Her Wild Highlander

by Emma Prince

She recoiled when he lifted the skin of whisky from his belt, but he uncorked it and urged it into her hands.

  “Have ye ever been drunk before, lass? I dinnae mean a wee bit tipsy, but good and soused?”

  Vivienne swallowed hard against the thought. “Non.”

  “Well, it makes yer limbs loose. It’s like being aboard a sea-tossed ship even when ye’re on solid ground. A few of the sailors say when ye get drunk at sea, it negates the swaying. It’s worth a try, anyway.”

  Tentatively, she took a sip from the skin. The whisky burned a fiery path down her raw throat, and she sputtered and coughed.

  Kieran grunted. “I should have warned ye about that. Good Scottish whisky isnae for the faint of heart.”

  Vivienne forced herself to take another sip before passing the skin to him. He took a hearty swig himself, making a pleased noise as he swallowed and recorked the skin.

  “Now,” he said matter-of-factly. “Ye’ve been lying here two days without aught to do but think on how seasick ye are. Ye need a distraction.” He strode to where he’d stored their saddlebags and began rummaging through hers. In the light of the lantern bolted to the cabin’s low ceiling, she saw him pull out her copy of The Song of Roland.

  He was right about one thing—she was so curious about what he intended to do that she propped herself on one elbow, forgetting her aim to remain motionless until the ship took a particularly stomach-dropping roll and she flattened herself on the cot once more.

  “I cannot read like this,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut. “It will only make it worse.”

  “Then how about ye just listen.”

  Hesitantly, she cracked one eye and peered at him. “You…you mean to read to me?”

  “Why no’?” Kieran perched on the edge of the cot, angling the book into the lantern light. He opened the book and squinted at the writing inside.

  “But I thought you hated this story,” she went on when he frowned at the page before him. “You called it preposterous and foolish.”

  Kieran grunted again. “Aye, it is that, but ye like it.” His scowl deepened as if he’d just said something he hadn’t meant to. “It is just silly enough to distract ye.”

  He returned his attention to the book, but as he continued to glare at it, a new realization hit her with the force of a blow.

  “You…you can read…can’t you?”

  His head snapped up and he fixed her with a cool gaze. “Aye, I can bloody well read. I ken my numbers, too, if ye are interested.”

  “I didn’t mean—” She drew in a breath. From his quick and frosty reaction, this wasn’t the first time someone had underestimated his abilities. No doubt he’d been taken for little more than a muscle-bound brute more than once before.

  “I meant no insult,” she tried again, steadier this time. “I’ve seen myself that your wits match your brawn, Kieran.”

  His name on her lips made him stiffen for a moment before some of the tension drained from his features. “Aye, well,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “I learned my letters when I was a lad, but the son of a farmer doesnae have a great need to read—or much opportunity to practice. Nor does a grown warrior in the Bruce’s army. Besides, I dinnae have any use for fanciful tales of knights and damsels.”

  Vivienne nodded. “I understand.” Though her own childhood had been relatively humble compared to many of the other nobles at court, it was a reminder that she’d still been born into a different world than Kieran. And even when things had been hard for her, she’d always been able to escape into one of her beloved stories. Kieran hadn’t had any such escape.

  He cracked the book once more. “Where should I start?”

  “Oh, anywhere,” she replied, her gaze settling on him.

  He flipped a few pages and began where Charlemagne and his army launched an attack to avenge Roland’s death.

  His low, deep voice was halting as he read each word slowly, pausing over some of the longer ones. Occasionally, he would glance up at her, doubt in his eyes, but she knew the story so well that she could almost always supply the word he struggled to pronounce.

  In fact, she likely could have recited the whole tale from memory as well as Kieran could read it with the book open before him, but she remained silent unless he prompted her. The story unfolded slowly under his careful reading, and to Vivienne’s surprise, she savored it far more than when she recited it herself.

  It was as if she were encountering it for the first time through Kieran. He wrinkled his crooked nose at the overly sentimental lines, and his dark brows rose at the particularly vivid descriptions of the battle.

