Highland Surrender Read Free

spirit,” Cedric said, eliciting more whispers.
    “A spirit set free too soon. How dare you mention her as if her death was not your doing!” She slapped the palm of her hand flat against his chest with all her apparent might and left in its place a silver brooch.
    “This is yours, is it not?” she demanded.
    Simon tugged her back roughly. “Fiona, have a care!”
    “Is it not?” she asked again.
    Cedric pulled the pin from the thick fabric of his garment and stared down at it. The lines of his face deepened and the smile faded from his lips. He flipped the pin to read the inscription. He raised his gaze to Fiona and then swept over her brothers.
    “You know it is. But I swear to you, as I swore to your father for all these years, ’twas not by my hand she died. This is our chance to start anew.”
    Simon tugged her farther back and whispered in her ear. Her face blanched, and a tiny breath escaped her lips. John turned as well, to block her from view while the brothers plied her with hushed words.
    Myles leaned toward his father. “This is going poorly. She appears to have a most disagreeable nature.”
    “Would you not expect a beautiful rose to have some thorns?” Cedric whispered back.
    “Aye, Father. But this one has talons. Were she a man, I’d kill her for insulting you so.”
    Cedric shook his head. “She is impetuous, like her mother. But a spirited mare is far superior to a meek pony.”
    Frustration tapped at Myles. “To ride? Yes. To live with? That is another matter.”
    John stepped back into his place, and Simon hauled Fiona before them. Her cheeks were splotched with red; her lips quivered as she curtsied before them. “My lords, I beg you, forgive my imprudent speech. I was overcome with emotions. Have mercy and I shall prove a dutiful wife...and...daughter.” The last of this she choked out in a whisper so soft only they could hear.
    At her capitulation, Myles felt an uneasy twist in his gut. He was wholly offended by the insults she hurled, and yet her abject surrender and plea for mercy made him feel grotesque, as if he had somehow abused her. Someday he would ask what threats her brothers had used to bend her will, and the thought gave him a start.
    She was to be his wife. He had understood that in the abstract, when her name was merely ink scrawled upon parchment and sealed with the king’s insignia. But this woman would stand beside him all his days and nights forevermore. Suddenly, France and his little mademoiselle seemed very far away.
    The marriage ceremony was her purgatory, a postponement of that final judgment condemning her to everlasting doom. Father Bettney, sanctimonious as ever, held the yellowed Biblein his equally yellowed hands. He wheezed the words of God in a nasal monotone. Fiona often thought if rats could speak, they would sound like this priest. He glowered at Fiona, as if he read her mind and judged accordingly. As if she were Eve in the garden and wholly to blame for this sacramental abuse instead of her brothers. Then Father Bettney spoke the words love, obey , and cherish , and she could not decide which of these was most offensive.
    Simon and John kept close, no doubt afraid she’d flee or incite the Campbells to violence with more reckless words. But she bit her lip and kept a vision of her sweet Marg close to mind, as they had prompted her to do.
    When time came for her vows, she recited her part, steady and clear, with head held high. She even managed to still the trembling of her hand when her husband slipped a gold-and-emerald ring upon her finger. It glimmered in the light but was a heavy shackle. Fear sliced a wide swath a moment later as she placed her pale fingers against the brown roughness of his own. His were killing hands, honed for battle. And soon enough they’d be on her.
    Then her husband pressed his lips against her own to seal this bargain forged in the devil’s own fire, and she wished she might have venom in her kiss, that he might