by Emma Prince
Though it had been a joy to watch the King and the others squirm at Broun’s pronouncement, William cursed the man for revealing the fact that he still had a few allies tucked away in hiding, waiting for his word to revive the rebellion against the pretender King.
“Why didnae ye tell me this sooner?” he hissed through his teeth.
“As I said, sire, I didnae think I could risk a visit so soon after the executions. It was already nigh impossible to get the sleeping draught into the guards’ ale, and—”
“Then why didnae ye alert St. Giles to beware of that Highland beast?”
Bevin dropped his gaze. “I…I didnae realize until MacAdams had already departed for France what he was about. By then it was too late to get word to St. Giles through the normal channels.”
William scrubbed a hand over his face, breathing a curse. “What good is having ye placed in the palace stables if ye cannae even keep track of who comes and goes?” He fixed Bevin with a cold stare. “Mayhap David de Brechin was wrong about ye. Mayhap ye arenae any use to me after all.”
He let Bevin squirm for a moment before going on. “In which case, I’ll tell the guards all about the wee mishap with that young cousin of yers. Yer clan willnae want ye back once the truth comes out—assuming ye arenae simply killed on the spot when the guards learn that ye raped and strangled that sweet girl, then sank her body in the loch to make it all disappear.”
“Nay, sire, please, I beg ye, dinnae tell—”
“Shut yer trap, ye blithering idiot,” William snapped. The wheels in his mind ground slowly as he contemplated what to do. In only a few months, his brain had grown rusty and dull as a nail left out in the rain with naught to do but stare at the stone walls of his cell. He needed to think, needed to regain control of the situation.
St. Giles had been one of his few remaining contacts in France. Through Bevin, William had managed to get word to the man shortly after being sentenced to rot in Scone’s dungeon. Even then, with his wits sharp and his rage against the Bruce to fuel him, William had known he’d have to play things carefully at first. He couldn’t strike directly at the whoreson King yet.
The galling truth was, William no longer had the resources to plot a direct attack against the Bruce. In hanging the nobles who’d conspired with William in the Bruce’s overthrow, the King had sent a message that had frightened off many of William’s few remaining allies. He still had Bevin, of course, and a small handful of others who knew that crossing William would be far worse than anything the King would do to them.
Weakened and imprisoned, William had to bide his time, wait until the dust settled, and slowly gather his allies once again to strike against the King who had taken so much from him. Besides, the palace was crawling with the King’s Bodyguard Corps. The Bruce was never without at least a few of his elite warriors, according to Bevin. It was too early yet to attempt another assassination.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t strike at someone else. Someone who had humiliated and belittled him. Someone he burned to hurt as she’d hurt him. Oh, there were others he yearned to eliminate—that English bitch Elaine Beaumore, for starters, who’d killed his closest ally, David de Brechin, and Jerome Munro, who’d helped Elaine unravel his plan. And of course he would take pleasure in orchestrating Kieran MacAdams’s death from within Scone’s dungeon.
But Vivienne de Valance was meant to come first. She was supposed to be well outside the Bruce’s notice, tucked away in the French court imagining that since she’d rid herself of the scheming William de Soules, all was quiet and well. If aught, William had regretted sending St. Giles to kill her, because it would mean that he wouldn’t be able to make her suffer at his own hands.
But for once, Bevin was right. Their backchannels for communication were slow and delicate. It had taken a month just to arrange for the French bitch’s murder. There wouldn’t have been time to change course even if William had learned right away of MacAdams’s presence.
And now thanks to that brutish Highlander, William had neither his ally in France nor the knowledge of Vivienne’s death, which he’d meant to savor while he bided his time against the Bruce.
Damn it all, he was thinking in circles again. He needed to focus. Who knew when Bevin would be able to slip down to the dungeon to give him a report again?
“You said a great deal has happened since last we spoke,” William said, leveling Bevin with his gaze. “Is there aught else?”
Bevin nodded eagerly, his eyes widening. “Ye’ll never believe it, sire. They are here!”
Confusion tumbled through him. “Who is here?”
“The woman and MacAdams,” Bevin said, his breaths coming faster now. “He killed St. Giles, but then he brought the woman to Scone—right into the palace.”
Why would the idiot Highlander do such a thing? It didn’t matter, William told himself firmly, his own breath coming short with his excitement. He thought of the French whore just above him, gliding about in all her fine clothes and jewels, her bonny head held at that damn haughty angle. He thought of touching that creamy skin of hers, then breaking her neck with his bare hands.
Nay, nay, he would do it slower than that if he could. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“They are likely departing in a matter of hours,” Bevin said, interrupting William’s thoughts. “The Bruce sent someone to the stables to select two fine horses for them. What should I do, sire?”
William frantically searched his mind for a plan. She was so close, but if he wasn’t careful, she would slip through his grasp again.
“Gather whatever men ye can find. Use the stash of coins I told ye about to hire mercenaries if ye have to—whatever it takes. Follow Vivienne and MacAdams out of Scone. Dinnae strike right away, else the Bruce’s men will be close enough to give aid. But dinnae let them slip away.”
“And once we have them, sire?”
