by Emma Prince
When he didn’t speak for a long moment, Vivienne began to feel her face heat.
“I wouldnae exactly say that, nay,” he muttered at last.
Vivienne silently cursed herself up and down for the flush that no doubt clung to her cheeks. She was a lady, a woman in the Queen of France’s inner circle. She was not some tawdry wench to be blushing at a man’s double entendres.
She needed to get him out of her bedchamber. Now.
“I’m sure you can sleep with the men-at-arms in the lower hall,” she said, grasping for the composure that normally came so easily to her. “Or perhaps the King will wish to assign you to a proper guest’s chamber.”
“Oh, I’m staying right here.”
Her eyes rounded, and before she could regain control over her features, a slow, arrogant smile began lifting the corners of his mouth. Curse the man for enjoying her embarrassment!
“That is, I will sleep directly outside yer door,” he clarified at last.
Vivienne drew in a steadying breath. “Very well,” she said airily. “I will try not to step on you in the morning, then.”
He leveled her with one of those fearsome looks she imagined was meant to intimidate her, but instead only raised her ire. “Ye dinnae seem to understand how seriously I take this assignment, lass,” he said softly. “But ye will soon enough.”
With that, he spun on his heels and stomped out of her chamber, closing the door firmly behind him.
Vivienne released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The blasted giant’s presence was so overpowering that she could scarcely think with him nearby. Now that he was gone, she hurriedly unlaced her gown and hung it with the others, her mind tumbling over all that had transpired that night.
Kieran—and apparently also the King of Scotland—believed her to be in danger. She still hesitated to put much stock into the idea, yet she could not deny that a seed of unease had taken root in her belly when Kieran had detailed Richard Broun’s last words and de Soules’s potential reach even from within a dungeon cell.
She was not normally one to brush off danger. In fact, her whole life ever since coming to court at the age of seventeen had been a series of careful, cautious calculations to avoid any risk whatsoever. Her father was counting on her. Besides, she’d learned long ago—the hard way—just how precarious even a noblewoman’s position could be. One slipup and she could be back where she’d been before the Queen had taken her on as a lady-in-waiting.
Yet some part of her resisted the idea of a threat to her life. As she’d told Kieran, there was no evidence to suggest she was in danger. Life at court had been relatively quiet—well, if not quiet, then the normal amount of busy—since Kieran had passed through to collect de Soules.
Perhaps what she truly resisted was not the idea that her role in thwarting de Soules had put her at risk, but rather the fact that Kieran’s sudden appearance would throw her carefully ordered life into a shambles.
Her days were a series of subtle, delicate maneuvers between etiquette, grace, and decorum. But there was nothing subtle or delicate about Kieran MacAdams. Non, he was like a landslide, a driving force of unstoppable granite.
Vivienne eased herself into her bed, which was rumpled where Kieran’s big hands had hauled back the coverlet. Heaven help her, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from imagining his hands were still there, in her bed linens. On her skin.
She roughly yanked the coverlet up to her chin and squeezed her eyes shut, willing sleep to overtake her and wash away the memories of his piercing blue eyes burning into her. But sleep was a long way off that night.
Chapter Five
Kieran woke with a stiff neck from sleeping on the stone floor before Lady Vivienne’s door. And a stiff cock from dreaming of the blasted chit.
Hell and damnation.
On the sennight-long journey from Scotland to the French court, he’d tried to steel himself against the thought of being in close proximity with Vivienne once again. A month and a half past, he’d been struck dumb by her ethereal beauty, yet riled by her knife-sharp tongue and imperious pride. He’d focused on his annoyance, reminding himself of her stubbornness, her upturned chin, how she’d gone against his wishes and involved herself with de Soules.
Yet the moment he’d laid eyes on her in the great hall last eve, he’d come damn close to forgetting it all and going all dunderheaded over her like some green lad.
