Page 5

5: IF WISHES WERE HORSES, BEGGARS WOULD RIDE

FOR A MOMENT, Ainslie merely stared back at her.

And then her smile faded.

“Och, lass … some things should remain fantasy. It’s safer that way.”

The fragile flame of hope that had flickered to life in Bonnie’s breast guttered.

Of course, as much as Ainslie had enjoyed this game, she’d known it was just a bit of entertainment.

It reminded her of her youth, of the excitement of being a bride and feeling like a princess in a beautiful dress.

But Bonnie had gotten carried away.

Swallowing, she glanced back at her reflection, committing the sight of the lovely gown and the mask that, indeed, matched it perfectly, to memory.

“Of course,” she whispered, her voice catching.

“Forget I said that … my aunt is right about me. I’m a goose-wit, and my head is full of foolish notions.”

“Lorna talks rot,” Ainslie replied, her voice tightening.

And when Bonnie glanced back at her, she saw that her friend was frowning.

“But to disguise yerself and attend a masquerade ball is too great a risk.” Tension flickered across her face.

“What if ye were discovered?”

Bonnie managed a wan smile.

“Aye … forget I ever said anything, Ainslie,” she murmured.

She then reached up and untied the mask.

“I suppose I should return this.”

Something tugged deep in her chest at the thought, yet she chastised herself.

It doesn’t belong to ye!

The head laundress nodded.

“Leave the mask with me, lass … I’ll see that it finds its way to the ladies’ solar.” Her mouth curved then, although her gaze remained somber.

“No one shall know it went missing.”

Bonnie handed the mask over, even as her shoulders slumped.

She knew her friend was just looking after her—Ainslie was practical, not a dreamer like Bonnie—even so, disappointment crushed her throat.

The mask wasn’t hers, yet she longed to keep it.

Ye have yer mother’s reckless spirit.

Her aunt’s shrill voice tormented her then—as it had two winters earlier when Bonnie formed a liaison with one of the men-at-arms. Their dalliance was short-lived, especially when the guard was posted elsewhere.

Yet when Lorna had heard of it, she’d upbraided Bonnie in front of the whole kitchen.

She too was impulsive, and it was her ruin.

It will be yers too, mark my words .

Bonnie’s belly clenched.

As much as she resented her aunt, Lorna did have a point.

She wished for things above her.

For years, she’d thought her daydreams harmless, yet she realized now they weren’t.

They made her long for things she could never have.

She often got so lost in her fantasies that the boundaries between what was real and what was make-believe got blurred.

She came to believe certain things were possible—when they weren’t.

Scrubbing chamber pots, emptying hearths, and making beds were her world.

There was no escaping it.

Reaching up, she started to loosen the laces of her bodice.

“Thank ye, Ainslie,” she murmured.

“Now, I really do have to get back to work.”

Bonnie heaved a sigh of relief as she carried the last load of dirty linen down to the laundry.

Finally.

Since dallying with Ainslie earlier, she’d had to make up for lost time, and was now exhausted after hurriedly changing beds and sweeping out chambers.

The keep was so busy now that it had been difficult to keep out of the guests’ way.

One of the lairds’ wives had just scolded her for not having her bedchamber serviced early enough for her liking.

Entering the laundry—an annex on the ground floor of the keep—Bonnie peered through the clouds of steam at the flushed cheeks of the lasses who were busy scrubbing clothes on wooden wash boards or pummeling them with a laundry bat.

Ainslie was instructing one of the laundresses, but upon Bonnie’s entrance, she glanced over and caught her friend’s eye.

She then smiled before favoring her with a conspirator’s wink.

Bonnie tried to smile back, even as a sickly sensation washed over her.

That wink likely meant that she’d managed to replace the mask in the ladies' solar without being spotted. Suddenly, it felt as if a stone lay in Bonnie’s belly; a moment later, the back of her eyes started to prickle.

Curse it, she wasn’t going to weep over such a thing, was she?

She was even more addlepated than she thought.

Keeping a brave smile plastered upon her face, while she blinked rapidly to stop the tears from spilling over, Bonnie grabbed a stack of clean linen, swiveled, and marched out of the laundry.

She needed to get ahold of herself.

Even so, as she made her way across the inner close, back toward the keep, Bonnie spied page boys traipsing in and out of the great hall. Those going in were carrying armloads of decorations—bunting and streamers to festoon the cavernous space. A woman’s laughter filtered out from inside the hall, echoing across the courtyard. No doubt some of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting were overseeing the decorating within.

The weight in Bonnie’s stomach grew heavier still, and her vision blurred.

