by Tracy Brogan
“Generous of you.”
Her frustration grew at his tone. “That man is no Sinclair.”
“Why would he lie?”
“I cannot imagine. But he did.” The bindings felt tighter still.
Myles ran a hand over his jaw. “Dying men are prone to tell the truth, while you have been anything but forthright. And yet, I do begin to think we have a shared enemy. One that opposes the truce between our families. Who would be against such a thing?”
She could think of several clans in the north surrounding Sinclair Hall that had no desire to see the Campbells’ strength and holdings increase. But he would know that too. She’d give him no specific names, for anything she might offer would be conjecture and might lead him to doubt her even more. “I stay out of men’s politics,” she said instead.
His jaw set sternly. “Whoever they are, we will crush them. We have the might of the king’s army on our side. With James on the throne, none can vanquish us. They are fools to try.”
A shiver traversed Fiona’s body. He was arrogant, like his father, but what he said was true. Though she was loath to admit it, perhaps this alliance was in the best interest of her clan. Although she might live among the Campbells, eat their food, even sleep in Myles’s bed, her heart was forever Sinclair. She owed that much to her mother’s memory.
Myles stood up and pulled out his knife. She gasped at his intent. But he merely leaned over and slashed the cord holding her to the bedpost. She lay still a moment longer, willing her arms to lower, but they were numb. “Could you help me? Please?”
His dark brows rose considerably. “Please? My lady has said please?”
He isn’t clever. He is tedious. All she wanted to do was sit up. Must he make an example of her weakness? But he reached down and gently lifted her by the shoulders until she was upright. Her arms lowered, and the blood rushing back was one thousand needles poking. She shut her eyes as they watered with pain.
Myles crossed the room and opened the door, speaking to the men standing guard. “Have someone bring us food and at least two buckets of hot water for washing. Tell Tavish to arrange for a few of the men to watch over my father for an hour or so until I rejoin him myself. And send someone to find me a dress.”
“A dress, my lord?” The man’s voice squeaked with bemusement.
“For the lady, you sodding fool.”
An unexpected chuckle bubbled up inside Fiona at Myles’s exasperated tone. That she could leap from irritation to humor in the present circumstances only proved how overwrought she was. She was giddy with hunger and thirst and exhaustion, for the idea of hot water and food nearly made her leap from the bed to kiss her husband in gratitude.
Her heart clutched at the notion, and she opened her eyes fast.
Yes, for certain, she needed food and rest before her addled emotions wreaked havoc on her actions.
CHAPTER 12
A SERVING GIRL of twelve or so arrived with a tray bearing roast pork, bread, cheese, and wine. Myles let his wife fill her plate, then took his own and tore into the food without ceremony. No king’s banquet had ever tasted so fine. Before they finished, the lass was back with two wooden buckets filled to the brim with steaming water, and with them, washing cloths and soap.
His wife eyed the water with unabashed longing, her gaze so full of want Myles could not help but think he’d like that look to come his way one day.
The servant set the buckets down and made her exit, while Fiona continued to stare.
“Would you like to bathe?” He cleared his throat, embarrassed by the huskiness.
Eyes wide, she paused with bread nearly touching her lips and nodded reverently.
For that moment, she looked so innocent and eager he could think of nothing but brushing aside that bread and plundering her lips with his own, fool that he was. It seemed distrusting her had no bearing on his want of her.
The room was little bigger than a stable stall, with a narrow bed against one wall and a tiny fireplace on another. No table or chairs adorned the place, and so they ate their feast while sitting on the bed. How easy it would be to simply push her back against the pillows and pull that scrap of dress from her body. Her hair was ragged, tied back with a simple cord, and dirt smudged her temple. But even so, she was tempting as a juicy plum. He took a drink of wine.
“Kiss me,” he said.
“What?” Her spine straightened as her eyes met his.
“Kiss me, and you shall have the bathing water.”
Damn him and his devil’s bargains. “I’d sooner kiss your horse’s arse.”