William’s lips drew back from his teeth. “Kill them.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Somewhere behind the thick, steel-gray clouds overhead, the sun peeked above the horizon. Kieran turned to the Bruce, who stood beside him in the courtyard before the palace, and gripped his forearm in a firm shake.
“Luck be with ye, MacAdams,” the King murmured. “I still dinnae like sending ye out who kens where without anyone to watch yer back, but…” His keen eyes flicked to Vivienne, who was saying her farewells to the others. “…I suspect ye would give yer life to protect the lass—and mayhap even rise from the dead to ensure her safety.”
It seemed there was no point in trying to deny what everyone already thought—that some special connection bound Kieran and Vivienne together—so instead of fighting it, Kieran simply replied, “Ye can count on it, Robert.”
The King flashed him a wry smile before his features settled into serious lines once more.
“I think I shall move de Soules away from Scone,” he said, lowering his voice.
Kieran frowned in surprise. “Oh?”
“If he is to spend the rest of his life in a dungeon, he neednae be right under my nose here at the palace.”
“Do ye think that will lessen the threat he poses to Vivienne?”
The King stroked his beard, considering. “I dinnae ken, but tucking him away somewhere more remote would at least remove attention from him. And it may dissuade his allies from seeking to keep his cause alive. Out of sight, out of mind, ye ken.”
Kieran wouldn’t count on a simple change in de Soules’s location to keep Vivienne safe, but it was better than doing naught, he supposed. He nodded to the King. “A sound thought.”
“I’ll try to get to the bottom of this blasted rebellion from here,” the Bruce added. “So dinnae turn into a complete hermit. Get word to us every now and again, man. And hopefully verra soon I’ll be able to bring ye and Lady Vivienne back in—when the last of de Soules’s allies are weeded out and she’ll be truly safe.”
“Thank ye,” Kieran replied soberly.
Vivie
nne, who’d been tilting her head respectfully to the members of the Corps who had gathered to see them off, now turned to Elaine. The two clasped each other in a long hug that ended with Elaine wiping tears from her cheeks.
“Farewell,” Elaine said, her voice tight with emotion. “We will see you at Scone again soon, I am sure of it.”
Vivienne smiled warmly at her friend. “And just think, when I return, you will be a married woman. I hope you’ll plait your hair the way I showed you. You’ll be the most beautiful bride, mon amie.”
Elaine nodded, trying to blink away more tears.
Vivienne turned to the King, and despite his insistence that she needn’t be so formal with him, she dipped into a graceful curtsy. The Bruce took her hand and helped her rise, then bowed over it.
“Ye have the King of Scotland in yer debt, Lady Vivienne,” the Bruce said, straightening. “Dinnae forget that.”
Their horses were already saddled and ready, held by a young lad a few paces away. Kieran helped Vivienne mount the fleet-footed chestnut mare the King had provided, then swung onto the back of his own dappled silver stallion.
With a final nod to the Bruce and the other members of the Corps standing in the courtyard, Kieran urged his horse through the open gate in the palisades, Vivienne following.
He had assumed that as they rode away from Scone, the knots in his shoulders would ease and his jaw would loosen. He was on Scottish soil, after all, and what was more, he was headed into the Highlands, the land that had forged him into the man he’d become. He was made for wilderness, not Kings’ palaces, and never was he happier than when he was alone.
But he wasn’t alone. His skin pricked and his pulse leapt traitorously at Vivienne’s nearness. Though he preferred the sprawling, empty forests and moors of the Highlands to the crowded courts in Paris and Scone, there was a certain safety in being surrounded by others—safety from himself and his desire for her.
When they were alone together, he couldn’t seem to think of aught else but kissing her, touching her, being inside her. His mind drifted back to Captain Larsson’s cabin, the creamy glow of her skin, her gasps and moans of pleasure filling his ears, and the erotic roll of her hips as she’d ridden him.
Hell and damnation.
She’d said that their surrender to desire didn’t change aught, and he’d agreed, but that had been a lie. Even before they’d succumbed to pleasure, things had already begun to change in the darkest, most secret corners of Kieran’s heart.
Damn it all, with each passing moment, he was breaking his vow to himself never to get involved with someone again, never to let himself care as he once had with Linette.
His only hope as they left Scone behind was to keep her at a distance, even while staying close to her side at all times. Without being able to put any physical space between them, his only other alternative was to stretch the silence that hung around them as they rode north. Aye, this silence would be his salvation.
* * * *
This silence would be the death of her.
Besides a few grunts and monosyllabic commands, Kieran had been taciturn since they’d departed Scone several hours ago. It was particularly maddening because there was so much left unsaid between them.
Vivienne shifted in her saddle, still unused to riding for so many hours straight without a break. At least her physical discomfort gave her something to focus on besides the laden silence between them.
There were far too many unknowns ahead for her peace of mind. How long would she be in hiding? When would it ever be safe to return to her old life? She hadn’t truly let herself consider it before, but now that they had set out into the Highland wilds, she realized that she had no idea when—or if—there would ever come a time when she would be safe again.
The thought was terrifying, not only because it meant she might never be able to go home again, but also because she would be alone with Kieran—indefinitely.