What she would give just to have a glimpse inside the hall this eve, to see the splendor within. Those born into a higher rank took all of this for granted, for it was their right to enjoy such luxury, yet she wouldn’t.

She’d commit every detail to memory to be cherished for the rest of her days.

Bonnie sighed then. What was it that her aunt often said when one of the twins wished for something beyond her ken?

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.

Aye, some things were impossible, and it was foolish to yearn for them.

Jaw clenching, Bonnie turned her gaze from the yawning doors of the great hall and hurried on.

“The guests will be arriving soon, Ma,” Morag’s voice carried through the busy kitchen. “Can Alba and I go out to watch them?”

The head cook turned from where she’d been directing two lads who were spit-roasting a suckling pig over one of the great hearths. Both boys wore pinched expressions, for Lorna had been criticizing them. Her long face was flushed from the heat, her expression harassed.

Nonetheless, her features softened just a little as her gaze settled upon her daughter. “Aye, lass … don’t take too long mind.” She then glanced over at where Bonnie was vigorously stirring batter for honey cakes that would be served for the banquet. She didn’t usually help in the kitchen, yet with such a large banquet being served, every spare servant had been enlisted to assist. “Yer cousin will finish making those tarts.”

Morag gave a high-pitched squeal of excitement at this news and cast aside the bowl of winter-store apples she’d been peeling for the pies. She then wiped her hands on her apron and grinned at her twin. “Come on!”

Around them, some of the kitchen hands stopped working; their expressions tightened in resentment none of them would dare to voice.

Oblivious, Morag cast Bonnie a triumphant look, her gaze gleaming. “We expect all the tarts to be filled by the time we return.”

Bonnie stiffened. It was bad enough that her aunt treated her like a minion to be ordered about at will. Yet she balked at her cousin doing the same.

“I’m busy making honey cakes,” she replied, her tone clipped.

“Hand that over to Malcolm, and do as my daughter says,” Lorna instructed, her tone distracted as she moved over to inspect the spit-roasting pigs once more.

Bonnie stopped stirring the batter. She then reluctantly passed the bowl to the lad who’d been feeding wood onto the fires. Malcolm didn’t look any happier than she was about this.

Actually, most of the kitchen servants were now favoring Alba and Morag with jaundiced looks as they abandoned their work, stripped off their aprons, and hurried from the kitchen.

Like Bonnie, they were all curious to see the costumes and masks that the guests would don for this evening. There would be many attendees, and those who lived nearby were arriving by carriage now.

But only the head cook’s daughters were allowed to view the spectacle.

Mouth compressed, Bonnie started work on the apples. There were many tarts to fill, and she had to work quickly lest the fruit turn brown.

Wordlessly one of the kitchen lasses, Fiona, stepped up to help her.

“Ye aren’t needed there, Fi!” Lorna had just turned from the hearth and spied the girl reaching for one of the apples. “The boiled turnips are ready. Get to mashing them … and make sure ye add a decent amount of butter and cream.”

Abashed, Fiona slunk off to do as bid.

Bonnie was sliding the first batch of sealed pies into the oven when the twins returned to the kitchen.

“Oh, Ma, it was splendid,” Morag chimed as she replaced her apron.

“Aye, ye should see their masks,” Alba added. “One of the lairds wore one that made him look like a barn-owl.”

“And his wife had eagle feathers on hers.”

These comments made gazes swivel in the twins’ direction. Bonnie glanced their way too.

Morag met her eye then, her attention going to the neat rows of pies ready to go in the oven. Her mouth pursed as if she was disappointed to find that Bonnie had indeed completed the task.

“I’m surprised to see only the first batch in,” Morag sniped before casting Lorna a sidelong look. “We don’t want to keep the king waiting for his apple tarts, Ma. What if Bonnie has put us behind?”

“If the king has to wait for his sweets, it’ll be yer doing, not mine.” The words slipped unbidden from Bonnie’s lips before she could help herself. “Ye could have helped me, but ye preferred to idle instead.”

Silence fell in the kitchens.

Moments earlier, it had been a flurry of activity—the clang of iron pots, the rhythmic thud of blades chopping, and the sizzle of roasting meat had filled the space.

But not now.

Bonnie’s heart beat like a smith’s hammer as she stared down her cousin.

It wasn’t wise to speak up thus, and she knew it. Yet she’d been unable to stem the resentment that bubbled up inside her. The events of the past couple of days had frayed her patience. Suddenly, she could no longer hold her tongue.

The moments slid by before Morag shattered the quiet, her voice shrill. “Did ye hear what she said to me, Ma?”