the reins to yourself. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when we ride, stay close to me or Tavish.”
Darby nodded, solemn as a bishop, but his cheeks blushed apple red as he held his hands out to take Fiona’s.
“Why am I to be bound again? If we are attacked, I’ll not be able to defend myself.”
Myles stared another moment, as if weighing the choices bef
ore him. “Then that shall be your misfortune.” He turned and strode toward the cart to check on his father, while unease lodged deep within Fiona’s chest.
’Twas not her fault they’d been attacked. And these were not her men. No Sinclair would insult her, nor would they have harmed her dear Bess. These evil deeds were the work of some other force.
She watched her husband climb into the cart to adjust the earl’s covering, and a great sadness enveloped her once more. She should not care if the old Campbell died. ’Twas just as he deserved. His suffering should be her joy, but gladness was long absent. Death lingered at this scene, its cold finger pointing this way and that, claiming too many souls today. And at Demspey Castle, half a dozen women would learn their men were never coming home. They were her enemy, true enough, and though she should be glad, she was not.
They loaded up a short while later, after the Campbell dead had been hastily blessed and buried, Bess along with them. They’d left the other corpses in the road for their enemies to come and claim.
They traveled as fast as the muddy roads would allow, eating what little food they had while staying in the saddle. Fiona was hungry and tired and sore. But little did that physical discomfort compare to the heaviness of her heart. She could feel it breaking, bit by tiny bit, with each jarring step of her horse. She left a trail of broken shards along this path and knew, if she made it all the way to Dempsey, she’d have nothing left in her chest save an empty void.
Darkness was full upon them when they reached Inverness. Reining in next to a building loud with revelry and glowing with light, Myles called instructions to his men.
“Tavish, see to getting us rooms. Benson, find a physician and bring him here. Nigel, choose a man and go arrange for the boats. We must set sail at first light. But, men”—he lowered his voice—“use caution. If our enemies are near, it won’t do to have them realize we are here.”
Tavish nodded. “Wise thinking.”
The men went on about their business, and Fiona fought to keep her seat in the saddle. Overwhelmed by fatigue and sadness, it seemed she’d lived a lifetime since her wedding just two days ago. She was beyond caring what came next, or so she thought until Myles dismounted and walked her way. She realized she did indeed have room for a little fear. His expression was darker than the sky above.
“Get down.”
She struggled off the horse’s back, for her hands were still bound, and her legs buckled as she touched the ground. Her husband caught her with one arm to keep her from collapsing fully onto the cobbled street, but there was no tender care in his touch. Instead, he pulled her to the side of the road, setting her upon an overturned cask pushed up against a wall of the building.
“Stay.”
Her eyes closed of their own volition. “Wherever would I go?” When she opened them moments later, Myles was gone and Darby stood before her, weapon drawn and at the ready in his slender, trembling hand.
“My lord Myles said I should see that you stay put.”
She smiled at the bran-faced boy. “How old are you, Darby?”
“Eleven. But I’ll be twelve soon enough.” He lifted his chin as if to add to his height.
“Will you stab me if I move?” she asked.
He straightened his narrow shoulders. “Best not tempt me to find out.”
She closed her eyes again with a resigned smile. “Ah, another scrappy Campbell. Even the little ones are mean.”
It seemed hours but was only moments when Tavish returned and they saw the earl safely transported into a room. The innkeeper let them use the back entrance—for a fee, of course—so that no prying eyes might see who lay upon the makeshift stretcher.
The surgeon came shortly thereafter, joining Tavish, Myles, and his father in a tiny room lit by lanterns and a crackling fire. He was a diminutive man by the name of Drummond, with beady eyes, a balding pate, and apparently, a great thirst, for he took a mighty swig of whiskey before he started.
Tavish looked over the man’s head at Myles and shrugged his thick shoulders.
In spite of the drink, Drummond was efficient and knowledgeable. He cleaned the wounds and sewed the angry gash along the earl’s torso. Battle-hardened though he was, Myles blanched at the sight of the thick needle and cord jerking though his father’s skin. When the surgeon set the broken arm, Cedric jerked awake and cried out. But after a long pull of whiskey from a metal cup, he passed out cold again. Mercifully, the head wound was minor compared to the rest, and a bandage soon covered it.
“If you’re willing to travel with us to see to this man’s well-being, I’ll make it worth your while,” Myles told the physician as he gathered up his tools. “We’ll pay well for your service and discretion.”
The little man eyed the money purse Tavish dangled in front of him. He licked his lips. Myles could nearly taste the man’s craving for ale.
“Where are you traveling to?” Drummond asked.
