Page 10

10: APPEARANCES DECEIVE

DAMN IT, HE was starting to sweat.

Things had been going well.

For the first time in years, Iver had let himself go a little.

He’d enjoyed dancing with Adair Farquharson and even flirted a bit.

He had to admit, he was fascinated by this woman.

Their conversation had been enjoyable too, until she brought up the subject of marriage.

At that moment, it had felt as if an icy bucket of water had been emptied over his head.

Adair’s comment about not wanting to leave her home had eased his panic a little, although the directness of her sea-blue gaze now made him squirm.

Suddenly, Iver wished he hadn’t been honest with her.

As much as her presence made him want to lower his shields, there were some things best not spoken of.

His attitude toward marriage wasn’t a popular one, and the bitterness of such a sentiment now cast a shadow over their conversation.

It was at odds with the gaiety around them.

Why couldn’t he have kept their exchange light?

God’s troth, he was turning into a curmudgeon.

Nonetheless, the steadiness of Adair’s gaze made him want to answer her honestly.

“Aye,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I’ve had a run of ill-fortune when it comes to women and proposals of marriage.”

Her lips, lush and bow-shaped, parted slightly.

“I find that hard to believe,” she replied.

Adair’s voice was low and husky.

Yet the tone wasn’t affected in the slightest; it was as if she didn’t have any idea how sensual she was.

“A man like ye could have his pick of any maid.”

He gave a soft snort.

“Appearances deceive, Lady Adair. The women I’ve set my heart upon over the years didn’t share yer opinion, alas.”

Her gaze remained steady.

“Why not?”

Iver raised his goblet to his lips and drained its contents.

He beckoned a page over who was circuiting the fringes of the revelry, ewer of wine in hand.

The lad filled his goblet and then his companion’s as well.

Meanwhile, Iver wondered how on earth he’d answer that question.

He suddenly felt out of his depth with this woman.

Her question was direct, probing—too much so—yet he didn’t want to withdraw from her.

Across the floor, he spied his brother then.

Lennox had taken a short break from the dancing and was now sculling mead from a great ox horn—a difficult feat indeed considering he was still wearing his beaked mask—while two young courtiers cheered him on with whoops and shouts.

Iver’s brow furrowed.

Christ’s bones, don’t encourage him.

Sucking in a deep breath, Iver then shifted his attention back to Adair.

She was watching him, awaiting his reply.

“I wish I could blame the ladies in question,” he replied cautiously.

“Yet I fear it was my doing … looking back, I can see a pattern. I went after women who didn’t want me.” He paused then, a sour taste flooding his mouth as unwelcome memories surfaced.

“I believed that a true lady is coy in her affections, and that it was up to me to pursue her.”

He halted then, heat flushing through him once more.

He couldn’t believe he’d blurted all that out—and to a stranger.

He’d never actually articulated his thoughts so honestly before.

He’d never been candid about the reason why his proposals had always ended in disaster.

Sweat now trickled down his back, between his shoulder blades.

There were some subjects he avoided for good reason.

“I’ve heard some men like a challenge,” Adair replied, her tone veiling.

“There is a thrill in the hunt I suppose.”

“There is.” His gut clenched.

Curse it. He wasn’t giving a great account of himself.

There had to be some way to disentangle himself from this conversation.

“Or so foolish lads, like I was once, believe.”

Bonnie’s brow furrowed.

She wasn’t sure what to think of this laird.

She appreciated how honest he’d been with her—and understood why past experiences might have tainted his view of women.

Nonetheless, the cynicism in his voice took the shine off the enchantment of this evening.

Earlier, she’d been caught up in the excitement of meeting, and dancing with, Iver Mackay.

But his admission hinted that despite the wealth and opulence that surrounded her—happiness didn’t come any easier to lairds than it did to common folk.

Mackay was charming and handsome, yet he didn’t appear to be happy.

The laird flashed her an embarrassed smile, raising the goblet he held to his lips and taking a deep draft.

“I’ve said too much.” His voice roughened.

“And I apologize, Adair … ye didn’t need to hear all that.”

“Don’t apologize,” she replied, stepping closer to him.

Aye, the real man beyond the handsome facade had taken her aback, yet she wasn’t cowed.

Instead, she wanted the magic that had wrapped itself around them earlier to return.

She wanted to see him smile again.

Seeking to put Mackay at ease, she reached out then and placed a hand upon his forearm.

“Sometimes it’s easier to unburden yerself to someone ye don’t know.” Her mouth curved.

“Carrying around a heavy heart does ye no good.”

Although her touch was light, he stiffened under it.

Chastened, Bonnie was about to remove her hand when he reached up with his free one, placing it over hers.

