Page 7

7: FEAR NOT, LASS

BONNIE WAS SITTING in the empty laundry, playing with kittens, when Ainslie found her.

Smoky, the keep’s mouser, had just had a litter.

The kittens were all varying shades of grey.

Some were as pale as woodsmoke while others were the color of wood ash or pewter.

“There ye are,” Ainslie halted in the doorway and braced her hands on her hips.

“I’ve been looking for ye everywhere … I even made the climb up to yer attic. Nearly killed me too, it did.”

Bonnie managed a tight smile.

She’d just finished scrubbing the last of the mountain of dirty pots and pans Lorna had given her to clean.

Of course, the pert answer Bonnie had given Morag hadn’t gone unpunished.

Her back now ached, her hands were chapped—and hopelessness dragged down at her.

This was her life, and there was no escaping the drudgery of it.

“I didn’t feel like retiring yet.” Bonnie lowered her gaze then, stroking the kitten that was rolling about her lap.

“I thought a visit to Smoky and her brood might cheer me up.”

“And have they?”

“Aye, a little.”

“I heard about what happened earlier.”

Something in her friend’s voice made Bonnie glance up.

Ainslie shook her head.

“Och, lass, ye are a woman now. Lorna Fraser isn’t yer mistress.” Bonnie’s mouth thinned, although Ainslie hadn’t yet finished.

She took a step inside the laundry, folding her arms across her ample chest. “Bullies can sniff out weakness … they can only grasp power if ye give it to them.”

Bonnie stiffened.

It was easy enough for Ainslie to stand up to Lorna.

The cook had no sway over her at all.

Plus, she couldn’t imagine anyone ever trying to boss Ainslie Boyd around; even her own husband wouldn’t dare.

Heaving a sigh, Bonnie shifted her attention back to the wriggling kitten that was now trying to sink its tiny needlelike teeth into her wrist. “Ye are right,” she muttered.

“If things are to change … I must be the one to act.”

“Aye, lass. It’s a battle only ye can wage.” Ainslie pulled up a stool opposite Bonnie while the kittens tumbled between them.

They sat in companionable silence for a short while before Ainslie cleared her throat.

“Ye know, I have been thinking about what ye said to me earlier … when ye tried on my wedding gown … that ye wished to attend tonight’s masquerade ball.”

Bonnie huffed a bitter laugh, her gaze lifting to meet Ainslie’s.

“Aye, and I’m embarrassed I said something so foolish.”

Ainslie’s round face tensed, her brows drawing together.

“It wasn’t foolish, Bonnie. I was just a little taken aback. The notion was … shocking.”

“Aye.” Bonnie shook her head, even as something tugged deep within her chest. “Just forget I ever suggested it.”

“I’m not sure I can.” A slow smile stretched Ainslie’s mouth then.

“They’re in the midst of their banqueting … there’s still time for ye to ready yerself.”

Bonnie stilled.

“What?”

“Too long have ye hidden in the shadows, Bonnie Fraser. Before ye know it, life will slip by, and ye shall be an auld woman full of regrets. Tonight, I shall help ye create a memory ye will cherish for the rest of yer days.” Ainslie’s smile widened, even as Bonnie’s heart started to pound.

“Fear not, lass, ye shall go to that ball.”

Bonnie’s breathing quickened as she descended the steps to the entrance hall.

Excitement fluttered up.

She couldn’t believe she was doing this.

She was desperately trying to keep her nerve, yet her heart was beating so hard, it felt as if it were about to take flight.

Her palms were slippery with sweat, and she was breathing so shallowly that she now felt lightheaded.

Calm down , Bonnie counseled herself, or ye shall faint before ye set foot in the great hall .

The heavy wooden doors that would lead her out of the castle’s main entrance loomed ahead now, flanked by liveried guards.

She swallowed hard and squared her shoulders as she stepped out onto the wide atrium and headed toward them.

Now was the moment of truth.

Would her disguise fool these guards, or would they see right through it and realize she was an interloper?

A chambermaid in disguise.

Lord forgive me for this deception , she thought, resisting the urge to curl her fingers into her palms. Just give me this one evening.

Both the guards watched her approach, their gazes glinting.

