by Tracy Brogan
Cedric pulled the pin from the thick fabric of his garment and stared down at it. The lines of his face deepened and the smile faded from his lips. He flipped the pin to read the inscription. He raised his gaze to Fiona and then swept over her brothers.
“You know it is. But I swear to you, as I swore to your father for all these years, ’twas not by my hand she died. This is our chance to start anew.”
Simon tugged her farther back and whispered in her ear. Her face blanched, and a tiny breath escaped her lips. John turned as well, to block her from view while the brothers plied her with hushed words.
Myles leaned toward his father. “This is going poorly. She appears to have a most disagreeable nature.”
“Would you not expect a beautiful rose to have some thorns?” Cedric whispered back.
“Aye, Father. But this one has talons. Were she a man, I’d kill her for insulting you so.”
Cedric shook his head. “She is impetuous, like her mother. But a spirited mare is far superior to a meek pony.”
Frustration tapped at Myles. “To ride? Yes. To live with? That is another matter.”
John stepped back into his place, and Simon hauled Fiona before them. Her cheeks were splotched with red; her lips quivered as she curtsied before them. “My lords, I beg you, forgive my imprudent speech. I was overcome with emotions. Have mercy and I shall prove a dutiful wife...and...daughter.” The last of this she choked out in a whisper so soft only they could hear.
At her capitulation, Myles felt an uneasy twist in his gut. He was wholly offended by the insults she hurled, and yet her abject surrender and plea for mercy made him feel grotesque, as if he had somehow abused her. Someday he would ask what threats her brothers had used to bend her will, and the thought gave him a start.
She was to be his wife. He had understood that in the abstract, when her name was merely ink scrawled upon parchment and sealed with the king’s insignia. But this woman would stand beside him all his days and nights forevermore. Suddenly, France and his little mademoiselle seemed very far away.
The marriage ceremony was her purgatory, a postponement of that final judgment condemning her to everlasting doom. Father Bettney, sanctimonious as ever, held the yellowed Bible in his equally yellowed hands. He wheezed the words of God in a nasal monotone. Fiona often thought if rats could speak, they would sound like this priest. He glowered at Fiona, as if he read her mind and judged accordingly. As if she were Eve in the garden and wholly to blame for this sacramental abuse instead of her brothers. Then Father Bettney spoke the words love, obey, and cherish, and she could not decide which of these was most offensive.
Simon and John kept close, no doubt afraid she’d flee or incite the Campbells to violence with more reckless words. But she bit her lip and kept a vision of her sweet Marg close to mind, as they had prompted her to do.
When time came for her vows, she recited her part, steady and clear, with head held high. She even managed to still the trembling of her hand when her husband slipped a gold-and-emerald ring upon her finger. It glimmered in the light but was a heavy shackle. Fear sliced a wide swath a moment later as she placed her pale fingers against the brown roughness of his own. His were killing hands, honed for battle. And soon enough they’d be on her.
Then her husband pressed his lips against her own to seal this bargain forged in the devil’s own fire, and she wished she might have venom in her kiss, that he might perish in that moment. But he stepped away, alive. And she drew another breath and lived as well.
The crowd murmured its approval, but no cheering came forth. On this day, only whispers of sympathy and predictions of an uncertain future circulated among the congregation.
After the ceremony, the meal was served without the usual pageantry of a bridal feast. There had been neither the time nor the inclination to celebrate. Fiona sat beside her husband on the dais, with Simon to her right. Cedric, thanks be to God, was next to John, who kept him deep in conversation. What they discussed, she could not imagine.
Father Bettney gave the blessing, droning on about chastity and duty, though through it all he glared at her as if she were Pandora with one hand on the lid.
Next to her, Myles’s nearness swirled like a hot vapor all around. She was torn between wanting to stare and take in every detail of him, and wishing he might burst into flame and turn to ash. He was tall—taller than John, even. His close-cropped hair was dark, his jaw broad, and were she feeling generous, she might admit his clean-shaven face was not repulsive. His eyes were disconcerting, though. Too bright to be natural, an icy sort of green, like a frosted glen in the early spring.