  When he reached a break in the verses, he paused, glancing at her with searching eyes. “How do ye feel?”

  To her surprise, the sharpest edge of her nausea had been filed down ever so slightly. “A bit better.”

  He closed the book and set it aside, fetching her bread from the bolted-down table opposite the cot. “Try this, and another wee dram of whisky.”

  She acquiesced, taking a few bites of bread and a sip from the skin. But the act of rising on her elbows to eat and drink had her head spinning once more. She eased back down with a weak exhale, gripping the cot’s edge.

  “Och, dinnae turn green on me again, lass. I’m no’ through with ye yet,” he said, pinning her with a look that sent her stomach tightening with something that was decidedly not nausea.

  “Oh?”

  He crouched over her saddlebags once more, this time removing her bottle of violet oil. Her heart thudded hard against her ribs and he approached the cot, holding up the oil.

  “There was an old healer woman in my clan who claimed that she could relieve many an ailment simply by pressing on various parts of the body,” he said, sitting on the edge of the cot again. “The other lads and I used to call her a witch, but she was right more often than no’.”

  He removed the stopper from the bottle and took one of her hands in his, turning it so that her palm faced up. Gently, he dragged the stopper over her exposed wrist and into her palm, spreading a drop of the oil. Then he replaced the stopper and set the bottle aside.

  “What are you—”

  Before she finished the question, he took her hand in both of his and pressed his thumbs into her palm, massaging deeply. She gasped, then moaned, melting into the cot.

  His chuckle rumbled through her. “Yer reaction is only more proof Old Maili was a witch after all. Either that, or she simply kenned how to distract from pain and discomfort.”

  Her only response was another moan as he worked on the pad of her thumb. The delicate scent of violets drifted to her nose, soothing her senses. Her body was beginning to feel warm and heavy from the whisky—either that, or Kieran’s touch was intoxicating her.

  “You mentioned other lads,” she said, snatching up a topic of conversation to focus on rather than the heat beginning to kindle low in her belly at the feel of his hands on her. “Did you have siblings?”

  His fingers slowed for a moment in their ministrations before resuming once more. “Nay,” he replied. “My ma and da had many bairns after I came along, but none survived past the age of two. By the time I was twelve, they gave up, for my ma had grown weak. She died a few years later, and my da followed no’ long after that. I was only eight and ten when the farm became mine.”

  Vivienne stilled. “I am sorry. That could not have been easy.”

  He lifted one shoulder, yet she didn’t miss the hollow look in his light blue eyes. “Death is part of life.”

  “That doesn’t mean it can’t hurt,” Vivienne countered, though she kept her voice gentle to take the sting out of the words. “Especially given how young you were.”

  Now his eyes turned hard like chips of ice. “Better to learn young that when it comes down to it, we are all alone in this world. Ye can only ever rely on yerself.”

  “Non, I don’t believe that.”

  On her own, Vivienne had nearly destroyed her entire life—and her family’s as well. It had
only been with the help of her father, the Queen, the ladies-in-waiting, and countless others at court that she’d managed to return from the brink of ruin.

  Truth be told, Vivienne was terrified of being left alone. Her whole life rested on a delicately woven web, where each thread held her aloft in society’s eyes. Her clothes, her manners, her position with the Queen, her union with someone like Thierry—they’d all been stripped away. And Vivienne knew what would happen if one too many more of those threads snapped and she fell from society’s good graces. It was only because of the generosity of others that she hadn’t fallen completely.

  “Everyone needs help from time to time,” she went on quietly. “Even you.”

  Kieran moved to her other hand but kept her pinned with his sharp gaze. “Relying on people will only get ye hurt. Trust me, lass, I speak from experience. I ken more of the world than ye.”

  “I am not so naïve as you assume,” she responded. “You admitted that yourself when we were walking my father’s estate.”

