by Emma Prince
Without asking permission, he tucked her arm under his and pulled her toward one of the alcoves lining the great hall’s back wall.
He realized belatedly that he was practically dragging her across the hall, for his long strides covered more than double the distance of her dainty steps. No doubt all at the feast now took him for a barbarian not only in looks but in actions as well. He didn’t care a whit about that either, but he slowed his pace to allow Lady Vivienne to keep up.
When they stepped into one of the empty alcoves, he released her arm from under his and deftly yanked the blue velvet curtains on either side free from their ties.
With the curtains shut against the hubbub of the feast, the alcove suddenly seemed far too small for his large frame. Muted chatter and a sliver of candlelight still filtered in through the crack in the velvet drapes, but otherwise the space was dim and quiet—and cramped. He could hardly take a lungful of air without brushing up against Lady Vivienne.
Best to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“The Bruce sent me,” he said without preamble. “We believe William de Soules still poses a threat.”
At that, she stilled. “But…but you took de Soules to Scotland for judgment.”
Hell and damnation, he didn’t like the faint edge of distress in her voice. He had never wanted to involve her in de Soules’s detainment, but Jerome and Elaine had brought her into their plan before he could stop them.
When they’d proposed that Lady Vivienne give de Soules a draught to lay him low long enough for his conspiracy to be unraveled, Kieran had railed against them, insisting that such a dangerous and precarious position was no place for a high-born lady.
But Lady Vivienne herself had insisted that she wanted to help, for apparently she believed, as Kieran did, that spineless bastards like de Soules could not be allowed to threaten the peace that had been forged in both France and Scotland alike.
Much to Kieran’s displeasure, Vivienne had not only drugged de Soules the night before their envoy had been set to depart for Avignon, but she had continued to keep him dosed for nigh on a fortnight while Kieran had delivered the Bruce’s Declaration of Arbroath and returned to collect de Soules for punishment.
That should have been the last time he’d ever laid eyes on Lady Vivienne, yet here he was, standing only inches away from her.
“De Soules is still being held in Scone’s dungeon. He isnae going anywhere,” he said in an attempt to offer what reassurance he could. “But there may still be others on the outside working for him.”
She straightened, and even in the dim light he could see that she had plastered on that serene, elegant mask of unconcern.
“There has been nothing to indicate that I am in any danger. Once you removed de Soules from court, all returned to normal.”
Kieran clenched his teeth. He didn’t want to scare her, but he would if she insisted on being unreasonable.
“A little over a sennight ago, three of de Soules’s co-conspirators were hanged. One of them, Richard Broun, used his dying breath to tell the Bruce that there were more like him, and that they would stop at naught to seek retribution against the Bruce and his allies—that’s ye, lass.”
Her delicate brows drew together. “I am no one.”
“Nay, ye are the woman who helped bring William de Soules and his traitorous plot down. What’s more, ye are a close confidante of the Queen of France, whose King is an open supporter of the Bruce’s reign in Scotland. If someone wanted to avenge de Soules and hurt the Bruce in one fell swoop, ye’d be the most obvious target.”
She hesitated then—a rare crack in her normally controlled façade. Good. Mayhap he was getting through to her.
“Even if that is the case, whom do you expect to come after me?” she asked. “De Soules is imprisoned, as you say, and his allies have been executed.”
“I said three of his allies were executed. One was given leniency, and another died in the dungeon before the Bruce passed judgment. But that doesnae mean all of his allies have been weeded out. Likely a few slipped into the woodwork when de Soules was captured. And he plotted on French soil as well as Scottish. Any number of cowards could be waiting to strike.”
Though his words had been meant to frighten some sense into her, foreboding snaked up his own spine at the picture he painted.
But it was the truth. When de Soules had been passed over for land and titles he thought he deserved, he’d quietly begun to gather other similarly disgruntled nobles, mainly in the Lowlands, to plot the Bruce’s assassination.
