by Emma Prince
Jerome swallowed his next cough, but his dark eyes pinned Kieran with a wry look. “Nay, that willnae be necessary.”
“I’ll see you settled,” Elaine said brightly, looping her arm through Vivienne’s and pulling her away toward one of the many corridors that branched from the hall.
Vivienne attempted to curtsy again to the Bruce as Elaine tugged her away. The King only waved a hand. “No’ necessary, milady.”
Kieran gave the Bruce a nod before falling in with Jerome behind the ladies.
“Don’t worry,” Elaine was saying to Vivienne. “When I first met the King, I was travel-weary and bedraggled as well—not that you are bedraggled. Gracious, even after what sounds like a trying journey, you look fit for a grand court feast!”
Damn if Jerome’s wee English fiancée wasn’t right. How Vivienne managed to look elegant and bonny even after nigh a sennight of being seasick Kieran would never understand.
Vivienne relaxed in the presence of Elaine’s warm, easy air. She dipped her flaxen head to Elaine’s copper one and breathed a chuckle. “You are far too generous, mon amie. All the same, I cannot wait for a hot bath and a change of clothes.”
Jerome gripped Kieran’s arm, slowing him so that the women began to pull away slightly.
“Ye ken we were teasing ye earlier,” Jerome said, keeping his voice low. “And I expect to hear the whole story later, but do ye truly believe ye must remain posted outside Lady Vivienne’s door even within Scone’s walls?”
Kieran jerked his head in a nod. “She’s a target. There isnae any doubt now. And I willnae take any chances with her safety.”
Jerome’s dark brows rose. He opened his mouth to say more, but just then they caught up with the ladies, who’d halted before a chamber door.
“He prefers when I let him do this part,” Vivienne commented to Elaine.
“It isnae a bloody preference,” Kieran muttered as he moved to the door. “It is for yer safety.”
Mayhap it was all the knowing looks passing between Jerome and Elaine, or mayhap it was being back in a palace, even one more modest than France’s, with curious stares and questions to answer. Whatever the case, a sour temper was building within him. The sooner they could leave Scone the better—not only for Vivienne’s protection, but for his own sanity.
He pushed into the chamber, giving it a quick sweep with his gaze, then moved slowly around the space. It was simply appointed but functional and comfortable, with a four-poster bed, a table and chair with a pitcher and basin for washing, and a fire laid in a brazier.
“I’ll call for a bath,” Elaine said, squeezing Vivienne’s arm before slipping down the corridor. With a curt nod, Jerome followed, leaving them alone.
With naught to do but stand awkwardly in the middle of her chamber, Kieran’s heart leapt against his ribs. Elaine was right—Vivienne was so damn lovely, even travel-worn and rumpled.
But she was so much more than bonny. He watched as she ran her fingers longingly over the bed linens, clearly eager for a night of sleep in a real bed, but then straightened and clasped her hands before her. The steely composure he’d once found so grating had somehow become a source of his admiration for her.
Here she was meeting the King of Scotland—who’d unnerved more than one iron-willed Scot with his uncouth ways, Kieran included—and being thrown headlong into the unknown every step of the way. Yet she met each new challenge with poise, determination, and grace.
She lifted her dark blue gaze to him then, and his heart lurched again. Luckily, Kieran was saved from having to explain why he’d been staring at her, for at that moment, a servant arrived with their bags. At Kieran’s instruction, the lad deposited the saddlebags near the table.
Close on the lad’s heels were the other servants with Vivienne’s bath. They rolled a large wooden tub on its side into the chamber, then began filling it with a stream of buckets. Kieran oversaw the process, arms crossed over his chest and eyes sharp on all those who came and went.
Elaine slipped in, promising to have Vivienne’s favorite night-blue silk gown cleaned for her. Then there was naught left to do but for Vivienne to bathe. With a mumbled word about being right outside the door if she needed him, Kieran made a hasty retreat.
