Highland Surrender

by Tracy Brogan

  ALSO BY TRACY BROGAN

  Crazy Little Thing

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Tracy Brogan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612186962

  ISBN-10: 1612186963

  For my father, who was born in Scotland, and who told me when I couldn’t sleep I should make up stories in my head.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, 1537

  FIONA SINCLAIR COULD not reconcile the irony of nature’s twisted humor. For today of all wretched days, the sky should be burdened with clouds as dark and dismal as her mood. But the morning dawned soft and fair, mild as a Highland calf, and she knew that God himself mocked her. At any moment, Myles Campbell and his father, the Earl of Argyll, would pass through the gates of Sinclair Hall, unwelcome, yet unhindered by her clan. Soon after that, she must stand upon the chapel steps and marry a man she had never met, and yet had hated for all of her life.

  Through her narrow bedchamber window, sounds from the bailey filtered up. The smithy’s hammer tapped a mellow cadence as if this day were just like any other. Perhaps he shaped a horseshoe or a pointed pike. She smiled at the latter and imaged the heaviness of that same pike in her hand. Oh, that she had the courage to plunge it deep into the earl’s heart, if indeed he had one.

  She rose from the threadbare cushion on the bench and moved without purpose toward the stone fireplace. A low fire burned, warding off the spring morning’s chill. From habit, Fiona slipped her hand into the leather pouch around her waist. She squeezed tight the silver brooch inside, its design and inscription etched as clearly in her memory as on the pin itself. A boar’s head, symbol of Clan Campbell, with words chosen by the king himself.

  To Cedric Campbell, a true friend is worth a king’s ransom. James V.

  The brooch had been a gift to the Campbell chief, the man about to become her father-in-law. But he had left it behind nearly seven years earlier, pierced into the flesh of Fiona’s mother so that all the world might know he had dishonored her.

  The priest had found Aislinn Sinclair’s lifeless body in a secluded glen outside the village, stripped bare and broken, marked by Cedric’s lust and spite. Thus a feud, long simmering at the edges, boiled over. But today the king thought to put an end to it with this farce of a marriage between a Sinclair lass and a Campbell son. It would not work.

  Fiona paced to the window, restless and melancholy. She leaned out to breathe fresh spring air, hoping it might lighten her spirits. The too-sweet scent of hyacinth clung to the breeze, along with the ever-present brine of Moray Firth.

  Along the west curtain wall, more hammering sounded as masons worked to bolster the steps leading to the main keep. As if precarious stairs alone might halt the Campbell men from gaining entrance. But nothing would. Her fate as a Campbell bride had been declared the very day she drew in her first breath, and sealed when her father blew out his last.

  The latch rattled, and her chamber door swung open. Her brothers had come to ensure her compliance once more. Simon, with hair and countenance both dark as the Irish Sea, entered first, for he was always in a rush. With their father now two months in the grave, he was also their laird. John followed close behind.

  “Are you ready, Fiona? I’ll brook no nonsense from you this day.” Simon strode to the window and looked out, but just as quickly turned to stare her way.

  She bit the inside of her cheek. She’d not cower beneath his stormy gaze, nor willingly abide by his commands. Laird or no, he was still her brother and she would defend herself.

  “I’ll not play pawn in your game of politics,” Fiona said, holding her voice steady with some effort. “I’ve told you so. For years, we’ve lived in exile, forsaken by King James because father dared defy him. Yet suddenly he forgives and wants to draw us into his fold? It makes no sense.” Her skin tingled with unease, yet she persisted. “The Earl of Argyll is his right hand, so why does James enforce a betrothal which benefits neither the Campbells nor the Crown? And why has Cedric agreed to it? We are poor and bring nothing to the table.”

  Simon scoffed, dismissive of her argument. “The Campbell chief agreed to it because he’s nothing more than a royal whore. He’d bend over and bare his noble arse if the king wished it.”

  Fiona’s heart pulsed jaggedly at his harsh words. The pointed little stabs made it difficult to breathe.

  John set a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “It makes perfect sense, Fiona, if you’ve a mind to see it.” Two years younger but a head taller than Simon, John had their mother’s coloring, with sand-colored hair and eyes the same glittering blue as Fiona’s. “The king has declared himself Lord of the Isles, but he knows we Highlanders hold no allegiance to the Crown. He thinks to seduce us into obedience by marrying his nobles to our daughters and our sisters. ’Tis easier than waging war, for what’s the blood of a few virgin brides compared to that of Scotland’s sons?”

  Simon’s blunt fingers curled into a fist, and he turned away and looked to the window again, but John continued. “The king well knows our ugly history with the Campbells, and so he proves himself our master. If we agree to the marriage, he can claim our loyalty. If we refuse, he will crush us, and none will rise to our aid.”

  Desperation filled the cavern of Fiona’s chest. “If father were alive, he’d never allow this. He’d not hand me over to the Campbells to be abused as our mother was.”

