by Emma Prince
Vivienne’s gaze warmed and grew distant. “It is a symbol of his love for Iseult. Just like the hazelnut tree and the honeysuckle, which grow so entwined that they cannot be separated, so too are he and Iseult bound together by love. They will both die if they are parted. Ni moi sans vous, ni vous sans moi,” she said, reciting one of the lines from the tale. “Neither me without you, nor you without me.”
She blinked, her eyes refocusing on him and that bonny blush returning to her cheeks. “That is why this section is called the Chevrefoil—the honeysuckle.”
“You haven’t told Kieran the ending yet, ma fille,” de Valance prodded, leaning forward in his chair.
“Iseult sees the downed hazel branch and recognizes Tristan’s signal. She slips off to the woods and meets him so that they can share a forbidden tryst. And when it comes time for Iseult to depart once more, they weep, vowing to find a way to be rejoined someday.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire. A blunt comment about silly, overly dramatic tales of courtly love rose on Kieran’s tongue, but he locked his teeth to keep it from getting out. Why did some twisted part of him wish to ruin this moment when it clearly meant something to Vivienne?
The truth was, it was easier to hide behind his rough manners and hardened opinions about emotions like love. Yet a larger part of him was now consumed by the need to understand Vivienne better. For all her cold exterior, why was she so entranced by such tales? What hadn’t she told him about her coming of age that made her this way?
And who the bloody hell was Guy d’Aubert?
“It is late,” Vivienne murmured, breaking the laden silence. “I think I will retire for the night.”
“Your old chamber is ready for you, Lady Vivienne,” Claudette said, rising. “I’ll return the book to the solar.”
As Claudette shuffled off with the book, Vivienne moved to her father, who’d hoisted himself to his feet with his cane. They exchanged a kiss on each cheek before embracing warmly.
“All is truly well, Papa?” she murmured. “Madame Claudette is taking good care of you?”
Mayhap Kieran was wrong. Mayhap Vivienne did know—or at least sense—that something intimate existed between her father and the keep’s chatelaine.
De Valance reached for her, cupping her cheek. “Oui, ma fille. I want for naught—except to touch your beautiful face, so like your mother’s, more often.”
Sadness filled Vivienne’s eyes as she embraced her father once more, then moved off toward the stairs leading to the chambers above.
“I’ll be outside yer door if ye have need of me,” Kieran said as she mounted the stairs. He wanted not only Vivienne but de Valance to know that he wouldn’t slacken in his duties to protect her—but he would also keep a solid wooden door between them.
She nodded in acknowledgement over her shoulder before gliding up the stairs.
But instead of following close on her heels, Kieran lingered in the great hall with de Valance.
“Ye are one to lecture me on mysteries and secrets,” he said quietly when he was sure Vivienne couldn’t hear. “I saw what passed between ye and Claudette when Vivienne was reading about forbidden love.”
De Valance stiffened. “You are a warrior, Monsieur MacAdams. What do you know of love?”
“Och, enough to ken it when I see it,” he replied, pushing back the dull ache that thrummed to life once more. “Ye and yer daughter clearly share a deep bond—which ye’re liable to damage by keeping things from her.”
De Valance leaned on his cane, his shoulders suddenly slumping. “Claudette and I…we do not wish to hurt Vivienne by disrespecting the memory of her mother.”
Kieran inhaled, surprised by the man’s candidness. But more than that, de Valance’s words resonated like a struck tuning fork deep in Kieran’s chest. Ten years past, he’d locked his heart away out of respect for Linette and their unborn child. Or had he abandoned his home and built an invisible wall around himself out of some self-preserving instinct that had naught to do with her or the bairn?
Hell and damnation, none of this—Vivienne’s past, this d’Aubert man, de Valance and Claudette’s secret connection—was any of his concern. So why was Kieran involving himself? His only mission was to protect Vivienne from de Soules’s cronies.
