Highland Surrender (36 page)

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?”

She thought for a moment to tell him they were of the most brutal sort, for it was John who had given her over to them with no concern for her well-being.

“It is too late for such a question, don’t you think? Any damage would already be done.”

His cheeks flushed with heat. “I know. I have carried that burden with me since the day you left. Though I’m sure you do not believe me, I’ve worried for you every moment. So, answer. Are they wicked or kind?”

He looked earnest, more so than she had seen him look in years, and her spite cooled.

“They are kind, John. More gracious than you could imagine. They have welcomed me as one of their own.”

A whisper of relief passed over his features. “And what manner of man is the earl himself?”

Fiona hesitated, wondering how much she might impart. Not so long ago she had despised Cedric for cruel deeds he did not commit. But John knew nothing of his innocence.

She reached out and took her brother’s hand. “He is not the monster we thought, John. In fact, I have great cause to think he was not responsible for what happened to our mother.”

John pulled his hand from hers, and his eyes narrowed. “What makes you say so?”

He would not believe her. He’d spent a lifetime, like her, thinking the worst of Cedric Campbell.

She must choose her words with caution. “It seems he and our mother were friends, even after James claimed his throne. They...corresponded.”

“Did the earl tell you that?”

“No. He’ll not speak to me of her. But I’ve seen her letters.”

His eyes opened wider at this admission. “What letters?”

Fiona pressed her hands together. Such news would be a shock, but telling him was her best course.

“Though it would seem impossible, I believe our mother cared for him. And he for her. The letters spoke of love.”

John remained unmoving in his seat, his face devoid of surprise or judgment. As if he’d known. Fiona looked into his eyes and saw relief.

“He told me something similar on the day of your wedding. At first, I thought he wove a tale for some purpose of his own, but over these past weeks, I’ve grown to wonder at the truth of his words. And things that mother herself told me before she died. Things that made no sense at the time.”

“What things?”

“She said I wasn’t like the rest of you. That I was different, meant for something grand.”

A restlessness overcame Fiona. “
I am not certain he is ready for whatever may come to pass
,” she whispered.

“What?” he asked.

“Mother wrote that in her last letter to Cedric. Have you any idea what she meant?”

John ran his hands over his close-cropped hair and stewed a moment, as if his thoughts were too muddled to formulate. Then his breath came out in a huff.

“She meant that Cedric Campbell is my father.”

His lips stung at the words, but John felt such relief at finally setting the truth free. He was Cedric Campbell’s son. When the earl had told him as much on the day of the wedding, disbelief had governed him. But the more he pondered the matter, the more sense it made. Snippets of advice his mother had whispered in his ear, his height, so much greater than any other Sinclair. Even the way Hugh Sinclair had treated him after Aislinn was murdered.

He watched astonishment splash across his sister’s face. She fell back against the chair as if pushed, and pressed both hands to her chest.

“Cedric is your father?” She spoke slowly and precisely, as if she had not heard correctly.

He nodded. “He told me so himself, and though I was as shocked to learn of this as you are now, I can see no just cause why the earl would invent such a lie. It does him no good.” He stood and paced, unable to keep his seat a moment longer. Time was slipping away, and he had so much more to say. “I think our fath—I think Hugh may have known. About me, even.”

Her eyes went rounder still. “What makes you think so?”

“Do you remember, days after mother died, Hugh beat me so soundly my ear bled?”

Fiona nodded mutely.

“He struck me for daring to suggest ’twas not Cedric who harmed her. Mother had confessed their friendship to me, you see, though I had no idea how long it had gone on or to what depth.” He paced about as he spoke, trying to evade the bitter memories. “But when I said as much to Hugh, he called me a wicked liar and said if I ever breathed such falsehoods again, he’d drown me in the loch.” Passion gave his voice a thickness. He coughed it away and faced his sister. “He knew it wasn’t Cedric. He was just looking for a reason to kill him. And now I suspect mother was preparing to tell me about my paternity. Cedric gave her the brooch to pass to me.”