She started to sweat then.

Her long skirts—which Ainslie had mended—rustled around her ankles.

The kirtle, which fitted so snuggly under her surcote, suddenly felt overly tight around her ribcage.

And she was aware of just how much flesh she had on show.

Ainslie had tied the rose-colored ribbon that laced the bodice into a neat bow.

However, it drew the eye straight to her cleavage.

The head laundress hadn’t given that mask back, after all.

Instead, Ainslie had handed it over to her with a wide smile.

She’d then brushed Bonnie’s hair out for her before rubbing a little rose-scented oil through it.

Her hair now fell in heavy, gleaming waves around her shoulders.

Bonnie had suggested it was more fitting to pin it up, yet Ainslie had clucked her tongue and shaken her head.

“There’s no need for that, this eve … everyone is in costume. Ye look like a fairy that lives amongst the heather with yer hair tumbling over yer shoulders.”

Ainslie’s words had bolstered Bonnie’s self-confidence.

Even so, it was hard not to feel uncomfortable under the hot male stares that tracked her path now.

Bonnie lifted her chin into the air and sailed past the gawking guards.

If she was pretending to be a high-born lady this eve, she needed to act the part; it wouldn’t do to round her shoulders and avert her gaze as if she were ashamed of herself.

Raising her skirts a little to prevent herself from tripping, revealing the embroidered purple and pink slippers Ainslie had also loaned her, Bonnie made her way down the steps into the inner close.

It was a surprisingly mild night out.

Often, a bitter wind gusted in from the north, biting through layers of clothing.

But this evening, it almost felt warm, as if spring had embraced Stirling early.

Bonnie was glad it wasn’t cold, for she hadn’t brought a shawl with her.

She had nothing fine enough to use as a wrap and had forgotten to ask Ainslie if she could borrow something.

Music drifted out of the open doors of the great hall just a few yards away.

The lilting strains of a lyre and a pipe soared high into the still night.

Bonnie’s heart continued to beat a tattoo against her ribs as she crossed the courtyard toward the hall.

She remembered Ainslie’s parting words then.

“For this to work, ye have to be canny, lass,” she’d murmured, her gaze spearing Bonnie’s.

“Best ye enter the hall once the banquet is done and the ball is well underway. Ye should be discreet. Say as little as possible. Tonight, ye are Lady Adair Farquharson … of Braemar Castle.” Ainslie had paused there, a smile tugging at her lips at her own cleverness.

“The clan-chief is red-headed, so it should seem plausible that ye are one of his brood. If anyone asks, ye are staying with relatives in Stirling.”

Bonnie had flashed her a nervous smile in reply.

“Ye seem to have an answer for everything.”

“I do … but pay attention, lass. As I said, ye are to slip in when the dancing has started, and ye are to remain mysterious. Don’t, for the love of our Savior, take off yer mask … for any reason. Don’t linger too long either. Leave well before the witching hour, while the revelry is still going on, and return to yer attic unseen.”

Ainslie was right, of course.

She had to be careful.

Bonnie climbed the steps to the great hall while nerves danced like overexcited sprites in her belly.

Her heart was beating so hard now, she was starting to feel nauseated.

This was it—she really was going to the ball.

Two more guards flanked the entrance.

They nodded at Bonnie as she walked by them.

An instant later, she stepped into another world.

Bonnie gazed around her.

Of course, having grown up within the walls of Stirling Castle, she’d been inside the great hall before—and had scrubbed its floors several times.

Yet she’d never seen it like this.

Wonder tightened her throat as she took in the brightly colored streamers that cascaded from the heavy beams arching overhead, and the swirling crowd of costumed lairds and ladies that filled the hall.

She hadn’t expected to see such elaborate costumes and masks.

A woman, dressed like an ice-queen in flowing silver and a glittering mask, floated past her, on the arm of a hulking man with a wolfskin about his broad-shoulders and a matching mask.

Gazing around, Bonnie suddenly felt under-dressed.

Earlier, she’d thought Ainslie’s thistle-colored gown was splendid, yet it seemed drab compared to the costly fabrics, jewels, exotic feathers and furs, and fanciful designs that surrounded her.