Once he’d closed her inside, safe and sound, he leaned against the door and tried to think of anything other than Vivienne stripping bare and easing each creamy inch of skin into the hot water.
Chapter Twenty-One
“There was an attack in Paris.”
Vivienne winced at Kieran’s blunt words, spoken before the King and the others gathered around the table, but they were true.
After indulging in a divinely long bath and dressing in her gray wool gown—shamefully plain for holding court with a King, but there was no getting around that—she’d found Kieran waiting for her outside her door, as promised.
He’d led her through a series of corridors, but instead of returning to the palace’s great hall, they’d arrived at a chamber that was clearly meant for the King’s private meetings.
A simple meal of buttered bread, stew, and ale was laid out on the long, rectangular table that took up most of the room. The King had already been seated at the table’s head at the far end. A handful of other people stood inside as well.
Vivienne was introduced to the others, a most unusual group of men and women who were all apparently part of the King’s inner circle. Elaine and Jerome were there, blessedly familiar faces amongst the curious gathering. Colin and Sabine MacKay greeted her warmly, as did Elaine’s brother Niall. Will Sinclair assessed her coolly with his one eye. Most strange of all was Mairin, a young woman with quiet, watchful gray eyes who sipped whisky with several of the Scottish men as they ate their meal.
Once the introductions were complete and everyone was seated at the table, Kieran had launched directly into news of the attack.
At Kieran’s curt announcement about the incident at the palace, the King sat forward abruptly.
“What sort of attack?” he demanded with a frown.
“The sort that confirmed my suspicions about de Soules,” Kieran replied gruffly.
“Retreat a wee bit,” the King said, holding up a hand. “How did King Philip receive ye? Was there any indication of danger in his court before ye arrived?”
Kieran lowered himself into a chair beside Vivienne. “Philip was most accommodating. He was distressed to learn that we suspected de Soules’s lackeys might still be on the loose in France, and eager to help in any way he could.”
The Bruce nodded, his weathered features relaxing somewhat. “Good.”
Vivienne blinked in surprise. It had never occurred to her that the Bruce might not fully trust King Philip, yet the assassination attempt against him had been fomented in part on French soil. Luckily, her French King seemed to have passed whatever assessment the Bruce had sought to make of him.
“And as to any danger before I arrived…” Kieran turned to her.
She swallowed, collecting her composure before the motley gathering. “Non, Majesté,” she replied. “The palace was quiet before Kieran’s arrival. Though my actions against de Soules were known, there was no indication of danger.”
“Lady Vivienne, I allow a certain informality when I am alone with my closest advisors and the members of the Bodyguard Corps. Since ye played no small part in saving my life, ye may call me Robert in private.”
Vivienne straightened in her chair, pressing her lips together for a moment as she determined how best to refuse a King. “Non, Majesté,” she simply said at last.
His russet brows rose and a soft ripple of chuckles traveled around the table.
“Nay?” the Bruce said, clearly baffled.
“Non. You are the King. It would not be right.”
Now Colin was outright laughing into his hand. Sabine elbowed him, but she couldn’t reach Kieran, who snorted and shot her a look that made heat rise to her cheeks.
“Well,” the Bruce said. “Suit yerself,
I suppose.”
“Never thought I’d see King Robert the Bruce take orders from a wee French lass, and one who was arguing for propriety at that,” Colin murmured, drawing another wave of chuckles from the others before Sabine could swat his shoulder.
The Bruce leveled Colin with a look that likely would have sent another man’s knees quaking with fear, but the camaraderie between the King and his inner circle was plain to see.
“Back to the matter at hand,” the Bruce said briskly. He and the others sobered as they refocused on Kieran. “What of this attack?”
Kieran described first noticing the suspicious gardener, then following him into the hedge maze after Vivienne. When he told of tearing through the maze to find the man looming over Vivienne, about to strike, an involuntary shudder swept over her.
Elaine reached across the table and squeezed her hand reassuringly. Kieran went on, giving a terse explanation of killing the man.