From the trencher before them, Fiona ate little. A few almonds and figs, a slice of apple, but it all tasted of wood pulp in her mouth. It was expected for her to select the choicest bits of food for her husband, but instead, she kept her hands to herself and eyes in her lap. Her disregard appeared to have little impact on his appetite.
“You’re not eating much. Is the meal not to your liking?” he asked at last. At her continued silence, he leaned over so that his lips nearly touched her ear. She felt the warmth of his breath as he whispered, “How pleased and fortunate I am to have such a silent, docile wife.”
She snapped her head in his direction. Silent and docile? Then she saw his smile. He had set the bait, and she had scooped it up.
He laughed at her expression and stuffed a piece of veal into his mouth. “Not so docile after all, aye? I wondered where that chit hurling slurs in the hall had gone. Now I see you’ve just tucked her away.” He nodded once. “Good.”
Fiona’s pulses raced. He’d duped her, and how easily she’d fallen. Fine. If he’d a mind to know her nature, so be it. “’Tis the company which turns my stomach sour. The stink of so many Campbells has ruined my meal.”
He laughed again. “Is that what I smell? I thought it was you.”
Her face flamed with instant heat. Her brothers pinched and taunted readily enough, but little did she think to get the same from her enemy husband. “I’ll roll in manure each day if the stench will keep you away from me,” she said.
He took another bite and let his eyes rove over her in the most obscene way, as if she were more harlot than bride. He sucked a bit of gravy off his finger.
“It won’t,” he said at last.
Her senses thrummed. What peculiar assault. His words flicked like a feather and yet sent tremors of unease licking at her limbs. She suddenly felt naked beneath his gaze, and the certainty of this night’s events clanged inside her head like the bells of Saint Andrews. No foul stench, or pointed dagger, or field of loyal men would keep him from his purpose. She was both the prize and the prey.
She looked at her hands once more, her ears burning as he laughed again.
CHAPTER 3
NO LADIES ESCORTED Fiona to her bedchamber. Her mother lay cold in the grave, and Fiona’s only aunt was a nun who, for years, had made her home at a convent near Ludlow. So it was scrawny, dependable Bess who led Fiona from the hall when the feasting ended.
“Come along, miss,” she whispered. “No sense dragging your feet. It’ll be all but over in twenty minutes. Not much a strong girl like you can’t put up with for that brief time, aye?”
A vision of her mother, gray with death’s pallor, her arm twisted about at an unnatural angle, seeped into Fiona’s mind like a fume. How long had that assault taken? Twenty minutes could be an eternity.
Bess helped Fiona remove the blue gown, quickly replacing it with a linen shift embroidered at the neck with tiny seed pearls, and all the while muttering awkward encouragements in her gravelly voice. Tonight her words grated rather than comforted.
This room had been Fiona’s since she’d left the nursery. In that bed, she had wept a child’s tears of grief over her mother’s death, but also giggled under the covers with Marg, playing silly games, hiding from the cold, and from their brothers. With Margaret, she had told stories and held her little sister through nightmares and illness. In th
is room, she had lived her life and dreamed of a future. But never had those dreams looked anything like this.
The bed loomed large, a trap baited with pillows and velvet. The stone walls of the chamber bent in at a sinister angle, shrinking the room. It would feel smaller still when her enemy husband came through the door. Fiona plucked a hairbrush from her table, anxious for a task. She ran the brush from scalp to tip, pulling roughly at the curls and snarls, relishing the pain for the distraction it offered.
Bess moved toward the bed, pulling the coverlet down and plumping the pillows, just as she had done so many nights before. The old nurse rubbed her hands down the front of her tunic.
“Fiona, you’ve saved souls this day. Nothing can bring back the ones we’ve lost, Lord bless them, but you should be a mite proud of your sacrifice.”
