by Emma Prince
He stalked back to where he’d dropped his sword and scooped it up, then moved to stand over de Soules. When he pulled out a canvas bag that had been tucked into his belt, she realized what he was about.
The others guided her out of the cave and onto the night-dark beach, which was littered with the bodies of de Soules’s mercenaries. Her gaze landed on Bevin, who lay wide-eyed, an arrow protruding from his chest and a slash across his throat.
“Dinnae look,” Mairin said quietly, taking Vivienne’s arm and pulling her away. Vivienne let her, grateful for the younger woman’s kind, gentle touch.
When they reached a small birlinn tucked between the rocks past the beach, Will and Niall helped Mairin and Vivienne in, then began pushing the boat into the water. A moment later, Kieran appeared, discreetly tucking the canvas bag, now heavy with something Vivienne didn’t want to consider, away in the ship’s stern.
She hardly noticed the sway of the boat as the men launched themselves into it and they took to the open water, so riveted by the sight of Kieran was she.
“I still do not understand how you survived the stab de Soules gave you,” she murmured, glancing at his chest.
He took her hand and placed it over his heart. She could tell by the way he flinched slightly at even the light touch that he still needed time to heal, but his eyes were soft and full of love as he gazed down at her.
“I told ye, lass. I couldnae let ye go. My heart hasnae had near enough of ye.”
She smiled, warmth and happiness swelling within her for the first time in what felt like ages. “I love you, Kieran.”
“I love ye, too, Vivienne,” he replied. His mouth broke into a gently teasing grin, which broadened into a full smile. “What’s more, I dinnae mind ye overmuch, either.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Kieran counted himself the luckiest man that ever lived when a little over a sennight later, he got to walk into Scone Palace’s great hall with Vivienne on his arm.
Their arrival provoked a wild riot of cheers from the host of bedecked guests inside.
Vivienne’s eyes widened at their warm reception. “This is rather too much,” she murmured, “given that we are meant to be celebrating Elaine and Jerome’s wedding.”
For her part, Elaine didn’t seem to mind that her wedding feast had been turned into a celebration of Vivienne’s safe return and the obliteration of William de Soules and all he stood for. The Englishwoman rose from her and Jerome’s seat of honor beside the King at the high table, then lifted her green silk skirts and raced toward Vivienne.
When Elaine reached her, she took Vivienne into a warm embrace.
“Easy,” Kieran said with a frown. “She is still healing.”
“You don’t frighten me, Kieran MacAdams,” Elaine retorted, though she did ease her grasp on Vivienne before stepping back.
“Look at you, mon amie,” Vivienne said, her eyes shining as she took in Elaine’s gown and hair, which was done up in what appeared to Kieran like a complicated labyrinth of plaits and loose copper waves. “You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen.”
Elaine laughed, her eyes filling with tears. “I am just grateful that you are here to share this day with me.”
Just then, those gathered for the feast began to part as the King stepped from the dais and strode toward them.
When he reached Vivienne, he bowed deeply from the waist.
“Non, Majesté, you cannot—” Vivienne began, her cheeks flushing at the King’s show of respect.
The Bruce straightened, his dark eyes dancing with mirth. “Ye cannae order me no’ to show my gratitude to ye, Lady Vivienne,” he said. “I am still a King, after all.”
Vivienne’s blush deepened, but she tilted her head graciously. “Very well, Majesté, but you cannot expect me to ever get used to a King bowing to me.”
“Fair enough,” he replied with a smile. But then he sobered, lifting her hand with both of his. “Truly, milady, I owe ye a debt I can never repay—and I ken my apologies will never be enough.”
“Non, Majesté,” Vivienne replied solemnly, “I believe you have actually given me my life’s greatest gift.” She lifted her eyes to Kieran, and his chest filled with so much love that it felt as though it would burst.
The Bruce patted her hand before releasing it, then shot Kieran a conspiratorial look. Kieran gave the King a firm shake of the head, silently warning him to hold his tongue.
