Page 11

11: THE KELPIE’S CALL

IRRITATION SPIKED THROUGH Iver as he bore down on where his brother and Malcolm Sutherland were pummeling each other.

Aye, he’d recognized the huge man in the wolfskin earlier.

The Sutherland clan-chief’s eldest son was impossible to miss in a crowd.

Since his arrival at Stirling, Iver had avoided the Sutherlands.

Relations between the two clans had been strained for years, and he hadn’t missed the baleful looks Malcolm had been flashing him across the hall during the banquet.

Iver’s jaw clenched.

Curse ye, Len … couldn’t ye have picked a fight with someone else.

Reaching his brother’s side, Iver grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back.

Lennox cursed and swung a fist in his direction before realizing it was his brother who was manhandling him.

He pulled the punch at the last moment; nevertheless, his fist grazed Iver’s ear.

Shoving Lennox behind him, Iver stepped forward, eyeballing Malcolm Sutherland.

The clan-chief’s son was bleeding from a cut lip, while his gaze, unfocused from drink, still managed to spear Iver like a pike.

“Stand down, Sutherland,” Iver greeted him.

“The fight’s over.”

“Out of the way, Iver,” Lennox slurred, trying to elbow his elder brother aside so he could reach his opponent again.

But Iver stood firm.

Lennox couldn’t budge him.

Sutherland’s bloody mouth twisted.

“Yer wee brother has an insolent tongue,” he growled.

“He needs teaching some manners.”

“Ye are right, he does,” Iver replied, holding the huge man’s eye.

“But let me be the one to do it.”

The wolfskin-clad warrior took a threatening step toward him.

“I don’t think so. Get out of my way, Mackay.”

“No,” Iver replied, his fists curling at his sides.

“Do ye really want to brawl here … under the king’s gaze?”

A muscle bunched in Sutherland’s heavy jaw.

Nonetheless, Iver knew he’d gotten through to him.

Indeed, many of the dancers, the king and queen included, had stilled, their gazes swiveling their way.

Like his father before him, James took a hard line with the Highland clan-chiefs and chieftains, and he had a low tolerance for their feuding.

Sutherland spat a gob of blood on the floor between them.

With a muttered curse, he then pushed his way past the Mackay brothers and headed toward the doors of the great hall.

Iver watched him go, his own temper simmering.

Sutherland had an insolent mouth on him.

Shifting his attention back to Lennox, Iver shoved him toward the tables at the other end of the hall, where some of the older guests reclined with goblets of wine, watching the revelry—and the fight.

“Come on,” he grunted.

“Time to cool yer heels.”

“Sutherland insulted Niel,” Lennox growled back.

“Are ye going to let the slight lie unanswered?”

“Aye.”

“I had him.” Lennox staggered then.

He would have fallen too, if Iver hadn’t caught him by the arm and hauled him upright.

“God’s teeth, ye’ve had a skinful,” Iver grunted.

“I was about to best the bastard,” Lennox went on, his voice rising.

“Until ye threw yer weight around. Ye always ruin my sport.” All the same, his brother rubbed at his jaw, where a bruise was already forming.

“Shut yer gob and keep walking.”

On the way back to the table where they’d banqueted earlier, they passed William Douglas.

A solitary figure this eve, James’s special guest sat alone at the king’s table, nursing a goblet of wine.

Like Iver, Douglas had opted for a simple mask—one the color of peat that matched his clothing.

The earl’s gaze tracked the Mackay brothers as they passed him, his mouth curving.

“Enjoying yerselves, lads?”

“Aye,” Lennox slurred.

“No gathering is complete without a few punches.”

Douglas laughed.

“Aye … too right.”

Iver managed a smile that felt more like a grimace, pushing Lennox back to their table.

Colin Campbell was still there, a row of empty ewers in front of him.

The laird’s cheeks were flushed with wine as he greeted Lennox.

“That’s a strong right hook ye have on ye.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Iver replied, shoving Lennox down onto the bench seat next to the laird.

“He always thinks he has the strength of ten men when he’s had a few.”

Campbell snorted.