And that fear led to a series of questions about what lay between them—mere lust? Something more?—that she didn’t want to contemplate at the moment.
So to keep from driving herself mad with the worries and unknowns spiraling through her mind, she blurted the safest question she could think of.
“Now will you tell me where you are taking me?”
He glanced at her, his brow furrowed and his eyes distracted. Perhaps Vivienne wasn’t the only one lost in troubling thoughts.
“Ye wouldnae ken the place even if I told ye,” he replied gruffly.
Of course he was right.
They’d ridden over gently rolling hills dotted with farmlands and clumps of trees all morning, but by afternoon, they’d entered a denser pine forest. He might as well have been leading her in circles for all that she could distinguish where they were, except for the fact that the weak October sun had broken through the gray clouds behind them not long ago and proven that they were indeed riding north.
Vivienne gingerly adjusted her cloak on her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Oui, that is true, but you could at least tell me how much longer we will ride.”
Kieran grunted, but luckily he deigned to add a few words as well. “Four days. Mayhap three if the weather doesnae turn.”
He glanced up at the sky with a frown. Judging from the darker clouds to the west, the dry conditions wouldn’t hold.
They fell into another silence, broken only by the occasional snort from the horses. Vivienne tried a different tack, determined to get at least a few answers to the questions making a muddle of her thoughts.
“I was surprised the King offered to send another member of the Corps with us,” she began carefully. “Or rather, I was surprised at how quickly you refused him.” Of course, she knew Kieran to be a proud, stubborn man, but was there more to it than that? Did he hope to have her all to himself in whatever remote corner of the Highlands he was taking her?
He snorted. “Ye already ken how I feel about relying on others. It is a fool’s errand.”
She worked her lower lip with her teeth for a moment in thought. “Oui, I remember. But I don’t understand why you are so set against letting anyone help you.”
“Something I’ve never understood,” he commented, “is why ye agreed to drug de Soules back in Paris.”
She blinked, caught off-guard by his blatant redirection of the conversation.
“Ye kenned de Soules was up to trouble when ye recognized him from his little plotting liaisons with Edward Balliol,” he went on, “and it was right of ye to say something to Elaine. But that could have been the end of it. Ye could have passed on yer bit of information and left the rest to Jerome, Elaine, and me.”
He leveled her with a piercing blue stare. “But ye didnae. Ye practically jumped at the opportunity to slip that draught into his wine. Nor did ye hesitate to offer to keep him incapacitated at court while Jerome and Elaine unraveled his plan, and I delivered the King’s declaration of freedom to the Pope. Why?”
Vivienne frowned. “Because it was the right thing to do.”
“Nay, it was the dangerous thing to do,” he shot back.
She narrowed her gaze on him. He’d been like this—overprotective and domineering—when he’d first learned of the part she would play in thwarting de Soules last summer.
“Ye risked yer life and made yerself a target by drugging him,” he said. To her surprise, he took the edge from his voice. “I still dinnae understand why.”
Vivienne swallowed. “I suppose it was because of Guy.”
Kieran stiffened at the mention of the name, a muscle in his jaw twitching behind his dark stubble.
“De Soules reminded me of him, in a way,” she continued. “I…I couldn’t stand the thought of a man like that—a cruel, callous man who was only looking out for himself—ruling the world. Or at least ruling a country.”
She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug. “Putting a target on my back was a small price to pay to prevent a man like that from overthrowing his own country. And of course ther
e was France’s alliance with the Bruce and Scotland to think of.”
She glanced at him to find his gaze pinning her, his blue eyes simmering with respect. Despite the crisp edge to the air, heat climbed up her neck and into her face.
Mon Dieu, he was most effective at befuddling her thoughts and redirecting her attention.
“Here we are again, discussing my story, which you already know anyway,” she said, straightening in her saddle. “But what of you? Why are you so set against accepting help from others?”
He cleared his throat, the leather of his saddle creaking as he adjusted his position. “I dinnae see what all these questions have to do with my role as yer bodyguard.”
“What about your role as my lover?”
Kieran’s eyes rounded and he sputtered for a moment. “Yer what?”
Vivienne knew she would have to shock him in order to keep him talking. She savored his stunned reaction for a moment before continuing. “What would you call what we did on the ship? Or against the wall at that inn?”
“I wouldnae exactly go so far as to call me yer—”
“We are to remain in close quarters for an indefinite stretch of time, are we not?” she went on.
He swallowed hard, his eyes flaring with a blue fire hot enough to still her tongue for a moment. His thoughts, which he so often guarded with a stony countenance, were plain as day. Indeed, they would be in close quarters—and they both knew exactly what that would lead to.
Fantasies about his lips and hands exploring her, his cock driving into her, pushing her to the heights of ecstasy, threatened to scatter every last rational thought she possessed. She forced herself to shove aside the sudden flood of desire and focus on her interrogation.
“Should I simply pretend you are nothing more than a warrior?” she murmured. “A guard no more capable of emotion or intelligence or interest than a rock? Non, of course not. If we are to remain in each other’s company, to be thrust into such…intimate circumstances, you ought to be able to share something of yourself, as I have with you.”
