by Emma Prince
That decision made, she crouched on the floor beside the trunk and slowly removed each rumpled garment. Everything from the gowns to the slippers to the silk chemises and stockings had been hand-made for her. They befitted her station as one of the Queen of France’s closest companions, and showed the world her valued position.
To her surprise, a knot tightened her throat as she set each garment aside one by one. No doubt Kieran, who loomed over her, watching her closely, took her for a silly, vain chit. He likely thought her head so full of air that she would grow misty-eyed over a few scraps of silk and brocade when her very life was in danger.
But it wasn’t the gowns and finery she cared about. It was what they represented. She’d nearly lost everything seven years past—her good name, her family’s honor, and any hope for a future free of scandal and shame.
Yet when the Queen had taken her on as a lady-in-waiting, she’d been given a second chance. She’d remade herself as the perfect lady of court: well-mannered, demure, graceful, and restrained. And she’d proven it with her outward appearance. The gowns, the hair, the façade of cool control—they all covered her past mistakes.
So what was she without her fine clothes, her fancy fragrances, her position at court? She was a girl from a humble estate who had made a terrible error in judgment. She was nothing. It burned her pride to admit it, but far worse was the knowledge that in abandoning the palace, she didn’t just hurt her own standing. Her father would pay as well.
Forcing herself to maintain her composure, she selected two practical gowns—the gray dress she’d worn yesterday evening and another of green-dyed wool that was warm and comfortable—and slipped them into the saddlebags.
When she held up two linen chemises, Kieran cleared his throat, but she ignored him. She tucked them, along with a pair of stockings and her book and violet oil, into the bags as well. Once she’d added a comb, a small pouch of coins, and a few other small personal items, there was no more room.
“Do ye have riding boots?” Kieran asked behind her.
She rose, kicking off her slippers and dragging out a pair of leather half-boots she normally wore in the winter.
Kieran eyed the blue silk gown she wore but decided—wisely—to refrain from commenting. Instead, he held out the fur-trimmed cloak she’d used to bundle her books together. When she took it and slung it around her shoulders, he hoisted up the saddlebags she’d just filled and strode out of the room.
Vivienne hesitated a moment, casting her eyes over her chamber. There was a chance she’d never see it again. There wasn’t time to be sentimental, though. With a silent farewell to all that she had created for herself here at court over the last seven years, she stepped out of the chamber and hurried after Kieran.
He strode straight to the palace’s stables, where a stable lad was already holding the reins to two horses. One was clearly Kieran’s. It was a bay gelding large enough to hold his giant frame. The other was a smaller yet spritely looking white mare that must have been meant for her.
As Kieran went about fastening the saddlebags to her horse’s saddle, a movement at the palace’s double doors caught her eye. Hesitantly, the seven other ladies-in-waiting shuffled out and approached. Some eyed Kieran as if they expected him to snap at them to be gone again, yet he didn’t seem to pay them any mind.
“Safe travels,” Marie said, coming forward and pulling Vivienne into a tight hug.
“We’ll miss you,” Aveline murmured, moving in to embrace her as well.
One by one, the ladies hugged her and bid her well. Vivienne blinked back the tears as she reassured them that she would see them all again soon.
And then suddenly the Queen, who never rose at this hour, was gliding from the palace. The ladies all dropped into practiced curtsies, including Vivienne, but the Queen moved forward and took her hand, giving it a squeeze.
“Be brave, ma chère, and remember that you have our love.”
Vivienne mumbled her thanks in a voice thick with emotion. When the Queen released her hand, Kieran suddenly grasped her around the waist and lifted her into the saddle. He mounted his own horse in one fluid movement and set the animal into motion.
As the others waved and called out their farewells, Vivienne trailed after him through the palace’s thick walls and toward the bridge that led into the heart of Paris. She still didn’t know where they were headed, and to give herself something to focus on other than her breaking heart, she nudged her mount alongside his.
“Where are you taking me?”
He gave her an assessing look for a moment. “Scotland.”
A thought occurred to her that had hope surging past her sadness. “Will we sail via Calais?”
“Aye.”
“Then I would make a request.”
He lifted a brow at her. “A request, or a demand?”
She ignored the comment and said, “My family’s estate in Picardy is on the way to Calais. I’d like to stop and see my father.”
Kieran grunted, his rugged features darkening with a frown. “I told ye before, this isnae some grand tour for making social calls.”
“Please,” she said, unable to control the edge of desperation tinging her voice. “I…I may not have another chance to see him.”
He hesitated another moment, but at last relented. “Verra well.”
Vivienne breathed a sigh of relief. Her family’s estate was only a two-day’s ride from the palace, but it had been many long months since she’d had the opportunity to visit.
She could only pray that all would be well when they arrived.
Chapter Eleven
Kieran was being an arse and he knew it.
They’d ridden all day in stony silence, but it was obvious Vivienne was struggling to keep up with the grueling pace he set. She was so delicate and ethereal, like some sort of angel. All airy refinement and graceful composure, she was clearly not meant to ride long hours with minimal breaks.
