Highland Surrender (13 page)

J
OHN
S
INCLAIR DRAINED
the ale from his cup, the contents sour on his tongue. His head ached from too much of the stuff and from the incessant scrape of Simon’s voice against his ears. From the moment the last Campbell’s horse disappeared from their view, his brother had done nothing save plot and rant.

“The Sutherlands are sure to side with us. They lost a third of their holdings to Cedric Campbell when King James claimed his throne a decade ago. And for what? His
valor
?”

Simon spit out the word like it tasted of piss. He slammed his own cup down upon the rough-hewn table, splashing the contents without care.

The two brothers were in the hall surrounded by a half dozen of their most trusted men. Sinclair cousins, mostly, each devout in their hatred of the king and Campbells. They lounged indolently near the fireplace, legs flung over chair arms, cups ever present in their hands. They’d spent the evening drinking and boasting of the victory sure to come.

Simon scowled and blinked into his empty mug. “Where is that girl? Say, you there! Bring us more drink.”

John sat at the far end of a trestle table—a bit away from the others, as usual—and turned to see the girl Simon had beckoned.
Her eyes narrowed at his brother’s tone. But she ducked her head with a nod and moved toward the buttery, where the ale was stored.

“That’s a bonnie piece, aye?” Simon asked the group, licking his lips and staring after the girl’s retreating backside. “Ripe as a melon, that one. I’ve a mind to split her open, have a taste.”

Cousin Darrin, sitting closest to Simon, grunted his approval. “She’s a widow. They’re the finest. Trained and left wanting.”

John’s fingers clenched into a fist, and angry words stung his throat. He’d not defend her, though, no matter what sludge Simon flung her way. His attention so would only bring her more harm.

She was Genevieve from the village, with hair so thick and blonde a man could wrap himself in it and imagine it was starlight. Her eyes were green as the moors at dawn and just as lonely. She was John’s woman and had been for months, but none save the two of them knew it.

She was back fast as a hare, filling the mugs and deftly avoiding each man’s hungry stare. Except for John’s. She winked at him when none could see and bent lower to fill his cup than for any of the others. John’s heart ached at the sight of her. He’d take her far from here if he’d a way. But the second son of an exiled lord had few options. Simon’s was the cloak he clung to for his daily bread now, and he himself had nothing to offer.

But if Simon’s plan went their way and they defeated the king in battle, the Sinclairs would be in power once more, and John would take his place among the reinstated nobility. But news had come of late that gave him pause and made him wonder at the necessity of their scheme. Cedric Campbell could not be trusted, for he was a conniving murderer, and yet at the wedding, he’d pulled John aside and spun a tale for him so fantastical it very nearly might have been true. And if it was, John had more options than ever he’d had before. Perhaps his fate might change. But only if he had the courage to set things into motion,
for once he pushed this boulder from the cliff’s edge, there’d be no stopping it.

“John!” Simon growled. “You are silent today. What say you about the Sutherlands? Will they stand with us or cower like maidens?”

John met each man’s gaze before speaking. “My sister’s marriage has bought us time to forge those necessary alliances and to build our army. If we strike too soon, without the support of the other Highland chiefs, they’ll turn us over to the king and we’ll hang as traitors. For once, we must be patient.”

Simon laughed and wiped away a dribble of ale upon his chin. “Patience? Bah! Patience is nothing but lost opportunity. No, John, in this, you are wrong. The king will sail around the Highlands in just a few months’ time. Pompous bastard that he is, he thinks to command our fealty just by asking. But when he arrives in Gairloch, we’ll be waiting with a fierce Highland welcome. One of steel and might.” He smacked his hand against the table.

The men turned back to Simon, grunting their collective approval like sheep bleating in unison. John watched his brother’s chest swell with their acceptance, and Simon spoke once more.

“Even the king’s stepfather, Archibald Douglas, is on our side. Though he is exiled in London, he is anxious to reclaim his post as Scotland’s regent and knows well we can get him there.”

John swallowed down his sigh. God, these men were so simple. Not one of them could think more than a few days into the future.

“So you’d ally us with England just to rid us of James?” Darrin asked, getting a sharp look from Simon.

“I ally us only to our own freedom,” Simon stated. “I want back all that King James took from the Sinclairs when he claimed his throne these ten years past. I want our lands, our homes, and the honor of our good name. We sided with Douglas when he
held the boy king captive. He owes us now. And when this king is dead and Scotland is a regency once more, I will sit upon the board and rule beside Douglas, just as my father did.”

John drained another cup, motioning to Genevieve to fill it once more. His brother could boast like this for hours. It was thirsty work, listening and nodding.

Genevieve ambled to his side, her hips swaying in a way that made him think of meadow grasses blowing under a warm sun.

“You drink too much, my lord, and too often,” she murmured quietly so none might hear but him.

He let his eyes travel up her body slowly, lingering on the curve of her breasts before reaching her face.

Her cheeks flushed pink, the way they did when he pressed her against the pillows.

He held out his cup, his fingertips extending to touch her wrist discreetly. “I’m thirsty.”

Her lashes sank in a slow blink. “Perhaps you’re lonely too.”

He looked to Simon, fearful his brother might be watching, for Simon was greedy as well as jealous, and if he thought John favored this girl, he’d take her for himself. Just because he could.

“I am,” John whispered softly. “Will you come to me?”

She tilted her chin and filled the cup halfway. “I will. Best you sober up a bit.”

When she arrived in his room that night through a servants’ passageway, John was waiting. He kissed her, hungry and urgent. She met him with equal fervor, pulling at his clothes and biting his shoulder when he squeezed her breast. Their coupling went fast, so fast he had no time to fully undress her, though long enough to leave them both spent and well satisfied. When it was
done, he savored the task of removing her garments, exploring the lush treasures he found beneath with still more kisses.

