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2: WOLFHOUNDS ON A SCENT

BONNIE FRASER REACHED the landing before realizing she’d forgotten to breathe.

Clutching the linen she’d collected for one of the guest bedchambers, she glanced over her shoulder at where the two men were disappearing into their respective quarters.

Bonnie’s heart bucked hard against her breastbone.

They were both arrestingly handsome—although it wasn’t the one who’d winked at her who’d caught her eye, but his companion.

Tall and heavily muscled, with a shock of white-blond hair that flowed over his shoulders, dark-blue eyes, and chiseled features, his beauty had struck her like a punch to the stomach.

The man he was with had similar looks, although his handsomeness was more rugged.

His hair was a darker blond and cut short—and he walked with a swagger.

She’d heard his companion’s muttered reprimand, and her cheeks flushed hot at the crudeness of it.

The man who’d spoken had a low, gravelly voice that had made her breathing hitch.

All she could think about in the heartbeats that followed was how she wished she’d had the courage to meet his eye, and what it would feel like to have his gaze upon her.

Exhaling sharply, Bonnie drew in a large lungful of air.

Meanwhile, the two men had stepped from the hallway into their bedchambers, the doors thudding shut behind them.

Goose , she chastised herself.

Why the devil would he look at ye?

She was a chambermaid—a shadow.

And the man was clearly somebody .

Dressed in chamois braies, expensive leather boots encasing muscular calves, and with a snowy léine of fine linen, topped by a padded gambeson to keep the winter’s chill at bay—he had the air of a laird.

Indeed, Stirling Castle was full of them at present.

The king and queen were hosting three days of celebrations, and clan-chiefs and chieftains from throughout the realm had traveled here to attend.

The reminder made Bonnie swiftly turn and hurry down the twisting stairwell.

Nearly all the guest chambers within the castle were now occupied—and she’d just been instructed to make up a bed for a latecomer on the floor below.

She shouldn’t be dragging her heels.

Nonetheless, a familiar heaviness pressed down upon her as she made up the guest bedroom—a hopelessness that dragged at her limbs.

Fighting it, she placed an iron warming pan full of hot coals from the glowing hearth inside the bedcovers.

The weather had warmed a little recently—they were marching through February now—and the first of the snowdrops were peeking their white bonnets above ground in the castle’s gardens.

Nonetheless, the late arrival would appreciate a warm bed.

Leaving a lantern burning on the bedside table, Bonnie departed from the bedchamber and made her way downstairs to the kitchens.

Although supper had been and gone for the rest of the keep, she’d yet to eat.

Her belly was hollow, and her mouth watered at the thought of the mutton and turnip stew and bread she knew would be waiting for her in the Great Kitchens.

Pitted stone walls and an arched ceiling greeted her, glowing red-gold in the light of the huge hearths up one end.

Located on the lowest level of the castle, the kitchens were the heart of the keep for many who resided there.

A passage led out to the inner bailey so food could be carried with ease across to the great hall beyond.

During the day, it was a chaotic space filled with servants, and the noise could be deafening.

But at this hour, only Lorna Fraser and her two daughters, Alba and Morag, were present.

“There ye are, lass,” Lorna greeted Bonnie with a thin smile.

“I was beginning to think ye’d forgotten about supper.”

The head cook, a tall and angular woman with faded blonde hair, stood at the great scrubbed table in the center of the kitchens, kneading bread for the morning.

Alba and Morag worked alongside her.

The twins didn’t look anything like their mother.

Instead, they favored their father.

No one spoke of the man these days though.

Lorna’s husband, who’d once been the head groom of Stirling Castle, had run off when the twins were bairns.

Bonnie was five years older than her cousins.

Morag and Alba were mirror images of each other in looks—sturdily built with brown hair and round faces—yet Bonnie had always been able to tell them apart.

Alba was quieter and sweeter-tempered than her sister, while Morag scowled more readily and held her chin at an arrogant tilt.

Morag’s chin jutted now, as she eyed her cousin.

“She was probably idling, Ma.”

“I was not,” Bonnie replied, tensing.

“With all the newly arrived guests, there have been many chambers to clean and ready. I haven’t stopped all day.”

Silence fell in the kitchen, broken only by the gentle crackle of the hearth.

Bonnie’s chest tightened as she realized her mistake.

She was tired and hungry and had forgotten herself, but that was no excuse.

Her aunt and cousin were like wolfhounds on a scent.

Their gazes gleamed at her pert response.

Lorna drew herself up, her chin rising.

Meanwhile, Bonnie’s stomach sank.

Here we go.

“Unfortunately, Morag is right, lass.” Lorna’s voice was falsely sweet.

“Ye pass most of the day in a dream.”

“Aye, Ma,” Morag dusted flour off her hands after covering the dough she’d been kneading, with a cloth.

“I saw her earlier, singing to herself when she should have been emptying chamber pots. I swear it was as if she were away with the fairies.”