“My horse can find his own kisses. It’s me that’s between you and that bucket.”
Her happily full stomach quaked. She’d never kiss him willingly, for it went against every promise she had made to herself. But the steam beckoned, and her skin itched for want of soap. “What if I refuse?”
He shook his head, dipping it in a show of false sadness. “Then you shall have no bath, m’lady.” His posture was relaxed, as if he had not a care in this world. But his eyes were direct, like he thought to devour her as he’d devoured this meal. With messy abandon.
“I’m no whore to sell my kisses.”
He chuckled. “Whores aren’t interested in baths. But you are. Look at that steam. You could even wash your hair.”
Her breath drew in, sharp as an arrow’s tip. Touching her head, she felt bits of mud clinging to the strands. Disheveled as she was, how he could even want to kiss her was a mystery. But men were base. Far be it for him to let a little thing like cleanliness interfere with his desires. And far be it for her to let his want of a simple kiss stop her from bathing.
“One kiss?”
“Aye. But a real one. A kiss meant for a husband.”
She quivered inside, not entirely certain what he meant. But she had her suspicions.
“One real kiss and then you leave me alone to bathe in private.”
His brows furrowed. “One real kiss and I help you wash that filthy hair. Then I shall leave you alone to...finish with the rest of you.”
Is this what marriage to Myles Campbell was to be like? Full of persuasion and persistence?
“I can wash my hair by myself.”
“You’ll make a mess and use up all the water. I’d like one of those hot buckets for myself, you know. And the longer you argue, the cooler that water gets. So, come on, now. Yea or nay?”
Oh! This man was infuriating. “Yea! Yea. Fine.”
One eyebrow rose. “Really?”
“Yes.” It wouldn’t be that bad. One simple kiss, be it real or not. She’d been through worse. She tossed the last bit of her bread onto the tray and plunked the tray upon the floor. “Where do you want to do it?”
His smile went wide. “Well, I was planning on the lips, but if there’re options...”
“You’re a dirty swine.”
“And you’re my very dirty little wife.” He smiled at his victory. “Now, hush up and be still. Let me savor this moment.”
Her arms crossed in pointless self-protection as he moved toward her. She leaned back, bumping up against the wall, and still closer he came. Shallow breath fluttered in her breast, flickering like candlelight.
His smile faded as his eyes went sleepy and dark in a gaze that stirred her somehow, somewhere deep within. She could not look into his eyes and keep her bearings. She glanced away instead and saw the water buckets tantalizing her in much the same way. With promises. Washing her hair would be pure joy, worth any price. But his hands, working the soap through her curls, caressing her scalp, would be too much. She tingled at the thought and slammed her eyes shut against it. She’d made a mistake. She should tell him to stop. Kissing was a dangerous game. Yet no words came forth. With eyes closed, she felt the heat of his face near hers. Felt his breath and knew his lips hovered near her own.
And she waited.
His hand cupped her jaw, the calluses of his palm at odds with the soft caress.
A tiny gasp
escaped her, and her eyes went wide once more. She halted his wrist. “I never agreed to touching.”
But his hand stayed. “Touching is part of a real kiss.”
She sighed, frustrated and edgy. She should have gotten more details before she made this trade. Her heart thumped, knocking hard against her ribs.
Myles’s gaze floated toward her mouth. She felt a puff of his breath, and his lids shuttered closed.
And still he did not kiss her.
Instead, he grazed his cheek along hers, running his thumb across her bottom lip, and her own eyes fluttered shut as if too heavy to hold open. Sweet Mother Mary, he needed to kiss her and be done with it. This anticipation was too sweet a torment. She tried to remember all the reasons why she should push him away and could think of none.
He lingered, poised so close a raindrop could not find its way between them, teasing her with the scrape of his whiskers and his hands upon her face, until at last she betrayed herself and turned to meet his lips of her own volition. He growled low in his throat and deepened the kiss with the pressure of his mouth, the welcomed invitation of his tongue, until they both gasped with the pleasure of it.
