Vivienne carefully laid a strand of rubies against the Queen of France’s neck. The Queen regarded herself in the rare and expensive mirror propped upright on her dressing table. She cocked her dark head in consideration, then nodded to Vivienne’s reflection.

“These will go nicely with your burgundy silks, ma reine,” Vivienne commented as she fastened the necklace’s clasp. She adjusted the strand so that the rubies, each the size of her thumbnail, lay in perfect symmetry across the Queen’s décolletage.

The Queen smiled at her in the mirror. “An excellent idea, ma chère.”

As the Queen turned and spoke to another one of her ladies-in-waiting, warm pride filled Vivienne’s chest. The Queen called many of the other ladies her dear, or her sweet, yet the endearment still touched her heart. She stepped aside so that the others could attend to the Queen’s hair and veil, which would be deep red to match the gown Vivienne had suggested.

Like the other ladies, Vivienne was already dressed in one of the pastel gowns the Queen favored for her attendants. This eve she wore light yellow, which didn’t suit her flaxen hair or pale skin, but it wasn’t her place to question the Queen’s wishes. Vivienne preferred rich, dark colors. But on such evenings as tonight, when the King was hosting a feast for several of his nobles, the Queen liked for her ladies to look like a bouquet of spring flowers as they fluttered around her.

As the Queen was helped into the burgundy silk gown by two ladies, Vivienne dabbed the Queen’s favorite rose water on her throat and adjusted the veil, which was more modestly opaque than the ladies-in-waiting wore.

When at last their preparations were complete, Vivienne fell into place with the other seven ladies-in-waiting around the Queen. Vivienne didn’t even have to consciously adopt the air of grace and poise that she’d once had to practice when she’d first arrived at the palace. Now it was as natural as breathing.

She glided with the others down the wide flight of stairs that led from the Queen’s private chambers to the most opulent of the King’s great halls. Even before they reached the hall, strains of chatter and music drifted to them. The feast was already well underway. Though ever the perfectly decorous monarch, the Queen did like to make an entrance.

The guards outside the hall stiffened to attention as the women approached in a cloud of colorful silks, delicate scents, and feminine murmurs. They drew open the hall’s double doors, bowing as the Queen and her ladies passed.

Vivienne dipped her head in demure modesty as they entered, but even with her eyes lowered, she knew what lay inside. She’d faced countless feasts and celebrations in her seven years at court.

She felt more than saw all eyes turn to them. Several gasps and murmurs of awe rose from those gathered inside. As they glided toward the raised dais where the King sat, the crowd of nobles bowed or dipped into deep curtsies for the Queen.

Vivienne and the other ladies parted, allowing the Queen to take the lead. They fell in behind her like a rippling wake of flower petals.

The Queen mounted the dais and curtsied to the King, who had risen to his feet. And in a show of devotion and courtly love, the King took her hand and lowered his head to kiss it.

The nobles clapped and murmured their pleasure at the gesture. It was proof that their monarchs—and therefore all of France—were strong and united.

As the applause died down and the guests returned their attention to their own conversations, Vivienne took her place at one of the tables just below the dais.

It seemed they had been so fashionably late that they’d missed much of the actual feast. Servants in the King’s blue and gold livery were already clearing trenchers and platters of meats, vegetables, and pastries from the other tables. Musicians had struck up a song at the other end of the hall, and several nobles were beginning to dance.

A few platters of food still remained on the table for the ladies-in-waiting, but Vivienne had scarcely taken two bites when someone behind her interrupted with a clearing of his throat.

“Might I claim a dance with you this eve, Lady Vivienne?”

Vivienne turned to find Thierry de Pontier hovering over her. He bore a practiced smile on his smooth-cheeked face, his hand extended expectantly toward her.

Vivienne matched his smile, pretending as though she didn’t wish to continue eating. One did not turn down the attentions of a rich and well-established nobleman just because one was hungry. Especially not when said nobleman had so assiduously pursued Lady Vivienne for nearly a year now.

She accepted his hand and allowed him to draw her up from the table. When she faced him, she took in his yellow silk cotehardie and matching breeches.

“A little birdie told me that a particular lady would be wearing yellow this evening,” he said with a dazzling grin.

Vivienne felt heat creep up her neck. It was a clear sign. He wished to show all those at the feast that they were a couple. She was closer than ever to securing an excellent match.

Then why had her stomach suddenly turned into a pit of writhing snakes? Thierry was wealthy and well-positioned—he owned a large estate near Orléans, and everyone at court agreed that he was amiable and perfectly mannered.

Vivienne was already four and twenty—far older than any unmarried lady-in-waiting should be. She’d followed along with every step of the carefully orchestrated dance of courtship Thierry had begun a year past when he’d first shown interest in her. There had been the requisite witty and extravagant praise of Vivienne’s beauty, several perfumed missives exchanged, and even a few kisses at feasts like this one.