Yet it hadn’t been enough for them to simply rid themselves of the King they believed was overlooking them. Nay, de Soules had spent time in France, presumably to visit his small holding in the Picardy region to the north, but in truth he’d been meeting with Edward Balliol, the exiled son of the Bruce’s predecessor, King John Balliol.
John Balliol had been little more than a puppet King, placed on the Scottish throne by the English to do their bidding. Apparently de Soules and his cronies had believed that Edward Balliol would follow in his father’s footsteps if they placed him on Scotland’s throne. They’d sought their own puppet King to fill their coffers and lavish land and titles upon them.
Thank God Lady Vivienne had told Jerome and Elaine that de Soules had not merely been visiting his own holding, but instead had been sniffing around Balliol’s estate in Picardy. Otherwise, Balliol might be wearing the Scottish crown right now, and the Bruce’s head would likely be rotting on a pike.
Horrified at the plot against his Scottish ally, King Philip had stripped not only de Soules but also Edward Balliol of all their French lands. Yet Kieran had learned from years of underhanded warfare against the English that one’s enemies were rarely so easily vanquished. Like weeds, men with grudges to settle could pop up anywhere.
And Kieran would be damned if Lady Vivienne came to harm in the process.
She shifted, the silk folds of her gown whispering in the darkened alcove. “I still do not understand why you are here,” she said. “Your King sent you to—what? Follow me through the palace? You know we already have guards, do you not?”
Before he could growl a response, she went on. “Or would you like to help me pick the Queen’s jewels and gowns? Or perhaps you would prefer to work on your embroidery skills with me and the other ladies-in waiting.”
He moved forward, forcing Lady Vivienne to back up or be flattened into his chest. “This isnae a game, lass.”
In one step, her retreat came to an end, for she bumped against the alcove’s back wall. Yet despite the fact that he had her pinned and was looming over her in the darkness, her voice was surprisingly calm.
“Even if there is a threat—which I still question, as there has been no indication that I am in danger—I am surrounded by guards at all times,” she countered. “As one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, I am one of the most watched women in all of Paris.”
“Yer role in thwarting de Soules is public knowledge at court,” he shot back.
“Oui, and yet in the month and a half since I poisoned de Soules, no harm has befallen me. Your services are not needed, Monsieur MacAdams, for I am perfectly safe at court.”
He lowered his head so that his breath fanned close to her ear. “Och, but ye arenae staying at court, lass. I’m taking ye away.”
She jerked in surprise at that, but there was nowhere for her to go—unless she chose to move forward and close the last inch of space separating them.
This near, he could smell her skin. She wore the same flowery fragrance that she had earlier that summer—violets, he thought. The scent was subtle and ethereal. Fitting for her.
For his part, Kieran likely smelled of sweat and horseflesh, for after the five-day sea crossing from Scone to Calais, he’d immediately secured a horse and ridden hard for three days to Paris. What did he care if his scent offended her delicate sensibilities, though? His job was to protect her, not court her.
“I am not leavin
g the palace,” she stated, tilting her head up to meet his gaze with defiant eyes.
“Oh aye, ye are. Ye are to be placed somewhere safe until the Bruce can be sure the threat has passed.”
“I am safe here.”
A lazy grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. Damn, but it was satisfying to get under the wee chit’s skin.
“Luckily it isnae up to ye,” he replied, straightening. “I’ve already spoken with King Philip. In the interest of maintaining his strong friendship with the Bruce, Philip is eager to acquiesce to the Bruce’s request that ye be removed from court—for yer own safety, of course.”
She waved her hand, nearly brushing his chest. “Ah, but my position at court does not fall under the King’s purview. I am the Queen’s lady-in-waiting, here by her invitation and at her pleasure alone. The King would never cross his Queen’s wishes on such a matter.”
Kieran lifted one shoulder. “Mayhap I should take the matter up with the Queen then. Either way, ye are coming with me, lass.”