Vulnerability sprang forth at the maid’s words of kindness. But she could not let that weakness in. She must face this night, and every night forevermore, with the strength of ten Sinclairs. She’d show them all she was the warrior they sought her to be.
“Thank you, Bess. You may leave me now.”
“Are you certain? I could stay until your husband arrives.”
Fiona shook her head. “No.”
The nurse nodded and kissed her charge’s smooth cheek. “God keep you, Fiona.” And then she was gone.
Alone, Fiona paced, to the window, to the fireplace. Anywhere but near the bed. He’d come soon, expecting her to be in it, but she’d not sit there like some marzipan upon a plate. She pulled a silk shawl from a bench where Bess had left it, and wrapped it around her shoulders. ’Twas more for protection than warmth, as if the thin fabric were her mother’s safe embrace. Fiona stared into the fireplace and saw Cedric dancing with the devil amid the flames.
A log crumbled, sending flecks of fire upon the hearth. She jumped like a cat at the noise and then jumped again as the latch rattled in the door.
It opened and Myles appeared, stopping short at the sight of her. After a pause, he stepped inside the chamber and shut the door, securing the lock.
“You need not lock it. Where would I go?” She strove to keep her voice bland, untainted by the fear pulsing in her temples.
He looked her over, his intense eyes a darker green in the firelight. “Even if you left, I have men on watch outside the door.”
“To keep me in?”
“No, to keep your brothers’ men out. You Sinclairs have a cunning nature and a will to see me dead.”
“If you believe that, why agree to this alliance? Surely the king would free you, had you but asked.”
Myles’s chuckle was without humor. He crossed the room to where a jug of wine and cups sat on a table. “The king does not grant favors lightly. Or keep promises. If he did, I’d be in France right now instead of the godforsaken Highlands.” He splashed wine into two cups.
Fiona bridled at his insult. “My sympathies for all you’ve suffered.”
His shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “There is no pretending either of us would have chosen this end, Fiona. You are not the only marionette dancing at the end of James’s strings.”
He held out a cup of wine toward her.
“Is it poisoned?”
“Only if your people poisoned it.” He glanced down at his own cup, brows furrowing.
“I don’t want any.” She pulled the shawl more tightly about her shoulders.
He raised the cup higher. “Drink. It will make things go more easily for you.”
“Or for you, perhaps?” she snapped. “Is that how you like your women, Campbell? Soused and unresisting?”
He stared at her so long her skin began to prickle, and then he shrugged. “Upon occasion.” He set her cup on the table and drained his own, refilling it again, as if to sustain him. But what had he to be nervous about? He was twice her size, and a man. He had a distinct advantage. Tomorrow, he’d go on about his life with little difference, but she would be forever altered, in body, at least, if not in spirit.
Against her will, her hand snaked out and snatched the goblet up. She drank the wine in gulps and held the cup out for more.
He smiled at her weakness.
They stood together in silence, drinking, staring into the fireplace, until at last he said, “I do like my women willing, Fiona. I’ve never taken one without consent.”
A derisive snort rasped through her nose. “Then you must be as virginal as I.” She waited for his strike, but there was no need.
His lips curved into a smile instead. “My wealth comes in handy at times.”
She’d sought to taunt him but missed her mark. “So, you’ve bought them, then? I have a husband tarnished by whores?”
His smile broadened. “Not tarnished, my sweet. Tutored. You should count yourself most fortunate.” He took another gulp of wine.
She gasped at his implication. “Fortunate? I’m not some tavern trollop to be swayed by coins and honeyed words.”
“Hardly honeyed words. ’Tis simply fact. And needling me will not change our course.” He set the cup down on the table. “Fiona, I understand you have a warrior’s spirit and a fierce pride. I can even admire it. But only a fool keeps fighting a battle which is already lost. I am no longer your enemy. I am your husband. The sooner you yield to that, the better this will be for us both.”
If he had struck her, she’d know how to respond. If he railed and threatened and made accusations, she could return as much in kind. But against this quiet manner, she had no weapon, save her will.
“I shall never yield.”