’Twas he who pulled away, blowing out a lungful of air as if the kiss had shocked him.
She pressed fingertips to her heated lips and waited for the shame to flood her senses.
It didn’t. She wanted him to kiss her again, but he stood up and quickly turned away. He scooped up one bucket without looking back at her.
“I’ll have the serving girl assist you with your hair. I know nothing of such things. I’ll be staying with my father, but you have men on guard outside your door, in case you should need anything. Good night, Fiona.”
And then he was gone.
Christ! The girl was ivy twining round his gut, weaving into his thoughts and squeezing away all common sense. His father lay at risk in the very next room, yet all he could think about were her dark-lashed sapphire eyes and lips so sweet he could taste them still. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Even Odette’s kisses had not stirred him so, and he had loved Odette. Hadn’t he?
This grimy, mischievous chit was more his nemesis than his lover, wife or no. And he’d do well to remember. That kiss had come too easily, meant to distract him from all her offenses. But by God above, he was no fool. He’d not be ruled by his prick like some randy peasant boy. The girl was a Sinclair and full of deceit.
He opened the door to his father’s room to find two of his men—Dermott and Benson—sitting at a tiny table next to the bed. These were souls he could trust, not that slip of a wench next door.
“How fares my father?”
Benson stood, ducking his head under the low beam of the ceiling. “He is quiet, my lord. Breathing steady. No fever yet. Pray that holds.”
Myles nodded and gestured for Benson to sit back down. “Has the doctor been back?”
Dermott shook his head. “Not yet, sir. But he’s nearly finished with the others.”
“And Tavish?”
“Still with the prisoner.”
Myles held the bucket in his hand. He’d forgotten to grab any of the cloths or soap in his haste to leave Fiona’s side, but there was extra bandage swaddling near Cedric’s bed. “Take this water and clean my father’s face and hands. You may use the rest for yourselves.”
“Will you go first, my lord?” Benson asked.
Myles looked down at his own hands. He’d rinsed them with cold water before eating, yet still they were stained with brown blood and dirt ground layers deep. But the hot water in that bucket suddenly held little appeal. Better to use it on his father.
Cedric should be first in his thoughts, but he’d been entranced by his bride, seeing to her needs before that of his own men. He’d gone in her room to interrogate her, not barter for her kisses.
He set the bucket down so fast and hard, water splashed to the floor.
“I’ll wash later. First, I’ll see what Tavish has learned. Stay with the earl until I return.”
Myles made his way quickly down the back staircase and across the yard, meeting his uncle at the doorway to the stable.
“Any news?” Myles asked, crossing his arms against the night’s chill.
Tavish wiped something dark and sticky onto a cloth twisted in his fist. “He recanted his kinship with your bride, but that may have been as much due to my influence than the truth of it. He spewed hatred of the Campbells and our king, and claims he was a mercenary, along with the others.”
“A mercenary hired by which clan? If that’s the case, it could lead us right back to the Sinclairs.”
“Aye, it seems that way to me as well.”
Questions crashed inside Myles’s mind, clattering like hooves against a cobbled street. And each led back to his wife. Had she betrayed him from the start? Been complicit in some scheme of her brothers? It could not be so. Her kiss still tingled on his lips, and even as his judgment warned him against trusting her, he felt his heart giving way to tender emotions, as dangerous as any enemy.
This was not the time to follow his heart. ’Twas his brain he must use now. He’d not let that lass sway his way of thinking.
Tavish turned, and they walked back toward the inn, speaking in hushed tones. “I was rough with him, Myles. As rough as I could be without killing him outright. He’ll be dead soon, and well he knows it. I even offered to send word of him to his family if he gave me more, but...” His voice trailed off.
“Maybe another night of suffering will loosen his tongue.”
“He may not last the night. And I’m not sure he even knows who hired him.”
