Chapter 3
three
. . .
Fiona
They dress me like a sacrifice. White gown, flowers in my hair, jewels at my throat that feel like a collar.
My father's eyes are hollow when he comes to escort me, his hands cold when they take mine.
"Be brave," he whispers, but the words ring false.
There's no bravery in this—only survival.
My ladies fuss around me, arranging my hair, dabbing perfume on my wrists, avoiding my eyes.
They know what I'm walking into. A marriage bed where desire has no place, only conquest. A warrior king who expects to claim me as publicly as he claimed my kingdom.
My fingers tremble, and I curl them into fists.
I will not let Lachlan Drummond see my fear.
I will give him nothing freely, not even that.
"It's time, Princess." One of Lachlan's men stands at my door, his expression carefully blank. Not leering, not pitying. Small mercies.
I take my father's arm, feeling how he struggles to stand tall beside me. They've let him keep his dignity, at least outwardly. No chains, no visible wounds. But the defeat in his posture tells me everything about what this day has cost him.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs as we walk. "I failed you. Failed our kingdom."
"No." I squeeze his arm. "We were outnumbered. Weakened by the winter. It wasn't your fault."
He shakes his head. "A king protects his people, his family. I couldn't even protect my own daughter from becoming spoils of war."
"I'm not spoils," I tell him fiercely. "I'm still me. Still a MacLeod. He can take my hand, but he can't take who I am."
The bravado in my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. What do I know of what Lachlan Drummond can take? The stories they tell of him—of beds stained with virgin blood, of women left broken in his wake—crowd my mind, making my steps falter.
We pause outside the great hall. I can hear the murmur of voices inside, the awkward mingling of conquerors and conquered. My father turns to me, his face etched with grief.
"Fiona." He cups my face as he did when I was a child waking from nightmares. "Whatever happens in there, remember that you are royal by blood and bearing. He can force a crown upon you, but the dignity of wearing it comes from within."
I nod, unable to speak past the knot in my throat.
The doors open. All eyes turn to us. And there at the front of the hall, waiting beside the ancient stone of my ancestors, stands the man who will be my husband before the sun sets.
Lachlan Drummond. Warrior. King. Conqueror.
Mine.
The thought sends a shudder through me, revulsion mingled with something else I refuse to name. Something that makes my skin prickle with heat when his eyes find mine across the crowded hall.
Each step toward him feels like a step toward my own execution. The faces we pass are a blur—my father's lords looking away in shame, Lachlan's men watching with hungry eyes, the few ladies of the court who haven't fled weeping silently behind their hands.
And then we're there, standing before him. My father places my hand in Lachlan's, and I feel the first shock of contact—his skin hot against mine, his fingers engulfing my own. He's so much larger than me, so much stronger. The knowledge sits like a stone in my stomach.
"Who gives this woman?" asks the priest, a trembling old man who has served my family since before I was born.
"I do," my father says, his voice surprisingly steady. "Edgar MacLeod, King of—"
"Former king," Lachlan interrupts, his deep voice silencing the hall. "Let us not confuse the matter."
My father's jaw tightens, but he says nothing. What can he say? The sword at Lachlan's hip is still stained with the blood of our soldiers.
The priest begins the ceremony, his words washing over me without meaning. I focus instead on Lachlan's hand holding mine, on the calluses I can feel against my skin. Warrior's hands. Killer's hands. Hands that will soon touch me in ways I've never been touched before.
Fear crawls up my throat like bile.
"Do you, Lachlan Drummond, King of the Northern Territories, take this woman to be your wife, to rule beside you as queen, to bear your children and uphold your honor until death separates you?"
"I do." No hesitation. No doubt. Just certainty, as if he's claiming something that has always been his.
"And do you, Fiona MacLeod, Princess of the Eastern Shores, take this man to be your husband, to serve him as queen, to bear his children and uphold his honor until death separates you?"
I'm silent. The hall holds its breath.
Lachlan's hand tightens on mine, not painful, but a warning.
"Princess?" the priest prompts, fear making his voice quaver.
I look up at Lachlan, meeting those blue eyes directly for the first time. "And if I say no?"
A muscle in his jaw ticks. "You won't."
"Answer the question. What happens if I refuse?"
His voice drops, meant for my ears alone. "Then your father dies before the sun sets. Your ladies-in-waiting become playthings for my men. And you still become my wife, only with more blood on your hands than necessary."
I believe him. God help me, I believe every word.
"I do," I whisper, the words like ash in my mouth.
"Louder," he commands. "Let them all hear you choose me."
I want to hate him for this public humiliation. I do hate him. But underneath the hatred is a grudging respect for his cunning. He knows exactly what he's doing—forcing me to appear willing in front of witnesses, making sure no one can later claim I was taken entirely against my will.
"I do," I say again, loud enough to carry to the back of the hall.
The priest rushes through the rest of the ceremony, clearly eager to be done with this farce. When he instructs Lachlan to seal our vows with a kiss, I brace myself for invasion, for possession.
Instead, Lachlan's mouth is almost gentle against mine, a brief press of lips that's gone before I can react. But his eyes when he pulls back are anything but gentle—they burn with a hunger that makes my knees weak.
"Mine," he murmurs, too quiet for others to hear.
The word slips under my skin like a blade.
The feast that follows is an exercise in endurance. I sit beside Lachlan at the high table, picking at food I can't taste, acutely aware of his massive presence next to me. He eats heartily, drinks moderately, and watches me constantly from the corner of his eye.
His men grow rowdier as the night progresses, their laughter louder, their jokes cruder. I catch fragments of conversation—speculation about my virginity, wagers on how long I'll last beneath their king, comments about my body that make my skin crawl.
