Highland Surrender

by Tracy Brogan

  “I am, Your Grace. Thank you for saying so. Welcome back to Dempsey.”

  The king made his greetings to each of them, pausing in front of Myles and Fiona. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

  “We meet again, my fair Fiona. How is your horse?”

  Her color rose, and she smiled. “Spirited, Your Grace. We are a fine match.”

  James laughed and nodded. “I am glad to hear of it. We shall speak more later, you and I.”

  He moved on, but Myles watched his wife’s face. He knew she was thinking of her mother once more.

  His father had been reluctant to discuss with Fiona his involvement with Aislinn. And as to the rest, he would only say it was the king’s story to share, and so she must wait for his visit. And now it had come.

  This evening, they would dine and dance, and be regaled by minstrels and musicians. His wife’s eyes sparkled in anticipation, and he felt a swell of pride that he could provide her with such a life. She was one of them now, with no trace of past hostility lingering in her nature.

  Still no word had come of who’d been behind the ambush in the forest, but Myles felt confident her brothers were no part of it. Over these last few weeks, Fiona had shared with him more stories of her youth, revealing her relationship with Simon and John. The elder sounded simple and brutish, but by all accounts, her brother John was sensible. ’Twas Myles’s hope that, without their father’s malice to nudge them toward revenge, perhaps a time of peace between their clans had truly come. But the situation was tenuous at best, for there were murmurings of unrest stirring in the North.

  The view before Fiona was spectacular. The great hall glimmered with banners and fine linens. Gold plates adorned the tables, which groaned beneath the weight of so much food. Musicians played a lively tune from behind a screen while every member of Clan Campbell displayed manners befitting such an auspicious visitor.

  King James sat between Cedric and Marietta, with Robert and Myles on either side of their parents. Tavish was there, and Vivi and Alyssa too. Even Darby, his unruly hair combed into place, sat dressed in a fine new doublet. He looked quite the young man, but tugged at the collar as if it were a noose.

  Fiona leaned closer to her husband. “Has the king said how long he plans to stay?”

  Myles turned and met her eyes. “A day or two. James moves about on a whim unless he has some purpose in mind. He said you’d speak, and so you shall. But you must wait for him to ask.”

  She was impatient for an audience. She’d waited weeks now, and curiosity of how her mother had helped this king claim his throne gnawed at her. She took a bite of venison, but suddenly, it tasted sour. She swallowed anyway and washed it down with wine.

  The evening went on with jugglers and troubadours and more food and talk, until at last the king indicated he was finished with his dining. With a whispered word from Lady Marietta, servants cleared the tables with practiced speed, and soon the hall was transformed for dancing.

  Fiona wiped her hands across her lap, suddenly nervous. Over the last few days, she’d practiced with Vivi and Alyssa, who had found it delightfully funny she did not know how to dance. But there had been no teacher at Sinclair Hall, nor any occasion for such a frivolous pastime.

  Perhaps it was the king’s presence, or just the idea of being on display for all the Campbells, that made her palms moist and her stomach quell. Regardless of the reason, a surging wave of nausea rolled through her. She swallowed down the bile and reached for her husband’s hand.

  He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “Are you unwell? You’re pale as a ghost.”

  Fiona gave a tiny shake of her head and took a deep, slow breath. Her stomach settled after a moment. “No, I’m fine. I think the sauce on the venison was a bit much.”

  He pressed a glass of wine into her hand. “Here, drink this. I will take you upstairs if you’ve a need to lie down.”

  She was not feeling so unwell she could not take that bait. “How wicked you are, trying to seduce me away from an evening with the king.”

  Myles chuckled. “I should let you enjoy a dozen such evenings with the king if that was your wish, but you were green as moss there for a moment. Are you truly fine?”

  Fiona took a sip from the cup and let the warmth of the wine spread over her. “Yes, much better now. I cannot let my dancing lessons go to waste.”

  Myles offered a dubious expression, and she was wounded. “Don’t you think I’ve mastered any steps? Alyssa is a fine teacher.”

