Highland Surrender

by Tracy Brogan

  When a maid came to say Lady Marietta was ready for her audience, Fiona was ready too. As ready as she’d ever be, at least. Like a faithful Christian led to the lion’s den, she walked with Ruby down the corridor until they came to another wide wooden door.

  Ruby knocked, and a servant opened the door, prompt but silent, gaining them entrance.

  Fiona took a breath and concentrated on blowing it out.

  Lady Marietta’s antechamber was decorated in pastel hues, with a broad tapestry covering one wall nearly from floor to ceiling. It depicted a garden scene, with a man and woman strolling together and tiny forest creatures all about them. Two large windows let in sunlight, which danced upon the floor. And underneath those windows sat her mother-in-law, in a chair so ornately carved it nearly looked alive.

  She was resplendent in an emerald-green dress, with her dark hair pulled back under an elegant French hood covered in jewels. Her face was pale, and dark circles that had not been present yesterday now made her eyes seem even more unnerving. No smile lightened her expression.

  Fiona suddenly felt tawdry in her borrowed gown. This was no pliant matron but instead an equal warrior, and one to be reckoned with.

  She stepped closer to the chair and curtsied, though her legs trembled in a ridiculous manner. She was grateful they were hidden by her skirt.

  Still no smile from the matron. “So, you are my son’s wife.” Her French accent was more pronounced than Vivienne’s.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Marietta’s eyes traveled over her, slow as melting ice and equally as cold. “You look better when not wearing half the road upon your face.”

  ’Twas no compliment, really. Nor much of an insult. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Her mother-in-law perused her another moment, then gestured for Fiona to sit in the other chair, one much less regal, with shorter legs so that the occupant must look up to meet Marietta’s gaze. Or more importantly, so that Myles’s mother could look down. That was a clever trick, and though it put Fiona at a distinct disadvantage, she silently commended her opponent’s tactics.

  When Marietta spoke, her voice was soft, but laced with strength. “It should come as no surprise I was against this marriage. I still am, but what’s done is done. One doesn’t argue with the king, nor with my husband. But you must understand my son’s happiness is of paramount importance to me. He could have made a grand match, one that would have brought him great joy. He could have married someone French, but for James’s whim, Myles is instead married to you.”

  Fiona felt her palms prickle with perspiration. She’d escaped twenty clansmen with more courage than she now felt. But she straightened in her chair. She’d not be intimidated, not by any Campbell. Even a woman such as this who would know how to wound the emotions and yet leave no mark.

  The lady continued. “Myles has told me of your escapades, your attempt at escape. Now you must tell me with your own words. Why did you run? What was your intention?”

  Fiona swallowed, her throat dry as week-old bread. “I ran to free myself. I thought to make my way toward Moray Firth and find a way home from there.” She’d not mention her plan to land at Glamis Castle, where her Douglas cousins lived. No sense implicating them in something in which they had no hand.

  “I see. And what would you have done once you arrived back at Sinclair Hall?”

  Fiona felt heat infusing pink into her cheeks. “I had not thought that far ahead. ’Twas an ill-conceived plan. Doomed to fail.”

  “’Tis wise you see that now. Does that mean you will not try a second escape?”

  “I will not, my lady. I promised your son I would stay put.”

  “My son doesn’t believe you.”

  Fiona offered a small shrug. “I cannot change his thoughts on the matter. He must choose to trust me or not. It makes no difference to me what he thinks.”

  Marietta’s lips puckered into a frown, and Fiona knew she’d insulted Myles with her disregard and tried to make amends.

  “It cannot be a secret I had no wish for this marriage either, my lady. No disrespect to you, I know our betrothal was formed during a time of friendship, but considering all that has passed between our clans, it’s foolish to think your son and I would make a great match. As you said, this was the king’s whim. James should have known better.”

  A tiny gasp of amused disbelief escaped Marietta’s lips. “You will not last a day at court, girl, with words such as that. You must learn to tread more carefully.”

  “I do not imagine I’ll spend much time at court.”

