Page 8

8: AN ACCIDENT OF BIRTH

THE MASQUERADE BALL was quite a spectacle—it was like being transported into a fairy realm.

No, Iver didn’t want to be here—but he had to admit he’d never seen such pageantry.

His gaze swept to the heart of the dancing, to the king and queen.

James was in a red and gold mask and a great horned headpiece that made him appear like a mythical beast, while Mary looked like a fairy queen with her pale hair and silver mask studded with gems.

Iver’s attention alighted then on a tall, lithe man with long dark hair shot through with grey standing nearby.

A slender woman with silvering brown hair stood at his side.

Tavish and Robina Gunn.

The clan-chief spied Iver then, and the two men’s gazes fused.

Moments passed, and then Tavish’s mouth lifted at the corners.

A heartbeat later, Iver returned the smile before favoring the clan-chief with a respectful nod.

The Gunns and the Mackays were old rivals, and for years, the two clans had been locked in a bloody feud.

There was a time when the sight of a Gunn made Iver’s blood heat, his right-hand itching to reach for his dirk.

But things were different these days.

Over a decade had passed since they’d united against the Sutherlands in battle, and in the years following, relations had healed.

Nonetheless, the sight of Tavish Gunn reminded Iver of the man’s youngest brother, William Gunn, and the humiliation he’d once suffered at the bastard’s hands.

And like many disputes, this one had been over a woman: the lovely Eilidh Munro.

It was water under the bridge now—for William and Eilidh had long been wed and had three children—yet Iver had never forgotten the incident.

Even so, he couldn’t blame Tavish for it.

The dancers had formed a ring now, linking arms as they spun around the floor.

Wary of being drawn into the revelry, Iver quickened his step, moving to the edge of the hall.

A crowd had formed there, as many of the revelers chose to watch rather than participate.

A woman standing a little apart from them caught Iver’s eye.

Dressed in a becoming gown, the color of blooming heather, with a matching mask, her flame-red hair cascading over pale shoulders, she looked a little different from those around her.

The woman’s costume was less elaborate than the other ladies—and yet, to Iver, she outshone them all.

And that low-cut kirtle and surcote hugged every lush curve of her small body, revealing deep cleavage.

Iver’s breathing grew shallow as he observed her.

His swift, visceral reaction surprised him.

The woman was a temptress indeed.

She noticed his stare then—and a pair of sea-green eyes met his own gaze.

The moment drew out, and neither of them looked away.

An odd sense of recognition fluttered up within Iver, as if they’d met before.

Yet he was sure they hadn’t.

He’d have remembered.

Perhaps there was something about her that reminded him of the comely, yet cripplingly shy, chambermaid he’d assisted that morning, for her hair was of the same fiery hue.

But the similarity ended there.

That poor lass hadn’t even been able to meet his eye.

Iver’s breathing stilled for a moment, heat igniting in his belly, and his senses sharpening.

Suddenly, the heaviness that had dogged his steps all evening lifted.

It had been a long while since he’d responded like this, and it was discomforting.

Cynicism was usually his first response to a comely lass these days—and he preferred that.

Beautiful women are the most dangerous, he reminded himself, his hands clenching by his sides.

Aye, Eilidh Munro had been lovely—and so had Flora MacPherson.

But his dealings with both ladies had left scars.

Tension rippled through him as he fought the pull.

Fought and lost.

As the music soared high into the rafters of the great hall of Stirling Castle, Iver stepped forward.

And still holding the red-haired woman’s eye, he crossed the floor toward her.

He’s coming my way.

The Lord help her, she hadn’t meant to stare at the man—but she’d been unable to help herself.

Bonnie had been watching the dancers, marveling at what a striking pair the king and queen made, when she’d felt someone’s gaze upon her.

Tearing her attention from James and Mary, she’d discovered that a man across the crowd was watching her.

And her heart had leaped into her throat when she recognized him.

Wearing a mask the shade of storm-clouds, he was distinctive.

His hair, almost as pale as sea-foam, flowed over his shoulders.

Tall and clad in form-fitting grey leggings and a jerkin of the same hue that left his arms bare, the stranger she’d admired from afar over the last two days was now striding across the floor toward her.

Like her, he was dressed more simply than many of the other guests.

And yet, he stood out.

Even masked, she’d have recognized him anywhere.

Bonnie’s pulse started to hammer in her ears.

What will I do?

She considered turning and running away, yet her feet had grown roots.

Unlike the two previous times she’d encountered him, Bonnie held the man’s gaze.

It was as if he’d cast some enchantment over her; she couldn’t seem to look away.

And as he drew near, she noted he had dark-blue eyes—the color of the sky, just before night’s curtain fell.

She couldn’t believe he was heading her way.

A wave of panic hit Bonnie then as her heart started to kick against her ribs.

Ainslie had warned her not to speak to anyone.

What if he recognizes me?

Lord, what if he had already?

Maybe he was on his way over to demand what a lowly chambermaid was doing at the king’s masquerade ball.

Bonnie started to sweat.

She even managed to unfree her slippered feet from the wooden floor and take a step back.

But it was too late, for the blond stranger had reached her.

Halting, he stared down at her, and Bonnie raised her chin to hold his gaze.

They shouldn’t stare at each other like this.

It was too intense.

The moment drew out, and when the man spoke, the low warmth of his voice wrapped itself around her.

“Would ye like to dance?”

Bonnie’s breathing hitched.

Remember, ye are pretending to be a lady, she reminded herself.

