Page 17

17: THE INTERLOPER

AN ODD QUIET settled over Stirling Castle in the days following the death of William Douglas.

Some of the guests departed swiftly afterward, without fanfare or drawn-out leave-taking.

However, the Mackay brothers remained.

Unfortunately for Iver, Colin Campbell hadn’t forgotten that they’d accepted his invitation to visit Kilchurn.

The laird had business in Stirling after the council, and so Iver and Lennox were forced to wait until he too was ready to depart.

Initially, Iver had ground his teeth at the thought of having to make a detour to Kilchurn, and to endure Campbell’s clumsy attempts at matchmaking.

But these extra days in Stirling gave him the opportunity he needed.

The queen and her ladies locked themselves away for the first two days after the council, yet Iver paid them a visit on the third morning.

He hadn’t wanted to disturb them earlier, for it seemed in poor taste.

Nonetheless, he could delay this no longer.

He just hoped Adair hadn’t already departed like so many of the other guests.

Standing in the doorway to the ladies' solar, and uncomfortably pinned by curious female stares, he asked if they knew the whereabouts of Lady Adair Farquharson.

The queen was seated by the fire, embroidering. Two of her ladies sat at her feet. One of them wound wool onto a spindle, while the other sorted through a large basket of thread. A third lady worked at a loom by the window.

This chamber was like a more richly furnished version of his mother’s solar back at Dun Ugadale. Scented with dried herbs, warm, and filled with brightly-hued cushions, it was a welcoming, feminine space.

Queen Mary met his eye before shaking her head. “Apologies, Mackay,” she said, her voice low and melodious. Her face was a little pale and drawn this morning. “But I know no one by the name.”

Iver stiffened. “Ye don’t, Yer Highness?”

As a clan-chief’s daughter, Adair should have spent time with the queen and her ladies during her stay at Stirling.

Mary held his gaze for a moment longer, curiosity igniting in her blue eyes. She then shifted her attention to her companions. “Do any of ye know Adair Farquharson?”

One by one, they all shook their heads.

“Ye would remember the lady if ye had seen her,” Iver said. “For she has russet hair … of a similar shade to the king’s.”

“All the Farquharsons have red hair,” one of the court ladies, the one at the tapestry, answered with a pert smile. “He has a large brood of sons and daughters … but I don’t recall one called Adair.”

Iver’s brow furrowed.

A large brood of sons and daughters? Adair had said she only had two younger sisters.

An awkward silence fell in the ladies' solar then.

Iver shifted, uncomfortable under penetrating female gazes.

He hadn’t meant to do so, yet he’d piqued their curiosity.

No doubt, he’d be the subject of gossip the moment he left the chamber.

“I’m sorry we aren’t able to help, Mackay.” Mary favored Iver with a weary smile.

Despite the distraction Iver had provided, a shadow lingered on her face and in her eyes.

No doubt witnessing Douglas’s broken body land at her feet, and discovering her husband had killed him, had shaken her.

“It is I who must apologize,” he replied stiffly, taking a step back, “for intruding upon ye here.”

The queen gave a delicate shrug.

“Don’t mind about that. However, I suggest ye speak to the seneschal as well. Duncan Stewart misses little that goes on in this keep.”

Iver dipped his head and took a step backward.

“Thank ye, Yer Highness. I shall seek him out.”

Departing the ladies solar, Iver then climbed to the next floor of the castle, making his way to the seneschal’s chambers.

The atmosphere in the fortress was subdued this morning.

Ever since the ‘bloody council’ as many of the guests were now calling it, the king had retreated from sight.

He was still resident at Stirling yet hadn’t socialized since.

Iver didn’t expect to see him before his own departure.

As he walked, a frown furrowed his brow.

It was odd indeed that the queen and her ladies didn’t know Adair.

She was a clan-chief’s daughter, after all.

Nonetheless, there had been a large guest list for the banquet and masquerade ball—she’d obviously gotten lost in the crowd.