  John’s jaw clenched. The tenderness in his voice vanished. “Simon is our laird now, and we must follow him, Fiona. Your marriage to Myles Campbell will seal the truce and keep our people safe. Do not persist in this selfishness.”

  She reached out and gripped John’s arm as if he dangled her over a precipice, for indeed he did. Where was the brother who had been her champion? ’Twas always John who interceded when Simon became too rough or harsh, but now it seemed he had abandoned her. Her gaze skittered from one to the other.

  “That’s it, then? Neither of you will raise a sword to protect me from these murderers or defend our mother’s honor? Cedric Campbell choked the life from her an
d left her body in a stream to rot. What if they intend the same for me? What if this is just a scheme to trick me onto my back and you fools down to your knees?”

  “If the Campbells wanted us on our knees, we’d be there.” John’s voice went rough as tree bark. “For years, we’ve fought to avenge our mother. You know that. Simon and I have both taken our turn against them on the field. Now the battle comes to you. Do your part as a Sinclair warrior. Wed the earl’s son and buy us some peace.”

  His words fell like granite blocks, crushing her beneath their weight. Panic sharpened her voice. “Peace? You coward. You are selling my future to buy yours because you’re not man enough to defeat them in battle!”

  John’s hand drew back, quick as an archer’s, and let it swing. His open palm cracked against her cheek, the sound exploding in her ear.

  Simon was the kind to strike, but not John. Never John. The shock stung as sharply as the blow itself. She covered her face with her own hand and drew up taller.

  Simon stepped closer to them both. “We are all warriors in our own way, Fiona. John is right. This is your duty to our clan. Shirk from it, and we will have no choice but to offer Margaret in your place.”

  Fiona’s breath went hot inside her throat. She sank to a bench along the wall. “You would give them our sister? She’s but a child!”

  Simon shrugged his thick shoulders. “She is nearly thirteen—plenty old enough to see herself wed—and I’m sure it matters little to Myles Campbell where he sheaths his sword.”

  John’s slap was mild compared to the blow of Simon’s crude words. Impotent rage rattled her senses. “You wouldn’t.”

  “It’s your choice,” he said. “Do your duty or see Margaret take your place. Either way, the Campbells leave here with a Sinclair bride.”

  “’Tis time, Fiona. Enough wallowing. They’re just outside the gate.” Bess, the old nursemaid, strode into Fiona’s chamber, her gnarled hands pulling a blue dress off the bed and shaking it. It was deep blue, trimmed in ermine and gold thread, but showed signs of age and wear. Once her mother’s from her days at the Scottish court, it now belonged to Fiona.

  “They’re here?” Young Margaret had joined her sister soon after John and Simon left. With thick blonde curls cascading to the small of her back and a sweet smattering of pale freckles across her nose, Margaret was a bud about to blossom into full beauty. She moved toward the window, light as a sparrow. “What do they look like, Bess? Are they very horrible? And as big as they say?”

  Fiona’s gut churned as if it fought against bad mutton. She ran to the garderobe and retched up what little breakfast she had eaten.

  Bess was quick to Fiona’s side, wiping her brow with a damp cloth. “There, there, missy. It won’t be so bad. You’ll see. One man is much like the next when the fire is low.”

  Fiona stared at her homely maid for the briefest moment, wondering what the dear old woman could possibly recall of men in dim light, and heaved once more.

  “Oh, Fiona, come see.” Margaret gasped. “There are so many.”

  Fiona steeled herself and clutched the maid’s arm a moment. Bess patted her and gave a reassuring nod. With trembling breath, Fiona stepped forward to pull her sister back. “Come away from the window, Marg. It’s best if they don’t see you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then they will covet you, for certain, and I cannot risk it. You must stay here, safe with Bess at Sinclair Hall.” Until our brothers betray you too.

  Margaret flung her arms around Fiona. “But if they take me too, then I could live with you, always.”

  Fiona blinked away a hot tear. “No, sweeting, you cannot. I will manage well enough amid our enemy, but I shall rest easier knowing you are not in harm’s way.”

  For Margaret, she’d put on a brave face. For Margaret, she would offer herself to the Campbells to do with her what they may. But none of them would see her quaking in her slippers or shedding girlish tears. Hugh Sinclair had sired sterner stuff than that.

  She kissed Marg’s cheek and set her aside, walking toward the bed. “Bess, please help me don that gown. You’re right. ’Tis time.”

  Fiona stood at the top of the staircase leading into the great hall. The room teemed with people, enemy and kin all eager to see if she’d be weeping and frail, defiant or obedient. How could they not? ’Twas a day in history when a Sinclair laid down weapons and embraced a Campbell.

  Well then, let them ogle in their morbid curiosity. Let them gaze upon the virgin sacrifice her brothers placed at the altar of the king. She lifted the hem of her skirt with one hand, clenching the brooch in the other, and descended. An angel doomed to Lucifer’s pit.