  Kieran snorted. “Aye, ye’ve kenned yer piece of sorrow, I dinnae deny that. But explain something to me, for it doesnae make sense. Ye claim no’ to be naïve, but ye are innocent enough to believe in tales meant to make wee lads and lasses dream.” He waved toward the book he’d placed on top of her saddlebags. “Ye’d rather believe in noble fancies than the hard truths in this world.”

  Vivienne sensed some deeper wound beneath his words. He was directing his anger at her, but was it actually meant for himself? The problem was, her own frustration had risen now, and she could not let the barb go.

  “You imagine you know me, but you don’t. Just because I still have hope for the goodness in the world doesn’t make me a fool. And besides, I am not innocent.”

  He froze, his hands still engulfing hers but his fingers halting in their ministrations. His eyes widened on her, and belatedly she realized what she’d just admitted.

  She snapped her teeth closed, but the words had already gotten out. Curse the whisky for loosening her tongue!

  “Ye arenae innocent,” he repeated.

  Though she lay on her back and he loomed over her from the edge of the cot, she lifted her chin. It was the truth, after all. There was no point in denying it now.

  “Oui.”

  His dark brows lowered as he considered something for a long moment. “This doesnae have to do with Guy d’Aubert, does it?”

  He might as well have dumped a bucket of cold water over her. She sucked in a breath, her stomach dropping to the floor.

  “How do you know that name?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Kieran watched Vivienne closely for an indication that he was wrong in his guess about this Guy d’Aubert bastard, but all he saw in her midnight eyes was fear and pain.

  “He hurt ye, didnae he?” Kieran demanded, his voice coming out low and hard.

  He suddenly realized his hands were clenching into fists—with Vivienne’s small, delicate hand still in his grasp. He released her instantly, rising from the edge of the cot.

  “Non,” she said quickly, but then she hesitated. “At least not in the way you are imagining. He did not…force me.”

  Kieran drew in a breath to loosen the knot of panic that had formed in his gut. Even though Vivienne hadn’t been forced, d’Aubert had clearly played some nefarious role.

  “What happened?”

  Vivienne closed her eyes for a moment. She looked so damn frail and vulnerable lying there on the cot. She wore a plain green wool gown, too proud or modest to remove it and rest in just a chemise with Kieran coming in and out of the cabin to check on her, despite the fact that she was sick as a dog.

  Her flaxen hair was secured in a single braid down her back, which made her look more like a simple country lass rather than a refined lady of court.

  But she was more beautiful, even pale and depleted by seasickness, than any woman Kieran had ever seen. Though he would never wish misery upon her, a small, petty part of him was glad she had remained in the captain’s cabin the last two days, for he was liable to kill every last one of Captain Larsson’s crew if they so much as grinned or even simply stared at her.

  “It was just after my mother died,” she replied at last, her voice thin and small. “I was sixteen and though I still had my father, I felt terribly alone in the world.”

  Kieran forced his hands to unknot and lowered himself slowly onto the cot beside her again.

  “What was more, a great deal of responsibility had been placed on my shoulders. I was now my father’s caregiver and the only heir—a female heir, no less—to a crumbling estate. Then Guy found me.”

  “What do ye mean, he found ye?”

  “I’d gone riding on my own—trying to outrun my problems, I suppose—when we crossed paths. He was on his way from his own lands in the south to Amiens on matters of business, so he said. He was…dazzling.” Vivienne let a breath go. “He wore fine silks and a jeweled scabbard like some knight from the stories. And he made me feel special. He showered me with praise and flattery until my head was spinning.”

  Kieran had to resist the urge to spit on the cabin floor. A wild, irrational jealousy seized him. The bastard sounded like Kieran’s exact opposite—slick, smooth-tongued, and everything polished and courtly that Kieran was not.

  “He made me promise to meet him again the next day. So I did. And again the next day. He wooed me with every extravagant compliment and pledge that a girl as young and foolish as I longed to hear. So I gave myself to him.” Vivienne stared at the ceiling, unblinking. “And thus was the start of a year-long affair.”