Luckily, she’d been just as mulish and haughty as before, questioning his presence and even the very idea that she was in danger. But her cool, controlled demeanor hadn’t done nearly enough to quell his lust. Bloody hell, he’d almost kissed her in the alcove, and when his hand had grazed one of her flimsy, delicate wee undergarments—
Kieran jerked up from the ground, repositioning the extra length of plaid he’d used as a blanket back over his shoulder. He also straightened his kilt over his erection, willing it down with a muttered curse.
He’d scrubbed his hands in fresh water at the palace stables last night before speaking with King Philip, but he hadn’t had a moment since then to wash more thoroughly or change his shirt. He eyed Lady Vivienne’s door. It was hard to tell in the dim corridor what time it was, but Kieran had no doubt the sun hadn’t risen yet. A lifetime of waking before dawn made him certain of that.
Though he was loath to leave lest she slip out of her chamber, he doubted she would rise anytime soon. He’d found himself unconsciously keeping track of her whereabouts when he’d been at court earlier that summer and had noticed that she often didn’t appear until the sun was well above the horizon.
The decision made, Kieran wound his way from the Queen’s wing of the palace back toward the stables, where he’d left his saddlebags the night before. The stable lads were just beginning to stir and start their chores when he arrived.
A cold wash out of a bucket and a clean shirt had him thinking clearer not long after. He retraced his steps to Lady Vivienne’s chamber and propped himself against the corridor’s opposite wall to wait.
A couple of hours later, his guess was confirmed when she at last pulled open her door.
She wore a forest-green brocade gown with delicate gold stitching in the shape of leaves and flowers on the bodice and skirts.
Her head was uncovered, but her hair was carefully arranged and pinned up in an intricate pattern of plaits and curls. He’d liked it better when her flaxen locks had been unbound last night as she’d prepared for bed, but at least she wasn’t wearing a veil that obscured her slim, creamy neck anymore.
She assessed him with those cool, midnight-blue eyes for a moment.
“The Queen will be rising now,” she said without preamble. “I am eager for her to settle this matter.”
As if his presence—and her safety—were naught more than a mild annoyance. Kieran pushed off the wall, narrowing his gaze on her but refusing to acknowledge her comment.
She glided past him as if her feet were made of clouds, the only sound the faint rustle of brocade as she walked. He fell in behind her, clenching his teeth against a few choice words about uppity French chits.
She made her way up another flight of stairs and halted before two wide double doors. When she reached for the handles, he caught her slim wrists. He resisted the urge to scoop her off her feet completely as he had last night and instead settled for leveling her with a glare.
“I told ye before—dinnae do that.”
He released her and yanked open the doors, only to find a small vestibule with two more double doors—and two guards.
She gave him a droll look that silently said You are making a fool of yourself, then glided toward the guards with a nod.
The men clearly knew her, for they returned the nod, but they both eyed Kieran suspiciously.
“Monsieur MacAdams is a…guest of the King,” she said carefully. “He wishes to have an audience with the Queen.”
One of the guards frowned. “Do you bear any weapons, Monsieur MacAdams?”
Knowing he wouldn’t be permitted into the palace with his sword, he’d left it in the stables with his saddlebags. Of course, he had a dagger in his boot, but they didn’t need to know that.
“Nay.”
The guards exchanged a wary look, but apparently Lady Vivienne’s standing as a member of the Queen’s inner circle trumped their worries, and they pulled the double doors open.
Inside, Kieran found what could only be described as a feminine sanctuary. The Queen’s chamber was filled with warm sunlight from several high, glassed windows. Dozens of candles also brightened the space, along with a cheery fire in the large hearth on one wall.
Intricately woven tapestries depicting fair maidens, mythical beasts, and grand celebrations tempered the stone walls. Several pieces of furniture were scattered throughout, including chairs, benches, and a dressing table that looked similar to Vivienne’s except that it contained three times as many vials and colored glass bottles as hers had. Pillows upholstered in gold and purple silks softened every surface.
Kieran stepped inside and was enveloped in the sweet smell of dried herbs and flowers. Though no one was in the room, he could hear voices nearby.