“Why?” His sister’s voice was faint, her cheeks flushed.

“He said he’d claim me as his own and that the brooch would grant me safe passage through any Campbell land if I chose to join him. He didn’t realize I’d never gotten it, nor that mother had never had a chance to tell me any of this, until you jabbed him with it on your wedding day. He thought I knew and had made my choice to remain a Sinclair.”

He sighed and sank down in the chair. Unburdening this tale had not made him lighter after all. Instead, it made him bone-wrenchingly weary. And only half his work was done.

“I saw no pennants flying at the castle when I rode into the village. Does that mean the earl is not in residence?”

Fiona gazed at him as if her eyes were blurred. “Cedric is with my husband and the king at Linlithgow.”

Disappointment sank like a stone inside his heart. He must meet with the Campbells before the next leg of his journey. The letter signed by all the Highland chiefs was sewn securely in the lining of his doublet, yet burned against his back like a branding iron. He was anxious to be rid of it, even though it would seal his fate, along with Simon’s.

“When will they return?”

“Not for a week or more.”

His sister rose from her chair and pressed a hand against her belly, pacing. He wished he had the luxury of letting this revelation take hold. But time was running out.

“Fiona, there is more.”

Her face went pale, and she sank down in the chair once more. “How could there be more than this? Please, John. Please do not tell me Hugh Sinclair did something awful.”

He had long wrestled with that same fear, but shook his head. “I honestly do not know, Fiona.”

“But surely you have some idea who the culprit was, don’t you?”

John frowned. How could he make her understand that justice for their mother might never be met, and in this moment, with what was certain to come next, it hardly mattered?

“Fiona, listen to me. We are running out of time. There is a plan afoot which I must tell the earl about at once. And something you must know as well.”

Her hands fell limp against her lap. “What more?”

“The truce was never meant to hold. Your marriage was a ruse.”

“A ruse?”

The garish colors of the tent walls blurred. She saw John’s face and heard his words like one underwater. His hands clasped hers, too warm and tight. They felt like shackles heated in a forge. She shook them free.

“What do you mean, a ruse?”

“A decoy planned by Simon, meant only to buy us time so we might ally with the other Highland clans. The Sinclairs have united with the Sutherlands, the Mackays, the Gunns, and more. When James sails north and lands at Gairloch, an army
thousands strong will be there to slice him into bits. They mean to kill the king.”

Those harsh words cut through the fog of her distress. She stood once more. “Kill the king?” Distress surged through her veins. “You traded my future to be used as nothing more than a...a distraction?” Her hands fell limp to her sides. “Did you know that was Simon’s plan?”

There was shame in his expression. Yes, he’d known and was sorry for it, but she had no use for his remorse. He and Simon had gambled, with her body as the prize. ’Twas unforgivable. The Campbells could have been the worst sort of fiends, and still her brothers would have tossed her into that pit to suffer on her own.

John stood and grasped her by the shoulders. “Be angry with me, if you must, but there are more lives at stake here than our own. I can stop this, Fiona. If you tell me you are devoted to the Campbells, I will side with you and confess this plot to them. If warned, the king’s forces can almost certainly fend off this attack.”

She broke free of his grasp. “Why should they trust you now? Why should I?”

“Because I am your brother. I know I failed in that before, but I am trying to protect you now.” He paused, as if weighing his words, and blew a shallow breath between his lips. “Fiona, I have a document signed by all the Highland chiefs. Proof of their treason. I’ll turn it over to your husband, and he can do with it what he will.”

Fear and agitation scorched her skin. She stepped away from him. “How have you come by such a document?”

“I am the messenger, tasked with delivering it to Archibald Douglas. The clans believe he will assist them in murdering the king.”

Her stomach fell like a boulder off a cliff. “Is Simon’s name on it?”

John nodded.

“You fools! The king would see you burn for having any part of this.”