  Marietta tilted her head. “James has magnificent plans for my son, in spite of this detour in the path. You may be certain you will spend some time at court. So I suggest you rein in that unpredictable nature, or you’ll be tucked away in a hamlet somewhere with nothing but servants to entertain you.”

  A tapping sounded on the door, and the maid quickly answered. Vivienne entered, smiling at first her sister, then Fiona.

  “Ah, Mari, I see you’ve met the bride.”

  “Yes.” Marietta’s tone was neutral, betraying nothing.

  Vivienne sank down into a third chair next to Myles’s mother, graceful as a wave upon the shore, and winked at Fiona. “And having a lovely time of it, no doubt. My, Fiona! How fine that dress looks on you. Consider it yours.”

  “Thank you, my lady. It seems my other dress fell into the fire.”

  Vivienne laughed. “It didn’t fall. It was pushed. We cannot have Myles’s wife gallivanting around in rags, even if she is as naughty as a thief.”

  Fiona’s cheeks burned once more. Vivienne was either gracious or mischievous. Or somehow both. “I fear my own clothes were lost during our travels. I have nothing.”

  “Oh, well, we’ll see to that, then, won’t we, Mari?”

  Marietta gave a small, stiff nod. “Of course.”

  “I’ll have the seamstress come to your room straightaway. What splendid amusement, to plan a new wardrobe.”

  A thrill of anticipation thrummed through Fiona, but she tried to shoo it away. It would indeed be a splendid amusement, but one more thing to distance her from her own family and her resolve to remain separate in every way from this new clan.

  The door swung open just then, pushed by a hand from the other side, and Myles stepped into the chamber. He ducked his head under the frame and seemed to fill the doorway.

  Fiona felt his presence like a burst of warm air, her lungs squeezed by some unseen hand robbing her of breath.

  The last time she’d seen him, he’d been covered from head to heel with dirt and blood. Even on the day of their wedding, he’d been four days in the saddle, dusty from the road, with hair unkempt and clothes made for travel. But now he was fresh and clean, looking like a royal emissary in a jerkin of rich brown, trimmed with ermine. She wondered how the hue might affect the shade of his eyes. But he never looked her way. Instead, he walked straightaway to his mother. Once again, it seemed she was dismissed without even being seen.

  CHAPTER 17

  HIS MOTHER SAT in front of the window, the muted sunlight from the window making her a silhouette so he could not see her face.

  “Forgive my interruption, Mother,” he said, crossing the room swiftly and giving her a fast kiss on the cheek, “but Father is awake. He’s asking for—”

  His words faded away like the smoke of an extinguished candle, for in the chair opposite his mother sat Fiona. But not the one he’d known, with the mud and the wild hair. Or even Fiona from the chapel steps wearing a threadbare gown years past its prime. This Fiona was magnificent in a bejeweled gown of satin, with her hair fashionably styled and her face free of grime. He stole a quick glance at the hands resting in her lap, checking for an emerald ring and a bandaged finger, just to be certain it was indeed her.

  It was.

  He stuttered a moment, for she’d caught him wholly unawares. “Uh...you, Mother. Father is asking for you.”

  His mother rose at once, murmured something to
Vivienne, and then moved toward the door. “You’ll excuse me, Fiona. Vivi will look after you today. Myles, are you coming?”

  Myles looked to his bride. She was lovely, he must admit to that. And what man would not be befuddled by cleavage such as hers? But now was not the time to ponder such a question, for his father waited. He gave Fiona a nod and could have sworn he saw a hopefulness in her face, but it was gone as fast as it had come, and she quickly looked to the floor.

  He hesitated, for he owed her a greeting and was not so swayed that he could not carry on a simple conversation.

  “Are you faring well, my lady?” His voice scratched a bit in his throat, and he coughed to clear it.

  She didn’t look at him again, only lifted that stubborn chin of hers. “Well enough, my lord.”

  Damn the girl. Only she could make so simple a phrase smack of insult. You could scrub her clean and polish her up, but she still hissed like Fiona Sinclair.

  He turned to his aunt. “Vivi, see that Lady Fiona’s things are moved to her own chamber.”

  Vivi smiled, humor curling in her voice. “To which things do you refer, Myles? All she has is my dress and your fine Campbell name.”