“Aye … we all think that, especially when we have more years before us than behind us.”

“Cods … I think I’m going to be sick,” Lennox announced then.

Iver’s gaze narrowed as he surveyed his brother.

Indeed, Lennox’s face had gone pale under that ridiculous beak, and he was swaying dangerously in his seat.

“Here.” He grabbed an empty ewer and shoved it at his brother.

“Use this.”

Clutching the ewer to his chest, Lennox nodded.

His shoulders hunched then, and he made a soft gagging sound.

Mouth thinning, Iver shifted his attention to Campbell.

“Could ye watch over him for me?”

The laird flashed him a sly smile.

“Eager to return to the revelry, are ye?”

Iver frowned at the insinuation in the older man’s tone, although Campbell’s smile merely widened to a wolfish grin.

“Can’t say I blame ye though … I saw that bonnie woman ye were dancing with earlier.” He nodded toward the dance floor.

“She’s waiting for ye.”

Heaving in a deep breath, Iver glanced back at where he’d left Adair Farquharson.

And as Campbell had stated, she stood at the edge of the crowd, still holding their goblets, her gaze resting upon him.

Shifting his attention back to the Lord of Glenorchy, Iver stiffened.

He had that look that men got when they were both envious and encouraging.

It was clear from his grin that he reckoned Iver would get a hot, sweaty tumble before the night was out.

Campbell’s presumption irritated Iver.

He didn’t like the man paying such close attention to his business—especially since Iver had just turned down his offer to wed his daughter earlier that evening.

“Don’t worry,” Campbell said then, raising his cup in a mocking toast. “I’ll make sure Lennox doesn’t get himself into any more trouble … go on, forget about us.”

Iver was drawn back to her like a moth to a flame.

The knowing edge in Campbell’s voice had galled him.

Yet he’d agreed to keep an eye on Lennox—and Iver didn’t want to throw his offer back in his face.

And so, he’d left Campbell and Lennox with a brusque nod and returned to Adair’s side.

Meanwhile, the disruption that the Sutherland-Mackay fight had caused had been forgotten.

The minstrels had shifted pace to a slow, romantic dance, and when Iver neared Adair, he saw that she was swaying slightly in time with the beat, a smile curving her pretty mouth.

“Do ye wish for another dance?” he greeted her.

To his surprise, she shook her head.

“I prefer the jigs to courtly dances,” she replied.

“However, this is a lovely tune.”

“It is.” He halted next to her and took the goblet she handed him.

“Ye were brave to insert yerself between two brawling men like that,” she murmured.

“I thought that huge warrior was going to take a swing at ye.”

Iver snorted.

“The Sutherlands are troublemakers,” he replied with a shake of his head.

“Malcolm Sutherland thought he’d speak ill of our clan-chief, and like the drunken fool he is, Lennox rose to the bait.”

He lifted his goblet to his lips and took a deep draft.

Unlike his brother, he’d consumed only enough wine to mellow his mood and relax him.

Len always had to take everything to the limit.

Nonetheless, the noise and activity around him were starting to weary Iver.

The great hall of Stirling Castle felt oppressive.

The crowds of drunken revelers pressed in, and the air—warmed by two great hearths at either end of the space and the heat of many bodies—was stiflingly hot.

The urge to be outdoors, breathing in the night air and enjoying some peace, descended upon him, and he met Adair’s eye once more.

“Would ye like to take a stroll outdoors?” he asked.

“It’s a mild night out … and the air in here is suffocating.”

His companion hesitated, and Iver wondered if he’d overstepped.

Despite Campbell’s insinuation, he had no ulterior motive.

Of course, many ladies would worry about the danger to their reputation if they took a moonlit walk with a man.

In other circumstances, he wouldn’t have suggested it.

Yet this eve, he felt as if he’d strayed into another world—one where the usual social rules didn’t apply.

All the same, he didn’t intend to take advantage of her.

The truth was, Adair Farquharson fascinated him.

He wasn’t yet ready to bid her good eve.

But the delay in her response checked him.