Adair wasn’t like any woman he’d ever met; he shouldn’t have been surprised she’d avoided the queen and her ladies.

Iver’s step quickened.

Despite the events at the council having drawn his attention over the past days, he hadn’t forgotten Adair.

Whenever he had a quiet moment, memories of the words they’d shared, and what they’d done in the moonlight, stole upon him.

He hadn’t said anything to Lennox about her.

His brother would only ask questions he didn’t wish to answer—such as, why Iver was so intent on finding the woman when he’d made it clear he’d sworn off love?

Reaching the seneschal’s chambers, Iver found Duncan Stewart at his desk by the window.

The big man, his greying hair tied back at the nape of his neck, was hunched over an open ledger, squinting down at the page as he scratched out numbers with a quill.

The door was open, so Iver halted in the doorway and knocked on the oaken frame.

Stewart glanced up, a welcoming smile stretching across his face when he saw who it was.

“Mackay … come in.”

Iver smiled back as he stepped inside the chamber.

“Apologies for the intrusion. I was looking for someone … and thought ye might be able to help.”

The seneschal replaced his quill in its pot.

“Whom is it ye seek?”

“A woman by the name of Adair Farquharson of Braemar … she’s daughter to the clan-chief.” The seneschal’s face went blank, yet Iver pressed on.

“I’ve just been to see the queen, and she doesn’t know her.”

“I don’t either,” Stewart replied with an apologetic shake of his head.

Iver’s pulse quickened.

“But ye must do … she attended the queen’s masquerade ball. A lass with red hair, of around five and twenty, dressed in purple. I danced with her.”

The two men’s gazes met and held.

Stewart’s brow then furrowed; it was clear he was doing a mental inventory, trying to match Iver’s description to one of the guests.

“I’m sorry, Iver,” he said after a lengthy pause.

“But I oversaw the guest lists myself. The Farquharsons didn’t attend the celebrations … and the only red-haired lady who attended was Elspeth MacKenzie. However, she’s weathered at least fifty winters, I’d guess, and was attended by her husband the whole evening.”

Iver’s skin prickled.

It was warm inside this chamber, for a hearth crackled just a couple of feet away from where he stood; nonetheless, he suddenly felt cold.

“I didn’t dream her up, Duncan,” he muttered.

“She was a real woman, in flesh and blood. And she did attend the queen’s ball.”

The seneschal sat back in his seat and scratched his whiskery chin.

His dark eyes were veiled now.

“Aye, well, in that case, I’d say we have an interloper.”

Iver swallowed.

An interloper. God’s teeth, who was she?

“Could she have been a local woman … from Stirling?” he croaked.

“We had clan representatives from nearby—the Grahams, the Bruces, and the Drummonds—travel in just for the evening,” Stewart admitted.

“Yet none of the ladies match the description ye have just given me.” He paused, his ruddy face tensing.

“No … I’d guess it was one of the servants.”

Iver stilled.

“What?”

“Aye.” The seneschal’s gaze glinted as he pushed himself up from his desk.

“And I can guess which one.”

“Have ye finished chopping those carrots yet?”

“Not yet … but I will have shortly.”

Lorna snorted.

“I swear ye are as slow as a one-handed cripple.”

Bonnie’s cheeks flushed.

“I’m working as fast as I can.”

“Well, it’s not fast enough.”

Dropping her gaze to the carrots she’d indeed almost finished chopping, Bonnie doggedly continued with her task.

Two of the kitchen lads had come down with the flux and were confined to the tiny chamber they shared—which meant that she was on kitchen duty this morning.

Her own duties were a little lighter at present; now that many of the guests had departed Stirling Castle, there weren’t as many chambers upstairs to service.

If anyone else had been presiding over the kitchens, Bonnie would have been eager to assist. In the days since the ball, since Iver, she’d done her best to keep busy.

She guessed he’d have departed Stirling by now—and every time she dwelled on the possibility, her belly clenched.

She knew it was idiotic to wish for such things, yet she would have liked to have caught one last glimpse of him, even from afar.

