Page 29

The sound of a fiddle had wound up the stairs an hour ago, and Aemyra was sitting on the settee tapping her foot on the rug in time to the lively beat.

The music was helping to alleviate some of her grief and she closed her eyes, allowing the chaotic slide of notes to wash through her, lifting her spirits.

“Mhm.”

Her eyes flew open to find Fiorean standing beside the open door, watching her.

Annoyed at being caught enjoying the faint strains of music, she stood and smoothed the skirts of her dress more self-consciously than she had intended.

“You’re already dressed,” she commented, noticing Fiorean’s perfectly fitted fèileadh. It was tartan, but the pattern was in his habitual black.

His gaze was roving over the dark green dress she had chosen for the occasion. The fabric was the exact shade of her eyes, with long sleeves and a high neck to cover both of her recent wounds. It was modest enough, if one didn’t notice the low back.

“Well, happy breithday,” Aemyra said, trying for civility.

Fiorean simply stood there, his eyes unblinking.

“Is something wrong?” Aemyra asked, feeling suddenly too exposed with her hair pinned up and her back bare.

When no answer was forthcoming, she sighed in irritation and turned toward the wardrobe. It would be a nightmare getting out of this dress without Maggie’s help, and she had already gone downstairs.

“Honestly, I have never met someone so uptight. If I hadn’t already seen you without your breeches, I would be half-convinced you actually had a stick up your arse,” Aemyra huffed, struggling with the dress. “Forcing me to change simply because I don’t meet your idea of perfection, truthfully it’s ridicu—”

“No.”

Fiorean had come up behind her, speaking the word into her ear like it pained him to say it. His fingers brushed the bare skin of her back.

Her skin prickled despite the heat of the room, and she turned to face him.

Fiorean cleared his throat. “I mean, no,” he repeated, his body language unsettled, “you look lovely.”

Aemyra tried not to notice how his proximity unnerved her.

“Blacksmiths can scrub up well.”

Fiorean gave her a brief attempt at a smile. “I thought you would never get the grime out from under your nails. It’s a minor miracle.”

She bit back her retort as he fiddled with the small box he carried. She looked down at it, and then back up to him.

“What is this?” she asked.

“Open it,” Fiorean said as she took the box from his hands.

“This is your breithday, shouldn’t I be giving you a gift?” she asked.

Fiorean arched one eyebrow. “What, pray tell, would you have given me?”

“A black eye…” she muttered instinctively, but at the sight of his face she acquiesced. Biting back her smile, she looked down at the box. “Give me one afternoon in the forge and I’ll make you a proper weapon.”

More than a little apprehensive, Aemyra opened the box’s lid, and almost dropped the whole thing. Nestled on a bed of black velvet was a garnet necklace. She fingered the large gemstone, now enclosed within a circle of black diamonds.

“I can’t accept this,” Aemyra said, looking into his face.

Not letting her say anything else, Fiorean took the box and plucked the necklace out with his long fingers.

Heart in her mouth, Aemyra turned around, wondering if there was some ulterior motive in giving her back the gemstone.

Fiorean looped his arms around her neck and carefully lowered the garnet onto her chest, clearly worried about it touching her wound.

Fastening the clasp, he remained standing behind her, so close that she could smell the lilac and orange blossom from the soap he used.

Looking down, Aemyra touched the garnet.

This stupid jewel meant many things to her. A broken promise, failed revenge, suffering. But all the while it had reminded her that she was meant to be queen.

There was no way Fiorean could have known that, but the fact that he was returning it to her at all spoke volumes.

She turned around to face him, blinking slightly as her nose almost brushed his chin.

“My father calls me ‘magpie,’?” she blurted out.

An amused look crossed Fiorean’s face. “So, you have a penchant for bright, shiny things?”

Fighting to recover her composure, she took a healthy step back from him. “Yes. Like crowns. I believe the one that belongs to me is within this very caisteal somewhere. Shall we go fetch it?”

Fiorean smirked. “Careful, Princess, we might have called a truce, but you are still on the losing side.”

“Queen.”

“Mm.”

With that, Fiorean turned on his heel and strode from the room. The sound of the fiddle and pipes floating in through the open door had Aemyra following.

The halls were empty as they made their way down the spiral staircase, but she could hear the buzzing of hundreds of voices drifting over the music.

Fiorean didn’t seem particularly enthused about attending his own cèilidh, but Aemyra couldn’t help but become swept up in the lively atmosphere. To her immense relief, there were no priests or Covenanters present at the celebration, save for Athair Alfred, who was seated next to the dowager queen. Katherine’s omnipresent shadow, Sir Nairn, stood behind her chair.