Just then, a door at the back of the room—which Kieran assumed led to the Queen’s private sleeping chamber—swung open and the Queen, followed by two ladies, stepped inside.
The Queen, who wore royal blue silks this morning, halted abruptly when her eyes landed on Kieran. Her gaze flicked to Vivienne, who’d moved to his side.
“Ah, there you are, ma chère. And you have brought your Scotsman.”
Her Scotsman? Kieran nearly muttered a curse but then remembered he was in the presence of a Queen.
He bowed stiffly. “Majesty.”
The Queen tilted her head in acknowledgement. “I was surprised to see you last night, Monsieur MacAdams. My husband mentioned something about your King Robert sending you, but he was too busy with other matters to explain further.”
“That is why I brought him here, ma reine,” Vivienne interjected. “There seems to be a…misunderstanding that I believe should fall to you to settle.”
The Queen lowered herself on the cushioned chair before the dressing table. “Please, sit, Monsieur MacAdams,” she said over her shoulder. “You can explain while Lady Vivienne helps me pick out my jewelry.”
“Nay, I’d rather stand.”
The Queen blinked at him, her brown eyes surprised at his gruff refusal, but she let the moment pass without comment.
Just as Kieran was about to launch into everything he’d told the King and Vivienne the night before, the double doors behind him opened once more and a string of the Queen’s remaining ladies-in-waiting entered.
They nearly plowed into each other when the one in the front’s gaze landed on Kieran. Several pairs of eyes widened on him, and then a giggle rose from somewhere in the middle of the cluster of ladies.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” one of the bolder ones said.
Unsure of what to do in the face of so many staring sets of eyes, Kieran simply frowned. That elicited another giggle and a few batted eyelashes before the Queen finally took pity on him.
“You may sit, ladies,” the Queen said, her voice calm yet authoritative.
The ladies-in-waiting filtered throughout the chamber, taking up seats on chairs and benches and carefully arranging their skirts, but their eyes never left Kieran. He cleared his throat, feeling ridiculously out of place surrounded by trussed-up females in the Queen of France’s personal chambers.
“As I was saying,” he said, beginning again.
Under the curious stares of the ladies-in-waiting, Kieran explained the Bruce’s decision to send him back to the French court to guard Lady Vivienne. He described the nature of the threat, doing his best to impress upon the Queen just how serious it was without shocking the ladies by describing the public execution.
The Queen listened as Lady Vivienne adorned her with gold and sapphire jewels, her face impassive in the mirror before her.
When he concluded, she shifted her gaze to Lady Vivienne. “What is the misunderstanding, then, ma chère?”
Vivienne’s lips thinned slightly. “There has been no indication of a threat against me.”
“Other than the words of William de Soules’s co-conspirator, Richard Broun,” Kieran cut it.
The Queen tilted her head. “Touché, monsieur. Although I agree that it is not enough evidence to warrant alarm, Vivienne, it is better to be on the safe side.” Now the Queen pursed her lips, and Kieran had the impression she was trying to repress a smile. “Besides, there is no harm in keeping your Scottish protector close, is there?”
A few of the ladies tittered behind their hands, their gazes once again sliding flirtatiously over Kieran. He shot them a glower that wiped the grins off their faces.
“Monsieur MacAdams has omitted explaining that he does not simply intend to serve as my bodyguard here at court,” Lady Vivienne replied, her voice tight. “He means to take me away to God knows where.”
At that, the Queen arched her brows at Kieran. “Is that so?”
He met her gaze steadily. “Aye.”
Now the Queen frowned. “Non, that will not do. Vivienne is most dear to me. I cannot simply let her go.”
Lady Vivienne shot him a triumphant look. “I told him as much, ma reine. I do not wish to leave your side.”
Kieran crossed his arms over his chest. “Apologies, Majesty, but I willnae be deterred. I have orders from my King.” He left out the fact that there was no way in hell he’d leave Vivienne vulnerable if he had even the slightest doubt about her safety, which he did. He need not give the ladies more to gossip about.