“Don’t call me lass, Monsieur MacAdams. And I am staying.”
“Dinnae call me Monsieur, lass, and nay, ye arenae.”
She huffed an annoyed breath and muttered something in French. Kieran caught the word bruté and could surmise the general gist of her mood.
His barely leashed temper broke free at last. “Bloody hell, woman, why are ye fighting me on this? Ye ken the extent of de Soules’s scheme. He meant to assassinate a bloody King. Ye think he cannae find a way, even from a cell, to have a wee French chit killed?”
“I have duties here,” she retorted. “And a position to uphold.”
“What, ye mean dancing with bairn-faced fops and trussing yerself up for some feast or other every night? I ken ye must like all the finery and games of etiquette at court, but are they worth yer damned life?”
Vivienne stiffened, and the air around them crackled with tension.
“You know nothing of my life, Monsieur,” she replied at last, her rigid voice betraying an edge of pain.
Hell and damnation, he was losing sight of his mission. He wasn’t here to verbally spar with Lady Vivienne, and he damn well wasn’t here to corner her in alcoves that were no doubt meant for lovers’ trysts.
He had one job—to protect her. And whether she liked it or not, he would get his way.
“As I said,” he muttered, forcing himself to keep his voice even, “I’ll take the matter up with the Queen.”
“She has no doubt retired for the evening,” Lady Vivienne said, suddenly sounding weary. “I need to attend to her.”
She slipped past him with surprising agility and pulled back the blue velvet curtains. The feast continued as before, with the nobles dancing and chattering and the servants flitting about to refill wine goblets.
King Philip was engaged in deep conversation with one of his nobles on the raised dais. Since Kieran had already explained his presence and the Bruce’s wishes, he felt no need to speak with the King again this eve. But just as Lady Vivienne had said, the Queen was no longer beside the King. The gaggle of ladies-in-waiting who had been seated below the dais were gone as well.
“I must go to the Queen,” Lady Vivienne muttered, starting off across the great hall.
With two strides, Kieran caught her arm and halted her. “How many ladies does the Queen have to attend her?”
She blinked at him. “Eight, including me.”
“Then let the other seven earn their keep tonight. Ye are tired.”
“What does that matter?”
He fixed her with a firm look. “Because I am no’ through with ye just yet.”
Chapter Four
The space between Vivienne’s shoulder blades tingled with awareness as she walked down one of the palace’s many winding corridors.
She wished she could say it was caused by a draft, or a loose lock of hair tickling her back, but the true source of the tingle was obvious.
Kieran walked close behind her, his boots tapping softly on the stone floor and his large form casting a shadow over her every time they passed a lit wall sconce.
After insisting that she neglect her duties to the Queen this eve, he’d then informed her that he would be doing a thorough sweep of her bedchamber before allowing her to retire for the night.
Instead of causing a scene in the great hall with yet another round of verbal jousting, Vivienne had pressed her lips together and given him the barest of nods in assent.
There was nothing she could do about his presence at the moment. He’d apparently already gotten permission from the King to act as her bodyguard. Vivienne trusted that the Queen would never agree to allow the giant Scotsman to whisk her away to some undisclosed location, but the Queen was no doubt already abed and could not be disturbed until morning.
That meant Vivienne was stuck with the blasted giant for the night. For some reason, that thought sent heat up the back of her neck and into her cheeks. Thank God he could not see her face at the moment.
She mounted the stairs leading to the Queen’s suite of chambers, which included rooms for each of her ladies-in-waiting. After a few more moments spent winding down yet another corridor, she arrived at her chamber door and reached for the handle.
But to her shock, Kieran darted forward and lifted her hand away.
Non, not just her hand—he lifted her entire body. He plucked her up as if she were no more than a feather and spun her away from the door.
“What in—”
Just as abruptly as he’d scooped her up, he set her down, leveling her with a scowl.