He’d spoken with the Bruce not long ago, and they’d devised a plan that he hoped would be perfect, but he’d made the King swear to keep his lips sealed until Kieran had a chance to speak with Vivienne about it.
“All the same,” the King said, clearing his throat, “I am glad to have de Soules’s head on a pike atop the palisades. Forgive me, Lady Elaine, Lady Vivienne, for such talk at a wedding feast, but I cannae deny it.”
Jerome joined them, slipping an arm around his bride’s waist. “It is a symbol to all that his is the fate of a traitor to Scotland,” he said quietly.
“Aye, and based on what Agnes said, and all that Sabine could learn through her network of eyes and ears, no one is interested in joining him on the palisades,” the Bruce said. “With the head of the serpent removed, the body crumples.” He drew in a breath, straightening. “But enough of such talk. This is a joyous occasion. Lady Vivienne is safely returned, and another member of my Bodyguard Corps is happily married.”
The King smiled at Jerome and Elaine, but then his gaze flicked knowingly once more to Kieran.
Hell and damnation, he was going to have to get Vivienne out of there before the Bruce let something slip.
As Jerome, Elaine, and the King made their way back to the high table, Kieran took Vivienne’s hand and looped it through his arm. He began threading them through the nobles gathered for the feast, not slowing or even politely acknowledging those who bowed, curtsied, or offered them a word of congratulations.
“Kieran, what on earth—”
At last, he reached a quiet corner of the hall and pulled her to a halt.
“Marry me.”
Vivienne’s midnight blue eyes widened. “Pardon?”
Bloody hell, this wasn’t going as he’d planned. He frowned. He’d prepared everything in his mind, but now that he was gazing down at her, her dark eyes depthless and those petal-pink lips parted in surprise, all his thoughts scattered like leaves in a windstorm.
“I am a hazelnut tree,” he tried again, grasping for the right words.
She blinked slowly. “You are?”
“Aye, and ye are honeysuckle. Like in the Chevrefoil, ye ken.”
Realization flickered across her features, and then her breath caught in her throat.
Aye, that was more like it. Now he was back on the right track.
He took her hand and drew her closer until the rest of the hall fell away and it was just the two of them, staring into each other’s eyes.
“Ye have become so entwined with my heart that if I lost ye, I’d die,” he murmured. He paused, carefully saying the next words in his head before repeating them aloud to make sure he got them just right. “Ni moi sans vous, ni vous sans moi. Neither me without ye, nor ye without me.”
Now tears had gathered in her eyes, making them shimmer like pools of sapphire.
“Marry me,” he said again, tenderly brushing away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. “And let me work every day to give ye a life like in one of yer treasured love stories.”
“Oui,” she said, her voice low and tight with emotion.
He pulled her up into his arms in a tight embrace, barely remembering to be gentle with her bruised body or his own still-healing chest wound.
But when he set her on her feet and pulled back, her brows were drawn with worry.
“What is wrong, love?”
She shook her head a little. “It is just…I understand that your place is here in Scotland by your King’s side. But I wonder what has become of my position at court, or how I might look
in on my father when we are a five-days’ sail away.” At the mention of sailing, she blanched and shuddered slightly.
A slow smile spread across Kieran’s face. She glanced up at him and frowned.
“What is it?”
“What if I told ye I have a solution to all that?”
Her brows furrowed deeper. “You do?”
“I spoke with the Bruce earlier,” Kieran said. “I explained matters with yer father, and also the importance of maintaining the alliance between Scotland and France.”
“Oh?”
“The Bruce thinks it prudent to send an emissary to France to ensure that relations continue smoothly.” Kieran tilted his head. “He believes I would be a good fit for the job—though why a brute like me should be an ambassador I dinnae ken.”
At that, she smiled, and he went on. “King Philip doesnae seem to mind my manners—or lack thereof—though, so neither does the Bruce. It would mean that I’d sometimes have to travel to Scotland, but also that I would visit the French court—with ye, if ye wanted to spend time with the Queen and the ladies-in-waiting.”
