Highland Surrender

by Tracy Brogan

  Myles turned and paced in the other direction. Fiona did not deserve such treatment. She was ignorant of courtly culture and its licentious ways. He should have refused when she asked to speak with James alone, but her blue eyes had pleaded, and she was so eager to learn more about her mother. Still, he’d been tolerant long enough.

  Turning on his heel, he strode out the door and into the sunlight. The brightness blinded him but did not slow his pace. His boots cut marks into the ground until a wall of sultry fragrance from the garden halted him. And there he found them, his wife and the king.

  Fiona had her back to him and turned at his approach. She looked stricken, guilty as a thief, and had a lace handkerchief pressed against her lips. It seemed His Majesty had given her a token. Perhaps more.

  The king’s eyes sparkled in amusement. He loved nothing more than getting caught and flaunting his superiority. He knew no man would challenge him, for any who did found themselves on military campaign in some far-off land. Myles would not risk that. Not because he was a coward, but because he would not leave Fiona to fend for herself.

  “Myles,” said the king, “you’ve arrived just in time.”

  Fiona’s eyes were wide and round as saucers. Good Lord, what had James done to her?

  The king put a possessive hand on her elbow and steered her forward. “She may need to rest a moment. But I suggest you find a different bench. It’s malodorous near this one. Come find me when your wife no longer has need of you. We need to talk.”

  The king tipped his head to Fiona. “I look forward to seeing you this evening, my dear, when you are feeling well again. Good afternoon.”

  With that, he left them.

  Myles’s mind raced. It hurt to breathe, as if he’d been lanced in the gut. How casually the king cast her aside and went on his way. Myles looked to her face and found emotions he could not name. Not distress, but more an expression of bewilderment.

  Perhaps it was not as Myles had suspected. Perhaps the king had merely shared something unexpected about her mother. He fought the urge to demand to know what had happened, for whatever had occurred, it was not of her own doing. He caught her elbow where the king had just released it.

  “Would you like to sit down?”

  Fiona nodded, and they walked to a second bench, not far from the first, but secluded in the shade of an apple tree. The scent of lilacs and honeysuckle swirled around them. Fiona dabbed the cloth along her forehead.

  “You look distressed. Did the king say something unpleasant?”

  She paused and then shook her head. “He told me how your father and my mother helped him escape.”

  Myles had long known of his father’s involvement in that escapade but had no notion Aislinn Sinclair had been involved. But that explained much. “What else did he say?”

  Fiona’s eyes met his, and a flush crept over her pale cheeks. “It seems he has no quarrel with my family now that my father is no longer laird.”

  “That’s good. Then the truce has served its purpose.”

  She nodded and the hand in her lap moved to her abdomen. “Yes. It seems it has.”

  The king must be mistaken. She could not be with child. Not this quickly. But as she sat upon the bench next to Myles, she counted back the days silently. It had been a month since they’d gone to Oban. And heaven knew they’d made randy use of that time. Nearly every day, they’d lain together, and not once in all that time had Fiona given thought to her monthly flow. Indeed, now that she did think on it, she’d not had it since before leaving Sinclair Hall. Mother Mary! Had it happened on their wedding night?

  It was possible, she supposed.

  If the king believed she carried a Campbell in her womb, he was not likely to keep that secret to himself.

  She looked up at the trees, bursting forth with their tiny fruit, and felt a kinship. Fertile and blooming. Inside her, a new life blossomed.

  “It seems there is something else as well.” She met her husband’s eyes once more and felt moisture build within her own. “Myles, I think I may be with child.”

  He stared at her a moment as if he had not heard, then a smile, rising slow and shining like the sun, lifted all his features. A single puff of laughter escaped his lips. “Are you certain?”

  She shook her head. “Not quite. But it’s a possibility.”

  He looked down at her belly and gently pressed his hand against it, as if that might give a clue, but his eyes were quickly back upon her face. “Fiona, I...I am overjoyed.” He hugged her to him and tried to kiss her mouth, but she turned so he might kiss her cheek instead.

