by Tracy Brogan
The men turned back to Simon, grunting their collective approval like sheep bleating in unison. John watched his brother’s chest swell with their acceptance, and Simon spoke once more.
“Even the king’s stepfather, Archibald Douglas, is on our side. Though he is exiled in London, he is anxious to reclaim his post as Scotland’s regent and knows well we can get him there.”
John swallowed down his sigh. God, these men were so simple. Not one of them could think more than a few days into the future.
“So you’d ally us with England just to rid us of James?” Darrin asked, getting a sharp look from Simon.
“I ally us only to our own freedom,” Simon stated. “I want back all that King James took from the Sinclairs when he claimed his throne these ten years past. I want our lands, our homes, and the honor of our good name. We sided with Douglas when he held the boy king captive. He owes us now. And when this king is dead and Scotland is a regency once more, I will sit upon the board and rule beside Douglas, just as my father did.”
John drained another cup, motioning to Genevieve to fill it once more. His brother could boast like this for hours. It was thirsty work, listening and nodding.
Genevieve ambled to his side, her hips swaying in a way that made him think of meadow grasses blowing under a warm sun.
“You drink too much, my lord, and too often,” she murmured quietly so none might hear but him.
He let his eyes travel up her body slowly, lingering on the curve of her breasts before reaching her face.
Her cheeks flushed pink, the way they did when he pressed her against the pillows.
He held out his cup, his fingertips extending to touch her wrist discreetly. “I’m thirsty.”
Her lashes sank in a slow blink. “Perhaps you’re lonely too.”
He looked to Simon, fearful his brother might be watching, for Simon was greedy as well as jealous, and if he thought John favored this girl, he’d take her for himself. Just because he could.
“I am,” John whispered softly. “Will you come to me?”
She tilted her chin and filled the cup halfway. “I will. Best you sober up a bit.”
When she arrived in his room that night through a servants’ passageway, John was waiting. He kissed her, hungry and urgent. She met him with equal fervor, pulling at his clothes and biting his shoulder when he squeezed her breast. Their coupling went fast, so fast he had no time to fully undress her, though long enough to leave them both spent and well satisfied. When it was done, he savored the task of removing her garments, exploring the lush treasures he found beneath with still more kisses.
“Simon makes me uneasy,” she admitted sometime later as she pressed against John beneath his covers.
Her words made him pull her closer, so tight she giggled from it.
“How so?” As if he did not know the answer.
“He watches me, but no more so than he watches the other women. Bertrice is fond of him, so we usually send her his way.”
“If he makes a menace of himself, you must let me know.”
She nodded, her tresses tickling his nose as she did so. Then she rolled onto her back to look him in the eyes. The light was dim, but candles and the fire lit their faces. “It’s not my place to ask, I know. But could you tell him now that I am yours? And save me the risk of his attentions?”
How he wished he could. “You know Simon well enough, Gen. He covets most what others have. But he’s the laird now, and were I to ask permission for your hand, his interest in you would only grow more intense. Keeping us a secret is the best way to keep you safe. Rest easy, though. Things are happening, and when the summer is over, my place will have changed one way or another.”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
“I cannot tell you more, Gen. Not just now.”
She sighed and rested a soft hand against his cheek. “So many secrets with you, John. I cannot keep them all straight.”
He turned his face to kiss her palm. “But you know the most important truth.”
“What’s that?”
“I love you.”
She sighed and slid her hand down between them, wrapping it around the length of him. “Show me,” she whispered.
CHAPTER 14
OVER THE FINAL crest they rode, Fiona at the back of the pack, with Darby leading her horse. The last two days had been arduous, first traveling by boat down Loch Ness, then obtaining more horses and riding the rest of the way, stopping rarely. They’d slept outside again last night, and she’d not had Myles’s body to keep her warm, for he’d said little to her since leaving her room that night at the inn and seemed intent on avoiding her in every way. She had no inkling why his manner had changed so thoroughly, but could only assume the prisoner had spewed more falsehoods.