“I should have left him alive long enough to question him,” Kieran said, his voice edged with anger. “But I wasnae thinking clearly in the moment. Still, I am certain he was one of de Soules’s men. He didnae go for coin or…” He gritted his teeth. “…Or aught else of Vivienne’s. His only purpose was to kill her.”
The room fell silent for a long moment.
“We have to assume the threat came from de Soules, Robert,” Colin said quietly.
The King muttered a curse, tugging on his beard. “Simply killing the man willnae solve this problem, ye ken. He’ll be made a martyr by those still loyal to him. And in any case, his cronies are clearly acting independently of him, for he is rotting in the bowels of the palace as we speak.”
Though she knew she was safe with Kieran at her side and several members of the King’s elite Bodyguard Corps surrounding her, Vivienne couldn’t repress another shiver of foreboding. And unfortunately, thinking of William de Soules, the seemingly unassuming man she’d met at court earlier that summer, sitting far below her in a dungeon cell, gave her surprisingly little comfort.
He was a man capable of plotting the assassination of his own King, and whose followers wanted her dead. How could she ever hope to be truly safe from that sort of fanaticism?
As if reading her troubled thoughts, Kieran planted his elbows on the table and fixed the Bruce with a steady stare.
“We will be departing Scone as soon as possible—tomorrow morn, if ye’ll give us two strong steeds, Robert.”
Across from them, Will frowned, and Vivienne had to resist the urge to draw back from his fierce visage. “Surely ye cannae think the lass is in danger here at the palace.”
“Ye’re damn right I do,” Kieran replied bluntly. “It was within the bloody palace’s walls that de Soules and the other nobles plotted their rebellion. And if de Soules has men seeking to avenge him in France, he sure as hell could have others here in Scotland—in Scone itself, for that matter.”
Kieran turned his gaze back to the Bruce. “Ye requested that I bring Vivienne here so that ye could thank her for her aid. Well, I’ve done that, but ye kenned I didnae intend for her to stay here in the public eye.”
The Bruce bristled slightly at Kieran’s tone, his mouth tightening with annoyance behind his beard, but after a moment, he dipped his head in acknowledgement.
“Aye, that was the deal. And will ye still insist on keeping yer destination from us?”
Kieran shifted in his chair. “All I’ll say is that we are bound for the Highlands.”
A few of the others, including Will and Colin, frowned, but Kieran’s features were set in stone, his cool gaze daring anyone to challenge him.
“The clear danger presented to Lady Vivienne justifies yer secrecy,” the Bruce said, steepling his hands in front of his mouth. “It also justifies adding more members of the Corps to her guard. Mayhap ye should take Niall with ye. Or Mairin.”
“The lad is too green,” Kieran replied without hesitation. “Besides, I wouldnae leave it to an Englishman to watch my back, Corps member or nay.”
Niall jerked in his chair, his bright blue eyes flashing with anger. “I’ve pledged my loyalty just like you, MacAdams. And I’ve been training in the Highlands these past four years—”
“And the wee Mackenzie isnae ready for an assignment, either,” Kieran went on, ignoring Niall and eyeing Mairin. The young woman remained silent, her wide gray eyes guarded.
The Bruce cleared his throat, and the room instantly fell quiet.
“Ye proved right that de Soules still has lackeys willing to harm our allies, MacAdams,” the King said, his voice grudging. “And ye saved Lady Vivienne’s life.” He gave Vivienne a little nod. “Because of those things, ye’ve earned my respect. But it seems to me ye still need to learn a thing or two about being a member of a team.”
Kieran rolled his shoulders. “Ye entrusted me with Vivienne’s protection, and that’s what I’m doing. I wouldnae have been a verra good choice for the mission if I needed to rely on others to see it done.”
The Bruce considered Kieran’s words, his dark, keen gaze settling on Vivienne. She remained still, but inside she was a tangled knot of worry.