  He stiffened at her reaction and loosened his hold. “Are you unhappy about this?”

  She chuckled softly and pressed the handkerchief to her mouth again. “No, I am equally overjoyed. It’s just”—the nausea rolled once more—“it’s just I should have known a Campbell child would cause me such distress.”

  Then she leaned to the side and daintily retched once more.

  “The four of you will ride with me to Linlithgow,” the king said from his chair next to the fireplace. He sat with his legs splayed out before him, but his harsh tone belied that indolent posture. “I want every strategic mind determining how best to chop off the head of this beast. Douglas grows too bold. He thinks to strike before I beget an heir. I want this dealt with before I sail north.”

  Myles sat at the table with Tavish and Robert, while his father paced before them.

  “We are humbly at your service, Your Grace. I wonder if you might wish for one of us to stay behind and guard Dempsey in case there is unrest,” the earl said.

  Myles wondered if his father spoke of him. The captain of their guard was wholly capable of maintaining order in their absence, so it would seem the earl sought to give Myles an excuse to stay with Fiona.

  The king stared into the flames and paused with his answer. “I should think Dempsey will be safe enough. You’ll be back in a month or less.”

  Disappointment lodged in Myles’s chest, and he tried to ignore it. ’Twas a great honor to be called to court, and he’d been anxious to return. Until he’d brought Fiona home. Now it seemed all he wanted to do was play and lounge about with his wife. She’d tamed the warrior in him. Perhaps the king had sensed that and thought to remind him of his duty.

  “Have you decided on the matter of Janet Douglas?” Cedric asked, filling a cup and handing it to the king.

  The king grasped it and took a sip, casual, as if they spoke of mundane things, the weather or this evening’s menu. “She burns at the stake in two weeks’ time.” He glanced their way to gauge their response. “She meant to poison me. Her own sons testified against her. I see no way around it.”

  Myles tried to keep his expression bland. It would not do for James to see his discontent over this news.

  “What of her accomplices?” Tavish asked, shuffling his feet beneath the table.

  The king shrugged. “Other than Douglas, I have no proof of who they are. Her sons would say nothing against anyone save their own mother. Still, news of her execution will travel fast and serve its purpose.”

  Myles turned to the window. He knew little of Janet Douglas, and until his marriage to Fiona, he would not have cared a whit about some treasonous woman. Perhaps she did deserve to die, but James could just as easily imprison her. Instead, he sought to manipulate the nobles with the ferocity of this punishment. If he would execute his own aunt, what foe would dare to challenge him? It was brilliant strategy of course, meant to warn the Highland chiefs, but it made Myles’s blood run cold. This was news he must keep from his wife.

  He stole a glance at Robert, and his brother gave a tiny shrug, as if this were just another whim of the king. Myles knew it was good fortune and the king’s grace that had brought him and Fiona together, but now James would prove he could just as easily pull them apart by calling Myles to court. James played with lives as if they were wooden chess pieces. Myles and his bride were the lucky ones. Janet Douglas was not.
<
br />   Dinner that evening was another grand event, with fine food and rowdy entertainment, but as soon as the king finished dining, Myles turned toward Fiona. He could not sit there through the dancing and the idle chatter when his Fiona was beside him, leaning close and inadvertently brushing her breast against his forearm. Not when he must leave her in the morning.

  “You are looking pale again, my dear,” he said. “Perhaps I should escort you to our chamber.”

  Fiona looked back, her eyes clear and sparkling. “On the contrary, my lord. I am feeling most energetic. The nap this afternoon did me a world of good.”

  Myles did not take his gaze from her, but sipped his wine before speaking again. She did look well, with a rosy blush to her cheeks and a gown that accentuated the creamy hue of her skin. He wanted to peel that dress off with his teeth. “In that case, might I suggest I escort you to our chamber?”