“That is wonderful,” she beamed. But then she caught her lip between her teeth. “Where would we live, though? Paris? Scone?”
“Well,” he said slowly, savoring what he was about to tell her. “The Bruce recognizes that Paris is a long way from Scotland. He suggested that it might be better to place an ambassador somewhere in the middle—a few days’ ocean crossing from Scone, aye, but mayhap a few days’ ride from the French court as well, so that either place could be reached quickly if need be. A place like…Picardy.”
Vivienne let out a stunned breath. “You can’t mean…my father’s estate?”
“Aye,” he replied, grinning.
She flung her arms around his neck, her shoulders shaking with either laughter or tears, he wasn’t sure which. Abruptly, she drew back, fixing him with a searching gaze. “And this is what you want? To live in a crumbling keep on a dilapidated farm?”
“Wherever ye are is my home, Vivienne,” he said, cupping her face in his hand. “But, aye, I am genuinely looking forward to a quieter life. Of course, I’ll still be one of the Bruce’s warriors, but I am a farmer by blood and birth, too. It would be an honor to help yer father bring his estate back to life.”
“And…and you won’t mind being away from the Highlands?”
Unspoken in her words was a deeper question, about the pain from his past, of losing Linette and his bairn, of losing his home.
He stilled, moved that Vivienne cared for him so deeply that her happiness wasn’t complete unless his own was, too. His heart was so full with love for her that it ached.
“I ran from my past for a long while, thinking that if I sealed my heart away, it couldnae ever be hurt again,” he said quietly. “But I’m no’ running anymore. And I dinnae want to be alone anymore, either. I still have my memories, where the past can live in peace, but now I want what I didnae let myself hope for in all these years. I want a family. And bairns. But most of all, I want ye, Vivienne.”
She nodded, tears streaming down her face. “I want all that, too. And I want you, Kieran. Forever.”
He kissed her then, tasting the sweet saltiness of her tears, drinking her in, his love, his heart, forevermore.
When he pulled away at last, they were both left panting.
“I’ll keep my family’s plot of land,” he said quietly. “No’ to farm, nor to linger in the past, but mayhap our bairns will want it someday. And mayhap when the time is right, I’ll take ye back there as well.”
He affectionately tucked a lock of flaxen hair that had come loose during their kiss behind her ear. “I’d like to show ye the Highlands, lass. But properly, no’ when we are running for our lives.”
She laughed, and it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “Oui, I’d like that, too. But I cannot promise that I will be eager to cross the North Sea very often.” Her eyes widened as a realization struck her. “I suppose I will have to make the crossing at least one more time if we are to return to my father’s estate.”
She went white as snow and swallowed hard. Though he knew it would earn him a tart word later, Kieran couldn’t help but laugh.
“Dinnae fash, lass,” he said. “I’ll bring plenty of good Highland whisky with us. And of course we can always employ my other failsafe cure for seasickness again…” Just to get a rise out of her, Kieran gave her a wink.
At the bonny blush and slow smile spreading across her face, he only laughed harder.
Epilogue
February, 1321
Three months later
Picardy, France
“Monsieur MacAdams?”
“Aye, that’s me.”
Vivienne paused in her recitation of Roman de la Rose, another of her father’s favorite poems, and glanced up.
Snow flurries swirled into the keep around Kieran’s booted ankles. Just outside the open door stood a young messenger lad, the hood of his cloak drawn up against the cold.
“Deliveries from the King of Scotland,” the lad said, pulling a sack from beneath his cloak. “And from King Philip’s court.” He produced another, smaller sack from his other side.
“Mon Dieu, what is all that?” Vivienne said, setting aside the book and rising.
“I dinnae ken, though I have a suspicion,” Kieran replied, hefting each sack experimentally. He turned to the messenger. “Come in out of the cold, lad, and have something warm to eat and drink.”
The lad nodded eagerly and stepped inside.