Lachlan notices too. Twice he silences offenders with nothing more than a look. The third time, when a particularly drunk soldier makes a graphic suggestion about what might be happening later in the marriage bed, Lachlan stands.
The hall falls silent immediately.
"The next man who disrespects your queen will answer to me personally." His voice is soft, which somehow makes the threat more terrifying. "And I promise, you won't enjoy the experience."
He sits again, resuming his meal as if nothing happened. I stare at him, confused by this unexpected defense.
"Don't look so surprised, Princess," he says, not looking at me. "You're mine now. No one else has the right to speak of you that way."
"How comforting," I mutter. "You'll be the only one to degrade me."
His head turns, eyes narrowing. "Is that what you think will happen tonight? That I'll degrade you?"
I meet his gaze steadily. "What else would you call it? Forcing yourself on an unwilling woman?"
"Unwilling?" His mouth curves slightly. "We'll see about that."
Before I can respond, a cheer rises from the far end of the hall. Lachlan's men are pounding their cups on the tables, creating a rhythmic thunder that makes the dishes jump.
"Bed them! Bed them! Bed them!"
My blood turns to ice. The bedding ceremony. I knew it was coming, but the reality of it—being stripped and carried to my marriage bed by leering strangers, then watched as my new husband claims me—is suddenly, horrifyingly immediate.
Lachlan stands, pulling me up beside him. "Time to fulfill your duties, wife."
The hall erupts in cheers and obscene suggestions. Two of Lachlan's men approach, grinning, clearly intending to carry me to the bedchamber as tradition dictates.
"No." The word escapes me before I can stop it.
Lachlan looks down at me, one eyebrow raised. "No?"
"I won't—" I swallow hard. "I won't be pawed at by your men. I won't be watched like some entertainment."
The hall has gone quiet, everyone straining to hear our exchange.
"It's tradition," Lachlan says, his voice neutral. "The marriage must be witnessed to be valid."
"Then it won't be valid." I lift my chin, fear making me reckless. "Because I won't do it. Kill me if you must, but I won't be humiliated that way."
Something flickers in his eyes—respect? Amusement? I can't tell. But when he speaks again, his voice has changed, grown softer.
"No one touches the queen but me." He addresses the hall, but his eyes never leave my face. "No one watches what belongs to me alone."
Confusion ripples through the crowd. The bedding ceremony is expected, particularly for a political marriage that must be proven consummated.
"But sire," one of his advisors begins, "the alliance must be—"
"The alliance is sealed by my word," Lachlan cuts him off. "Anyone who doubts that can challenge me directly." His hand drops to the hilt of his sword, a reminder of what happens to those who challenge him.
No one speaks.
Lachlan turns to me, his massive hand engulfing mine once more. "Come, wife. It's time we were alone."
Relief makes me dizzy—or is it fear of a different kind? The public claiming would have been humiliating, yes, but there's something more intimidating about facing him in private, with no witnesses to temper his behavior.
He leads me from the hall, his stride forcing me to hurry to keep pace. The corridors are eerily empty, the servants having been dismissed for the night. Our footsteps echo against the stone, marking the path to what will now be our shared chambers.
At the door, he stops. "You should thank me."
"For what? Doing the bare minimum of decent behavior?"
His laugh is unexpected, a deep rumble that I feel more than hear. "Most conquerors wouldn't give you even that much consideration."
"Should I be grateful to be conquered by you specifically, then? How fortunate for me."
Instead of anger, my sarcasm draws another laugh from him. "You have fire, Princess. I like that." His hand comes up to touch my face, fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "It will make breaking you all the more satisfying."
The words send a chill through me, but his touch—gentle despite his threat—awakens something else. Something hot and unfamiliar that pools low in my belly.
I step away, hating my body's betrayal. "You'll never break me."
"We'll see." He pushes the door open, gesturing for me to enter first. "After you, wife."
I step into the chamber that has been prepared for us—my old room, transformed with new furs on the bed, a fire blazing in the hearth, candles lighting every surface. It should be welcoming, romantic even. Instead, it feels like the most elegant of prisons.
Lachlan follows me in, closing the door behind him. The sound of the latch dropping into place is like a death knell.
I stand in the center of the room, paralyzed by the reality of what comes next. I've never been with a man before. Never even been kissed properly before today. And now this warrior king expects me to submit to him completely.
He moves toward me, and I force myself not to retreat. His hand rises again, this time finding the pins that hold my hair in place. One by one, he removes them, until my hair falls loose around my shoulders.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his fingers combing through the strands. "Like spun gold."
Despite myself, heat rises to my face at the compliment. No one has ever looked at me the way he's looking at me now—like I'm something precious and rare, something to be devoured.
"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for. Mercy? Gentleness? For him to stop looking at me that way, making me feel things I don't want to feel?
His hand slides from my hair to cup my face. "I won't hurt you, Fiona."
It's not the reassurance I was hoping for. But as his thumb traces my lower lip, as his eyes darken with desire, I realize with horrifying clarity that part of me wants this. Wants him. The enemy. The conqueror. The man who destroyed everything I love.
My body is betraying me, responding to his proximity, his touch, with a shameful heat that makes me hate myself as much as I hate him.
"I despise you," I tell him, needing him to know that whatever happens between us physically, my heart remains my own.
He smiles, a predator confident in his hunt. "For now." His thumb presses harder against my lip. "But that will change. I promise you that."
And God help me, looking into his eyes, feeling the heat radiating from his body, I'm afraid he might be right.