He nodded and ambled slowly round her, as if she were a sculpture to be admired. Then he stopped behind her back and slid his warrior’s hands up along her arms. His voice was low, like the hum of honeybees around the hive.
“I cannot change your heart, Fiona. But I promise, if you will but meet me halfway, I will be a good husband. Submit to me, and I’ll not hurt you.”
His hands were like velvet ropes, binding her to him.
“You haven’t the power to hurt me.” The lie was delivered in a husky whisper.
He tugged at her shawl. “Yes, I have. I could crush you in a hundred different ways. Or caress you in twice as many. Surrender to me, and I’ll show you mercy such as you’ve never imagined.”
His voice moved like cool water over heated skin, leaving her muscles weak and her thoughts jumbled. He was nothing of what she’d expected.
“Surrender, yield, submit—those are cursed words to me,” she whispered.
“I know. It is your nature to fight, but we are wed now. Lower your defenses. Let me show you that—in this battle, at least—surrender and victory are one and the same.”
He gave the shawl a final tug and she let loose her grasp. It fell to the floor like a lover’s whisper, and his arms encircled her, the heat of him like a forge fire.
She didn’t struggle and could not for the life of her imagine why. The wine had gone to her head. The strain of the day had left her empty inside, with no strength left to fight him.
“What do you intend?” she heard herself asking.
He pressed warm lips against her neck and murmured, “I intend to seduce you.”
His overconfidence reawakened her drugged senses, and the full force of her distaste returned tenfold. “Oh!” she gasped, and drove her elbow back with all her might, plowing him in the abdomen.
He let out a woof of surprise. His grip loosened and she scrambled from his embrace.
“You conceited boar. Do you think I am so easily won?”
“I had hoped you might be.” His tone was wry as he rubbed his stomach.
“And you call me the fool?” she gasped.
He raised his hands up toward the ceiling, as if looking to God for guidance. Then he met her eyes with his own, his tone laced with the impatience of one speaking to a wayward child. “Fiona, this is the circumstance we are faced with. We have...We have a task to complete.”
She crossed her arms. “I know that. I’m n
ot a dolt.”
He shook his head and stomped back to the wine. He filled his cup and drained it with one swallow. “You object when I perfume it with flowery words. You object when I state it plainly. Is there no pleasing you?”
“Nothing you do or say will ever please me.”
Every sign of his good humor faded. “Christ, woman! You try my patience. I have tried all day to win your good graces, and yet you meet me at every turn with derision and scorn. But I am done with it. You are my wife. Do you hear me? I had hoped to make this at least tolerable for you, but if you prefer pain to pleasure, so be it. Get in the bed.”
He yanked off his doublet, then turned away and pulled his shirt up over his head. At the sight of his broad, naked back, Fiona’s heart fell to the floor, and the rest of her nearly with it. She had goaded him on purpose and made him angry. Perhaps she was the fool after all.
Good Lord, the girl was infuriating! He had teased and cajoled, been stern and direct. Nothing worked. She was determined to despise him. He’d never been faced with this situation before. His women were willing, paid or not. Some had even begged for his kisses and moaned beneath his touch. How he longed for that encouragement now! He’d sooner bed a pincushion than this churlish wench.
He pulled his remaining garments off in rapid succession until he was naked as the day of his birth and climbed into the bed.
His wife, however, remained rooted to her spot, eyeing him like a doe and twisting her fingers in knots. With the firelight behind her, he could see clear through the thin shift. His anger softened the slightest bit. She was young after all. And free of guile. Every emotion she had showed on her face like paint. And right now she was the very picture of fear.
He softened his tone. “Come here, Fiona.”
After another brief hesitation, she approached, and he was pleased his scolding had made an impact. She seemed resigned now. Not dejected as she’d been in the hall after insulting his father, but reconciled.
He bit back a smile as she stared at the bed as if it were some great, mysterious loch—dark, forbidding, and certainly nothing to dive into. He nudged aside the covers and patted the space next to him. “Lie down. I promise not to bite. Too hard.”