Yet the space between Kieran’s shoulder blades itched as they rode across the open, rolling French countryside. Without the cover of trees or a familiar landscape to use to his advantage, they were far too exposed for his liking.
Still, insisting on a punishing speed until nearly dusk might be for her own safety, but it didn’t excuse being an arse to her that morning. He’d mercilessly torn through her trunk and had barely given her time to say her farewells.
The blasted truth was, he was scared witless. His worst fears had been confirmed—she was in danger, and William de Soules was likely behind it. Even from within Scone Palace’s dungeon, the man still had influence as far away as France.
And if Kieran’s instincts were right, which they almost always were, that meant the single attacker posing as a palace gardener was just the beginning. Kieran was the only thing standing between Vivienne and those who would see her dead.
But none of that was her fault, so he didn’t bloody well need to take it out on her.
That was why, when blue dusk began to creep across the sky, he led them toward a nearby village’s inn rather than insisting they sleep on the ground, as he’d told her they would.
Once they’d guided their horses to the inn’s stables, handed over the reins to a stable lad, and Kieran had slung their saddlebags over his shoulder, they went inside.
The inn was quiet and mostly empty, yet the handful of men who sat nursing mugs of ale or wine at the counter all turned at their entrance.
And stared openly at Vivienne.
Hell and damnation. Even surrounded by other beauties at court, she had been a rare gem to behold. And they certainly weren’t at court any longer.
He closed his hand possessively over hers, daring any man in the inn to continue ogling her. Most cleared their throats and returned their attention to their cups, but a few could not seem to help but gape at her.
Kieran strode to the counter, Vivienne in tow, toward a man whom he assumed was the proprietor.
“A room,” Kieran said, placing a coin o
n the countertop. He glanced around at the narrow, rickety looking stairs that led from the sparsely furnished common room toward the chambers above. Vivienne huddled against his side, clearly exhausted.
With a muffled sigh, he set down another coin. “Yer best. And we’d like a meal—delivered to us.” The last thing he needed was a room full of lonely, curious men gawking at Vivienne all night.
The innkeeper grinned at the coins, then hustled around the counter to show them to their room. He led them up the stairs and down a hallway to the last door. Inside, the room was simple but serviceable. Kieran was glad he’d paid for the “best,” if the others were any worse than this.
A wooden table and two chairs were pushed against one wall. Opposite the table was a narrow cot. A small brazier with a fire laid and ready to be lit and a little stand with a pitcher and basin for washing rounded out the furnishings.
Once he’d closed the door on the innkeeper, who promised to bring up food and drink shortly, Kieran dropped their saddlebags in the middle of the floor and rolled his shoulders. Vivienne moved toward one of the chairs, gingerly lowering herself down.
It was only then, once they were alone in the small, plain room with naught to look at but each other, that Kieran realized just how much trouble he was in.
Bloody hell and damnation.
There was no way in hell he was going to let Vivienne out of his sight after the attack yesterday. Of course, even before the attack, they’d been forced into close proximity due to his role as her bodyguard. For the last fortnight at the palace, he’d been like her shadow, only leaving her side when she sought privacy or rest in her chamber.
But now even that extra sliver of space would not be afforded to them. He wouldn’t risk getting his own room and leaving her alone in this unsecured inn just for propriety’s sake. No doubt that would irk her refined sensibilities, but he didn’t give a damn about that.
Nay, the darker, more insidious danger might be not in leaving her alone, but in remaining so close.
There was no denying it—he wanted her.
Their kiss, hot and needy, flooded back to him. Just as he’d suspected, a river of passion surged just below her prim and proper exterior. Despite being his opposite in nearly every way, she stirred him like no other. She was sophisticated and mannered where he was rude, polished where he was rough, and soft where he was so achingly hard.
Yet naught could come of the desire that sparked between them. They belonged to two different worlds, she the dazzling, complex realm of the French court and he the punishing, brutal conditions of the Scottish army. Hadn’t he learned the hard way not to long for a life that wasn’t meant for him?
The problem was, even after all that had happened ten years past, some part of him still hungered for more—more than a warrior’s life. And more with Vivienne.
If he wasn’t careful, things were liable to get intimate between them again in such close quarters. So to cool his blood and break the awkward silence hanging around them, he did the only thing he could think of—he brought up another man.
“What is de Pontier to ye?”
She lifted her drooping head, her eyes clouded with confusion. Leave it to Kieran to speak so bluntly as to be nonsensical. He drew in a breath and went on.
“He seems to pay a great deal of attention to ye.” That was, when Kieran wasn’t chasing the man off with a glower—or better yet, simply moving him bodily away from Vivienne.
“Thierry has made his interest clear, oui.”
He eyed her. “Ye dinnae discourage him, yet neither do ye turn dunderheaded and moon-eyed in his presence.”
She sniffed in offense. “Ladies do not become dunderheaded and moon-eyed.”
Kieran liked to think he’d gotten more of a reaction from Vivienne than that de Pontier fop had, even if it tended toward anger and outrage rather than the more flowery emotions.
A sudden, gut-twisting thought hit him—had she kissed Thierry? Had the bastard elicited as passionate a response as Kieran had?
