Highland Surrender
Read Highland Surrender Online
Authors: Tracy Brogan
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Scottish, #War & Military, #Family Life
A
LSO BY
T
RACY
B
ROGAN
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
SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS, 1537
F
IONA
S
INCLAIR 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 and 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.”