  Simon extended his hand to guide her. She ignored him. In moments, he would no longer be her laird, the only blessing of this unholy mess.

  The room hushed.

  She searched the crowd, seeking the one who would be her husband. But how to know among so many strangers? There was a redheaded giant with a beard so thick one could scarcely tell if there was a mouth in there. Please, Lord, not that one. Next to him was another man, tall, broad of shoulder, but with hair halfway to silver. Not him. Too old. And yet another, so broad in the beam his saffron shirt could double as a tent at market. These tiny facts her mind absorbed while trying to block out reality.

  And then she saw them.

  Father and son, of that she was certain. They stood, heads nearly touching as one murmured to the other. With garments too fine to be practical this far north, they stood within the crowd, yet separated by some invisible barrier. The earl possessed an arrogant, regal bearing, like a peacock in full plumage, while his son had the dark look of a warrior, and one accustomed to having his own way. His broad hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and foreboding clutched at her like brambles of a thicket.

  Her foot faltered on the last step as he turned and looked her way.

  CHAPTER 2

  MYLES BARELY HEARD his father’s words for the din in his ears. The hall itself was not loud, but the pulsing of his heart muddled all other sound. They’d ridden without fanfare or mishap into the thick of the Sinclairs’ nest, and now he stood amid men he’d sooner skewer through than dine with. He pulled at the neck of his shirt. It was the finest linen from France, and yet today it scratched like a peasant’s rags.

  His father squeezed his shoulder. “Easy, lad. The men will watch our backs and see no harm comes.”

  Myles said nothing. It wasn’t a fight that had him rattled. In fact, he’d relish the chance to have at it and dispose of these Sinclairs once and for all. No, it wasn’t a brawl that made him quake. It was the thought of her. His bride. The word choked, even inside his own mind. Unjust was the next word that came.

  King James had promised him a tender mademoiselle. Odette was her name, a sweet bit of French fluff with skin like fresh cream, and lips plump and succulent as a strawberry. She wept when she learned the king had called him home from France. Myles promised to return, but instead, he was standing here, inside a pit of vipers, waiting for a coarse Highland wench with two surly brothers and a vendetta against his family.

  The room hushed. A tiny movement caught his eye. There she was upon the step, wearing a threadbare gown well past its days. It was too small and nudged her breasts skyward in a most sinful way. She faltered and rebuffed her brother’s outstretched hand. Her eyes sparked with defiance. No wilting miss was she.

  The chasm between clusters of his men and theirs widened as she made her way toward him and his father. Her brothers flanked her on either side, the stocky, brooding one to her left and the tall, observant one to the right. As they approached, her eyes flickered over Myles, like a rabbit in a snare, and then settled upon his father. The tilt of her chin extended.

  The earl’s arm dropped from his son’s shoulder as he turned to face them.

  The dark one spoke first. “My lords, I am Simon, laird of the Clan Sinclair. This is my brother, John, and our sister, Fiona.”

  John no
dded once in acknowledgment, his lips pressed tight.

  But Myles’s betrothed did not speak or nod or even blink. Her eyes bore into his father. Her chest rose and fell with rapid breaths.

  With some reluctance, Myles tore his gaze from her tantalizing cleavage. She was lovely, his bride to be, and he had not expected that. He thought she’d be plain or freckled, but she was neither. Her skin was flawless, her blue eyes brilliant though rimmed red with recently shed tears, and her hair, so rich in hue it was nearly burgundy, wound round her head in braids with a few curls, defying an attempt to tame them, falling loose. He swallowed and gripped his sword more tightly.

  “Greetings to you. It is our honor to be welcomed into your home,” Cedric said.

  Myles heard not a hint of sarcasm in his father’s voice, though certainly the honor was entirely the Sinclairs’. This keep was a rickety pile of limestone and mortar held together by piss and mud. Why the king had sent him here to claim his bride, delicious though she appeared to be, was beyond his comprehension.

  Cedric reached out his hands to Fiona’s. “And you, my dear, how lovely you are. May the Lord bless and keep you.”

  She kept her hands fisted at her sides. “The Lord has abandoned me, sir, for had He not, you’d be this moment smothering beneath a pile of dung.”

  Gasps went round the room, followed by furious whispers. Her words struck Myles like a kick to the head. Not even the noblest of men insulted Cedric Campbell and lived to tell the tale. He turned to his father, expecting rage, but the earl smiled. Not a grand smile, but a genuine one.

  “I see you’ve your mother’s spirit,” Cedric said, eliciting more whispers.

  “A spirit set free too soon. How dare you mention her as if her death was not your doing!” She slapped the palm of her hand flat against his chest with all her apparent might and left in its place a silver brooch.

  “This is yours, is it not?” she demanded.

  Simon tugged her back roughly. “Fiona, have a care!”

  “Is it not?” she asked again.