  Christ. He hadn’t thought of that. The girl’s trunks were abandoned, left by the road to make room for his father in the cart. He scowled at Vivi. She was enjoying his discomfiture far too much. That one needed a husband of her own to torment. He held his voice steady. “Will you see to it that she gets some things and then keeps them in her own room?”

  “There is no other room. But I shall be most pleased to obtain for her all the items a lady needs,” Vivienne answered.

  ’Twas obvious his aunt meant to make a plaything of his irritation. Ignoring her was his best plan. He stepped closer to Fiona.

  “My father’s health is precarious,” he said to his wife, “and I must see to his needs. Vivi will help you settle in. You understand, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  He paused. There was more he thought to say, and so much more he needed to ask, but his mother was out the door and halfway to his father by now. Fiona would have to wait.

  He turned and strode toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Behave yourself, Vivi.”

  “I mean only to help, Myles,” she called after him.

  He snorted as he stepped from the room. His aunt was as duplicitous as his bride. He could fight two men at once on the battlefield and be certain of his victory. Defeating two women was another thing entirely.

  Entering the antechamber with his mother, Myles crossed himself and whispered a prayer. God willing, his father would be hale and hearty again soon, but for now, he’d settle for having him awake and lucid.

  The room was full, with both the surgeon and priest in attendance, along with Tavish and a handful of servants.

  “He’s been asking for you, Marietta,” Tavish said, meeting them at the threshold of the door. “I told him you’d be right along.”

  She nodded and crossed the room in a rustle of satin, sitting gingerly upon the bed. She pulled Cedric’s hand into her own and kissed his fingertips.

  His eyes opened at the touch, and the faintest of smiles graced his lips.

  “Mari,” he said in a voice so faint it was nearly swallowed by the room.

  Myles watched his mother lean closer toward the earl. “How are you feeling?”

  He sighed and closed his eyes once more. “Like the horse rode me.”

  Mild relief tapped Myles upon the shoulder. His father had maintained his sense of humor, though he must be in the gravest of pain. “What happened?” Cedric whispered.

  Myles stepped closer and sat down in the chair near the bed. “There was an ambush, Father. A few miles north of Inverness. Do you remember?”

  Cedric’s face twitched, as if drawing up the memory inflicted more pain. His eyes opened once more. “I remember leaving Sinclair Hall. And the girl running. Did you find her?”

  “Aye, we did. She is here at Dempsey.”

  His father drew in a long, rattling breath and eased it out, coughing a bit.

  “Get him some water, please, Tavish,” Marietta said. “Cedric, you mustn’t trouble yourself about the girl.”

  Myles prompted gently, “Father, do you remember anything about the attack? Few of them escaped and only one captive lived, though he was useless for confession.”

  His father’s eyes floated shut once more. “My arm’s a little sore,” he murmured, and drifted back to sleep.

  Myles saw his mother dash a tear from her cheek. He squeezed her forearm just above where her hands clasped his father’s. “He’ll be fine, Mother.”

  She nodded, dabbing at a second tear, and rose from the bed. “Father Darius, I wonder if you might join me in the chapel. I should like to pray while my husband rests.”

  “Of course, my lady. Let me escort you.”

  She took his arm, and they left the chamber. Myles stood and joined Tavish near the fireplace.

  “We cannot wait for his memory to return, Tavish. Even if it does, it seems there will be little he can tell us.”

  “Aye, it would save us a world of speculating if he’d recognized one of them, but I doubt he can add to what we already know.”

  “Which is nearly nothing. And we cannot wait for answers to come to us. The time to act is now.” He was laird while his father was incapacitated, and he must think like the leader of the Campbells. ’Twas a heavy burden, but one he’d trained for all his life. “The king must be informed. Choose your men and ride to Stirling at first light.”

  He nodded. “My pleasure. Lord knows it’s better than sitting here on my arse while my brother sleeps and our enemy plans another attack.”

  Myles smiled. “Or you could stay here and pray with my mother.”

  A rolling snort came from his uncle. “Prayer is for women and old men, lad. God put a sword in my hand for a reason. He knows I do my praying on the battlefield.”

