Page 32

32: SCANDAL

BONNIE HAD TOLD herself she wouldn’t let nerves get to her.

Nonetheless, as their destination approached, it felt as if someone had just released a sack of moths in her belly.

Drawing a slow, deep breath, she kept telling herself she was worthy of being Iver’s wife.

She wouldn’t embarrass him with her rough manners and unpolished speech.

However, with each furlong they rode southeast, it grew harder to cling to her newfound confidence.

And when the bulk of Iver’s broch hove into view, her heart started to pound like a Beltaine drum.

Dun Ugadale was exactly as Iver had described it—an ancient roundhouse, perched upon a rocky promontory, with a tower looking out to sea.

High walls wrapped around the base of the stronghold, protecting it from the elements and attack.

The broch really did have a windswept setting.

Green hills surrounded the broch, without a tree in sight.

A scattering of bothies, squat stone houses with turf roofs, crouched before the fortress.

Surveying the settlement, Bonnie saw a woman hanging out flapping washing on a line outside her cottage, while another scattered grain for fowl.

Meanwhile, children played knucklebones in the dirt.

The men guided their horses onto a muddy track that led down to the promontory, between carefully tilled fields, where cottars hoed around the first of the spring cabbages and kale.

And on the hills behind, black-faced sheep grazed placidly while tiny lambs tottered around.

Despite her fluttering stomach, Bonnie smiled at the sight.

Snowdrops, crocuses, and daffodils waved their greeting in the brisk sea breeze, at the roadside—another reminder that despite the chill in the air, spring was upon them now.

A new beginning , she reminded herself, her spine straightening.

For us all.

Her gaze traveled to the grey walls of Dun Ugadale.

The stronghold looked as if it truly belonged here, as if it had grown out of the moss and lichen-covered rocks rather than being constructed by the hand of man.

Iver urged his courser up the causeway that led toward a high stone arch.

The gelding’s hooves clattered on cobblestones, the sound echoing off the surrounding stone.

Moments later, they were inside the walls of Dun Ugadale, and Iver was drawing up his horse in the barmkin before his broch.

And as Bonnie expected, a welcome party had emerged from the roundhouse to greet him.

Her gaze alighted on a handsome woman wrapped in a thick green shawl standing in the midst of the group.

She looked to be in her sixth decade, yet still stood tall and strong.

Her silver hair caught in the breeze, while her penetrating gaze scanned the newcomers.

There was no doubt this was Sheena Mackay, the former Lady of Dun Ugadale.

Two men flanked the woman.

The one standing to her left was tall and lean with pale-blond hair like Iver.

He wore a quilted gambeson over a léine, and chamois braies.

A heavy woolen cloak hung from his shoulders, and he carried a dirk at his hip.

In contrast, the man to Sheena’s right was of a stockier build with curly walnut-brown hair, a strong jaw, and a furrowed brow.

He was clad in a heavy woolen tunic over soot-stained braies and a long leather blacksmith’s apron.

“Greetings!” Iver called out, swinging down from his horse.

He then turned and helped Bonnie down from the saddle, placing a protective arm about her shoulder as he steered her toward the three figures.

“Welcome home, brother,” the blond man called back.

His gaze alighted then upon Bonnie for a moment before it shifted to the riders behind her.

“Where’s Lennox?”

“He’s at Kilchurn,” Iver replied, his tone veiled.

“Colin Campbell asked him to captain his Guard … and he agreed.”

All three of his kin tensed at this news, even as their gazes now rested upon Bonnie.

Swallowing her nervousness, she smiled back at them.

Both men then frowned at their elder brother, and Bonnie sensed their disapproval.

From the look on their faces, they believed Iver had done something to chase Lennox away.

“But Len is needed here,” Sheena replied, her voice clipped.

“Aye, he is,” Iver agreed, his own brow furrowing, “but this was what he wanted … and I’m not his warden.” He paused then, an uncomfortable silence settling over the windy barmkin, before clearing his throat.

“Ma, Kerr, and Brodie … may I present Bonnie … my wife.”

“Good day.” Bonnie flashed Iver’s kin another smile.

None of them smiled back.

Instead, Kerr and Brodie’s faces went slack, while Sheena’s lips parted.

However, she was the first to recover.

“Well, Iver … this is a surprise indeed.” Her gaze, midnight-blue and filled with sharp intelligence, drilled into Bonnie.

Her expression turned speculative as she scrutinized her.

“And what clan do ye hail from, lass?”

Bonnie kept her smile firmly in place as she replied, “Fraser.”

Iver’s mother inclined her head, a crease forming between her finely arched brows.

“Fraser?” She glanced then over at her eldest son, confusion clouding her gaze.