“Oui, come in,” Vivienne’s father called from his seat before the fire. “And tell us the news from court.”
Vivienne set off for the kitchen, but Claudette rose from her seat beside Vivienne’s father and caught her arm gently.
“Allow me.”
Vivienne took the chastising edge off her words with a soft smile. “Claudette, you are not the chatelaine anymore, nor a servant.”
And Vivienne couldn’t be happier about it. When she and Kieran had arrived at the estate a few months past, her father and Claudette had taken her aside with somber, worried faces. She’d feared terrible news, only to learn that the two had fallen in love several years ago.
They had kept it from her, they’d explained, because they did not wish for Vivienne to worry that after all her hard work to find a suitable caretaker for her father, Claudette would prove to be a charlatan attempting to take advantage of Lambert. Nor had they wanted to disrespect the memory of Vivienne’s mother, despite the fact that it had been nearly a decade since her passing.
To their surprise, Vivienne had flung herself into both of their arms, happy tears streaming down her face. She’d reassured them that their happiness meant the world to her, and that she could imagine no greater joy than to see them joined in love.
But even a month after the two had said their vows before God, Claudette, who had grown used to looking after Lambert, occasionally forgot that she was no longer a caretaker, but a member of the family.
Claudette’s mouth curved in a smile that matched Vivienne’s, lifting her dark eyebrows. “Oui, but I can tell you are eager to follow your husband to the solar to see what is in those packages.”
Kieran cocked his head in invitation. “Care to join me, wife?”
Claudette squeezed her arm warmly. “Go on. I’ll see to the lad.”
“Thank you,” Vivienne said, eagerly falling in behind Kieran as he mounted the stairs toward the solar. Curiosity niggled at her about the deliveries from both Scotland and the French court. Hopefully all was well with both.
When they reached the solar, Vivienne took up one of the upholstered chairs while Kieran dropped the parcels on the oak desk and moved to sit in the chair behind it.
He began with the satchel from the Bruce. He pulled out a small stack of folded missives, then a rectangular package wrapped in oiled canvas. Setting the package aside, he began to open and read the missives.
Most he passed along to h
er after quickly scanning them. One was a personal note from Elaine congratulating Lambert and Claudette on their nuptials, which Vivienne had written to her about. To Vivienne’s joy, Elaine and Jerome had been able to visit France to attend Vivienne and Kieran’s wedding not long after their own. Still, that had been nearly three months ago, and she missed her spirited, kind-hearted English friend.
The other missives regarded smaller matters in Scotland, including the Bruce’s departure from Scone for the winter season. He’d returned to Cardross, where he was having an estate built for his wife and family.
But one missive, which bore the seal of the King himself, gave Kieran pause.
“The Bruce sends his felicitations,” he said, scanning the missive. “And news of England.”
Vivienne’s brows drew together. “Oh?”
“It seems that tensions in England are escalating into an all-out civil war,” he commented. “Which is good news from the Bruce’s perspective, as it is keeping the English out of Scotland’s hair. Apparently he is considering involving the Corps to further aggravate the strain between King Edward II and his nobles. The more trouble the English face internally, the less harm they can do to Scotland.”
“Would you be called to England, then?” Vivienne said, worry knotting her stomach.
“Nay, nay,” he replied quickly. “The Bruce still wants me here. But he writes that he may call upon other members of the Corps.”
Vivienne considered that. “Will, Niall, and Mairin all seemed to impress the King with their role in hunting down de Soules.”
“Aye,” Kieran said, rubbing his palm along the faint shadow of growth on his jaw. “I was mistaken about the lot of them at first. I’m glad they proved me wrong for hesitating to trust them initially.”
He handed her the missive, which she scanned quickly, but her gaze kept tugging to the wrapped parcel on the desk. “And what do you suppose that is?”
“Let’s see what arrived from court first,” he said, a strange, knowing twitch pulling at the corners of his mouth.
Before she could question his odd behavior, he pulled open the other sack and removed a small, square box with a missive tied to it with ribbon.