Though many mistook Kieran for a brute and a barbarian based on his size, strength, and blunt manner, he was no fool. He knew when others were lying to him—and when he was lying to himself.
The truth was, even before this damn mission got underway, he’d already been too involved, too entangled with Vivienne. Hell, the entire reason he’d petitioned the Bruce to be sent to France to protect her was because he’d already come to care for her in the short time he’d spent with her last summer.
But letting her into his heart meant making himself vulnerable to pain and loss once more—which he’d vowed never to do again. He’d made his own way in the world for the last ten years just fine without opening himself to anyone. He couldn’t risk all that just for a wee slip of a Frenchwoman, no matter what his damn heart had to say about it.
“It isnae my business,” Kieran replied, both to de Valance and himself. “I shouldnae have inserted myself in a family matter. Now if ye’ll excuse me, I’d best get some rest. Vivienne and I will leave at dawn tomorrow.”
De Valance nodded reluctantly. “You seem a good man, Kieran. Please, remember what I said about keeping my Vivi from harm.”
“Aye, I will.”
Kieran headed toward the stairs and began climbing. He’d already made a quick sweep of the keep upon returning from his walk with Vivienne around the estate, so he knew which chamber was hers.
He settled himself on the stone landing outside her door, pulling his plaid around him. But though he was weary, he knew sleep would elude him for a long time to come, for his mind swirled with thoughts of Vivienne.
He’d sworn to protect her, but the more time he spent with her, the more he feared that he was the one in danger of losing everything to the flaxen-haired beauty.
Chapter Fifteen
The next morning, Vivienne bid a tight-throated farewell to her father and Claudette. Though she tried her best to maintain her composure, she couldn’t help the tear that slipped free as she embraced her father.
“I’ll be back again soon, Papa,” she murmured, her voice thick. “I promise.”
Kieran stood like a granite mountain behind her as she gave her father one last hug. His silent presence was a reminder that she didn’t know when—or, in reality, if—she truly would return to her family home.
She turned to Claudette and pressed the pouch of coins she’d brought from court into the woman’s hand. “I’ll send more if I can,” she said. “I hope this will be enough to take care of—”
“Don’t fret, Lady Vivienne,” Claudette cut in, emotion filling her eyes. “I would never let anything happen to your father. I—” She bowed her black and silver head as if struggling with something to say. At last, she met Vivienne’s gaze once more. “Rest easy,” was all she said.
Pierre, a lad of no more than ten from the village whom Claudette had managed to bring on to the stables, rounded the keep with her and Kieran’s horses in tow. After Kieran helped her into the saddle and mounted himself, he took the lead, urging his horse northward.
Vivienne remained twisted in her saddle for a long while, waving at the keep even though she knew her father couldn’t see her. She hoped Claudette was describing it to him, remaining by his side until he returned into the keep.
She knew instinctively that she could trust her father’s care to Claudette. The woman was kind and attentive, and she’d noticed more than once on her visits home that the two seemed to share a quiet affinity for each other.
Yet knowing her father was in good hands and banishing all her fears to be leaving him were two different things. Ever since her mother had died, Vivienne had taken on his care as her responsibility. But how could she help him now that
she would be far away, without the means to send money?
The day-long ride to Calais was passed mainly in silence. Vivienne succumbed to her worries, realizing repeatedly that she was biting her fingernails. Each time, she returned her hand to her reins, only to catch herself doing it again not long after.
When the bustling port town of Calais came into view at dusk, she blinked as if waking from a fitful sleep.
Kieran guided them into the heart of the town, halting at a large system of stables. He helped her down and hoisted both their saddlebags over his shoulder, then approached the stable master to negotiate selling their horses. A short while later, Kieran accepted a pouch of coins and hefted it to measure its weight.
“This should be enough to buy us passage to Scone.”
She perked up at that. “Is that where you are taking me? To Scone?”
Though she knew little of Scotland, having spent her entire life in France, she was aware that Scone was where King Robert the Bruce’s palace lay. And though she would be a stranger in a new land, if there was one thing Vivienne understood, it was how to function in a palace court.