He was about to retract his offer when Adair replied, “Aye, I too could do with clearing my head. I’ve had more wine than I’m used to … and it is hot in here.”

An odd wave of relief crashed over Iver.

Smiling, he took her goblet from her and placed both vessels on a ledge behind them.

He then held out his arm to her.

“Well then, My Lady, let us depart.”

Bonnie descended the steps outside the great hall and tried to ignore the wild beating of raven wings in her chest—as both excitement and anxiety fought for dominance.

What are ye doing?

Something she’d likely regret in the morning.

The attraction between her and Iver Mackay was strong enough that good sense warned her it wasn’t wise to be alone with him.

And yet she couldn’t help it.

Being near him was thrilling.

The desire to remain in his company was a kelpie’s call.

Heaving a deep breath of cool air, laced with the scent of woodsmoke, Bonnie glanced up at the full moon glowing overhead.

“What a lovely night,” she breathed.

“It almost feels as if spring is here.”

“It’s too early for that,” Iver replied.

“And considering how cold it was a few days ago, I’d wager that it’s the deep breath before winter hits us with one final flurry.”

Bonnie nodded.

He was likely right.

The bitter weather gave up its grip reluctantly here; they often had snow even into March.

Reaching the bottom of the steps, they cut right, crossing the inner close and heading toward a stone archway.

Torches hung from brackets on either side of the arch, illuminating the figures of helmed guards standing watch.

Mackay nodded to them as they passed.

More torches blazed from the walls in the outer close, although the shadows were longer here.

“The rose garden is a tranquil spot … even this time of year,” Mackay said.

“Shall we walk around it?”

Bonnie smiled.

She’d ventured into the garden rarely over the years—access was restricted to the gardeners, high-ranking servants, and nobility.

The few times she’d visited had been in secret when she was a lass.

The idea of taking a stroll through it now thrilled her.

“Aye,” she replied, attempting to keep the excitement out of her voice.

“I’d like that.”

And so, they crossed to the arch-shaped arbor that led through a high hedge into the garden, feet crunching on gravel.

Beyond, it was much darker than the outer close.

Few torches burned here, although the full moon shone down, casting its hoary light upon them.

It frosted the proud lines of Iver Mackay’s masked face and glinted upon his pale hair.

Bonnie’s pulse quickened.

The Saints forgive her, she could have stared at him forever.

Now that they were outdoors, it was as if a veil had drawn itself around them.

The rest of the world, and the revelry in the great hall, all ceased to exist.

Arm in arm, they circuited the garden, passing neatly pruned rose bushes.

This time of year, the thorny bushes were bare, but come spring, they would burst into life, and soon after, the garden would be decorated in shades of pink and red.

At the heart of the garden, they stopped before a large statue: the rearing head of a horse.

The statue was quite a sight at night, for it was made of a pale sandstone that glowed in the moonlight.

Bonnie raised her chin, gazing upon the kelpie’s wild face.

“It almost looks alive,” she whispered.

“Aye, as if it’s about to grab hold of ye and drag ye into the deep,” her companion murmured.

Bonnie glanced his way to see the laird was gazing up at the statue.

“There is a darkness in ye, Iver,” she observed softly.

“A shadow that not even a magical evening like this one can lift.”

He glanced her way, his gaze widening.

“I didn’t realize I was so transparent.”

“Aye, ye are.”

He huffed a wry laugh.

“My brothers tell me I’m at risk of turning into a bitter old mon.” His expression sobered then.

“I’ve tended to brood of late … sorry about that.”

“Don’t apologize,” she murmured.

“I just find ye full of contradictions … that’s all.”

His mouth curved, and he stepped forward, reaching out and brushing a lock of hair off her forehead.

Bonnie’s breathing caught as the veil drew closer still.

Her world shrank to this man, this moment.

“As are ye, Adair Farquharson. Ye are a clan-chief’s daughter, and yet there is something refreshingly earthy about ye. There have been moments over the last few hours when I feel as if I’ve known ye all my life, and then others when I wonder if this” —his fingers slid over the top border of her mask— “isn’t the only mask ye wear.”