“I trust ye can forget all of this.”

Vivienne’s head whipped around at the sound of Kieran’s voice. He spoke quietly to Captain Larsson a few feet away on the ship’s deck, giving the man a piercing scowl.

“A Highlander and a Frenchwoman traveling from Calais to Scone,” Kieran went on. “No’ something worth commenting on to anyone else, ye understand?”

The captain gave Kieran a blank stare. “I have no idea what you are talking about, friend,” he said. “I am a simple trader and a man of the sea. Why would I know anything about any Scot or Frenchwoman?” He broke the façade then, flashing Kieran a grin.

“And I trust yer crew will follow yer lead,” Kieran said, glancing at the men securing the sail and preparing the anchor to be lowered.

“Rest assured, friend, Ganger Larsson is not a man to be crossed,” the captain replied. “My men know that—and anyone who thinks otherwise is in for a lesson.”

Kieran nodded. “My thanks. I’m in yer debt.”

“Nei, Highlander,” Captain Larsson said, his blue eyes dancing. “You paid more than twice what you should have for passage, even including the use of my cabin and your…what do you Scotsmen call it? Your ‘wee dram’ of whisky?”

Kieran snorted and slapped the man on the shoulder. Despite the captain’s strong, sinewy form, he was forced to take a staggering step forward or be knocked to the deck.

“Still, I appreciate ye being kind enough to take my coin and keep yer lips sealed.”

“What happens at sea is best kept between oneself and the water,” Captain Larsson said, glancing between Kieran and Vivienne with a look that was too knowing for her sense of modesty.

Feeling her face flush, she snapped her head back around and focused on what lay ahead.

After five long days at sea, Scotland had finally emerged against the misty horizon, blazing with the colors of autumn. Though the season’s cool touch had only just begun creeping over France when they’d left, it seemed that fall’s cold, damp grip had already latched onto Scotland. The air was heavy with the threat of rain, and the grass-covered hills were turning from green to amber beneath the steely sky.

 In the last two days, Vivienne had finally begun to find her sea legs, though even now she still had to grip the railing to avoid stumbling with the incessant roll of the ship beneath her. At least she’d been able to hold down food and water and didn’t feel quite as weak as she had at first.

Despite Captain Larsson’s ribbing praise that perhaps she could be turned into a sailor yet, Vivienne had said more than a few prayers of thanks when one of the men had spotted land that morning.

But more than simply feeling solid ground beneath her feet once more, she was grateful to be headed to Scone, if only for a little while, as Kieran had warned her.

Ever since leaving the French court, Vivienne had felt off-balance. After seven long years of living entirely inside the world of carefully orchestrated manners and highly regulated performances of everything from dancing to sipping wine, it was disorienting to live without rules and rituals.

Though she had never set foot on Scottish soil, let alone visited the King’s palace in Scone, Vivienne understood how to be a lady at court—far better than she knew how to be a woman alone with Kieran.

They hadn’t spoken further of the intimacies they’d shared three nights past. Kieran had remained close, as he always did, despite the fact that the captain and his small crew clearly posed no danger to her. Yet he hadn’t suggested that they partake of his “cure” for seasickness again.

Vivienne assumed that with the proverbial itch scratched between them, Kieran’s lust was slaked and his interest on the wane. For her part, their wild, passionate joining had the opposite effect. Even more than she’d been before, she was acutely aware of his every move, his every glance and breath.

It was maddening. She cursed her traitorous body for its wantonness, but there was no denying it. She wanted more of him. So much more than he could give.

“We should be on land in a quarter of an hour at most.”

She jumped at Kieran’s voice right behind her. He stepped to the rail beside her, his gaze scanning the mist-shrouded hills on either side. To her surprise, they hadn’t merely anchored along the shoreline, but had sailed right into the mouth of a wide, slow-moving river that drew them deeper inland.

Ahead, she spotted other masts and sails through the fog.

“There,” Kieran said, pointing to the cluster of ships. “We’ll anchor with the others, then disembark even before the captain’s cargo.”

She nodded, not trusting her voice with him standing so near.

Kieran headed below deck to fetch their saddlebags while the crew began their final preparations to anchor. Men dashed about as the captain shouted orders, while Vivienne tried to stay out of the way.

Two small dinghies, which were lashed to the side of the ship with rope, were lowered into the water. At the captain’s command, a rope ladder was also dropped over the side.

“This is farewell, milady,” Captain Larsson said, giving her a little bow. “Until the seas bring us together again.”

“Hopefully that will not be anytime soon,” she replied, making him bark a laugh.

She carefully picked her way down the ladder and into the waiting dinghy, where one of the crewmen had already settled himself behind the oars. Kieran descended after her, their bags over one shoulder.

As their own boat drew away, Vivienne watched the other dinghy being loaded with the barrels of wine, each one lowered on a rope from the cargo ship’s hold. In a matter of moments, they bumped into the wooden docks built along the river’s edge, and with Kieran’s help, she climbed out of the dinghy.

To her horror, though the docks were clearly rooted and unmoving, it felt as though they swayed beneath her. She staggered toward the riverbank, but even with her feet planted on solid ground, the soil seemed to have turned to water.