  “Then perhaps she should have spent some time with me.” His cheeks flushed pink, and she smiled. It was not often her husband had a cause to blush. Or admit to any inability.

  She reached beneath the table and squeezed his thigh. “We shall manage this well enough.”

  A smile, full and sweet, spread across his face. He cupped the back of her head with his hand and pulled her close to place a lingering kiss upon her lips. ’Twas wholly inappropriate in front of such a crowd, not to mention the king, but Fiona gave in to it. When her husband released her, she saw James watching them, a crooked smile upon his regal face.

  “I have done well by you, Campbell,” the king said loudly enough for most to hear.

  Myles turned around and nodded at his liege. “Yes, Your Highness, and I am most grateful.”

  “As you should be. And now you must share that bonny bride of yours. But only for one dance. Lady Fiona, would you do me the honor?” He stood and held out his hand.

  Fiona felt light-headed once again, but fended it off with another deep breath. It would not do to swoon when asked to dance by the king. She nodded and rose from her seat.

  “I should like a coranto,” the king said over his shoulder.

  Lady Marietta quickly whispered to a servant, who rushed to instruct the musicians.

  Fiona stiffened her spine against her trembling. He was a man, nothing more. She had faced down and outrun twenty Campbells, hadn’t she? Well, nearly. She could certainly take a turn about a dance floor with just this one man. Even if he was the king of Scotland.

  She placed her hand over his outstretched arm and let him escort her to the center of the room. The musicians began the lively tune, and after a nervous moment, she became enthralled by the dance itself. If she missed a step, he did not falter, but merely led her to the next. It was difficult to converse, so focused was she on not treading upon his toes, but at the end, they faced one another and the king gave a slight bow of his head.

  “If you should like to hear of how I am indebted to your mother, perhaps you would join me for a turn about the gardens in the morning,” he said.

  Fiona hesitated a moment longer than was proper, then dropped into a curtsy. She briefly met his eyes. “I should like that very much, Your Highness.”

  She rose, and he took her arm, tucking it into the crook of his elbow as they walked back toward the dais. “Wonderful. Then I shall return you to your husband before I say something untoward.”

  “Untoward, Your Highness?” Her chest fluttered and compressed.

  The king leaned closer. She felt his warm breath upon her ear as he whispered, “Your husband’s kiss is still upon your lips, my dear. I find that quite enticing. Best go get another from him.”

  The next day was warm, the air moist with the scent of fertile fields offering up their bounty as Fiona joined King James among the flowers. He was dressed in casual togs again, like Sir Goodman rather than the royal highness he’d been last evening.

  “Do you travel today?” Fiona asked.

  He gave a nod of his red head, his bright eyes intense. “I do. My wife awaits me at Linlithgow, and I confess I find myself longing for some feminine companionship.”

  Fiona looked to the ground, not certain how to respond. He was by turns overly forthright and frustratingly vague.

  “I am sure the queen will be most glad for your affection,” Fiona murmured.

  The king chuckled, although she did not intend to be humorous. Indeed, she could
not think why that was funny.

  “Yes, perhaps she will. And it’s quite obvious you will not.”

  “Your Highness?” She looked at him, startled.

  “Would you kiss me if I asked you to?”

  Heat rose from her belly to her cheeks. “No, Your Grace, I would not.”

  “But I am your king.”

  Fiona heard the teasing lilt in his voice. “Yes, but not my husband. Still, you may rest assured that, when I am old, I am certain to regret having refused this opportunity.”

  He laughed out loud at that and pulled her arm through his. “You have the look of your mother, my bonny Fiona, and her wit. Walk with me and let’s enjoy this sunshine before I must be on my way.”

  They strolled in silence for a moment, the only sounds being the birds in the trees and the shush-shush of her gown as it swayed against her legs. Her mind spun, and she wondered if she might speak next or if protocol demanded she wait for him.

  “How old were you when your mother died, Fiona?”