“Simon makes me uneasy,” she admitted sometime later as she pressed against John beneath his covers.

Her words made him pull her closer, so tight she giggled from it.

“How so?” As if he did not know the answer.

“He watches me, but no more so than he watches the other women. Bertrice is fond of him, so we usually send her his way.”

“If he makes a menace of himself, you must let me know.”

She nodded, her tresses tickling his nose as she did so. Then she rolled onto her back to look him in the eyes. The light was dim, but candles and the fire lit their faces. “It’s not my place to ask, I know. But could you tell him now that I am yours? And save me the risk of his attentions?”

How he wished he could. “You know Simon well enough, Gen. He covets most what others have. But he’s the laird now, and were I to ask permission for your hand, his interest in you would only grow more intense. Keeping us a secret is the best way to keep you safe. Rest easy, though. Things are happening, and when the summer is over, my place will have changed one way or another.”

“I don’t understand,” she whispered.

“I cannot tell you more, Gen. Not just now.”

She sighed and rested a soft hand against his cheek. “So many secrets with you, John. I cannot keep them all straight.”

He turned his face to kiss her palm. “But you know the most important truth.”

“What’s that?”

“I love you.”

She sighed and slid her hand down between them, wrapping it around the length of him. “Show me,” she whispered.

CHAPTER 14

O
VER THE FINAL
crest they rode, Fiona at the back of the pack, with Darby leading her horse. The last two days had been arduous, first traveling by boat down Loch Ness, then obtaining more horses and riding the rest of the way, stopping rarely. They’d slept outside again last night, and she’d not had Myles’s body to keep her warm, for he’d said little to her since leaving her room that night at the inn and seemed intent on avoiding her in every way. She had no inkling why his manner had changed so thoroughly, but could only assume the prisoner had spewed more falsehoods.

As they journeyed, Cedric clung to his miserable life, passing in and out of awareness. Or so she gathered from the murmured comments she overheard from the men.

As the sun began to settle on the mountaintops, Fiona caught her first site of Dempsey Castle. Both relief and trepidation rippled through her. The place was monstrously large, with whitewashed masonry walls and brightly colored pennants flying high from every turret. Two massive guard towers flanked the entrance, with a barbican reaching forward and ending at a stone bridge. A moat surrounded it, and outside of that, the village hummed with evening’s activity.

Down the final hill they went, the horses’ ears pricking up, as even they recognized home. Her palfrey nickered and stepped more lively, prancing and pulling at the bit. Fiona gripped the pommel in her hands and clenched her tired legs against the eager horse’s sweat-soaked sides.

Darby turned and smiled, his freckled cheeks pink with anticipation. “’Tis a grand place, isn’t she, my lady? You’re a lucky one to live in such a palace.”

Fiona bit her lip. Lucky, indeed. Perhaps the dungeon would be warm and dry in a place such as this.

Avoiding the main avenue of the village, they circled around and passed over the bridge and under the first arch of the barbican. The wooden grid of the portcullis raised, its iron-tipped spikes looming overhead like snarling teeth. What her future held beyond this gate, God only knew. And He seemed averse to sharing information.

The cluster of weary travelers clattered into the bailey to a symphony of joyous voices calling welcome. But it hushed away as those within the castle yard took in the disheveled appearance of their traveling clansmen. In seconds, Fiona and the others were surrounded by an undulating sea of arms reaching up to assist them. What a commotion it was as men jumped from their saddles, kissing the women who ran to their embrace.

Fiona waited, perched upon her palfrey, well above the fray. Darby, bless him, stayed by her side, and for that, she was grateful. He was small, but he’d been her champion these last few days, seeing to her needs after Myles had forsaken her.

Her husband swung down from his saddle, and her chest went tight, thinking he might come her way. He didn’t, and an odd weightlessness overcame her, as if she were in this moment and yet played no part at all.

He strode instead toward an older woman who’d come down the impressive stone steps. His mother, surely, for she was dressed as fine as a royal in a satin gown of deep burgundy, with slashed sleeves revealing a plum-colored girdle beneath. Gold thread weaved through the trim of her French hood and glinted in the fading sunlight.

The woman pulled Myles close, clutching him tightly, and another flood of emotions washed over Fiona. A mother’s love. How long she’d been without. Seeing Myles with his own mother should have kindled her anger anew. But she only felt bereft.

“That is Lady Marietta,” Darby said, his voice reverent.

The woman’s expression of concern deepened as Myles spoke. Then fast as a blink, she took charge, calling out orders and instructing the men to find a stretcher so they might move her husband into the hall. There was a set to her jaw that Fiona recognized, for she’d seen it on Myles’s face. Quickly, the men-at-arms went to work, with Myles and Tavish by their sides.

As Cedric was moved from the cart, Myles finally glanced over at Fiona. She sat up taller. But his mother paused beside him, following his gaze, and Fiona could not help but look to her.

Steel-gray eyes pierced her, and Fiona felt the icy coldness in that sharp look. Like the point of a blade, it cut through. Fiona fought the urge to smooth her hair, for little would it do to improve her appearance. She was a frightful mess, wearing a dun-colored dress purchased from the innkeeper’s daughter and dirt embedded in her skin. She could see Myles’s mother had already made her judgment.

Marietta scowled and turned away, picking up her skirts and following her husband’s broken body into the hall. Myles’s face softened slightly, so slightly Fiona thought it might just
be her wishful fancy, for then he turned as well and went with Cedric.

Darby twisted off his horse and slid down, his feet landing with a soft thud in the dirt. “Can you manage off that mare, my lady?”