Highland Surrender Read Free Page A

perish in that moment. But he stepped away, alive. And she drew another breath and lived as well.
    The crowd murmured its approval, but no cheering came forth. On this day, only whispers of sympathy and predictions of an uncertain future circulated among the congregation.
    After the ceremony, the meal was served without the usual pageantry of a bridal feast. There had been neither the time nor the inclination to celebrate. Fiona sat beside her husband on the dais, with Simon to her right. Cedric, thanks be to God, was nextto John, who kept him deep in conversation. What they discussed, she could not imagine.
    Father Bettney gave the blessing, droning on about chastity and duty, though through it all he glared at her as if she were Pandora with one hand on the lid.
    Next to her, Myles’s nearness swirled like a hot vapor all around. She was torn between wanting to stare and take in every detail of him, and wishing he might burst into flame and turn to ash. He was tall—taller than John, even. His close-cropped hair was dark, his jaw broad, and were she feeling generous, she might admit his clean-shaven face was not repulsive. His eyes were disconcerting, though. Too bright to be natural, an icy sort of green, like a frosted glen in the early spring.
    From the trencher before them, Fiona ate little. A few almonds and figs, a slice of apple, but it all tasted of wood pulp in her mouth. It was expected for her to select the choicest bits of food for her husband, but instead, she kept her hands to herself and eyes in her lap. Her disregard appeared to have little impact on his appetite.
    “You’re not eating much. Is the meal not to your liking?” he asked at last. At her continued silence, he leaned over so that his lips nearly touched her ear. She felt the warmth of his breath as he whispered, “How pleased and fortunate I am to have such a silent, docile wife.”
    She snapped her head in his direction. Silent and docile? Then she saw his smile. He had set the bait, and she had scooped it up.
    He laughed at her expression and stuffed a piece of veal into his mouth. “Not so docile after all, aye? I wondered where that chit hurling slurs in the hall had gone. Now I see you’ve just tucked her away.” He nodded once. “Good.”
    Fiona’s pulses raced. He’d duped her, and how easily she’d fallen. Fine. If he’d a mind to know her nature, so be it. “’Tis thecompany which turns my stomach sour. The stink of so many Campbells has ruined my meal.”
    He laughed again. “Is that what I smell? I thought it was you.”
    Her face flamed with instant heat. Her brothers pinched and taunted readily enough, but little did she think to get the same from her enemy husband. “I’ll roll in manure each day if the stench will keep you away from me,” she said.
    He took another bite and let his eyes rove over her in the most obscene way, as if she were more harlot than bride. He sucked a bit of gravy off his finger.
    “It won’t,” he said at last.
    Her senses thrummed. What peculiar assault. His words flicked like a feather and yet sent tremors of unease licking at her limbs. She suddenly felt naked beneath his gaze, and the certainty of this night’s events clanged inside her head like the bells of Saint Andrews. No foul stench, or pointed dagger, or field of loyal men would keep him from his purpose. She was both the prize and the prey.
    She looked at her hands once more, her ears burning as he laughed again.

CHAPTER 3

    N O LADIES ESCORTED Fiona to her bedchamber. Her mother lay cold in the grave, and Fiona’s only aunt was a nun who, for years, had made her home at a convent near Ludlow. So it was scrawny, dependable Bess who led Fiona from the hall when the feasting ended.
    “Come along, miss,” she whispered. “No sense dragging your feet. It’ll be all but over in twenty minutes. Not much a strong girl like you can’t put up with for that brief time, aye?”
    A vision of her mother, gray with death’s