  She nearly stumbled at his abrupt question. For a king, he had little finesse. “Nearly ten, Your Highness.”

  They stopped walking, and he turned to face her. “If I ever learn who killed her, you have my word, he’ll be drawn and quartered and left upon a pike.”

  The image was too much, and Fiona struggled for her next breath. She swayed closer to remain upright, and nausea rolled over her once more, as it had last evening.

  The king braced her with his hands on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, lass. I didn’t mean to be so colorful. I only meant to say I’d see her murderer brought to justice. Come now, sit on this bench over here a moment.”

  Fiona could not think what made her feel so faint. She was stronger than this. She was still a Sinclair after all. Not by name any longer, but still by blood.

  They walked to the bench and sank upon it. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I fear the warmth of the day has left me light-headed.”

  “Hm...perhaps.” He sat down next to her and looked at her with a measured stare. Then he chuckled. “What do you know of me?”

  That was a fearful question if ever there was one. “You are the king.”

  “And?” he prompted when she said no more.

  This cat-and-mouse charade was tiresome. He asked one question after another, and all she wanted was answers to her own. Her stomach rolled. “You are the king. And you know I’m desperate to hear about my mother and yet have not offered even a sliver of information.”

  His brows rose, his eyes went round, and Fiona nearly clapped a hand over her foolish mouth. He’d see her dropped into a pit for such insolence. But instead, a boom of laughter rolled forth from his chest, and he slapped his thigh in humor.

  “Your mother’s wit and her temper. You are right, of course. How ungallant of me to taunt you so.” He shook his head, as if her words had made him dizzy. “Your mother served my mother at court, a ladies’ maid to Queen Margaret. You knew that, yes?”

  Fiona nodded, her heart giving a flutter now that it seemed he was at last to offer something of value. “Yes, but she rarely spoke of it—to me, at least.”

  The king continued. “She was favored by many for her smile and her cleverness. She was exceedingly beautiful—more beautiful than you, even, and you are quite breathtaking.”

  Fiona heard only the compliment. ’Twas no insult to be found wanting when compared to her mother.

  The king took a breath and settled himself more comfortably on the bench. “When I was a boy of eleven, my stepfather, Archibald Douglas, strove to keep me captive at Tantallon Castle. Being young, I did not realize at first I was not free to leave. I had the run of the place, but little in the way of entertainment.”

  Fiona folded her hands in her lap. It seemed he would make a tale of this and interrupting would not serve her purpose.

  “’Twas a quiet life, but many days, your mother came to talk with me. I had other visitors too, but only a few sought to keep me informed of what was happening outside my prison walls. For it was a prison.”

  His cheeks flushed, and he stared off for a moment as if struggling with the memories. His voice was heated when he next spoke. “Five years, I lived like that, all but shackled within my own property, knowing all the while that Douglas was lining his own coffers with my gold and stealing land from those loyal to me to bestow upon his own clan.”

  She swallowed against a tide of unease. Her father had been loyal to Douglas until the day he died. She knew better than to remind the king of that now.

  “But your mother was always honest with me, and so it was to her I turned when I devised a method of escape. Have you heard this tale before?” He eyed her with fresh speculation.

  Fiona shook her head. “No, never.”

  Now he smiled a tiny smile. “Well, as I grew into a young man, some of my lady visitors were, shall we say, less savory than your mother. Douglas thought to keep me occupied with trollops, thinking the distraction would keep me satisfied and not longing for my throne. It did not work, of course. By fifteen, I yearned to grasp the reins of the country I was born to rule. And so, one evening, your noble mother dressed herself like a lowly wench and came into my room. She brought me a whore’s outfit, with a wig and rouge and powder to disguise my face.” He chuckled now. “I made a fine-looking wench, if I do say so myself.”

  Fiona could not imagine his appearance, for the man before her now was anything but feminine. She murmured a noncommittal response, and the king went on with his tale.