Speak like one . “Aye,” she whispered.

“I would.”

His mouth curved, and he held out a hand to her.

“Shall we then?”

Bonnie nodded and raised her own hand, placing it over the top of his, as she’d seen the ladies around her do.

She could dance—and had attended enough fire festivals in Stirling to feel confident to take the floor.

Fortunately, the minstrels were playing a lively jig, music she was used to.

The courtly dance they’d been performing earlier would be another matter.

Although it was slow, the basse danse appeared to have many carefully planned moves.

Bonnie wouldn’t be able to hide her lack of expertise in such a situation.

However, it was too late to worry about that, for he was drawing her into the dancing.

And the moment after that, Bonnie was twirling around him.

Joy fluttered up, causing her panic to subside.

Moments later, the nerves knotting her stomach loosened.

Never had she felt like this.

Beautiful. Free. When the music caught hold, it was as if nothing bad could ever touch her.

She was smiling so widely that her face ached, her feet flying over the floor as they linked arms, and he swung her in the other direction.

Bonnie guessed it wasn’t seemly for a lady to openly express such delight, yet she couldn’t help herself.

When she’d stepped inside this hall, she hadn’t dreamed she’d end up dancing with the blond stranger who’d intrigued her so—and yet here she was.

Her happiness must have been infectious, for when she glanced her dance partner’s way, she saw that he too was grinning.

Bonnie’s breathing caught.

Heavens, she’d thought him handsome before, but when he smiled, he was devastating.

It lit him up.

The song ended then, and disappointment constricted Bonnie’s chest as she drew to a halt, breathing hard.

Yet, an instant later, the minstrels in the gallery above struck up another fast tune—and they were off again.

Bonnie whirled around her partner, the joyful sound of her laughter joining the lilt of the lyre and pipe.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Alba hissed, tugging at her sister’s sleeve.

“If Ma finds out, she’ll take a wooden spoon to us both.”

Morag snorted and wrested her arm free.

“Nonsense. We’re too old for that. Plus, she’ll never know.”

Alba’s mouth flattened, yet she didn’t argue.

They were twins, and physically identical; nevertheless, Morag was the bold one.

The leader. Alba was forever the follower.

It was no surprise then that this escapade was her sister’s idea.

They’d sneaked into the great hall via the servants’ entrance while the dancing was in full swing and then crept up the wooden stairs into the minstrels’ gallery.

From here, they’d be able to see the dancing.

Fortunately for the twins, it was chaos down there, and the music was loud.

The din of merrymaking echoed through the cavernous space—and all eyes were on those dancing.

The minstrels, two lyrists and two pipers, hadn’t seen the twins, who’d halted at the top of the stairs and were now pressed up against the banister.

Sweat beaded on the men’s brows as they played, their gazes also trained on the revelry below.

Alba’s breathing quickened as she peered down at the brightly colored sea of figures beneath them.

“Look,” she whispered.

“The king and queen.”

Indeed, it was impossible to miss them.

James and Mary danced at the very heart of the crowd and with as much vigor as the other guests.

They were both young and full of energy —the queen herself was three winters younger than the twins, although she’d already given birth to two bairns.

“What a spectacle,” Morag breathed.

“How I wish we could don costumes and join them.”

Alba marked the envy in her sister’s voice.

Morag had reacted in a similar fashion earlier when they’d gone out to see the guests arrive.

Like some of the stable hands who’d gathered around the fringes of the inner close to watch the costumed lords and ladies file into the great hall, both the sisters were enraptured.

Yet Morag had muttered something about how they were invisible to these people.

Her sister was right—they were—but Alba didn’t let that bother her.

“It’s like watching a fairy gathering,” she whispered, focusing on the dancers once more.

Morag didn’t reply. But a moment later, she caught hold of Alba’s arm with one hand while she pointed with the other.

“Look at that handsome man … if only I were his partner.”

Alba’s gaze traveled to where her sister indicated, to see a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in grey.

He was eye-catching indeed, with long pale-blond hair, although the small woman dressed in a purple gown with whom he was dancing stood out just as much.

The lady had bright red hair the same color as their cousin’s.

Laughing, she pivoted on her heel, ducked under her partner’s arm, and then changed direction.

“I always wanted hair that color,” Morag muttered.

“It’s not fair that Bonnie was blessed with a fiery mane, while ye and I have hair the color of mud.”

Alba’s mouth pursed.

She wouldn’t have described their hair in such a fashion.

The masquerade ball had indeed turned her sister as bitter as their mother.

There was no denying their cousin was a comely lass.

Bonnie’s loveliness seemed to bloom brighter with each passing year, but their cousin also had a gentle, sweet nature.

She worked hard and never complained.

In truth, Alba didn’t like the way her mother and sister harassed her.

They’d gotten more vicious recently too, more personal.

Bonnie weathered their bullying with grace, yet it was often difficult to bear witness to.

There had been many times when Alba wanted to extend the hand of friendship toward her, but Morag wouldn’t have stood for it.

“It’s just an accident of birth,” her sister grumbled then.

Her gaze was riveted upon the dancing couple, high spots of color upon her cheeks.

“If I’d been born under a different star, that could be me down there.”

Alba raised an eyebrow.

No, she and Morag weren’t the daughters of a clan-chief or even a chieftain.

Instead, their parents were a cook and a feckless groom who’d abandoned his family.

“Ye two!” An angry voice intruded then, and Alba saw that one of the musicians, a man holding a lyre, had spotted them.

“What are ye doing?”