“Sail with us down Loch Ness as far as Invermoriston. Depending on how our man fares, you could return then or go with us farther. I cannot say to where. Too many ears in a thin-walled inn.”
The doctor nodded. “I’ll think on it. Let me tend to your other wounded first.” He picked up his bag and stepped toward the next room, where several injured Campbell men awaited his attention. He hesitated for a moment, then reached back to the table and grasped the bottle of whiskey. He nodded at Tavish with a wink. “’Tis the finest medicine.”
After the surgeon left, Myles stared at his father lying so still in the bed. The earl’s breath was shallow and fast.
Tavish turned away, scratching his beard. He sat down heavily in a chair near the fireplace. “That doctor had some mighty interesting tools in that bag. Just the kind of implements to bring forth truth from a man’s lips.”
Myles wiped a hand across his jaw, whiskers scratching against his palm. His eyes felt full of sand when he blinked, and it seemed he had not rested in a month. He had no taste for torturing men, but they had a prisoner to question, currently bound and gagged and guarded in a stable next to the inn. He’d told them nothing of use during their ride to Inveraray. “Find out from him all you can. If we have enemies so bold, I need to know who they are.”
Tavish nodded. “Leave it to me, lad. I can be very persuasive. In the meantime, you might try asking your wife once more.”
Myles’s mouth went dry. Fiona was in another room, hands tied to a bedpost and two men on guard outside her door. She’d not once pleaded her innocence while they traveled from the ambush site to the inn, nor had she spared a glance at the prisoner. Whoever he was, she was not in the least concerned over his well-being.
“’Twas no secret who I married, Tavish. He could have known her name without being a Sinclair,” Myles said.
“True enough. And he knew nothing about her brother’s hearing.”
Myles scoffed at that. “Nor do we. She could be lying. Do you know if either of her brothers has a bad ear?”
Tavish cleared his throat. “I’ve heard the younger son, John, took a blow to the head as a lad and lost half his hearing then. And then there is the maid. I cannot think even the Sinclairs are so brutal they’d kill off their own maid.”
“Especially one wearing my wife’s cloak. And they would have known to send more men. They could not plan on Fiona being able to divide our group, and Benson said they were attacked by a dozen. Sinclairs would have sent a larger force.”
“True. I had not thought of that. But one thing is for certain. If they were not Sinclair, they took great pains to convince us that they were.”
“So it would seem. Perhaps an enemy hoping to draw us back into conflict with them? Someone opposed to the truce, perhaps?”
“That hardly narrows it down. Half the Highland chiefs have issue with us, and the other half despised Hugh Sinclair.” Tavish stood back up. “I guess I’d best be visiting our guest in the stables while you question your bride.”
She might survive this journey, but as su
re as the sun rose each morning, her wrists would be scarred forevermore. Fiona twisted on the bed, straining against the bindings keeping her in place. It wasn’t Myles who had bound her thus, but rather, one of his men, and obviously one who had no wish to fail. She could not even roll to her side. She lay on her back, silently counting the cobwebbed rafters up above and the stone-hard lumps in the mattress beneath, trying with all her might not to think of Bess. Guilt was a stone in her chest.
An hour passed before she heard the door latch lift. She slammed her eyelids shut and feigned sleep, thinking perhaps avoidance was the better part of valor.
The edge of the bed creaked and lowered. “You’re not asleep, minx. I’m on to your tricks.”
Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to find her husband perched near her feet. She could kick him in the face from that angle, but for what gain?
“How is your father?” The words popped out unbidden. She did not care, so why she asked was a mystery.
Myles regarded her a moment. “He lives. For now. Does that disappoint you?”
“Not so much as you might think.”
The smallest of smiles crooked a corner of his mouth. “Did anyone bring you food?”
She shook her head. “I could not have eaten if they had. These bindings are clamps of steel.”
Myles rested an elbow upon his knee and his chin upon his hand, seeming to take a moment’s pleasure at her captivity. He sighed, deep and slow. “’Tis the first time in three days I’m not worried about what you’re doing. I rather like you trussed up like a game hen.”
“I promised you I would not run again.”
His eyes narrowed. “You promised to love and obey me as well. But you, my dear, are a liar. And one I dare not turn my back on for fear you’ll sheath my own dagger in it.”
She flushed and felt her face burn hot. His tone was teasing enough, but truth lay behind those words. And though that band of murderous vandals may have done her a service with regard to Cedric Campbell, she’d support no coward who dumped the blame upon her family. “I could have stabbed you in the tent that first night of our travels, if I had a mind to. But I didn’t.”