  “But why? I am—oh.” The color bloomed on her face, and her smile was quick.

  He leaned close. “I leave in the morning with much regret. I should like to spend each moment until then showering you with my affection.”

  The shy dip of her head was nearly his undoing. She looked up at him through thick lashes.

  “Now that you have mentioned it, my lord, I am feeling a bit light-headed. You should rush me straightaway to bed.”

  Blood shot to his groin so fast he was nearly light-headed himself. He glanced over his shoulder to where his mother sat.

  “Fiona is feeling unwell. I’m taking her upstairs.”

  Marietta leaned forward to look at her daughter-in-law and frowned. “She looks well enough to me.”

  “Mother,” he admonished.

  She rolled her eyes and waved him off with the back of her hand. “Oh, be off with you. I’ll make your excuses to the king.”

  Myles chuckled and helped Fiona from her seat, squeezing her shoulders as she rose. They strolled from the great hall with measured steps, but once free from observant eyes, they rushed up the stairs and down the corridor, until at last they burst into their room. He caught her round the waist and leaned her up against the wooden door, kissing those soft lips that parted in invitation. He intended to make the most of this night, and it began now.

  She trembled in his arms and tilted her head with a sigh.

  “Myles.” She breathed out his name like a prayer and clutched at his back. “How shall I bear it while you’re gone from me?”

  Her words caught his heart like a net, scooping it from his chest. He lifted his head to gaze at her face. “Will you miss me?” he whispered.

  Her eyes were big and dark, as if she had not meant to make such an admission, but then she nodded and placed her hands on either side of his face. She kissed one corner of his mouth and stole his breath away.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  She kissed the other corner.

  “Yes.”

  His body felt loose and light, floating on a breeze and anchored only by her velvet palms upon his cheeks. She ran a thumb over his lips and stared at his mouth until he thought that he might die from want of her.

  “Yes,” she said once more, and then she kissed him.

  His soul melted into her lips and her tongue and the arms she wrapped around his shoulders. Wherever her body met his was where he was alive, and so he must press all of himself into her. He urged her up against the door, hard, as if to forge them into one, and still he could not get close enough.

  He snaked his arms around her waist and lifted, carrying her to the bed. They fell together and began at once to pull off one another’s clothes. In moments, they were breathless and joyful and naked, free from the hindrance of fabric or modesty. He lavished her with kisses, cherished her with his hands and mouth. She was his journey and his destination. That first day at Sinclair Hall, he’d thought her a thorny rose, but she was not. She was an orchid, rare and delicate, blooming for him alone.

  He pressed her back against the covers, but she pushed at him instead, urging him onto his back. He rolled over and chuckled. God, what sinful delight. Her hair trailed down his chest, a sultry tickle, as her hands stroked every expectant inch of him. And when she took him in her mouth, the hot sweetness left him overwhelmed. In all the realm, there could be no other wife such as this.

  And later, as they lay spent and satisfied, Myles lifted his head to gaze in wonder at this woman he’d been blessed with.

  “I love you, Fiona.”

  She touched his face and smiled.

  “I love you too,” she said, and he knew that it was true.

  CHAPTER 37

  “MY LADY, COME and let Sofia tell your fortune.” The gypsy’s accent was as thick and coarse as her black hair. She tugged insistently on Fiona’s sleeve.

  Fiona laughed and shook her off. “No, thank you.”

  She was enjoying an afternoon visit to the village with Vivi. They’d seen the colorful carts resting on the nearby hillside and the gypsies’ shaggy horses grazing on grass. Not too far from the edge of town sat a collection of tents, the patchwork fabric shimmering in the sunlight.

  In the weeks since her husband and the others had departed with the king, Fiona battled incessant nausea and overwhelming fatigue. It seemed the child was determined to make his presence felt. But yesterday, she’d awoken with a fresh bout of energy and no sickness to speak of. She had eaten everything they set before her, and today, she felt well enough to join Myles’s aunt for an outing.

