Her Wild Highlander

by Emma Prince

  Reading seemed to be the activity she did the most in the presence of the Queen. In fact, she currently sat on one of the cushioned benches, her legs tucked demurely beneath her and a leather-bound, gold leaf-edged book open before her.

  He hadn’t really been listening to the story—today it was a tale about a chivalric knight going off to battle, he thought—but damn it all if he hadn’t been watching her surreptitiously out of the corner of his vision.

  And it wasn’t as though he had to keep his eyes on her for her safety. She was in more danger of getting a paper cut or a hoarse voice from all her recitations than anything else. Yet with naught else to do but sit in his damned wee chair and scowl at the walls, he found his attention repeatedly drifting to her.

  She wore a pale blue silk gown today that made her creamy complexion look like porcelain. The day was overcast, so the chamber was filled with the warm glow of candlelight to aid her reading. It seemed to soften her normally controlled, cool exterior. Or mayhap she was more at ease because she was losing herself in the telling of the tale.

  She was without a veil again—he’d noted that she only seemed to wear them in the evenings when she was expected to attend the Queen at various feasts and ceremonies, which apparently occurred nearly every night at court.

  Kieran eyed her slim, swan-like neck. He hadn’t been able to see that delicate neck last night. There had been a celebration to honor the return of a few of King Philip’s ambassadors to Flanders, where they’d been negotiating a peace.

  As usual, there had been feasting, toasts, and dancing. He’d managed to keep most of the men at bay with little more than a glower of warning, but the damned fop Thierry de Pontier had been bold enough to approach and ask Lady Vivienne for a dance.

  When Kieran had given the man a firm nay before Vivienne could respond, de Pontier had persisted. Judging from the way the lass’s cheeks had turned rosy and her mouth had thinned, Kieran’s decision to simply bodily move the fop aside was not appreciated.

  Though his brash—or nonexistent—manners seemed to displease her, Lady Vivienne’s behavior toward de Pontier and the other men at court didn’t quite square. Kieran had been watching her closely for the past sennight. In every interaction, every social situation or conversation, she was perfect.

  Too perfect.

  She treated de Pontier with the same cool, formal regard as she did the palace guards. Though she was attentive and agreeable with the Queen and the other ladies-in-waiting, she never had so much as a hair out of place when she stepped foot into the Queen’s quarters. Nor did she giggle or blush with the others at Kieran’s obvious discomfort at being surrounded by so many feminine activities and fripperies.

  After observing her so closely, following her every move, he couldn’t help but wonder what lay under that perfectly coifed and controlled exterior. Judging by her sharp tongue—which she seemed only to direct at Kieran—passion in some form or other brewed beneath her careful façade.

  In fact, with so little to do, Kieran’s only sport had become seeing just how deep he could wriggle under her skin to draw forth more than just her usual haughty head-tilts or cool stares. So far he had managed to make her flush crimson a few times, and had even caught her gnawing on her fingernails after he’d embarrassed her in front of de Pontier last eve.

  Of course, there was another activity that would alleviate not only his boredom but also his itch to know just what kind of woman truly lay under Vivienne’s measured exterior. Would a thorough, commanding kiss be enough to ruffle her feathers, or would Kieran have to strip her naked and lick every inch of her until she screamed in unladylike pleasure?

  For the thousandth time since arriving at the palace, Kieran jerked his thoughts away from that line of musings. Though carnal flirtations and even liaisons were apparently an open secret in the French court, Vivienne seemed the last woman to indulge in a dalliance if it meant risking public scrutiny.

  Besides, he was there to protect her, not take a tumble with her, damn it. Yet torn between utter boredom and raging lust, Kieran’s mission seemed a fool’s errand now.

  He forced himself to return his attention to his surroundings. Aye, this assignment might prove pointless, but he still believed there was a chance Vivienne was in danger.