As they journeyed, Cedric clung to his miserable life, passing in and out of awareness. Or so she gathered from the murmured comments she overheard from the men.
As the sun began to settle on the mountaintops, Fiona caught her first site of Dempsey Castle. Both relief and trepidation rippled through her. The place was monstrously large, with whitewashed masonry walls and brightly colored pennants flying high from every turret. Two massive guard towers flanked the entrance, with a barbican reaching forward and ending at a stone bridge. A moat surrounded it, and outside of that, the village hummed with evening’s activity.
Down the final hill they went, the horses’ ears pricking up, as even they recognized home. Her palfrey nickered and stepped more lively, prancing and pulling at the bit. Fiona gripped the pommel in her hands and clenched her tired legs against the eager horse’s sweat-soaked sides.
Darby turned and smiled, his freckled cheeks pink with anticipation. “’Tis a grand place, isn’t she, my lady? You’re a lucky one to live in such a palace.”
Fiona bit her lip. Lucky, indeed. Perhaps the dungeon would be warm and dry in a place such as this.
Avoiding the main avenue of the village, they circled around and passed over the bridge and under the first arch of the barbican. The wooden grid of the portcullis raised, its iron-tipped spikes looming overhead like snarling teeth. What her future held beyond this gate, God only knew. And He seemed averse to sharing information.
The cluster of weary travelers clattered into the bailey to a symphony of joyous voices calling welcome. But it hushed away as those within the castle yard took in the disheveled appearance of their traveling clansmen. In seconds, Fiona and the others were surrounded by an undulating sea of arms reaching up to assist them. What a commotion it was as men jumped from their saddles, kissing the women who ran to their embrace.
Fiona waited, perched upon her palfrey, well above the fray. Darby, bless him, stayed by her side, and for that, she was grateful. He was small, but he’d been her champion these last few days, seeing to her needs after Myles had forsaken her.
Her husband swung down from his saddle, and her chest went tight, thinking he might come her way. He didn’t, and an odd weightlessness overcame her, as if she were in this moment and yet played no part at all.
He strode instead toward an older woman who’d come down the impressive stone steps. His mother, surely, for she was dressed as fine as a royal in a satin gown of deep burgundy, with slashed sleeves revealing a plum-colored girdle beneath. Gold thread weaved through the trim of her French hood and glinted in the fading sunlight.
The woman pulled Myles close, clutching him tightly, and another flood of emotions washed over Fiona. A mother’s love. How long she’d been without. Seeing Myles with his own mother should have kindled her anger anew. But she only felt bereft.
“That is Lady Marietta,” Darby said, his voice reverent.
The woman’s expression of concern deepened as Myles spoke. Then fast as a blink, she took charge, calling out orders and instructing the men to find a stretcher so they might move her husband into the hall. There was a set to her jaw that Fiona recognized, for she’d seen it on Myles’s face. Quickly, the men-at-arms we
nt to work, with Myles and Tavish by their sides.
As Cedric was moved from the cart, Myles finally glanced over at Fiona. She sat up taller. But his mother paused beside him, following his gaze, and Fiona could not help but look to her.
Steel-gray eyes pierced her, and Fiona felt the icy coldness in that sharp look. Like the point of a blade, it cut through. Fiona fought the urge to smooth her hair, for little would it do to improve her appearance. She was a frightful mess, wearing a dun-colored dress purchased from the innkeeper’s daughter and dirt embedded in her skin. She could see Myles’s mother had already made her judgment.
Marietta scowled and turned away, picking up her skirts and following her husband’s broken body into the hall. Myles’s face softened slightly, so slightly Fiona thought it might just be her wishful fancy, for then he turned as well and went with Cedric.
Darby twisted off his horse and slid down, his feet landing with a soft thud in the dirt. “Can you manage off that mare, my lady?”
Fiona, left breathless by the wordless dismissal from her husband, nodded. She managed to swing her leg around and maneuvered downward. Her skirt caught up in the stirrup, and Darby gave it an overzealous tug. Had he not, she’d have met her new kin by giving them a view of her all and sundry.