Pain, dull and thick, lodged inside Myles’s lungs. Having enemies was nothing new. But none before had acted with such singular malice toward his father. Their purpose, he could not fathom. For if, God forbid, his father perished, Myles would take his place as chieftain and the Campbell clan would continue to thrive. And if not him, then his younger brother, Robert. That could only mean one thing.
If one of them was in danger, so were they all.
CHAPTER 13
JOHN SINCLAIR DRAINED the ale from his cup, the contents sour on his tongue. His head ached from too much of the stuff and from the incessant scrape of Simon’s voice against his ears. From the moment the last Campbell’s horse disappeared from their view, his brother had done nothing save plot and rant.
“The Sutherlands are sure to side with us. They lost a third of their holdings to Cedric Campbell when King James claimed his throne a decade ago. And for what? His valor?”
Simon spit out the word like it tasted of piss. He slammed his own cup down upon the rough-hewn table, splashing the contents without care.
The two brothers were in the hall surrounded by a half dozen of their most trusted men. Sinclair cousins, mostly, each devout in their hatred of the king and Campbells. They lounged indolently near the fireplace, legs flung over chair arms, cups ever present in their hands. They’d spent the evening drinking and boasting of the victory sure to come.
Simon scowled and blinked into his empty mug. “Where is that girl? Say, you there! Bring us more drink.”
John sat at the far end of a trestle table—a bit away from the others, as usual—and turned to see the girl Simon had beckoned. Her eyes narrowed at his brother’s tone. But she ducked her head with a nod and moved toward the buttery, where the ale was stored.
“That’s a bonnie piece, aye?” Simon asked the group, licking his lips and staring after the girl’s retreating backside. “Ripe as a melon, that one. I’ve a mind to split her open, have a taste.”
Cousin Darrin, sitting closest to Simon, grunted his approval. “She’s a widow. They’re the finest. Trained and left wanting.”
John’s fingers clenched into a fist, and angry words stung his throat. He’d not defend her, though, no matter what sludge Simon flung her way. His attention so would only bring her more harm.
She was Genevieve from the village, with hair so thick and blonde a
man could wrap himself in it and imagine it was starlight. Her eyes were green as the moors at dawn and just as lonely. She was John’s woman and had been for months, but none save the two of them knew it.
She was back fast as a hare, filling the mugs and deftly avoiding each man’s hungry stare. Except for John’s. She winked at him when none could see and bent lower to fill his cup than for any of the others. John’s heart ached at the sight of her. He’d take her far from here if he’d a way. But the second son of an exiled lord had few options. Simon’s was the cloak he clung to for his daily bread now, and he himself had nothing to offer.
But if Simon’s plan went their way and they defeated the king in battle, the Sinclairs would be in power once more, and John would take his place among the reinstated nobility. But news had come of late that gave him pause and made him wonder at the necessity of their scheme. Cedric Campbell could not be trusted, for he was a conniving murderer, and yet at the wedding, he’d pulled John aside and spun a tale for him so fantastical it very nearly might have been true. And if it was, John had more options than ever he’d had before. Perhaps his fate might change. But only if he had the courage to set things into motion, for once he pushed this boulder from the cliff’s edge, there’d be no stopping it.
“John!” Simon growled. “You are silent today. What say you about the Sutherlands? Will they stand with us or cower like maidens?”
John met each man’s gaze before speaking. “My sister’s marriage has bought us time to forge those necessary alliances and to build our army. If we strike too soon, without the support of the other Highland chiefs, they’ll turn us over to the king and we’ll hang as traitors. For once, we must be patient.”
Simon laughed and wiped away a dribble of ale upon his chin. “Patience? Bah! Patience is nothing but lost opportunity. No, John, in this, you are wrong. The king will sail around the Highlands in just a few months’ time. Pompous bastard that he is, he thinks to command our fealty just by asking. But when he arrives in Gairloch, we’ll be waiting with a fierce Highland welcome. One of steel and might.” He smacked his hand against the table.