Aemyra’s chest wound throbbed under the necklace. The captain’s breaths were numbered.

Lairds and nobles surrounded them on all sides, offering congratulations for Fiorean’s breithday and requesting information on how the fighting was going north of the Forc. Aemyra pricked up her ears.

Before she could seek out even one friendly face in the crowd, Fiorean had slipped away with some minor laird and she was adrift.

Swept into the crowd with wit as her only weapon, she plastered a smile on her face and pretended to play the part of princess instead of queen.

Despite her circumstances, the whoops and cheers from the musicians were infectious, and Aemyra allowed herself to be pulled into a ring of dancers. The thumping beat of the bodhran and the drunken fiddle helped ease her grief.

While her green skirts were flying around her ankles, and curls fell out of her pinned hair, Aemyra was listening.

Tongues were loosening as the cèilidh swelled to a riotous rhythm and Aemyra was learning more about the war than she had in a week. Evidently the Balnain fleet had joined forces with the Iolairean phoenixes, but they dared not make a move until Clan Leòmhann declared for either side.

Judging by the presence of both Evander and Fiorean within the capital, they were waiting for the same news before marching.

But even as she danced with the people who should have been her subjects, Evander and Katherine glared at her from the head of the room. Neither of them had joined in with the dancing, and Katherine looked pale as Athair Alfred whispered in her ear.

Excusing herself from the sweltering crush of dancers, Aemyra made her way to the side of the hall where Maggie sipped from a goblet.

Ignoring the wine, Aemyra looked for something a little stronger as she wiped the sweat from her brow. Finding a bottle of òmar hidden behind a flagon of ale, Aemyra uncorked it with her teeth, grabbed a cup, and poured herself a generous measure.

Maggie’s eyebrows rose as Aemyra groaned when the amber liquid slid across her tongue. The heat spread through her chest, dulling the pain from her wounds almost instantly. It would have been too easy to drain the bottle and forget the rest of her pain for a while.

The heavy expression on Maggie’s face spoke of the grief she was trying valiantly to hide.

“I am sorry for the loss of your nephew. I do hope you don’t share Elizabeth and Elear’s sentiments?” Aemyra asked, having to raise her voice over the clamor of the room.

Maggie replied, “I understand the need to find someone to blame.”

Aemyra smiled. “Spoken like a true diplomat. You’re wasted here at court, they should be sending you out as an envoy.”

Something akin to pride flushed across Maggie’s face as Aemyra took another long draft.

“We have been forced to spend our days together, but it need not be entirely tedious,” Aemyra mused. When Maggie frowned, she leaned closer. “I know the cook. I’m sure we would be welcome in the kitchens if you wish to bake again.”

Her brown eyes softened and Aemyra left the bait dangling. As Nael danced exuberantly, fèileadh flying to uproarious laughter, Maggie stroked her belly.

“Could you have saved Hamysh?” she blurted out, her face pale.

Setting down her cup, Aemyra took a deep breath. “There are never any guarantees, but I do believe had I been allowed to examine him, I could have helped.”

Their shared sad smile was interrupted by the appearance of an oblivious laird.

“Your Highness, may I have the pleasure?”

Both women turned as a vaguely handsome man with dark hair wearing Drummand clan tartan extended his hand.

Finding her cup drained, Aemyra decided to indulge him. It was a group dance and if others from his clan were with them, perhaps she might overhear something of use.

Leaving Maggie, Aemyra soon lost herself to the music once more. A light sweat breaking out on the back of her neck, she was suddenly glad of the low-backed dress and upswept hair. Not wanting to stop dancing for fear that the minute her feet ceased to twirl she would be forced to remember her pain, she spun under the man’s arm and linked hands with the other dancers. Skirts and fèileadh were swirling in a horrible clash of clan tartan.

As the dark-haired man turned her about the room, Aemyra’s gaze snagged on the brooch he was wearing. From a distance it could be mistaken for some sort of bird, but Aemyra stumbled when she saw the Penryth motto stamped across the dragon’s wings.

Onair, chrùin, beus.

“Honor, crown, virtue,” the man whispered into her ear in the common Cainnt.

The only outward sign Aemyra gave that one of Draevan’s spies had found her was a tightening of fingers where they held hands.

Eyes flickering to the top table, Aemyra saw Evander conversing with Fiorean, and Charlotte looked like a shell of a person as Katherine tried to encourage her to eat.

“Do you have a message for me?” Aemyra dared to whisper.

The dark-haired man smiled, revealing crooked bottom teeth. “The kitchens at dawn.”

With that, the man spun her into the next ring of dancers, and he was gone in a flash of green fèileadh. As another man filled his place, Aemyra tried to extract herself from his arms.