But she hadn’t. Iver would likely be far from Stirling this morning, on his way back to his broch upon the Kintyre peninsula.

It was mid-morning now, and Bonnie was hot and flustered as she tried her best to keep up with the tasks her aunt threw at her.

Meanwhile, Morag and Alba worked nearby.

Morag was smirking now as she listened to her mother, while Alba ignored them both.

The other servants who worked around Bonnie wisely kept their heads down, focusing on their chores.

Reaching for the last carrot, Bonnie chopped it with more vigor than was necessary.

She then straightened up and glanced over at her aunt.

“All done.”

Lorna turned from where she was adding seasoning to a stew that bubbled over the pot.

“Bring the carrots over here, and add them to the stew.”

Bonnie did as bid, picking up the heavy wooden board and carrying it across the flagstones toward the hearth.

But Morag chose that exact moment to move away from the bench where she’d been rolling out pastry.

“Morag,” Alba whispered, a warning in her voice.

“Don’t—”

Morag ignored her—and the next thing Bonnie knew, her cousin’s elbow collided with hers.

The chopped carrots went flying.

“Clumsy clodhead!” Lorna lunged at Bonnie, swiping at her with an open palm.

And she would have caught her around the ear if her niece hadn’t ducked.

“It wasn’t me!” Bonnie staggered back out of reach as her aunt tried to strike her again.

“Morag deliberately bumped me.”

“I did not!” Her cousin’s shrill voice carried across the kitchen.

“She’s lying, Ma.”

Bonnie turned on Morag, hands clenching around the wooden board she still held.

Meanwhile, pieces of carrot lay scattered around her.

But she made no move to pick them up; instead, she glanced about the kitchen, looking for allies.

As expected, everyone was avoiding her eye.

Everyone except Alba.

“Morag did do it, Ma,” her cousin announced then, her voice low yet sure.

“I saw her.”

Morag sucked in a sharp breath and cut her twin a vicious look.

Alba avoided Morag’s gaze, keeping her attention upon Bonnie.

A long look passed between them, and warmth kindled under Bonnie’s ribcage.

She couldn’t believe it; she’d never expected assistance from Alba.

Her cousin’s support bolstered her courage, and she glanced over at where Morag now glared at her.

“Aye, ye are the liar, Morag Fraser.”

“How dare ye speak to my daughter like that?” Lorna grabbed a wooden spoon then and advanced on Bonnie, two spots of color flaring upon her angular cheeks.

“Misbegotten slattern that ye are!”

Heart pounding, Bonnie faced her aunt down, watching as Lorna’s fingers tightened around the handle of the spoon.

The cook’s arm raised, her pale-blue eyes glinting in the light of the hearth.

Bonnie didn’t flinch, even as her heart slammed against her breastbone.

This was it—she had a choice to make.

If she didn’t want to spend the rest of her days insulted, cowed, and miserable, she needed to make a stand.

And so, Bonnie held her aunt’s gaze.

“Touch me, and I shall tear that spoon off ye and break it over yer head,” she replied calmly.

She wasn’t making a casual threat either.

She’d had enough.

No, she’d never dance among lords and ladies again or know what it was like to have the likes of Iver Mackay court her, yet she wasn’t nothing.

Lorna’s gaze widened.

Although she didn’t lower her arm.

Their stare drew out.

“Ye don’t believe me, aunt?” Bonnie’s voice carried through the hushed kitchens.

“Go on then … just try.”

“Ye will not get away with such insolence,” Lorna gasped.

“I shall inform the seneschal of this … he will have ye flogged.”

“Advise me of what , Lorna?” A man’s deep voice boomed through the kitchens, and all gazes—including Bonnie’s—swiveled to the bottom of the stairs, where Duncan Stewart stood, arms folded across his broad chest.

However, Bonnie’s gaze didn’t remain on the seneschal for longer than a heartbeat.

Instead, it was the tall blond man standing next to him that drew her gaze.

Bonnie’s breathing hitched.

Iver Mackay was staring straight at her.