Kieran eyed her, clearly able to read her sudden hopefulness.
“Dinnae get yer expectations up,” he replied. “We will pass through Scone, aye, but we willnae be staying. It is too public, too exposed, even with so many of the King’s bodyguards there.”
“Oh.” Though her heart sank, she tried to keep her chin lifted.
She followed him as he wove his way through the cobbled streets on foot, heading for the docks. Even before they reached the water, Vivienne could smell the sharp brine of the sea, mingled with the scents of tar and fish.
The docks swarmed with activity. The air was filled with men calling orders and shouting to each other in a variety of languages, most of which she didn’t recognize. Men lowered and raised crates onto ships of all shapes and sizes with rope pulleys. Others loaded cargo into wagons to be transported away from Calais. And a steady stream of ships seemed to be arriving and departing despite the fact that dusk was darkening into night.
Taking her hand in his to keep her close, Kieran began walking the length of the docks, making inquiries of the men as he went. When at last he got a nod of confirmation from one of the sailors about their destination, he pulled Vivienne toward one of the larger ships.
“Captain!” Kieran shouted up to the ship. A moment later, a blond head appeared above the gunwales.
“Who is asking?”
“Someone looking to line yer pockets with gold.”
The man snatched up one of the many ropes dangling from the rigging, and to Vivienne’s shock, he launched himself over the gunwales. But instead of landing with a bone-crushing crunch on the dock some fifteen feet below, he used the rope to swing down and plant his boots on the wooden planks with surprising grace.
Vivienne felt her eyes widen as she took in the sight of the man before them. He was a handful of years older than Kieran, yet he was a fair bit more weathered from the sun, wind, and salty air. His tanned face bore more than a few crinkled lines, yet his bright blue eyes shone with intensity even in the fading light.
He wore a simple tunic, breeches, and high boots on his lean, rangy frame. With his feet planted wide and his arms crossed, he rivaled Kieran for the most imposing figure on the docks. He looked like a fearsome Vikings from generations past.
“Oh?” the man replied, casually dropping the rope and eyeing Kieran and Vivienne. “And why would you do that, Scotsman?”
“Yer man there says ye are sailing for Scone. I’d like to buy passage.”
“Ja,” the captain replied in a Northern tongue, confirming Vivienne’s impression that he was a Norseman. “But I am in the business of shipping spirits, Scotsman, not people.”
“As I said, I’m prepared to pay ye handsomely.” Kieran removed the pouch he’d gotten from the stable master and hefted it to demonstrate the loud clinking of the multitude of coins inside.
The captain grinned. “Ah, now you speak a language I understand well. What are you offering?”
Kieran considered. “Half for a spot for me and the lass. More if ye can provide her with a private cabin.” He cocked a brow then. “Out of curiosity, what sort of spirits are ye transporting?”
The captain waved at the stream of barrels being loaded and unloaded from his ship. “From France to Scotland? Wine, of course. And from Scotland to France, whisky.”
Kieran opened the top of the pouch and removed one coin. “In that case, ye can have the entire pouch, assuming ye can provide the lady with a cabin.”
The captain tilted his head in assent, but he waited, watching Kieran with open curiosity.
“And ye may have this,” Kieran went on, lifting the single coin he’d removed. “If I can fill a waterskin with the whisky ye’re offloading.”
At that, the captain broke into a loud, barking laugh. “I like the cut of your jib, Scotsman.”
“Kieran MacAdams,” he said by way of introduction. “And Vivienne.”
She noticed that he didn’t introduce her as a lady, but given the way the captain’s keen eyes assessed them, she doubted the man missed much.
The captain dipped his blond head in a quick bow. “Captain Ganger Larsson,” he replied.
He turned from them and shouted to one of his men to fetch a waterskin and fill it from one of the kegs that was being rolled down the docks. As the sailor saw to his orders, Kieran approached the captain and handed him the pouch of coins.
