Page 22

22: YE SHALL APOLOGIZE

“HOW ARE YE faring?”

Iver’s breath tickled Bonnie’s ear as he leaned in to talk to her.

“Well,” Bonnie replied, “although this wind is cold enough to freeze Satan’s balls.”

He huffed a laugh, and embarrassment prickled across her skin.

She’d forgotten herself just then, replying as if she were in the company of a fellow servant in Stirling keep.

Now, she was suddenly, painfully, aware of their differing ranks.

Ladies didn’t speak like that.

“Aye … the weather’s worse than I’d thought,” Iver replied, a smile in his voice.

“Fear not, we’ve almost reached Doune. I’d hoped to go farther today, yet it’s best we don’t.”

Relief feathered through Bonnie, both at this declaration and at the realization he wasn’t ridiculing her.

She didn’t want to complain, yet after hours in the saddle, in the teeth of the wind, her hands, feet, and backside had gone numb.

As if sensing her discomfort, Iver leaned forward and wrapped his fur cloak around them both.

Bonnie leaned back into him, her breathing quickening at their closeness.

Despite the cold and the snow that blew in their faces, forming a white mantle over the company of horses and riders around them, the intimacy of riding with Iver had affected her ever since they’d set out from Stirling.

The last of her embarrassment faded then.

Instead, she was acutely aware of the warmth of his body and the strength of his thighs pressed against hers.

She glanced down at where one arm wrapped protectively around her.

He held the reins loosely with the other hand, and Bonnie found herself studying the strong yet elegant lines of his wrist and fingers.

Memories of what it had felt like to have those fingers sliding across her skin, caressing her until she unraveled in his arms, made excitement curl tight in her loins.

It was still their wedding day, although they hadn’t yet consummated their union.

However, they would —and it would likely happen tonight.

Nervousness fluttered up then, tempering the delicious anticipation.

Their first encounter had been unplanned, wild—and she’d been pretending to be someone else.

But the next time she coupled with Iver, it would be as Bonnie Mackay, his wife.

There would be no mask to hide behind.

And for some reason, that scared Bonnie a little; she wondered if she was ready for it.

Their relationship was already intense, but once they consummated their vows, there really would be no going back.

“I must say ye impress me, Bonnie,” Iver said then, his deep voice intruding on her thoughts.

“This is a huge change for ye, but ye are taking it all in yer stride.”

Bonnie gave a soft snort.

“Do ye think so? I turned up at yer door at dawn this morning babbling like an idiot.”

Another laugh rumbled against her back.

“Ye were understandably nervous.”

“I still am,” she admitted huskily.

“We come from different worlds, Iver … I hope ye will be patient with me.”

He gave her waist a gentle squeeze, his breath feathering against her ear once more as he answered, “Always.”

Trying to ignore the fluttering in her belly, for his responses were both reassuring and disarming, Bonnie let her gaze travel forward to where Lennox rode alongside Colin Campbell.

Earlier, Iver had told her they’d be stopping off at Campbell’s castle on the way home.

The journey back to Dun Ugadale from Stirling was seven days, at least—likely more in bad weather—and the Lord of Glenorchy had invited the Mackays to stay as his guests.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t warmed to Campbell.

Neither had she missed the glint in the laird’s eyes when they’d been introduced in the stable yard of Stirling Castle.

Lennox’s thinly veiled disapproval just simmered beneath the surface when they’d met, and continued to do so, but Bonnie found that preferable to Campbell’s insolence.

Iver’s brother hadn’t dragged his gaze over her as the Lord of Glenorchy had.

Campbell had then glanced across at Iver before drawling, “Congratulations are in order, I hear?”

“Aye, Colin,” Iver had replied, his expression veiled.

“May I introduce ye to my wife, Bonnie?”

Campbell had screwed up his face then before turning away and striding over to where one of his men had readied his horse.

