Free Highland Surrender by Tracy Brogan Page B

in her lungs.
    The wench knew no humility. He had her trapped like a rat in a bucket, and she had the audacity to make accusations?
    “No, I should be halfway to home, but your capriciousness brought me here instead.” He pulled a cord from inside his jerkin and began to twine it around her wrists, his face stern. “Girl, you try my patience. You’ve cost me hours in the saddle, worn out my horses, irritated my men, and put us all in danger. And forwhat? Your stubborn Sinclair pride? You are a Campbell now. You answer to me. ’Tis time you learned that.”
    And then he kissed her.
    Fiona was dazed and bewildered. She’d been in a dream, a hideous, harrowing dream, being chased by long-armed demons. Suddenly, one reached out and grabbed her hair, but she had a spear and threw it. Only, it was no dream. It was Myles, pressing down on top of her, smothering away the last of her breath with his mouth.
    She tried to move, but the binding cord twisted the tender skin of her wrists, stinging in contrast to the warm melding of his lips against her own. How had he found her, when she herself didn’t even know where she was? All those awful hours, wandering, searching for the Fraser keep, and all her efforts for naught.
    As suddenly as his kiss began, it was over. But he was angry still. She saw it in the glow of his eyes, felt it pulsing from him as he weighed her down.
    Fear and cold took hold, and she shivered despite his warmth. Or perhaps, because of it. “I’ve done my part for this truce,” she whispered. “My brothers cower under your dominance, the king is satisfied, and you mighty Campbells have claimed another Sinclair woman. Must I sit at your feet like a hound? Let me go, and I’ll speak of your mercy. Of how you spared my life in repayment for my mother’s.”
    He grabbed hold of her face with one hand, still pinning her wrists with the other. “’Tis a bold lie, Fiona. My father did not kill Aislinn Sinclair. Say it again, and you will suffer for it.”
    Fiona trembled at the severity in his voice, at the violence coiled beneath his surface, and realized how mildly he’d treated her until this moment.
    A gentle tapping sounded at the door, and the red giant’s head poked in, his eyes bright with mischief. “Have you subdued her, then?”
    “In a manner of speaking.” Myles scoffed as he rolled off and sprang up, pulling her with him so fast her head spun with dizziness.
    Breath hissed from her lips as the cord binding her wrists cut deeper. Her finger, still bent at an odd angle, had long since turned purple. Fiona bit her lip. She’d not cry out in his presence, no matter the pain.
    “You’re bleeding, lad,” Tavish said, nodding at his leg.
    “Aye, she sliced me, the little witch.” He winked at Tavish before leaning down and pulling a strip of fabric from her already shredded skirt. He dabbed at the wound. “’Tis a scratch.”
    Tavish bent to peer more closely at the wound. “Still, I should tend to it.”
    They stepped from the hut, Fiona pulled by her husband, and she found herself surrounded by glaring Campbell men, their hair wet and hanging down, their horses soggy and foaming round the bit. She was the reason for their discontent, and well she felt it in their stares.
    “Lads, she is found.” Her husband raised her bound arms in a mild show of victory.
    A grumble of acknowledgment followed. A particularly shaggy man with brown eyes and an unkempt beard stepped forward. “The skies are clearing, my lord. Should we ride to catch your father or make camp?”
    Myles looked to the heavens. Fiona watched his shoulders rise and fall with a sigh. The rain had indeed stopped, but the sky darkened with the coming evening.
    “It’ll soon be too dark to travel. We’ll make camp. Taggart, take some men and see what you can scare up for food.”
    The men dismounted and went about their various tasks. Myles nudged her toward the side of the hut, where she sank down and remained largely