Bonnie’s lips parted slightly before she realized she was gawking like an idiot.

Shutting her mouth, she moved around the edge of the hall.

In the past, she’d cringed before these people, had lowered her gaze, and shuffled out of their way.

But even in her fine surcote, it was hard to pretend to be one of them.

The embarrassing memory of how she’d reacted that morning in the inner close, when she’d tripped, resurfaced then, and heat flushed across her chest.

Inhaling deeply, Bonnie drew her shoulders back and lifted her chin.

She then took a goblet of wine from a passing page boy.

Raising the goblet tentatively to her lips, she sipped the wine.

An instant later, she stifled a gasp of pleasure.

Lord, she’d never tasted something so delicious.

It was light and fruity, and danced on her tongue.

Bonnie took another sip.

The wine steadied her nerves.

Maybe, after a goblet or two of this, she’d no longer be a blushing lass, cowed by her betters.

Perhaps then, she could pretend she belonged here.

“Ye look utterly ridiculous.”

“So do ye.”

Iver scowled, even though he knew his brother couldn’t see.

Curse it, he didn’t even want to attend this ball.

The last thing he wanted was to don a mask—yet here he was.

Earlier in the day, when two of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting had accosted him and Lennox, bearing a basket of masks, and insisted they choose one each for the ball after the banquet, he’d wanted to refuse.

But the ladies had been so enthusiastic, their faces glowing with excitement, that it seemed churlish to do so.

All the same, Iver had chosen the simplest mask he could find—it was the color of pewter and satiny with winged edges.

In contrast, his brother had taken the opposite approach.

Lennox had selected one that was black and feathered with a huge beak.

Both the Mackay brothers had worn clothing to match their masks.

Lennox was clad head-to-toe in black leather, while Iver wore dark grey.

“Ye resemble a crow,” Iver muttered, running a disparaging eye over his brother.

“And an evil-looking one at that. If ye were hoping to frighten women off this eve, ye might well succeed.”

“I hope not.” His brother grinned then, his mouth just visible under the protruding beak.

“I intend to entertain myself tonight.”

Iver stiffened at this declaration.

As much as he wished to retire at the first opportunity, he was loath to leave his brother to his own devices down here.

Lennox had downed around twice the quantity of wine he had during the banquet, and although he showed no sign of inebriation, there was a wicked edge to his voice that often crept in when he was in his cups.

Grinding his teeth together, Iver wished, once again, that he’d asked Kerr to join him on this trip.

Lennox was exhausting him.

Oblivious to his brother’s weariness, Lennox raised his goblet of wine to his lips and drained it.

He then slammed it down on the table and pushed himself to his feet.

“I’m joining the dancers.”

Iver stood up as well, casting Colin Campbell a sidelong look.

The Lord of Glenorchy had made a special effort for the ball, donning a stag’s head cloak and a mask covered in deerskin.

He looked like the ancient god Cernunnos himself.

“Are ye joining us?”

Campbell huffed a laugh and held up the goblet he’d just refilled.

“Unlike ye youngsters, I need a bit more drink in me before I take to the floor.”

Iver snorted.

He was hardly a youngster himself these days, and was only venturing out into the fray to keep an eye on his brother.

“We’ll see ye later then, Colin.” Lennox flashed the laird a grin before sauntering off in the direction of the swirling dancers.

The minstrels had just finished playing a collection of slow, courtly dances, but had now changed tempo, abandoning the basse danse for a lively Scottish jig.

Lennox threw himself into the crowd, taking the arm of a tall, curvaceous woman wearing a mask decorated with peacock feathers.

Iver didn’t join him.

He wasn’t going to dive in like his younger brother.

Iver had learned all the dances over the years, and a decade earlier, he’d been one of the first to take the floor.

He’d loved the fire festivals or any occasion that brought folk together.

It had been an opportunity to flirt, to get close to a woman he’d desired from afar.

He’d been a different man then—carefree and a little careless.

But not any longer. Tonight, the gaiety and loud music just made his head hurt.

Just clench yer jaw and suffer it, Mackay, he counseled himself as he wove his way through the press toward the edge of the hall.

The eve will pass soon enough.