“From now on, dinnae go into—or out of—chambers unless I have checked them first. Understand?”
Non, she didn’t, not in the least. He expected her to wait and, what, twiddle her thumbs while he searched every single chamber she entered or exited while going about her life?
Before she could form a reply, he’d turned his attention back to her bedchamber door and slowly pushed it open.
Inside, everything was as she’d left it. Her bed was neatly made, her dressing table meticulously ordered. Her clothes were all latched away in the armoire opposite the table. A low fire gave off a warm orange light.
Kieran’s sharp eyes swept the chamber before motioning her inside, but apparently he wasn’t done yet. He closed the door after her, then began to stalk slowly around the space.
Pretending to ignore him, Vivienne went to her dressing table to begin her nightly ablutions. She lifted the sheer, buttery-yellow veil from her head and set it aside, then poured water from the pitcher on the dressing table into the matching basin.
But before she could splash the water on her face, Kieran was by her side, sniffing first the pitcher and then the basin.
“Mon Dieu,” she muttered. “It is only water.”
“And these?” he demanded, waving at the neat row of glass bottles and vials arranged on the table. He lifted one, pulled out the stopper, and inhaled.
“Orange blossom perfume,” she said dryly. “And that one is rose water. I should think you might prefer the less floral scents for yourself, Monsieur MacAdams. That one over there is sandalwood oil—decidedly more manly than the orange blossom.”
He didn’t react to her droll comment, but instead examined each vial and bottle in turn. When he reached her favorite, a bottle of violet oil that had been a gift from the Queen, he froze.
“This is what ye wear most often, is it no’?”
Vivienne’s pulse jumped. He had noticed? “Oui,” she managed.
His rugged features were unreadable in the low firelight, but his eyes flickered with intensity before he returned his attention to the other vials on the table.
She took the opportunity to dab some of the rosemary and wine mixture—which he’d already examined—into her palms, then swiped it over her face, as was her routine every evening.
“No one is going to poison me through my perfumes and flower waters, Monsieur MacAdams,” she said as she wiped away the beauty concoction.
Again, he ignored her, moving toward her armoire. He flicked open the latch and spread the double doors, exposing all her tidily hung silks and brocades.
She watched as he thumbed through the garments, her insides beginning to flutter despite her best efforts to remain calm. It was not that she expected some knife-wielding rogue to leap forth from the armoire. Non, she seriously doubted she was in any danger from de Soules or any of his cronies at all.
At the moment, the only danger seemed to be coming from Kieran MacAdams.
It had felt far too intimate to be tucked away in one of the great hall’s alcoves earlier that night. No doubt she would have a great deal of work ahead of her to undo the gossip those few minutes would inspire. Thierry would expect an explanation as well. In less than an hour, Kieran had managed to undo years of Vivienne’s careful efforts to position herself at court.
And now he was in her bedchamber. Alone. And rifling through her clothes.
To give her hands something to do, she busied herself with removing the pins from her hair. But she watched him in the polished plate of silver that served as her mirror.
He’d reached the end of the multi-colored gowns and found her carefully hung silk and linen chemises. When his hand glided down a particularly sheer one, he cleared his throat and abruptly closed the armoire doors.
Vivienne thought this torture was over at last, but instead of moving to the door, he strode toward her bed.
This was quite enough. She rose from the dressing table, her hair hanging partially loose, and moved to intercept him.
“What can you possibly expect to find there, Monsieur MacAdams?” she demanded.
His only reply was a grunt, then he lowered himself to the floor and peered under the bedframe. Seemingly satisfied, he stood, then unceremoniously yanked back her coverlet.
Heaven help her. Now he was looking in her bed?
Blessedly, his examination was short-lived, as there was nothing to see but her clean bed linens.
“Satisfied?” she said tartly, yet when his piercing blue eyes met hers, the word seemed to hang in the air between them, lingering like the subtle violet fragrance she loved so much.