“Good luck finding your land legs, milady!” Captain Larsson shouted from the ship. The chuckles of his crew were nearly swallowed by the fog.

“It willnae be so bad as before,” Kieran assured her as he took her arm, steadying her as he guided her away from the docks.

By the time they had walked up a damp, grassy rise on the north bank of the river, Vivienne was already beginning to feel better. On the other side of the hill sat a sleepy little village that didn’t look so different from the quiet hamlets in Picardy. Thatch-roofed buildings sat clustered together, many with tendrils of smoke rising from their chimneys, and the streets, though mud rather than cobblestones, bustled with villagers going about their day.

Kieran led her into the village, moving through the buildings until the familiar scent of animals and hay reached them. He halted before a large, tidy stable and called for the stable master.

To her surprise, Kieran pulled several coins from the pouch on his belt and traded them with the stable master for two serviceable if rather weathered-looking horses.

“We’ll only need these for the ride to the palace,” he said quietly as he helped her mount. “It is an hour away.”

Keeping their horses close, Kieran took the lead, guiding them westward.

They rode along the river, past small villages like the one they’d bought the horses in and through clumps of wild, tangled forests. Vivienne drank in her surroundings in quiet wonder.

Even only a short distance from the King of Scotland’s palace, she felt as though she were in a remote half-wilderness. She realized now that France was tamer and far more cultivated that Scotland. Here, they seemed never more than a stone’s throw from some thicket of trees or overgrown patch of forest where humans rarely set foot.

As in Picardy, the landscape rolled gently, though many of the trees and grasses already flared orange and red and yellow now that Michaelmas had come and gone and October was upon them. She was grateful she had on her fur-trimmed cloak, for the air held a damp bite to it.

Soon Kieran guided them away from the river and cut northwest into the more wooded hillsides. A soft rain began to fall, and Vivienne pulled her hood up against it. For his part, Kieran hardly seemed to notice that his head and shirt were growing wet. It seemed he was as immune to the effects of the cold and rain as the tall, solid pines surrounding them.

Ahead, the trees began to thin, and Vivienne glimpsed two stone edifices rising from behind a wooden palisade. One of the towers was clearly a church spire, pointed and inlaid with a few valuable panes of stained glass. The other was square and squat, and beneath it she could make out a sprawling series of connected buildings before the palisades cut off her view.

“Welcome to Scone Palace,” Kieran said, glancing at her over his shoulder.

Vivienne felt her eyes widening. This looked more like a rudimentary, cobbled-together keep than a palace. The tower and rambling attached buildings seemed to have latched themselves onto the church a hundred years belatedly. And the palisade was clearly an afterthought. Though they stood nearly twenty feet tall, the sharpened wooden poles wouldn’t offer much protection for the likes of a King.

Where was all the finery fit for a monarch? Perhaps it would be different inside, yet Vivienne suspected she’d been quite wrong to imagine Scone Palace would be anything like the French court. And even more mistaken in assuming her experience at court would make her feel at home here.

As they approached the gate at the front of the palisades, several guards halted them. But when Kieran reined in his mount, one of the guards blinked in surprise.

“MacAdams. Ye’ve returned.”

“Aye,” Kieran replied acerbically. “As ordered by the King.”

The guards leapt into motion then, several opening the wide, heavy gate and another darting inside to announce their arrival.

As they rode into the small courtyard in front of the palace, worry formed a knot in Vivienne’s stomach. Would she be granted time to rest and refresh herself after their long journey, or would she be presented to the King of Scotland straightaway?

And how was she to behave when she met him? Because she was part of the Queen’s inner circle, she was granted certain liberties in formality with both the King and Queen. Even still, they were royalty and she a lesser noble from a small and relatively humble family line. Decorum and propriety meant everything in all her interactions at court. Would King Robert expect the same?

Kieran helped her dismount and handed the reins to a stable lad who came running from behind the palace. He gave the lad instructions on having their saddlebags delivered to them, then guided Vivienne toward the palace’s double doors.

Vivienne hesitated as the doors were thrown open by two guards. “Don’t you think we should—”

But before she could finish her entreaty, she was standing in the entrance to the King’s great hall. Though it boasted vaulted ceilings and a long row of trestle tables and benches, the space could have fit five times over into King Philip’s preferred great hall—and he had three of them.

The walls were lined with delicately woven tapestries depicting Scotland’s great victories in battle. Candlelight softened the otherwise plain and rather austere space, as did the clean rushes on the floor. Several servants, who had been shuffling about preparing the hall for the evening meal, stopped and stared curiously at Vivienne.

“Dinnae fash,” Kieran said softly as they strode across the hall under the eyes of the servants. “Things are a wee bit different here than in France. But ye neednae worry.”

She didn’t have time to ponder what he meant, for at the other end of the hall, a tall man in his middle years stepped from one of the many doors at the back. He wore a well-made yet modest tunic and breeches, with a length of red and green plaid looped over one shoulder. His russet hair and beard were liberally slashed with gray, yet his brown eyes were keen and lively even from this distance.

It wasn’t until Kieran halted and dipped his head in his usual marginal show of respect that Vivienne belatedly realized she was openly staring at the King of Scotland himself.

Mon Dieu. She was in the thick of it now.