  His gaze swept over the other ladies-in-waiting, who were carefully arranged throughout the chamber like vases of cut flowers. The Queen sat picking at a piece of embroidery, occasionally looking up to smile at Vivienne as she read on.

  And for her part, Vivienne leaned over her book, her voice soft and lilting as she imbued the tale with emotion. Two of the men in the story seemed to be quarrelling, though Kieran hadn’t been paying enough attention to know about what.

  Vivienne looked up from the book, her eyes bright and her cheeks faintly pink as if she’d been running out of doors. She blinked and cleared her throat, coming back to herself.

  “That was lovely, as always, ma chère,” the Queen said warmly. “Let us continue tomorrow. For now, we had best prepare for the evening’s events.”

  “Oui, ma reine,” the ladies-in-waiting said in unison, rising.

  Kieran pried himself out of his chair. He was familiar enough with the ladies’ schedule to know that they each went to their own chambers to prepare themselves, then returned and all assisted the Queen.

  Like a shadow, he fell in behind Lady Vivienne as the others filed out of the chamber and fluttered off to their private rooms. Her steps were slow and measured, as if she were still waking from the dream cast by the tale she’d been reading.

  He noticed that she held the volume to her chest as if it were made of glass. Of course, books were rare and expensive, especially ones with stamped, dyed leather covers and gilt pages like the one she carried.

  Despite himself, curiosity tugged at him. What was it about this particular book that had her so enchanted?

  When they reached her chamber, he pulled open the door and quickly scanned the space, as was now his habit. But when he stepped aside to allow her to enter, instead of moving back into the corridor and closing the door, he lingered.

  He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward. Though he’d been in close proximity to her for the last sennight, he’d avoided doing aught outside the scope of serving as her bodyguard, lest he give the court gossips more to whisper about. But his interest got the better of him.

  “What was that one called?” he asked brusquely, nodding at the book.

  Her eyes widened in surprise for a fraction of a second before her composure returned.

  “The Song of Roland. It is a most beloved poem here in France.”

  “Those men who were fighting…”

  “Roland and Olivier?”

  “Aye,” he cleared his throat again. “What were they fighting about?”

  At his interest, a pleased smile played around her mouth. “In the tale, they are leaders of the Frankish army under Charlemagne—and best friends. When they are outflanked and in danger of failing against their enemies, Olivier urges Roland to blow his horn, thus signaling to Charlemagne and the rest of the army that they need help. But Roland refuses.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Because Roland believes it would be an act of cowardice.” Now Lady Vivienne’s gaze drifted, her eyes warming. “But Olivier swears that if Roland does not blow the horn, Roland will never again see Alde, Roland’s betrothed and Olivier’s sister.”

  Kieran couldn’t help himself. He snorted in disbelief. “That is preposterous.”

  Vivienne blinked and drew back her chin. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A man doesnae make decisions in the heat of battle based on love. And a true friend wouldnae attempt to sway a man’s sense of honor with threats of no’ letting him see his sister again.”

  She straightened, tilting her head in that infuriating way so that she seemed to look down on him with suddenly frosty eyes.

  “Just because you cannot imagine acting for love doesn’t mean it is prep
osterous.”

  “I never took ye for a romantic, lass.”

  “Don’t call me lass, Monsieur MacAdams.”

  Och, they were back to this again? “Dinnae call me Monsieur, lass,” he countered. “And aye, I wouldnae risk other men’s lives for some flowery notion of courtly love. But by all means, tell me more about how men should act on the battlefield, since I assume ye have some great wealth of knowledge on the topic.”

  His words had the intended effect. She faltered for a moment, at a loss. A flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

  He glanced down to find that she clutched the book with a defensive fierceness he had yet to see in her. She held it tightly against her chest as if he would attempt to rip it from her grasp.

  Guilt suddenly struck him as surely as a punch. One moment he’d been so intrigued by her clear enchantment with the book that he couldn’t keep from asking her about it, and the next he was berating her for sharing her—albeit misguided—sentiments.