Once they were away from Stirling, the journey, and the poor weather, had come as a relief to Bonnie.

Campbell was too intent on getting to their destination, and finding a fire to warm himself before, to bother focusing on Iver’s new wife.

Eight warriors rode with them—four Campbells and four Mackays—their escort home.

Campbell and Lennox rode a few yards ahead, and, as the day drew out, the two men eventually shared a few words.

However, when the Lord of Glenorchy barked a laugh at something Lennox had said, Bonnie’s skin prickled.

Her earlier insecurity resurfaced then, heat rising to her cheeks.

Is he laughing at me?

The day was darkening when they finally rode into Doune.

A castle rose on the banks of the River Teith, its towers outlined against the smoky sky.

The snow still fell in silent flurries, although the biting wind had eased a little.

Around them, a glittering blanket had settled over the world.

Bonnie’s breath grew shallow with wonder at the sight of the great keep frosted in white.

It was magnificent. She imagined they’d find shelter there, yet the party stopped at a tavern instead.

“Doune is one of the king’s residences,” Iver explained as they drew up in the stable yard behind the Glenardoch Inn.

“He stays here when he goes hunting.” Her husband paused then, glancing over at where Campbell had just swung down from his heavy-set bay stallion.

“Colin wants to avail himself of the Stewarts’ hospitality, but I’d rather not.”

Bonnie tensed.

She wondered if she was the cause for his reluctance.

Was he embarrassed to introduce her?

Banishing the thought, for it did her no good to worry about such things, she replied, “But the king isn’t in residence.”

“No, and I’ve had enough of politics. A tavern will suit all of us better tonight.”

Iver dismounted then, his booted feet sinking up to the ankle in fresh, powdery snow, before helping Bonnie down from the saddle.

Face to face, for the first time in hours, their gazes met.

Iver’s nose and cheeks were flushed with cold, yet he was smiling down at her.

The worries that had been building within Bonnie as the day progressed eased just a little.

How could she doubt him or worry about the future when he looked at her like that?

A wall of warm, smoky heat hit them as they stepped inside Glenardoch Inn’s common room.

Moving across the sawdust-covered floor at Iver’s side, Bonnie inhaled the smell of woodsmoke and savory cooking smells, blended with the less savory odors of sweat and damp wool.

The inn was busy at this hour, with warmly dressed figures huddled at trestle tables, their hands wrapped around tankards of ale.

Serving lasses wended their way between the tightly packed tables, jugs of ale and platters of food in hand.

Campbell moved ahead to talk to the innkeeper.

After a brief exchange, he returned to them with a grin.

“I’ve got their last three chambers,” he announced.

His gaze then shifted to the warriors who’d followed them inside.

“It looks like ye lads will be sleeping with the horses tonight.”

Muttering ensued, although it settled soon enough when the men escorting the lairds seated themselves at a nearby table.

With a cup of ale in hand, as they flirted with the serving lasses, the Campbell and Mackay warriors soon forgot about where they’d be bedding down later.

Seated at a table with Iver, Lennox, and Campbell, Bonnie said little as the three men discussed the trip ahead, and which route they’d take.

In truth, she was still awed by the fact she was traveling with her husband .

She found herself stealing glances at Iver.

He was so handsome, his face burnished in the light of the nearby hearth.

Her breathing caught.

Is he really mine?

With the snow, they decided to avoid the high road, which was usually faster—for it would take them through the Trossachs, the mountains that shadowed the sky to the northwest. Instead, they’d take the lower, slower road that cut due north toward Loch Tay.

Bonnie thought that idea sounded sensible.

Dishes of hearty vegetable stew and heavy loaves of coarse bread arrived shortly after, and they abandoned their conversation, falling upon their meals instead.

“Ye have a hearty appetite, eh, lass?” Campbell winked at Bonnie as he ripped off a chunk of bread.

Bonnie, who’d just swallowed a mouthful of mutton, stilled.