“Thank you, my laird, I do believe I would benefit from some refreshment,” she said with a wan smile.

“The dance isn’t finished,” he said gruffly, pulling her roughly into his embrace.

Aemyra reeled back, the garnet on her chest bouncing against her wound. “Take your hands off me.”

“I am Laird Byrne of Kilmuir, and I will not be spoken to in such a manner,” he declared pompously.

Throwing caution to the wind, Aemyra bent her knee and stomped on his foot. Hard. With the heel of her silk-covered slipper.

The laird let out a garbled cry and grabbed her arm.

Her injured forearm.

His thumb was pressing right on top of her stitches, and she cried out in pain.

The sharp sound cut through the music and several pairs of dancers turned to see what was going on.

“You little bitch, how dare you!” Byrne was saying, clutching his foot with one hand and her arm with the other. “Broke my bloody foot.”

Aemyra was gasping in pain and could feel her forehead beading with sweat as his thumb dug in harder, right into the groove of her wound.

The sound of a chair clattering to the ground came from the top table as Katherine got to her feet, outrage clear on her face. Aemyra brought her other hand down and tried to claw Laird Byrne off of her quietly, before she could be accused of making a scene. Unfortunately his grip was strong.

“Release me,” she demanded, her voice weak with pain.

Goddess, she needed to get her hands on a weapon if she was going to stay at this court without access to her magic for much longer.

No sooner had she thought the words than she heard the slide of steel behind her.

“Unhand my wife, or lose it,” Fiorean threatened.

Aemyra sagged as Byrne finally let go.

“Apologies, my prince. But it seems that you need to take better control of your wife if she cannot show common courtesy at—”

Fiorean advanced until he was standing directly by Aemyra’s side, sword held at chest height. “I believe you are mistaken regarding who lacks courtesy, Laird Byrne. My wife asked for refreshments and yet you believed you were entitled to more of her time.”

Aemyra shivered, recognizing the dangerous tone in his voice.

“I beg pardon, my prince, I was only…”

Laird Byrne lifted his hands as if to plead his case and noticed his mistake at the same time everyone else did. His thumb was smeared red with Aemyra’s blood.

Fiorean’s eyes widened, and he immediately lowered his sword. His torso pressed against Aemyra’s shoulder as he cradled her forearm like it was made of glass. The fresh bloodstain was now spreading across the green satin, obvious to those around them.

His face a mask of cold anger, Fiorean threw his sword down to the floor with a clatter and Laird Byrne looked relieved.

Until Fiorean drew his dagger with one fluid movement, grasped Byrne’s hand with his own, and brought his blade down in a ferocious slice that severed the bone.

The gathered crowd gasped and scurried backward to avoid the spray of blood that poured from the stump. The hand fell to the ground at Aemyra’s feet with a wet smack as the Laird of Kilmuir collapsed to his knees, cradling his arm and screaming in pain.

Katherine was suddenly at Aemyra’s other shoulder, hands fluttering as if trying to pull her away from the blood. Maggie fainted, Nael barely catching her before she hit the floor, and Aemyra leaned more heavily into Fiorean to get away from his mother.

Fiorean wiped his dagger on the side of his boot and sheathed it before slipping one arm protectively around Aemyra’s waist, cradling her bleeding arm in his other hand. Alfred’s eyes narrowed in their direction.

“If anyone else here dares to lay even a finger on my wife, you will also lose your hand,” Fiorean threatened.

Hushed whispers flew around the room until Evander began applauding. “Well said, Brother. If you wish to have a hand for your breithday, then you shall have it!”

The pretender king looked at his subjects, who immediately began clapping and cheering, lest they be chosen to lose a limb next. In the confusion, Sir Nairn pulled the dowager queen away in pursuit of Athair Alfred, who had stormed from the hall in a flurry of black robes.

Fiorean bent his head to Aemyra as Byrne was surrounded by his men, his lips almost brushing the delicate skin of her ear.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, her eyes on the bloodstain spreading toward her skirts.

She heard Fiorean breathe a small sigh of relief.

Aemyra inclined her head to where the dismembered hand still lay on the floor, one finger twitching.

“I thought you said no fighting?”

“Have you suddenly developed a conscience?” he asked quietly. “Never had you pegged as a pacifist.”

Aemyra watched as Byrne was dragged from the hall, the bleeding stump clutched in his other hand.

“You should have taken both of them,” Aemyra replied.

Fiorean had one eyebrow raised in appreciation, the ghost of a vindictive smile on his lips. “Next time I’ll let you do the honors.”

As Evander began pouring wine onto the floor to mix with the blood and demanding that everyone resume dancing on top of it, Fiorean escorted her from the hall.