  “How does it end?” he blurted.

  She eyed him warily for a moment. “Why are you so interested?”

  He lifted one shoulder in an attempt at indifference. “Mayhap I wish to ken if Roland will prove himself a fool or no’.”

  Her lips thinned, but at last she relented.

  “Olivier’s plea turns out to be moot. They learn that there is no hope for them, for their army is sure to be overpowered. Knowing that reinforcements won’t come in time, Roland blows the horn anyway so that Charlemagne’s forces will hear and come to avenge them after they are slaughtered.” She sniffed, smoothing her skirts. “Roland blows the horn so hard that his temples explode and he dies.”

  Kieran nodded thoughtfully. “Aye, that’s much better. Far more realistic.”

  Vivienne’s eyes widened with annoyance. “That is more realistic than Roland acting out of love for Alde? The entire army dying and his head exploding?”

  “Aye,” he replied evenly. “Warfare is messy and far less noble than they’d have ye believe in these chivalric tales. And a man losing his head for love is damn foolish.”

  He clamped his teeth together, suddenly fearing he was no longer talking about some silly poem. The old ache returned to his chest for a fleeting moment before he shoved the sentiment—and the memories—aside.

  She bristled again, but instead of her usual tightly-reined anger, he thought he saw a ghost of pain in her eyes. “It is a story, monsieur. Oui, no doubt an embellished one meant to set ladies’ hearts aflutter, but also one to inspire the best in us, the most noble and hopeful impulses.”

  Vivienne swallowed, clearly attempting to make her voice light, yet it came out forced. “I for one greatly enjoy the diversion of reading such tales. This one is a particular favorite of mine. My father gave me this volume when I was but a girl.”

  Now it was her turn to snap her mouth closed as if she’d said more than she had planned. Her hand drifted toward her lips and she had a fingernail between her teeth without seeming to realize what she was doing.

  “Why do ye do that?” Kieran asked, pointing at her mouth.

  She snatched her hand away as if she’d been burned. “It is an old habit from my childhood. I do it when I’m—it doesn’t matter. It is most unbecoming.”

  Kieran tried to imagine what her childhood must have been like. No doubt she’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. She was nobility, after all. And the book alone must have cost a small fortune. He’d always assumed she’d led a spoiled, charmed life, but the sadness that lingered in her eyes and the embarrassment in her voice for chewing her nails told him there was more to the story than that.

  He suddenly felt like a dunderhead to be standing awkwardly in her chamber, lingering after their surprisingly intimate exchange.

  “Well then,” he said, his voice coming out gruffer than he’d intended. “I’ll let ye ready yerself.”

  He beat a hasty retreat to the door and shut it firmly behind him, releasing a breath once he was alone in the corridor.

  Hell and damnation. This assignment was spinning out of his control. Being forced to stay at court instead of removing Vivienne had been bad enough, but he was beginning to fear that the potential threat to her safety here at the palace was the least of his worries.

  Something about the wee chit had his insides in a knot and his heart hammering against his chest.

  It was only because her words about love had stirred those dark memories from his past, he told himself. All the more reason to keep his interactions with Vivienne strictly limited.

  The only trouble was, he couldn’t seem to get enough of her.

  Chapter Seven

  Vivienne stepped into the September sun and released a long breath. These waning days of summer made her long for the open fields and fresh air of home, but even here inside the palace walls, it was a relief to be out of doors and to feel the sun on her face.

  She and the other ladies-in-waiting had been sent by the Queen to cut the last roses of the season from the King’s private, walled garden. They streamed around her where she’d stopped just outside the palace doors to savor the warm rays of sunshine. Dressed in their usual assortment of pastel silks, they looked like flowers themselves as they chatted and filtered toward the garden.

  Vivienne lingered near the doorway, eager to reach the garden yet longing for the solitude and freedom she’d grown up with on her family’s estate in Picardy.