  The late-summer sunshine was a delight upon her face, and even the persistent gypsy could not mar her fine mood. And though she missed her husband with an aching heart, each day brought him closer to returning.

  “Pretty lady,” the gypsy said again, “I will share with you such wondrous words. I have amazing gifts and much to tell you. Yes, you come with me.”

  There was something most compelling about her, this woman, with her dark, exotic eyes and thick braid tied with a scarf.

  Vivienne laughed. “She’ll steal your coins and tell you lies.”

  The woman stepped in front and offered Vivienne an enigmatic smile. “You have heard many lies in your life, my lady, but none from me. Come to my tent later, and Sofia will tell your future. But first, this one calls to me.”

  She took hold of Fiona’s arm and pulled her forward. Fiona laughed and let herself be led away. She was in the mood for an adventure. This might do.

  “I’ll find you when I’m finished,” she called over her shoulder to Vivi.

  The gypsy guided her to the closest tent and pulled the flap aside. Fiona stepped inside onto a thick rug and blinked in the dim interior. The sweet smell of jasmine and cloves assaulted her nose. Nervous excitement thrummed through her.

  Two chairs and a table sat in the middle of the tent. The gypsy nudged her toward one chair and said, “Sit there. Wait.”

  Fiona sat down gingerly, expecting the gypsy to take the other chair, but she did not. Instead, she held one finger to her lips, as if to warn Fiona to silence. Then she stepped to the other side of the tent and slipped out past another flap.

  Moments passed until Fiona began to wonder what had become of the woman. This was most odd. Uneasiness rustled through her thoughts like leaves in a breeze. Then the flap opened once more, and a figure emerged. Not the gypsy, but a man. He was tall and hooded in a brown homespun cloak. Fiona stood abruptly, her heart skipping a beat.

  But he pulled back the hood, and the gaze of his familiar sapphire eyes pierced through her, splintering her lungs like shards of glass.

  “John?”

  His smile was tight and uncertain. “Fiona, ’tis good to see you.”

  A dozen questions crowded into her mind, so many she could not think of where to start. His appearance rattled her senses like a squall on the sea, and she thought at once of his stern farewell the day she’d ridden away from Sinclair Hall. She’d been angry with both her brothers for casting her to the enemy, but John’s betrayal had cut the deepest.

  Yet here he was,
arriving with no warning, like some angel of gloom in a dark, filthy cloak. Her surprise gave way to agitation.

  “What are you doing here?” she spit out at last.

  “Shh, lower your voice. Fabric walls lend little privacy.” He stepped closer, indicating she should sit again.

  She did not want to. She wanted to stand. Or more than that, she wanted to run, for whatever his purpose here, Fiona sensed no good would come from it.

  He put a hand upon her shoulder, gentle but insistent, and she reluctantly sank down on the chair. He sat down opposite her, moving his seat so that the table was not between them. She stared at him and wondered if perhaps this was a dream. He was pale and tired, with dark smudges beneath his eyes. For a moment, she felt sorry, but she pushed those kind thoughts away.

  “If you’re concerned over fabric walls, why accost me in a tent and in such a surreptitious manner?” She spoke low, but accusation gave her tone a breathless edge.

  John’s face was serious. “We have much to talk about, Fiona. I am sorry for my methods, but I could not be certain what reception I would get from the Campbells.”

  She frowned. “You would get your due respect if you arrived honestly. If they catch you here like this, they’ll think you are up to some ill purpose. As do I.”

  He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands draped between them. He shook his head. “I cannot begin to hope you’ll understand me, sister, but hear all I have to say and save your judgments until I have finished. Will you do that?”

  Good sense told her to bolt from this chair and not listen to a word. And yet he was her brother still and had been her ally in the past. She nodded with a grudging spirit.

  He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Then, tell me, how is your life among this clan? How do they treat you?”