“Thank ye,” he said softly, his voice barely audible over the clamor of music and laughter that surrounded them.

Bonnie paid none of that any notice though.

All she was aware of was Iver’s hand on hers, the strength and warmth of his touch.

It both reassured her and knocked her off-balance.

A strange excitement fluttered low in her belly.

Suddenly, their surroundings disappeared.

The music and laughter faded—and all that existed was the intensity of his dark-blue eyes and the feel of his hand on hers.

The moment stretched out, and then, to her disappointment, Mackay removed his hand and stepped back.

Never breaking her gaze, he lifted his goblet to his lips.

Bonnie mirrored the gesture.

It gave her something to do, for at present, she was tongue-tied.

His touch had unbalanced her.

The laird cleared his throat.

“Ye are somewhat of an enigma, Adair,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting.

Bonnie gave a soft laugh, even as her pulse sped up.

His words reminded her of something Harris, the man-at-arms she’d fallen for a few years earlier, had said once.

“Ye are a riddle, Bonnie,” he’d crooned after they’d tumbled in the hayloft above the stables.

“One I long to solve.”

But Harris hadn’t meant those words, for he’d taken a position elsewhere within the moon and departed without even saying goodbye.

In the days that followed, Bonnie had struggled with grief and panic.

Sorrow that her lover had abandoned her, and fear that her womb might have quickened.

When her courses arrived a few days later, she’d wept with relief.

And ever since Harris, she’d been careful with men.

When the male servants or men-at-arms flirted with her, they were met with a cool response.

And the reminder made her cautious now.

“Am I?” she replied softly.

Her stomach tightened then as her earlier anxiety resurfaced.

Once again, she felt like an imposter—as if one misspoken word would unmask her.

There was a reason why Ainslie had cautioned her against speaking to anyone.

Silence swelled between them once more, an awkward one.

Meanwhile, another lively jig had begun.

The king and queen, after a brief rest, were in the midst of the dancers.

The king’s russet hair flew behind him like a flag as he and Mary swung around each other.

Bonnie kept her gaze upon the dancers and wished she felt more at ease.

Her mind had gone blank; earlier she’d had plenty to say to this man, but now she was at a loss for words.

“Ye have the air of an only child, Adair,” Mackay said finally.

She glanced back at him to see he was watching her intently.

“But surely, that isn’t the case?”

Bonnie favored him with a brittle smile.

“No … I have two younger sisters.” That wasn’t a complete lie, for she saw Morag and Alba as sisters rather than cousins.

Perhaps because they’d grown up together and weren’t that much younger than she was.

“Are ye close to them?”

Bonnie kept her smile in place as she shrugged.

“Not particularly … they are twins and are so fond of each other that I’ve always felt like an outsider.” She inclined her head then, eager to shift the conversation away from herself once more.

“And do ye have siblings, Iver?”

It was bold to call him by his first name.

However, since he’d already done so with her, she decided to be brave.

She found she liked how his name sounded, how it rolled off her tongue.

And he did too, for the laird’s mouth quirked.

“Aye, three younger brothers.” He paused then, scratching his chin.

“As bairns, we were always close … although less so these days.”

Bonnie inclined her head.

“Why is that?”

His smile faded.

“I’m not sure really … maybe we’re all too different. Lennox is the wild one. Kerr is old beyond his years. And Brodie has a dour way about him.”

Shouting reached them, cutting through the rise and fall of the lively music.

Tearing her gaze from Mackay’s, Bonnie shifted her attention to the other side of the hall, where a tall man clad in black leather, wearing a terrifying mask of inky feathers and a sharp beak, had just launched himself at another of the guests—a burly man dressed in a wolf’s pelt.

Excitement rippled across the great hall as the two of them, both clearly in their cups as they staggered and bellowed slurred insults, slugged at each other.

Mackay growled a curse, and Bonnie shot him a sharp look.

“Ye know them?”

“Aye,” he muttered.

“The one dressed like Satan’s crow is my brother Lennox.” With a sigh, he handed Bonnie his goblet.

“I’d better sort this out.” He met her gaze then.

“Will ye wait for my return?”

She stared back at him a moment before murmuring, “Of course.”

Yet even as she assured him that she wouldn’t leave, her belly clenched.

She’d lost track of time since entering the great hall; nonetheless, the eve was drawing out.

Ainslie had advised her to leave while the ball was still at its height.

But she couldn’t bring herself to.

Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to linger just a little longer.

Iver Mackay favored her with a nod—and then he was gone, striding across the floor, weaving his way through the crowd toward where his brother had just driven his fist into his opponent’s gut.