“Don’t mistake me, Iver … I’m delighted ye have finally come to yer senses … but I’m surprised. We have little to do with that clan.” Her attention flicked Bonnie’s way once more.

“What branch of the Frasers do ye belong to? Are ye a lowlander or a Lovat?”

“A lowlander,” Bonnie replied, even as her pulse quickened.

In truth, she knew little about her mother’s clan.

If Iver’s mother asked her anything else, she feared she wouldn’t be able to answer.

“Bonnie grew up at Stirling Castle” —Iver’s hold on her shoulders tightened just a fraction, a warning that he was about to reveal the truth— “where she worked as a chambermaid.”

The stunned look on his family members’ faces was almost comical.

Nonetheless, despite that she’d told herself she wouldn’t let herself feel intimidated, Bonnie’s pulse started to race.

“How did ye meet?” The blond man asked after a long pause, incredulity in his voice.

“At the queen’s masquerade ball,” Iver replied.

“It’s quite a tale, Kerr … one I will recount later.”

Bonnie’s breathing grew shallow.

She hoped he wouldn’t.

Surely, they could leave out all the details.

The brown-haired man, Brodie, remained silent, his expression bewildered.

Meanwhile, Sheena Mackay’s face had gone the color of milk.

Moments later, two high spots of color appeared upon the older woman’s cheeks.

Drawing herself up, she viewed her firstborn with a narrowed gaze.

“A chambermaid , Iver?”

The laird held his mother’s eye steadily.

“Aye, Ma … but let’s not dwell on that. Bonnie is the woman I have chosen to spend my life with … and I expect ye to give her a warm Mackay welcome.”

It wasn’t a mild afternoon, and a cold, damp salt-laced wind barreled across the barmkin.

All the same, Bonnie had started to sweat.

She’d expected their arrival to ruffle some feathers, yet Sheena Mackay was even more intimidating than she’d anticipated.

Standing just a few feet from the woman, it was clear to see that she’d been a rare beauty in her youth.

Her high cheekbones and proud bearing spoke to a Norse heritage, and her thick silver-white hair would have once been the same shade as Kerr and Iver’s.

But there was a hardness to her face that hinted at bitterness, and the way she’d said ‘chambermaid’ made queasiness churn within Bonnie.

Don’t let her frighten ye , Bonnie told herself firmly.

Ye are this woman’s equal .

Sheena shifted her gaze from Iver, and then she looked her daughter-in-law up and down, taking in her plain kirtle visible under the woolen cloak.

“Who were yer parents?” she asked, her voice clipped, as if she were addressing a servant and not the new Lady of Dun Ugadale.

“Ma.” Iver’s voice held a warning edge.

“I—”

“My mother was a cook at Stirling Castle,” Bonnie replied, cutting him off.

It was best she spoke for herself.

Her spine straightened as she met Sheena’s eye.

“I don’t know who my father was … and my mother died birthing me.”

Silence followed these words—and Sheena Mackay looked her over once more, this time her lip curling.

Bonnie sucked in a deep breath and pushed down her frustration.

Of course, many people—her aunt had been one—believed that the character of someone born outside of wedlock was morally inferior to other folk.

Indeed, the chaplain at Stirling had preached that illegitimate children carried a stain upon them and could never be trusted.

It was a stigma Bonnie had fought against her entire life—and she was ready to face it down now.

Next to Sheena, Kerr shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flicking from Bonnie to Iver’s face.

However, Brodie didn’t move.

Instead, he watched his sister-by-marriage, his handsome face taut.

But Bonnie wasn’t focused on Iver’s brothers—but on his mother.

And as she watched Sheena’s face, the woman’s expression changed.

She’d been disgusted just moments earlier, yet now it was as if something had just dawned upon her.

“How old are ye?” she demanded, her voice clipped.

Bonnie lifted her chin.

“Five and twenty … why?”

Sheena snorted.

“Mother!” Iver snapped.

“That’s enough. Ye have—”

“God’s troth, son, have ye wool between yer ears?” Sheena interrupted him.

A heavy silence fell then, and Iver’s expression darkened.

A muscle flexed in his jaw, betraying his simmering anger.

Meanwhile, his mother stared back at him, gaze gleaming.

“Do ye have any idea who this woman is?”

Queasiness rolled over Bonnie.

All the way here, she’d told herself she’d win over Iver’s mother.

But now she saw that wasn’t going to happen.

“What kind of foolish question is that?” Iver bit out, tightening his grip around Bonnie’s shoulders.

“Of course, I do … and I love her.”

Bonnie’s breathing caught.

He loves me.