  “What’s the matter, lass? Are ye frightened to set foot in the great wilderness that is the King’s garden?”

  Curse that all-too-familiar voice, low and gruff and curling with a Scottish brogue. She might snatch a moment away from the other ladies, but it seemed she would never be rid of Kieran MacAdams.

  It had been a sennight since their conversation—argument, really—about her beloved copy of The Song of Roland.

  She’d embarrassed herself by chewing on her nails, a dreadful habit she’d thought herself rid of long before coming to court. What was worse, she’d allowed her emotions to rise at his flippant critique of the story. She’d no doubt looked doubly foolish when she’d defended the idea of love as a noble impulse. If Kieran knew the truth of her past, he would likely think her the greatest idiot of all for that.

  Thank heaven he didn’t. She spun on her heels to find him leaning in the palace’s doorway, his large frame cast in shadow and his arms crossed casually over his chest. Ignoring his barb about the King’s garden being some grand wilderness, she leveled him with an imperious look.

  “How many times must I insist that you refrain from calling me lass, Monsieur MacAdams?”

  He pushed himself from the doorframe and stepped into the sunlight so that he towered over her. Only the width of the basket she clasped in front of her separated them. Despite her instinct to step back, she held her ground, though she had to crane her head to hold their stare.

  His brown hair shone like a polished chestnut and he was close enough that his scent, of soap and leather and something distinctly masculine, enveloped her. He pinned her with eyes that flashed with blue fire.

  “I could ask ye the same thing.”

  Vivienne swallowed the sudden tightness in her throat. The blasted man was so overbearing and imposing that it was hard to think straight with him so near.

  And he likely knew it. He seemed to take perverse pleasure in getting under her skin and threatening to undo her control. He wasn’t afraid to cause a scene in front of the others at court. He made no qualms about scoffing at her beloved books. And every time he called her lass, he chipped away at her sanity.

  He no doubt believed the epithet flustered her because it flew in the face of proper etiquette—it was rude and uncouth, just like him. Oui, that should have been the reason it ruffled her feathers so much, but the truth was far worse.

  Every time he called her lass in that deep, rough brogue of his, a ripple of awareness rolled over her, puckering her skin and warming her insides.

  It was shameful to b
e agitated so. It made her want to lean against that broad, hard chest of his and forget the world around her. But hadn’t she learned her lesson seven years past when it came to such longings?

  Apparently not, which she was reminded of whenever he was near.

  Of course, she wasn’t above seeking to rile him as he riled her. But that wasn’t the only reason she kept calling him Monsieur despite his insistence that she use his given name. It created distance and formality between them—which she desperately needed, for he was already too close to her, and the pull to be closer still was nigh overpowering.

  As he continued to loom over her, waiting no doubt for some sharp-tongued response, she realized that she’d been gnawing on her nail again.

  She ripped her hand away from her mouth, feeling heat creep into her cheeks at the show of weakness. It had been something she’d done as a child when she’d been nervous. Her mother had helped her break the unbecoming habit by rubbing raw cloves of garlic, which Vivienne did not care for, on her fingertips.

  But her mother was long dead. Vivienne was on her own against the unnerving Scotsman.

  She lifted her chin. “The day is too fine to spend it arguing, Monsieur MacAdams. If we cannot speak pleasantly, let us not speak at all.”

  His only reply was a grunt, which she took as agreement. The day was indeed fine, probably one of the last before autumn settled its cool touch on the land.

  Vivienne turned away and glided toward the garden, where the other ladies were already chatting and taking up their gloves and shears to clip the last remaining blooms.

  She set down her wide-mouthed basket beside Marie and Aveline, who were pulling on their gardening gloves.

  “Your cheeks are quite pink, Vivienne,” Marie commented a little too slyly. “Mayhap you should have worn a veil today to keep the sun off your skin. Or is there another reason for your flush?”