Mayhap this wasn’t as safe a topic as Kieran had hoped. But he wouldn’t stop now that his dander was up.
“Ye want him, though, dinnae ye?”
She seemed to pick her next words carefully. “He is a nobleman with a large and important holding. He could provide me with a lifetime of security.”
Of course—the bastard was everything Kieran was not. Wealthy. Refined. Powerful. Stable. Yet through the sudden surge of jealousy, a niggling voice told Kieran that she hadn’t truly answered his question.
“Ye wish to marry him,” he prodded, watching her closely.
“Oui.” She met his gaze then, and he saw the truth of the word in her eyes. But he also saw a flicker of pain and hesitation, too.
“Do ye care for him? Desire him?”
Bloody hell, these questions were mad. What could he possibly hope for her to say? She’d already more than confirmed what he already knew—that there could never be more besides lust between her and Kieran. Why did some perverse part of him wish to make her say so aloud?
Vivienne’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, yet she held his gaze. “Non.”
Unexpected satisfaction surged through him, but before Kieran could parse what that implied, a knock sounded at the door. He rose and cautiously drew the door open a crack, but it was only the inn’s proprietor with a tray of food, as promised.
Kieran snatched the tray and closed the door in the innkeeper’s face with naught more than a grunt of thanks. He set the tray on the table and took up the chair opposite her. They ate the simple meal of lamb stew, bread, and wine in taut silence, but Kieran’s mind wouldn’t let the matter go.
“Why would ye marry that fop if ye dinnae care aught for him?” he demanded when she finished her last spoonful of stew.
She pulled up her chin, and despite her earlier fatigue, a new spark of angry energy lit her eyes. “Not all of us have the luxury of choosing a spouse based on affection or attraction.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Of course, he knew that many nobles married purely for the purposes of alliance or advancement, yet there seemed to be something else lurking behind her words.
“It means that if I am to maintain my position at court, I must make a good match,” she snapped, some of her composure slipping.
Kieran rolled his eyes. “What is so damn important about a position at court? I’ll never understand yer obsession with all the extravagance and gossip and frippery.”
She rose abruptly, stalking toward where he’d dumped her saddlebags. Her normally graceful gait was hindered by her obvious soreness, yet she still managed to look haughtily regal as she went.
“Others are counting on me,” she said, bending to fetch her comb and violet oil. “You wouldn’t understand, I’m sure.”
His ire spiked at her barb—what the hell did she know about him, anyway—but he let it go, instead remaining focused on the topic of her marriage like a hound on a scent.
“But why de Pontier, then?” he persisted. “I’ve seen the way men look at ye. Ye could have yer pick from any eligible nobleman at court.”
As he spoke, a realization began to dawn. Aye, she could have any man she chose, including Thierry, whom she likely might have married by now if she truly wanted to—but mayhap she didn’t want to marry at all.
“What are ye—three or four and twenty?” he asked, sweeping his gaze over her.
She straightened sharply from the pile of saddlebags, her grip so hard on her comb and vial of flower oil that her knuckles blanched. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“If stability and security are so important to ye, as ye claim, why havenae ye married already?”
The question hung in the air for a long moment, the two of them staring each other down. Kieran had already pushed too far, but there was no going back now that he’d begun to find cracks in the carefully constructed wall she’d built around herself.
“Ye are the bonniest woman I’ve ever laid ey
es on,” he said, attempting to soften his bald question. “Ye could have any one of those idiots at court—or all of them, if ye chose. Why havenae ye picked one—like de Pontier—and married, Vivienne?”
She turned and strode slowly to the stand bearing the pitcher and basin. When she began pouring water over her hands and splashing it on her face, he feared she would never answer, but at last she stilled and spoke.
“I…I made a mistake many years ago,” she said, keeping her back to him. “I trusted someone I shouldn’t have. It has made me wary of making the same error again.”
Kieran jerked in his chair at her softly spoken words. She began unwinding the plaits in her hair. It fell in luscious pale gold waves down her back.
“I know you think me silly and vain,” she went on, taking up the comb and gently dragging it through her locks. “You think all I care about are feasts and dancing and silks and gossip.”
“Nay,” he said, his voice coming out gruff. Though he’d thrown just such an accusation at her feet a moment before, some part of him knew that wasn’t all there was to her.
“Non? If not a fool, perhaps you think me cold and calculating, a shrew obsessed with remaining perfectly in control. And perhaps I am. Marrying Thierry would confirm that, wouldn’t it?”
“Nay,” he said again, rising and taking a step toward her. “In truth, I dinnae ken what to make of ye.”
“It is not so complicated,” she murmured. “I am a woman who nearly lost everything, and who learned the hard way just how powerful society’s approval—or disapproval—can be.”
“That is why ye have hesitated to marry, even though ye claim it’s what ye want—because ye are afraid of making the wrong decision and falling out of society’s good graces.”
She turned then, her dark blue eyes flickering with pain. “As I said, I have erred in the past. If I do so again, I doubt I will get another chance. I…I am not one to trust easily.”
He took another step forward, and in the small space, it was enough to bring them nearly chest to chest. Something in the air around them seemed to shift, to thicken with anticipation.