That was the first time she’d heard the words, and the announcement nearly made her forget the awkwardness of this situation.

She glanced up at him, and their gazes fused.

Iver’s mouth then quirked, and warmth wrapped itself around her.

There was no denying it—she loved him too.

Wholeheartedly.

Bonnie’s lips parted as she readied to tell him so.

However, Sheena made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat.

Bonnie jerked her gaze from Iver’s to see that Sheena was glowering at him.

“Did I really give birth to such a fool?” she muttered.

“Have ye paid no attention to court gossip over the years?”

“No, Ma,” Iver snapped.

“I leave such base matters to ye.”

Sheena drew herself up.

“Well, that’s a pity indeed.” She bit out the words.

“For if ye had, ye’d have realized yer mistake.” She paused then, her gaze narrowing.

“Ye have shackled yerself to the bastard daughter of James the First.”

In an instant, the warmth that had wrapped itself around Bonnie after her husband’s declaration sloughed away.

In a heartbeat, her elation changed to confusion.

“What?” she whispered.

“I’d know that flame-red hair anywhere.” Sheena continued, her blue eyes glinting.

“But it was only when ye told me about yer birth and yer age that I solved the riddle.” Her gaze swept to Iver’s stunned face.

“I remember the scandal of her birth well. I was at Stirling Castle five and twenty years ago … visiting my sister who was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Joan at the time.” Sheena’s attention shifted back to Bonnie’s face, and there it stayed.

“I recall how jealous the queen was at the discovery that the king had been dallying with one of the cooks … and had gotten her with bairn.” She paused, her mouth pursing.

No doubt this tale reminded her of her own husband’s infidelity.

After a moment, Sheena continued, “Joan wanted the lass cast out, yet James refused. Their shouting echoed off the walls of Stirling Castle for days.”

A lump formed in Bonnie’s throat, and she swallowed hard.

She wanted to throw Sheena’s words back in her face, to call her a liar.

But her gut told her it was the truth.

Somehow, deep down, she’d always known there was a reason why no one at Stirling would speak about her father.

How many of them knew?

Surely, not everyone—for all it would have taken was a loose-lipped laundress or stable lad to let the scandal slip.

However, Bonnie sensed that some of them—Ainslie and Angus Boyd, Duncan Stewart, and Lorna Fraser— did know.

Suddenly, the glint she’d often witnessed in her aunt’s eyes when she’d called her a ‘bastard’ made sense.

She’d always sensed there was something else, something deeper, that Lorna never spoke about.

And now she’d discovered who her father really was.

Nausea rolled over Bonnie then as she recalled the times she’d caught a glimpse of the current king.

Her half-brother. His distinctive fiery hair was the exact same hue as her own.

They had the same shaped face too, the same pale, lightly freckled skin.

Why hadn’t she made the connection herself?

Her belly cramped. Why would she?

It sounded ludicrous, even now, that royal blood flowed through her veins.

Suddenly, it felt as if her whole world was unraveling before her eyes.

Over the years, she’d imagined her father had been some visiting nobleman—a lesser chieftain or laird perhaps.

Her mother’s tragic end had cast a shadow over Bonnie’s life, and the sting of knowing she’d been born in such circumstances had never left her.

But this was something else.

Does the king know?

Likely not.

She guessed his parents had never told him.

His father— their father—was assassinated when he was but a bairn, and Queen Joan had died around eight years earlier.

Sometimes kings acknowledged their bastards—even the illegitimate daughters—but James the First hadn’t.

He’d never had the chance to.

Yet the fact he’d refused to send her mother away, hinted that he’d had feelings for Greer Fraser.

Had he lived, Bonnie’s life might have been very different.

Grief twisted in her chest. I could have known him .

For years, she’d imagined her father was alive, just living elsewhere, but in fact, she was an orphan.

Both her parents were long gone.

Meanwhile, now that she’d made her declaration, Sheena had pursed her lips, as if she were looking upon something foul.

Something innately flawed.

A sob rose within Bonnie, clawing its way up from her chest to her throat.

Suddenly, she felt lost and utterly alone in the world.

An instant later, she twisted out of Iver’s grip.

“Bonnie!” He made a grab for her, his handsome face drawn and pale, yet she ducked out of his reach, darted around his courser, and ran for the gates of Dun Ugadale.

Shouts followed her, but she barely heard them above the roaring in her ears.

Her feet flew over slippery cobbles, and she nearly tumbled down the causeway outside the gates.

However, she managed to right herself just in time.

She then picked up her skirts and sprinted like a hare pursued by wolves.

She wasn’t sure why she was running, or where she intended to go—only that she had to get away.

Maybe if she fled far and fast enough, she might outrun who she was.