Bonnie stiffened.

That was a lie. She hadn’t seen either of her cousins all day.

Morag and Alba knew it too—for the former smirked, while the latter glanced away.

Neither of their responses surprised Bonnie.

Morag loved to torment her cousin, and although Alba didn’t join her mother and sister when they ganged up on Bonnie, she’d never come to her defense either.

Not once.

Bonnie was on her own—as she always had been.

“Aye, that’s because yer poor cousin is a lackwit,” Lorna replied gravely.

“Her birth was a difficult one … she was clearly starved of air.”

A familiar, warm, prickling cloak of humiliation wrapped itself around Bonnie at these words.

Shame.

Her aunt wielded her cruelest words with a mild tone, as if she actually cared for her niece—which she did not.

Doing her best to hide her reaction, Bonnie raised her chin, meeting Lorna’s eye.

“Well, my chores are all done now,” she replied.

“And I haven’t yet had any supper.”

“No, ye haven’t, lass.” Lorna flashed her a smile, wiping her own hands on a damp cloth.

“But fret not, Morag will fetch ye the stew we’ve kept back for ye.”

“No need.” Bonnie started toward the small iron pot that hung over the hearth.

“I can do it.”

“I insist, dear cousin,” Morag replied in a sing-song tone that made Bonnie’s hackles rise.

“Ye must be starving .” She stepped away from the table and crossed the floor to the fire, grabbing a thick cloth so that she could unhook it without burning her hands.

But the lass had only just turned and taken a step toward the table when the pot slipped from her fingers and tumbled to the straw-strewn floor.

Bonnie’s sharply indrawn breath reverberated around the kitchens in the moments that followed.

She stared down at her ruined supper.

And then, to her humiliation, her vision blurred.

She didn’t want to weep in front of these women.

But she was hungry and tired, and Morag had just deliberately spilled her supper all over the floor.

Blinking furiously, hands balled at her sides, she raised her chin and forced herself to face them.

Both Lorna and Morag were smirking now, although Alba’s expression was pinched.

Her gaze flicked between her mother and sister, as if she worried what they might do next.

Lorna tutted. “Oh dear, Morag, ye are clumsy.”

“Sorry, Bonnie.” Morag stepped away from the mess she’d made, making no move to stoop and clean it up.

“It looks like ye won’t be having any supper this eve.”

Bonnie didn’t answer immediately.

She was too intent on choking back tears.

Meanwhile, helpless fury beat in her breast like a caged bird.

And when she did answer, her voice shook with the force of the emotions she was still keeping locked down.

“Ye did that on purpose.”

Morag affected a shocked expression, slamming a hand to her breast. “Did ye hear that, Ma?”

“I did.” Lorna’s smirk disappeared now, replaced by a stern look.

“I was going to see if I could dig up some scraps for her from the spence … but not now.” The head cook gestured to her daughters.

“Come, girls … let us retire.”

Lorna moved across the floor, toward the stairwell that led upstairs.

A moment later, her daughters followed.

Bringing up the rear, Alba cast a glance over her shoulder, her gaze flicking from the mess at Bonnie’s feet to her upset face.

Alba’s brow furrowed then.

However, Lorna turned and flashed Bonnie a toothy smile.

“Make sure ye tidy that up properly, lass. We don’t want to attract rodents, do we?”

And with that, Lorna, Morag, and Alba departed from the kitchens.

Bonnie watched them go, her pulse pounding in her ears.

“Too late,” she whispered to the snapping hearth.

“The queen of rats already presides over these kitchens.”

Her hands clenched tighter then, her fingernails biting into her palms. I should have said it to my aunt’s face.

God’s bones, how she wanted to.

But then she remembered the few times she’d stood up for herself over the years.

It always ended badly for her.

Once Lorna had slapped her—had hit her so hard, she’d fallen to the floor.

She’d done it in front of a kitchen full of servants, but not one had defended her.

The head cook had a blistering temper and was known to lash out with a wooden spoon when vexed.

The others had just been relieved they’d escaped her wrath.

If Bonnie gave her own temper free rein, if she said all the things that were writhing in her chest, Lorna and Morag would make her life even more difficult than it already was.

Her existence here at Stirling would become unbearable.

Staring down at the ruins of her supper, while her empty belly growled, Bonnie’s self-control frayed.

There were times when the fear of reprisal almost wasn’t enough to hold her back.

And this had been one such instance.

She’d been brought up by her aunt, had grown up alongside her cousins, yet despite that the four of them shared the same blood, there was no affection.

Family looked out for each other, cared for each other.

But in her five and twenty winters, Bonnie had known very little kindness or warmth from her kin.

She knuckled away the tears that now trickled down her face.

Then, trembling, she grabbed a ladle from where it hung on the wall and knelt on the dirty straw—and started to clean up the mess Morag had made.