The sense of wonderment at her new situation and the deliciousness of her meal ebbing.

That was no compliment.

Campbell shifted his gaze to Iver then, raising an eyebrow.

“I must admit, I was sore ye refused my daughter, only to take up with a chambermaid.” “But maybe ye did right, finding yerself a sturdy lowborn lassie to wed.” He picked up his tankard and favored Iver with a mocking toast. “My wife, God bless her soul, was a pale, sickly creature who picked at her food … not like this one. She’ll bear ye plenty of strapping sons, I’ll wager.”

Bonnie flushed hot, while next to her, Iver’s thigh tensed against hers.

“Bonnie isn’t a sow at market,” he growled.

“Kindly refrain from speaking of her as such.”

Campbell snorted.

Nonetheless, he minded Iver’s warning.

Next to Iver, Lennox remained silent, his expression shuttered as he observed the exchange between his companions.

The meal resumed, yet Bonnie no longer had any appetite for it.

Her stomach closed, and she abandoned her half-eaten dish, picking up her cup of ale instead and taking a sip.

Once again, she felt like an imposter among these people.

Iver told her their differing classes didn’t matter.

Yet he was the only one who thought so.

A blast of chill air gusted across the interior of the Glenardoch Inn then, drawing all their attention.

A big man wearing a plush fur cloak around his broad shoulders strode inside.

His face was flushed with cold.

Recognition tickled at Bonnie.

Had she seen him before?

He was clearly someone of importance, and might have been considered handsome too—if not for the hard set of his jaw and the deep line between his dark eyebrows.

The man’s cool grey gaze swept across the busy common room before his attention fastened on the party seated by the hearth.

And then his frown slid into a scowl.

“Great … just what we need,” Iver muttered under his breath.

“Sutherland.”

Bonnie tensed, recalling the masked man, dressed as a wolf, who’d scuffled with Lennox during the ball.

Aye, she had seen him before.

Across the table, Lennox murmured a salty curse.

“Leave it, Len,” Iver replied, his voice tight.

“Let’s not cause any trouble.”

Meanwhile, the innkeeper approached Malcolm Sutherland.

His face was apologetic as he explained that the last chambers had been taken, and that he didn’t have any more space inside the inn.

Sutherland and his men were welcome to eat and drink here, but they’d have to sleep with their horses in the stables.

Sutherland’s frown slid into a fierce scowl at this news.

“What?” he boomed, his voice cutting through the rumble of conversation inside the crowded common room.

“Ye’d let a lowly Mackay chieftain and his chambermaid slut wife take one of yer rooms, yet deny the Sutherland clan-chief’s son?”

The talking around them stopped with shocking abruptness, while the innkeeper blanched at the slur.

A chill washed over Bonnie.

Suddenly, she no longer noticed the warmth of the nearby fire; it was as if she’d just been turfed outside into a swirling blizzard.

Moments passed, and then Iver rose to his feet.

“Ye shall apologize to my wife, Sutherland,” he growled.

The clan-chief’s son gave a rude snort in reply.

He then grinned and looked around him, catching the eye of one or two of the grizzled local men seated at nearby tables.

“Listen to that, lads. Mackay thinks I should beg forgiveness from the woman who likely scrubbed my piss pot at Stirling Castle.” He paused then.

“I’m sure she’d have sucked my rod too, if I’d asked her.”

This comment brought sniggers and guffaws of laughter from the surrounding patrons.

Bonnie’s skin started to prickle.

And despite that it felt as if bricks of ice had settled within her chest and belly, heat flamed across her cheeks.

Suddenly, Campbell’s earlier comments seemed trifling.

Indeed, the Lord of Glenorchy had the manners of a prince compared to Sutherland.

To make his point even clearer, Sutherland then spat on the sawdust-covered floor.

“I’ll not apologize, Mackay,” he said, holding Iver’s gaze.

“What do ye say to that, eh?”