His cheeks burned red as coals. “Come this way, my lady. I’ll find someone to tend to you.”
“Darby!” a feminine voice called. “Here.”
“Mother!” He ran toward the voice, and Fiona took one step to follow but stopped short, for never was there a more beautiful woman than Darby’s mother. She was dressed as fine as Marietta but was younger, with straight black hair and eyes so pale a blue they nearly seemed silver. Her smile was full as she raced to gather her son into her arms. Fiona felt that ping again, for the loss of a reunion she would never have.
“Darling, I’ve missed you so. My goodness, did you roll in the mud?” She hugged him again, paying no heed to the dirt he smudged on her finery.
“Not roll, exactly. But I slept in it a night or two. Come, meet Lady Fiona.” He pulled her by the hand, and she came willingly, stopping mere inches before Fiona. Slowly, those silver-blue eyes perused her, from filthy foot to ragged hair. Fiona had never felt more bedraggled in all her days. She braced for another look of hatred, the same as she’d received from Myles’s mother, but none came.
“You are Myles’s new bride?” There was a chuckle in her voice, and the hint of a French accent.
Fiona nodded.
“You look dreadful. What a journey you’ve surely had.” She reached out both hands to clasp Fiona’s. “Blessed Mother, your hands are like ice. Come with me, we’ll warm you up and clean you off. My nephew will have his hands full for a bit and won’t miss you.”
“Your nephew?”
The woman laughed. “Aye. Myles is my nephew, though we are nearly the same age. I’m Vivienne. Lady Marietta’s youngest sister.”
“You are his aunt?” Did she sound as addlepated as she felt?
Vivienne laughed again. “More like a cousin.” She motioned to a servant, who instantly came her way. “Tell my sister that I’m seeing to our guest, but she should send for me if she needs me. And bring me word of my brother-in-law’s condition.”
The servant nodded and rushed away. All around them, others scurried to unharness the horses and linger over their greetings. This beauty seemed unfazed by any of it. She smiled at Fiona once more and started walking toward a small set of wooden steps leading to a tower. Fiona followed.
“Mother, shall I come too?” Darby asked, trotting along beside them.
“Yes, we’ll set you to bathing in my chamber after we’ve gotten Lady Fiona settled.”
Darby frowned. “I’m not so very dirty. I could wait another day or so.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “Today, my pet. And you shall tell me all about your grand adventure.”
’Twas anything but grand, Fiona thought, making her way behind them, but at least they had arrived and the traveling was behind her. And it seemed she was to have a real bath. Praise be to God. The last had been only partially cleansing, and the memory of it made her lips tingle at the thought of her husband’s kiss. She’d actually waited for him to return to her room. Wanted him to, even. But she’d come to her senses since then. ’Twas shameful what a simple kiss could do to a girl’s emotions, and she’d be certain not to make that mistake again.
They made their way up a narrow turret stair, which opened into a spacious corridor. Elaborate tapestries and portraits covered the walls.
Darby chattered to his mother, and Fiona wondered at Vivienne’s age, for certainly she could not be old enough to have a son of eleven.
“Here we are. This is your chamber,” Vivienne said, pushing open a mammoth wooden door and stepping inside.
Fiona hesitated on the threshold, gazing in wonder, for the room was so fine she feared it a mirage and she might fall through the floor.
The walls were covered in paneled wood, with medallions of the Campbell crest adorning each corner of the fireplace. To one side was an enormous bed, the posts carved with intricate vines and berries and draped with red velvet curtains. Dozens of pillows rested at the head, and opposite the bed sat two cushioned chairs beneath a mullioned window, with a table in between. The fireplace burned, cozy and bright, though night had not yet fallen. Never had she seen so fine a chamber. She stepped inside, glad to discover the floor and room were real.
“Darby, scoot back to the kitchen, would you, love? And get our Fiona a tray of food. Eat something for yourself too, if you’re hungry,” Vivienne told him.
“I’m famished,” he answered, clutching his belly.