  “Once disguised, your mother helped me sneak past all the guards and into a cart Cedric had waiting in the courtyard. We rode out of there and straight to Stirling, where the Campbell army waited, along with many of those eager to see me wrest my throne from Douglas’s greedy clutches. Had it not been for Cedric and your mother, there is no telling how history might have been written.”

  Fiona had heard rumblings of how the king had escaped those long years ago, but nothing quite like this. She’d had no idea her mother had been so intimately involved. How was that possible? She wiped her fingertips across her forehead.

  “Your Highness, may I speak my mind?”

  “You may.” He crossed his arms.

  “My parents must have been married by this time, yes?”

  The king nodded. “They were. You and your brothers were born as well. Have you no memory of being at Tantallon?”

  Fiona had the vaguest recollection of moving into Sinclair Hall but none at all of where they’d been before. She shook her head.

  “’Tis no surprise. You would have been a wee lass. You lived there with your mother, but your father was often away, tending to Douglas’s dastardly business.”

  A cloud passed by his face. “Your father was a traitor to the crown, Fiona, but I have no quarrel with you or your clan so long as they prove their renewed loyalty to me. I admit, when Cedric asked me to enforce this betrothal between you and Myles, I hesitated. He assured me that with Hugh gone, the Sinclairs would once more become faithful servants of Scotland. May I have your word on that?”

  Fiona swallowed, and perspiration dampened her gown once more. This was what her brothers wanted. They had given her over to an enemy just to prove their devotion to King James. She realized now that John had been right all along and that her sacrifice guaranteed the future safety of her clan.

  A surge of certainty and pride swelled within her. She nodded. “Yes, Your Highness. I pledge to you our faith and loyalty. We are your humble servants.”

  The king smiled and patted her hand. “Good. Then I shall be most happy to make Sinclair Hall a stop along my grand tour in a few weeks’ time. I’ll set sail at the end of the month.” He set his hands upon his knees and looked her over. His eyes assessed, but not leeringly; rather, it felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. “I believe your mother is smiling down on you right now. She would be most pleased that we are friends.”

  Fiona felt tears of gladness swell in her eyes. “I believe
she is, Your Highness. I am honored that you would consider me as such.”

  “Good, then since we are to be friends, you will not be too peevish when I tell you I have need of your husband at Linlithgow for a few weeks.”

  “My husband?” What an odd, hollow feeling the thought of his absence brought forth.

  “Aye, I want the Campbell men to travel with me, but I’ll return your beloved soon enough. Matters of the state must take precedence over matters of the heart.”

  “Travel with you? Today?” She could not hide her surprise and dismay, and the king chuckled.

  “I see I have distressed you with my haste. Perhaps I could stay another night, but we leave at first light in the morning. And do not hint to anyone that you have swayed me. I cannot have every pretty face thinking she can lead me by the nose.”

  He rose from the bench and held out an arm. Fiona took it, thinking there was more she should ask, more she wanted to know about her mother and that night of escape, but suddenly, all her thoughts were of Myles and the fact that he would ride away in the morning. He’d go to court and be surrounded by intrigue and dazzling beauties.

  Blood rushed through her veins, and once again, the nausea overcame her. This time it could not be stopped. She pulled away from the king to lean over the bench and promptly retched up all her breakfast.

  She felt the king’s hands upon her waist, steadying her. He pressed a linen handkerchief into her hand.

  She dabbed at her mouth as nausea gave way to humiliation. Lord, have mercy. She had just vomited in front of the king. Could anything be less appropriate?

  He patted her back gently. “Better now?”

  She nodded, but could not meet his gaze. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”

  “Nothing to forgive. Does your husband know?”

  She frowned and glanced his way. “Does my husband know what?”

  The king chuckled. “Why, that you’re breeding, of course.”

  CHAPTER 36

  MYLES PACED INSIDE the great hall. His wife had been with King James for far too long. And in the garden, no less. He was probably pressing her up against a tree at this very moment, trying to steal a kiss. James had no boundaries when it came to other men’s wives. He collected them like a boy collected pretty stones, admiring them, then slipping them into his pocket to be forgotten.