  CHAPTER 18

  FIONA STOOD UPON a stool in a borrowed chemise, her arms stretched out on either side. Vivienne was there, and Ruby too, along with the seamstress. Bolts of fabric were strewn all about the place, with trims and ribbons and strips of ermine and fox scattered over the bed, as if a milliner’s shop had suffered a windstorm in this very spot. And if indeed a windstorm could be captured and possessed, it would dwell inside Vivienne.

  She was a dervish, twirling the sumptuous cloths around Fiona, giggling with delight over suggestions made by the seamstress.

  “I think the gold, with a burgundy kirtle beneath, don’t you agree? Your hair will look stunning next to the gold.” Vivienne’s smooth cheeks were pinked by enthusiasm.

  “Oh, so lovely,” Ruby breathed, pressing both hands against her own ruddy cheeks.

  “And you’ve a fine figure.” The seamstress nodded.

  Fiona was breathless from the gluttony of it. So many silks and satins and brocades. There were velvets and linens and furs. Vivienne insisted she needed a dress for every event. Gowns for riding, for walking, for morning and afternoon. And of course, there were the gowns for special occasions, such as visits with the other nobility, and even the king.

  “Surely I’ll not be meeting the king,” Fiona protested.

  Vivienne’s finely arched browed furrowed. “But of course you will. One day soon, we’ll visit Linlithgow or Falkland Palace. You’ll meet him then.”

  Fiona felt blood pooling to her feet, leaving her woozy at the thought of being face-to-face with that ruthless sovereign. What words might she spit in his face if given the chance? But just as quickly, Marietta’s words of warning sounded in her memory. Rein in that unpredictable nature.

  That was as unlikely as the possibility of Fiona ever being allowed within earshot of Scotland’s ruler. Vivienne was misguided in her optimism.

  “I think we’ve chosen enough dresses. As it is, I cannot imagine wearing them all,” Fiona said.

  Vivienne looked over the piles of fabric. “These a
ren’t so very many. But fine, if you grow weary, we need only choose your bedclothes and we’ll be finished.” She picked up a bolt of white linen so sheer it looked like frost upon a windowpane. “This should do nicely. Take off that chemise and let’s see it against your skin.”

  Fiona blanched. She’d do no such thing. Take off her chemise, indeed. She clutched it close to her chest.

  Vivienne laughed at her modesty. “Oh, come now. We’re all women here. We’ve got the same bits as you.”

  “Aye, though mine have sunk a good deal lower,” added the seamstress, chuckling.

  “Mine are a good deal more plump,” Ruby giggled. “But my husband loves a fine cushion.”

  The others laughed, while Fiona felt her cheeks grow hot. In fact, she felt hot all over. The idea of Myles thinking anything of the like was embarrassing. She should shoo Vivienne and Ruby from the room and choose the most opaque fabric of the lot. Perhaps a somber gray to dissuade her husband’s interest. Although his interest seemed to have dissipated through no effort of her own.

  “Oh, girls, we’ve made our maiden bride blush,” Vivienne teased, which only infused more heat into Fiona’s tingling skin.

  “I don’t need any such impractical nightgowns. Just something serviceable.”

  Vivienne’s laughter filled the air, with Ruby and the seamstress’s quick to follow. “Serviceable? That sounds as enticing as a case of the pox. Of course you need something impractical. A flimsy little something, thin as a spider’s web that tears away just as easily.”

  Ruby and the seamstress both nodded emphatically.

  Fiona gripped the chemise more tightly. “Tears away? What good is a shift such as that?”

  Vivienne doubled over in her laughter. “My goodness, what a lot my nephew has to teach you. Are you a virgin, still?”

  What a rude, invasive question. Fiona scowled. “I assure you, I am quite thoroughly married.”

  “Then shame on Myles if he’s left you to wonder about the joy of impractical nightgowns. Although, you have been traveling, and you can’t do much rending of things when you’re on the road. And I suppose last night he sat vigil with his father, but once Cedric is on the mend and Myles is not so distracted, I do hope you obtain a different view on the matter.”