“When will we depart?”
“As soon as the last of these barrels is loaded,” Captain Larsson said. “The wind waits for no man, nor does she care if the sun or the moon lights her way. Come, I’ll get you aboard.”
Captain Larsson brought two fingers to his mouth and whistled. In a flash, a wooden gangplank was lowered, Vivienne assumed for her benefit, for the captain seemed more than capable of climbing back up the same rope he’d swung down on.
The captain strode nimbly up the gangplank, and Kieran started after him, but Vivienne hesitated. Kieran turned questioning eyes on her.
“I’ve never been on a ship before,” she admitted, somewhat embarrassed. For as refined and sophisticated as she’d become at French court, in many ways she was still the girl from a small, humble estate in a landlocked corner of France.
“Dinnae fash, lass. Ye’ll be fine,” Kieran murmured reassuringly.
Reluctantly, she stepped onto the gangplank and let him guide her along, a steadying hand on her elbow.
Even though the waters of the harbor were sheltered and calm, she could feel even the slight sway of the ship beneath her. She could only pray that Kieran was right.
Chapter Sixteen
Vivienne was not fine. As she dry heaved into the bucket next to her cot, she began on the long list of curses she’d developed over the last two days onboard Captain Larsson’s ship.
It started with Kieran, though of course the rough seas and her apparent complete incompatibility with sailing weren’t his fault. But he’d told her she would be all right, and here she was, unable to keep even water and bread down, and barely able to do more than rise from the cot to use the chamber pot and crawl back to bed.
Then she moved on to Captain Larsson and the other sailors, who seemed no more affected by the rolling, tossing motion of the ship than if they were on solid ground. And then she cursed the sea itself, for the captain did admit that the waters were a bit rougher than normal, what with autumn upon them now.
She saved William de Soules for last, for she had an especially dark corner of her mind devoted to him. If it weren’t for the threat he and his cronies posed, Vivienne wouldn’t be on this blasted ship to begin with. She would be safe and happy at court with the Queen and the other ladies-in-waiting.
But of course that would mean she wouldn’t be with Kieran, either. He had been surprisingly attentive to her, bringing all sorts of foods to the captain’s cabin where she huddled. He’d even emptied her s
ick bucket, to her horror and mortification.
As if conjured by her thoughts, a quick rap sounded on the cabin door before it swung open to reveal Kieran. With one look at where she lay curled on her side in the cot, his familiar frown deepened.
“Bloody hell, lass, yer skin is as white and damp as a thick Highland fog.”
“You said I would find my sea legs in a day,” she said, swallowing another wave of nausea. “It has been two and I might as well not have legs at all—or a stomach, for that matter—for how well I’m faring.”
Closing the door, he muttered another curse. He moved to the bucket beside the cot, but finding it empty, he pushed it aside. “Captain Larsson says another storm is brewing ahead. It will get worse before it gets better.”
Now it was her turn to murmur a few decidedly unladylike words. “I cannot take any more.”
She hated that her voice bordered on a wail. It was already humiliating enough to be lain so low before Kieran, to be reduced to a huddling, heaving ball. But she didn’t have the energy to care anymore. She’d been stripped of every scrap of pride and all that was left was the need for relief from the incessant, nauseating motion.
He crossed his muscular arms over his chest and leveled her with a stern scowl. She thought for a moment that he would chastise her for being so weak, yell at her to buck up, but instead, he just assessed her. “We need a new strategy,” he said at last.
“I’ve already tried everything.”
Captain Larsson, somewhat bemused at how utterly unsuited to the sea she was, had suggested she eat green apples. When that hadn’t worked, they’d tried watered ale and bread. Even plain water only stayed down about half the time. And nothing had provided any true reprieve from the seasickness other than lying as still as possible on the cot.
“Nay, no’ everything. I have a few ideas yet.” Kieran began rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt. “First, take a swig of this.”