She smiled and kissed him atop his messy hair. “Then eat, but hurry back with something for the lady.”
“Yes, Mother.” He smiled at Fiona and shot back out the door, quick as a mouse.
Vivienne looked after him, smiling.
“He’s a wonderful boy,” Fiona said, awkwardness overtaking her.
But Vivienne offered yet another smile, one warm and without guile. “Yes, he is. I’m lucky to have him.”
“You must have been very young when he was born.” She stepped farther into the room and lightly touched the velvet curtain. Her hand, with its soiled, broken nails and a pinky still tied to its neighbor with filthy cloth, looked like a hag’s against the sumptuous fabric, and she snatched it back to hide behind her skirt.
“He was born of another, the product of my husband’s rampant indiscretions. But when his mother died, we took him in, and he’s been mine ever since.”
“Then it’s he that’s fortunate.”
Vivienne tipped her head, graciously accepting the compliment. “We were both fortunate, for soon after he came to live with me, his father met with a tragic death, though one I’m sure was not nearly as painful as he deserved.”
A gasp of humor escaped Fiona at this woman’s bold words, and she eyed her more carefully. Beyond the expensive clothing and sweet smile lay something more. A resilient will. She’d not turn her back on this one, nor cross her. In that instant, Fiona knew they were destined to become either the dearest of friends or the most violent of adversaries.
They laid his father on the bed, and Myles noticed his father was not so large as he’d always thought. Suddenly, the earl looked frail and mortal.
Myles’s mother went to work cutting away her husband’s tattered garments. “Send for the surgeon, Tavish. And the priest.”
“Already done, Mari. They’ll be on their way soon.”
She nodded once and then gasped as she peeled away her husband’s shirt and bandage, revealing the long, angry slash along his torso. “We need more light. Myles, bring the lamp. The rest of you, give us privacy. But send up water and fresh bandages.”
“Aye, my lady,” one of them said.
The men filed out silently as Myles grabbed a lamp and lit it with a stick from the fireplace. He set the lamp upon the table and helped his mother
and uncle finish stripping away the last remnants of his father’s clothing.
The bandages were red with seeped blood, and the earl’s broken arm was bruised from well above his elbow all the way to his wrist. Even his hand looked swollen and discolored.
’Twas his sword arm that was broken. Losing it would be worse than death.
Father Darius arrived along with a servant bearing supplies, and soon after, the surgeon joined them too. They worked in unison, bathing and rebandaging the wounds. Myles’s mother flinched each time his father made a sound.
At last, the surgeon wiped his hands on his apron. “The rest is up to God, my lady. I’ll cauterize the wound on his side in the morning, but the arm will have to mend itself. His fever is low, but we must pray it doesn’t rise. And that gash upon his head might cause some confusion when he awakens.”
Marietta pursed her lips, her face pale in the warm room. “Open the windows. We should cool this chamber.”
The surgeon nodded. “Let’s try to get some broth into him as well. He’ll need all his strength.”
“I’ll see to it,” Tavish answered before Marietta even had a chance to ask.
She clenched his arm in gratitude. “You and Myles have taken good care of him, Tavish. He owes you his life, I should think.”
“He’s my brother,” Tavish answered, as if that explained all.
She turned to Myles, eyes bright with fresh tears. “You’ve done well, Myles.”
He thought to argue. To tell if he had not lost his bride, perhaps none of this would have come to pass. But he kept silent his tongue and merely nodded.
He turned from her and realized with a start it was not her opinion of him that rankled. No, it was Fiona he worried over. His mother was shrewd and not without her own faults, prejudice being one of them. She’d been against this marriage. He knew this, though she had not shared her reasons why. And if she thought any Sinclair had been involved in this attack, his wife would bear the brunt of her resentment. So it must be he who shared the details of their journey, not Tavish or any other. For his bride’s sake, whether she be deserving or no, Myles would paint her in a better light than all the facts might lend to. His mother would make her own assumptions, but if he could pave an easier path for Fiona, he would.