And his attempt to claim her publicly by wearing the same color was yet another maneuver in the game. This was what she wanted, she reminded herself firmly. A safe match. A secure position in life.

Yet her face ached with a forced smile as she allowed Thierry to lead her toward the other dancing couples.

Thierry picked up the steps elegantly, gliding with Vivienne in the controlled dance. He never touched her, as was appropriate given her position as one of the Queen’s ladies, but his gaze remained fixed on her as they wove through the other dancers, an appreciative light in his brown eyes.

Vivienne was used to men looking at her. Her father had always told her she took after her mother, who was said to be a great beauty. And just as she wanted the stability and security a union with Thierry could give her, he had no doubt calculated the value of a beautiful wife who was a favorite of the Queen for his own wealth and position. They could both get what they wanted if Vivienne would allow the game to continue.

As one dance bled into another, Vivienne let her gaze wander from Thierry to the rest of the great hall. As always, the hall was filled with glittering jewels, shimmering silks, and rich brocades. Thousands of candles made the marble floors seem to glow and filled the air with gilded light. Yet her gaze snagged on the deep shadows in the vestibule leading from the hall to the entrance of the palace.

Sometime during her and Thierry’s dance, the King had moved from the dais into the dimly lit vestibule. Vivienne could just make out his blue, ermine-trimmed cape where he stood amongst his guards.

She squinted at a particularly large shadow that had seemed to move in front of the King. Her skin prickled as if her body knew something before her mind could make sense of it.

Non. It couldn’t be. It was just a trick of her eyes, a combination of boredom with this particular dance and the darkness of the vestibule.

Yet to her disbelief, the King was nodding to the looming shadow, saying something and then pointing to her. The shadow moved forward and became the shape of a man. A giant man.

And not just any giant.

Kieran MacAdams.

Vivienne stumbled, her feet tangling in her silk skirts. She staggered ungracefully into Thierry’s arms.

“Are you all right, mademoiselle?” Thierry asked as he helped her right herself.

“Oui, forgive me,” Vivienne replied, her voice weak.

“Are you sure, ma petite?”

Vivienne was vaguely aware of Thierry’s gaze—and hands—lingering on her, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man now barreling across the great hall like a bull in a rage.

Just as he had when she’d first laid eyes on him a month and a half ago, Kieran MacAdams wore a red-checked plaid belted around his waist, with an extra length of material thrown over one broad shoulder. His plain linen shirt looked to have seen some abuse, as had his dust-covered boots.

His unbound hair curled in brown waves around his shoulders, his mouth set in a familiar grim line. And even from halfway across the hall, she could feel the cold intensity of his pale blue eyes, which did not falter from her even as he plowed through several groups of flabbergasted nobles.

Vivienne’s heart lurched against her ribs nigh painfully. The man looked like a granite boulder tumbling through a sea of polished gemstones. He was so different from anyone at court—big, bold, and more than a little rough around the edges. Unlike the carefully controlled and immaculately graceful nobles all around, he carried his powerful, heavily muscled frame with undeniable determination.

And it seemed he was determined to reach her.

He cut the most direct line across the hall straight toward her, uncaring of the mutters of shock and confusion rippling in his wake.

When he was only a few paces away, his gaze dropped from her face to Thierry’s hands, which still rested on Vivienne’s arms. His brows lowered in a severe line over his faintly crooked nose.

Thierry must have noticed the fierce Scotsman’s glare on his hands, for he quickly snatched them back. With one pace, Kieran had closed the remaining distance between them. But instead of bowing or introducing himself to Thierry, he simply wedged himself between the nobleman and Vivienne, actually shouldering Thierry out of the way.

Ah, oui, there it was. In the commotion of his arrival and the strange thrall his imposing presence had on her as she’d watched him approach, Vivienne had forgotten what an unrepentant brute Kieran was.

She had likely been about to make a fool of herself by continuing to gaze wide-eyed at him or murmuring some breathless greeting in her state of shock. But at his show of boorishness, she remembered herself.

She drew herself up and lifted her chin, managing to look down on him despite the fact that she only came up to his shoulder. Leveling him with a cool stare, she squared off with him.

“I thought you’d returned to Scotland, Monsieur MacAdams.”

“I did.”

She arched one brow ever so slightly. “And yet here you stand, causing a scene in King Philip’s palace.”

“I dinnae care a single flea’s arse if I’m causing a scene or no’,” he replied in that unapologetically coarse brogue of his.

“Then why are you here?” she asked, struggling now to keep her voice even and pleasant in the face of his brashness.

His pale blue eyes flashed with something she couldn’t quite name, but another foreboding ripple of awareness stole over her.

“Ye are in danger. I’m here to protect ye.”