Highland Surrender by Tracy Brogan

insult her, nor would they have harmed her dear Bess. These evil deeds were the work of some other force.
    She watched her husband climb into the cart to adjust the earl’s covering, and a great sadness enveloped her once more. She should not care if the old Campbell died. ’Twas just as he deserved. His suffering should be her joy, but gladness was long absent. Death lingered at this scene, its cold finger pointing this way and that, claiming too many souls today. And at Demspey Castle, half a dozen women would learn their men were never coming home. They were her enemy, true enough, and though she should be glad, she was not.
    They loaded up a short while later, after the Campbell dead had been hastily blessed and buried, Bess along with them. They’d left the other corpses in the road for their enemies to come and claim.
    They traveled as fast as the muddy roads would allow, eating what little food they had while staying in the saddle. Fiona was hungry and tired and sore. But little did that physical discomfort compare to the heaviness of her heart. She could feel it breaking, bit by tiny bit, with each jarring step of her horse. She left a trail of broken shards along this path and knew, if she made it allthe way to Dempsey, she’d have nothing left in her chest save an empty void.
    Darkness was full upon them when they reached Inverness. Reining in next to a building loud with revelry and glowing with light, Myles called instructions to his men.
    “Tavish, see to getting us rooms. Benson, find a physician and bring him here. Nigel, choose a man and go arrange for the boats. We must set sail at first light. But, men”—he lowered his voice—“use caution. If our enemies are near, it won’t do to have them realize we are here.”
    Tavish nodded. “Wise thinking.”
    The men went on about their business, and Fiona fought to keep her seat in the saddle. Overwhelmed by fatigue and sadness, it seemed she’d lived a lifetime since her wedding just two days ago. She was beyond caring what came next, or so she thought until Myles dismounted and walked her way. She realized she did indeed have room for a little fear. His expression was darker than the sky above.
    “Get down.”
    She struggled off the horse’s back, for her hands were still bound, and her legs buckled as she touched the ground. Her husband caught her with one arm to keep her from collapsing fully onto the cobbled street, but there was no tender care in his touch. Instead, he pulled her to the side of the road, setting her upon an overturned cask pushed up against a wall of the building.
    “Stay.”
    Her eyes closed of their own volition. “Wherever would I go?” When she opened them moments later, Myles was gone and Darby stood before her, weapon drawn and at the ready in his slender, trembling hand.
    “My lord Myles said I should see that you stay put.”
    She smiled at the bran-faced boy. “How old are you, Darby?”
    “Eleven. But I’ll be twelve soon enough.” He lifted his chin as if to add to his height.
    “Will you stab me if I move?” she asked.
    He straightened his narrow shoulders. “Best not tempt me to find out.”
    She closed her eyes again with a resigned smile. “Ah, another scrappy Campbell. Even the little ones are mean.”
    It seemed hours but was only moments when Tavish returned and they saw the earl safely transported into a room. The innkeeper let them use the back entrance—for a fee, of course—so that no prying eyes might see who lay upon the makeshift stretcher.
    The surgeon came shortly thereafter, joining Tavish, Myles, and his father in a tiny room lit by lanterns and a crackling fire. He was a diminutive man by the name of Drummond, with beady eyes, a balding pate, and apparently, a great thirst, for he took a mighty swig of whiskey before he started.
    Tavish looked over the man’s head at Myles and shrugged his thick shoulders.
    In spite of the drink, Drummond was efficient and knowledgeable. He cleaned the