  “A year?” Kieran thought he knew how such a story ended. The bastard had gotten what he wanted from Vivienne—her innocence—and had then abandoned her. But apparently there was more to tell.

  “Oui. He could not always get away from his estate to meet me, and sometimes weeks would go by between our trysts. During those times, I would lock myself away in my chamber, pining for him so desperately that I thought I might die.” She chuckled sadly. “But whenever he could slip away and come to me, he would repeat the same promise he’d made when we first met—that he wanted to make me his wife.”

  Now Kieran was beginning to understand the bastard’s game. “And he strung ye along like that for a whole year.”

  “I am ashamed now to admit how badly I wanted to believe him. Though it would have meant abandoning my father, I was too blind with love for Guy to see beyond my own desires. I wanted to live within the fantasy he painted with his promises.”

  “Ye were young and hurting,” Kieran replied quietly. “Ye shouldnae blame yerself. He was the one who took advantage of ye.”

  “Oui, but I only thought of myself, even though my foolishness began to harm others as well. Whispers started in the nearby village about me. A few of the tenants who still remained at the estate had seen me slip away with Guy. And soon the rumors spread and grew louder.”

  Vivienne pressed her lips together for a moment before continuing. “I began hearing murmurs about myself and Guy when I would go to the village. They breathed the word mistress. Fool that I was, my first instinct was to fear that Guy had taken up with another woman, that he was wooing someone else behind my back. It wasn’t until my father and I visited Amiens to see a healer about his eyesight that I learned the truth. I saw Guy with another woman—his wife.”

  “He was already married?” Kieran growled.

  “Apparently I was the other woman, the mistress,” Vivienne said through a tight throat. “Guy had only been looking for a dalliance, a liaison to distract him from his real life. He’d never intended to marry me, nor had he meant any of his extravagant promises of love and devotion. I was just a bit of fun on the side for him.”

  She shook her head as if to clear it of the memories, visibly fighting for her composure. “Of course, I was devastated, but soon it became clear that a broken heart was the least of my worries. My name was being bandied about as far away from my father’s est
ate as Amiens. I had ruined any chance of securing a good marriage—which was my only hope as the daughter of a blind man whose estate was on the brink of ruin.”

  The last of the pieces fell into place as Kieran remembered what she’d said earlier about de Valance arranging for her to meet the Queen. “That was why yer father hoped to send ye to court—to help ye make a good match.”

  “It was more than that,” she replied. “My…indiscretion was well known in Picardy, but going to Paris would grant me a fresh start. I was unknown at court, just another lesser noble hoping for a bit of luck and the favor of the King and Queen.” She fixed him with an intent look. “I thank God every night in my prayers that the Queen took pity on me that day in Amiens. And every day since then, I have fought to make sure I never falter or put my name and family at risk again.”

  “What of Guy?” Kieran asked. “Ye seem to have borne the costs of his actions, but did the bastard pay for aught?”

  Vivienne huffed. “As far as I know, he still holds an estate in the south.” A faint smile touched her lips. “But he was never invited to court again. I believe the Queen may have known more of my circumstances than I realized when she first took me as one of her ladies. She only ever said that she enjoyed my company and our few conversations when she was visiting Amiens, and that she wished to fill the court with beauty and grace, for it reflected well on all of France. But my father may have had a private word with her.”

  Kieran considered all that she’d said for a long moment. So much made sense now—Vivienne’s cool, controlled exterior, her hesitancy to marry for fear of misplacing her trust again, her reluctance to leave her position at court, both for her own sake and her family’s. It was all the doing of that bastard Guy d’Aubert in so callously taking advantage of her.

  But one thing still puzzled him.

  “I dinnae understand,” he said at last. “Ye fell under d’Aubert’s charms because ye wanted to believe that all those tales of chivalry and love were true, aye?”

  At her nod, he continued.

  “But even after he betrayed yer trust, ye still read those stories.”