It was disconcerting enough to be sitting at a table with the King of Scotland and his most trusted confidantes, all of whom were focused on her safety at the moment. Yet far more disturbing was how serious Kieran and the others were taking the threat against her.
Ever since the gardener’s attack, she’d been forced to accept the fact that she was indeed a target. But with no danger greater than seasickness since then, some part of her had hoped that the entire matter could be resolved sooner rather than later and she could return to her old life at the French court.
What was more, her protection had apparently become some sort of unspoken battleground between Kieran and the others. Of course she knew Kieran could be an overprotective, domineering brute when he chose to be, but he seemed intent on proving that he could see to her safety all on his own.
At last, the King reluctantly nodded. Kieran had won this battle, if not the larger fight.
Which meant she and Kieran would be thrown together—alone—yet again. Vivienne would be whisked away somewhere into the heart of the Highlands, even farther away from everything she knew in this world. And with only Kieran to protect her.
Now if she could only manage to protect herself from the traitorous stirrings in her heart.
Chapter Twenty-Two
William de Soules squinted against the approaching flicker of a torch.
He’d grown accustomed to the guards’ rotating schedule a few months ago. They usually snuffed the torches at midnight, climbing the stone stairs that led aboveground to the palace and sealing the door to the dungeon with a creaking thud. Then two guards would return sometime around dawn to light the torches again and take up their positions at the base of the stairs.
Though it was nigh impossible to tell the exact time in the inky darkness of his cell, he was certain dawn hadn’t come so soon. To confirm his suspicions, only one slash of orange light illuminated the dark, dripping dungeon, not two.
William pushed himself up from his cot, slinking toward the iron bars to get a better look. In the gloom, he could make out the coarse features of his man Bevin approaching his cell.
He drew in a sharp breath, his pulse jumping. It had been nearly two months since he’d received any news, and if Bevin bore the information he hoped, William was in for a treat that he could savor for years to come.
Bevin strode closer, peering warily into the shadows stretching beyond the light of his torch.
“Psst.”
Bevin nearly leapt from his skin at William’s soft hiss. He swung around, lifting the torch high. William held up a hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
“Lower that, ye fool,” he breathed.
As Bevin did his bidding, William stilled, listening for any sounds of movement from the cell next to him. Countess Agnes of Strathearn—former countess, that was—usually slept soundly through the
nights, but William couldn’t risk her overhearing aught. The bitch had already sold him out once before. She would do it again if it meant that whoreson Bruce King would take pity on her further.
“What took ye so bloody long?” he demanded in a low whisper when he was satisfied that Agnes didn’t stir.
Bevin, slow-witted beast of burden that he was, ducked his head at William’s sharp tone.
“Forgive me, sire, but I didnae think I should risk visiting ye until the flurry surrounding the executions had died down.”
“It isnae yer job to think, Bevin,” William replied. “Only to follow my orders.”
“Aye, sire.” He dipped his brown head once more, waiting on William.
That was better. “It has been more than a month since the executions. I was expecting good news by now. What has happened?”
“A great deal, sire,” Bevin said, his thick brows dropping. “It…it isnae all good.”
William’s grip on the iron bars separating them tightened. “Speak, fool.”
“St. Giles failed in France.”
“What?” William swallowed, fighting to lower his voice. “I thought you said everything was arranged.”
“It was, sire, but there was an… unexpected obstacle at court. A Scottish warrior.”
“Who?”
“Kieran MacAdams, sire.”
William froze, but inside a storm unleashed, lashing his rage to life. Kieran MacAdams. The Highland brute had been the one to drag William from the clutches of the French whore who’d poisoned him, only to deliver him to the Bruce, bound, on his knees, and named a traitor.
“What the hell was Kieran MacAdams doing in France?”
Bevin shifted from one foot to the other. “Apparently no’ long after the executions, the King sent him to protect the woman.”
In an instant, William’s blood ran from hot to cold with trepidation. Then the Bruce had taken Richard Broun’s final words to heart.