The Queen tilted her brown head, assessing him with intelligent eyes. She was likely of an age with Kieran, yet she exuded the regal authority of her station.
“I gather that you are not a man easily dissuaded, monsieur. However, as I have said, I am loath to let Vivienne go. Perhaps we can reach a compromise.”
“What do ye have in mind?”
She tapped a finger to her lips. “You and your King believe Vivienne is in danger. I observed you speaking to my husband last eve and it seems he is in agreement. Yet I see no need to remove Vivienne from court.”
Kieran began to object, but the Queen simply flicked her wrist to cut him off. “Therefore it seems wise that you should remain here to look after our dear Vivienne—within the protected walls of the palace.”
“The palace is vast, Majesty,” Kieran said. “Many people come and go, and there are—”
“Then I suppose, Monsieur MacAdams,” the Queen interjected smoothly, “you will simply have to stay very close to Lady Vivienne until you determine that the threat has passed.”
The Queen glanced between Kieran and Vivienne, a pleased, knowing smile on her face. Bloody hell. First Jerome and Elaine, and now the damned Queen of France thought to jest about some imagined sentimental connection between him and Lady Vivienne.
Aye, Kieran couldn’t deny that she was undoubtedly the bonniest woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Something about her pale gold hair and fair skin, those midnight eyes and pouty, petal-colored lips made him feel like he could never look his fill of her. And damn if her lithe, slim body, all elegance and grace and gentle curves, didn’t snag his eye and stir his blood as well.
But he was only a man. From the possessive touch of that fop de Pontier last eve, Kieran wasn’t the only one affected by Vivienne’s beauty. Hell, nearly every man in the hall had gazed appreciatively at her when they’d taken their leave for the night. It didn’t signify aught.
He glanced at Lady Vivienne to see how she had taken the Queen’s insinuation. Her normally serene countenance had slipped and her brows creased with worry. No doubt she wasn’t pleased that the Queen hadn’t simply sent him packing. But nor did he like the idea of her remaining visible and unrestricted at court.
He grunted, crossing his arms over his chest once more. “Ye drive a hard bargain, Majesty. I
am no’ happy about it, but I damn well plan on seeing my job done, even if that means I must remain at court—begging yer pardon,” he added belatedly.
Luckily, the Queen only smiled faintly, apparently amused by his blunt talk and coarse language.
“And this is only a trial,” he went on. “If I catch even the faintest whiff of danger, I will remove Lady Vivienne whether ye like it or no’.”
The Queen nodded placidly. Lady Vivienne, on the other hand, frowned even deeper. Her hand drifted toward her mouth and she began chewing on one of her fingernails. Abruptly, she seemed to realize what she was doing and yanked her hand away.
“Bien,” the Queen said briskly. “Now that the matter is settled, I suppose you should make yourself comfortable, Monsieur MacAdams. We have quite a bit of embroidery to do today, do we not, ladies?”
Another ripple of giggles moved through the ladies-in-waiting as Kieran awkwardly wedged himself into a chair that was clearly not built with a Highland warrior in mind. The dainty thing groaned under his weight as he shifted several unnecessary pillows out of his way.
Hell and damnation. He’d thought this mission would test his resolve against de Soules’s underhanded schemes, but it seemed instead of fighting the traitor’s cronies, he would be fighting off boredom in the Queen of France’s private chambers.
Crossing his arms and dropping his features into a scowl, he hunkered down for what would undoubtedly be a long bloody day.
Chapter Six
Kieran barely managed to repress a grunt as he shifted in the wee chair that had apparently become his over the past sennight.
His arse hurt. And his back hurt. Never had he imagined sitting could be so draining. Yet after seven days spent doing little more than wiling away the hours in the Queen’s front chamber, he was utterly exhausted.
He longed to feel the weight of his sword in his hands once more, to push his body to its limits on the practice field. Instead, he’d watched Lady Vivienne embroider, arrange hair, select jewels, and read aloud to the other ladies from various volumes of poetry and courtly romances.
