Warrior and the Wanderer (19 page)

To keep the balance, he reminded himself and took the necessary steps forward to do so.

* * * *

Bess watched Ian walk toward her. He was a man with a great burden on his mind. She could tell that from his furrowed brow, and the tight set of his jaw.

She made her quick apologies to the gentleman she had been speaking to, a Border lord who had lost a great deal of land after Flodden. She stepped up to Ian.

“Blaze,” he said quietly. “I need you to come with me.”

“Where?” she asked. “I would think after that performance ye would be going—”

“To the goal? Not quite, Blaze.” He grinned. “The Queen has requested to see to me.”

Bess faltered a step. “Sh-she requested ye come to her…
now
?”

“Aye, want to come? You’ve got more to talk to her about than I do.”

She looked up at him. She could tell in his eyes that he was sincere.

Bess smoothed her hands over her bodice. “Aye, of course, I’ll accompany ye.” She paused and looked at him intently. “Are ye certain your name is MacLean?”

“After what I’ve heard lately, I’m not so sure,” he replied.

Looking straight ahead at the semi-circle of nobles surrounding the royals, she asked, “What have ye heard? No’ subscribing to court rumor, are ye? After ye kissed Her Majesty’s hand, I ken ye are fodder for the rumormongers.”

“I have to tell you something. And it’s no rumor, Blaze.” The firmness of his words took her aback.

Several of the nobles diverted their attention from the royals and gave her and Ian lingering stares. They had to look up at Ian, but to show their disapproval for the intrusion, they only had to look straight ahead at her.

“Whatever you have to tell me must wait, Ian,” she whispered. “Her Majesty cannae.”

“But Bla—”

Bess stepped into a low curtsy. Ian bowed beside her, brief, but a bow never the less.

“Ah,” the queen regent cooed, tipping her glass of meade to them. The young king grinned broadly around a bite of tart. His lips were stained with the sticky fruit. He wiped them with an elegantly embroidered sleeve.

“The bard…and Lady Campbell of Argyll, and I believe, the one responsible for bringing the bard to court,” the queen said.

Bess stared at the floor. Responsible. Oh, Dear God. Infamy had preceded her. She stole a sideways glance at Ian. Something weighed on his mind. She would have expected him to wear a confident grin at this moment.

“Rise,” the queen commanded.

Ian and Bess stood in unison. Her heart pounded behind the confines of her bodice.

“Lady Campbell, we did not request your presence,” the queen said, her gaze firmly on Ian, and up and down his body so handsomely attired in his fitting, well-tailored clothes.

“I brought her with me, Your Majesty,” Ian said.

“Did you?” she asked, one slender brow raised.

Ian took step forward, hands behind his back, as if he were preparing to advise her on an important matter.

“You are but a bard,” Her Majesty said. “And a presumptuous one at that.”

Bess took one step backward.

“Hold it,” Ian growled at her. He looked at the queen in the same way when he sang, predatory. This could only mean trouble.

“Mother,” the king said. “I like the bard. I want him to sing again.”

A man, dressed almost as finely as the young king, leaned over his right shoulder and whispered into his ear. The king’s face fell. He looked hopefully at his mother. The queen regent, who had lost her husband in the Battle of Flodden, forced herself to look away from her monarch son.

The young king rose reluctantly from the throne. All the court bowed or curtsied like stands of ripened grain in an autumn breeze. Ian did not bow. He just stood there, confusion and anger across his face. His Majesty walked out of the great hall with the man in splendid dress who followed two steps behind him.

The queen held herself firm in her throne, hands gripping the carved, velvet cushioned arms with pale fingertips.

“Your Majesty,” Ian said to her.

Bess grabbed the sleeve of his leather doublet. “Ian, no,” she whispered.

The queen’s eyes welled with tears.

Ian pulled from Bess’s hold and knelt before the throne. She gasped in alarm, when he reached up and pried the queen’s hand from the arm. Two guards moved in quickly behind Ian. To touch royalty without an invitation…Bess did not wish to ponder the penalty for that, far too terrible.

Ian cradled the queen’s hand in his own. He looked intently into her eyes, capturing her astonished stare. She blinked away the tears. Ian kissed the top of her hand for the second time that evening. Bess held her breath for the countless time that evening.

Ian began singing that ethereal, direct, and oddly poetic song, the one that had sung to her heart and, apparently, to Her Majesty’s heart as well.

Slowly, the queen rose from the throne allowing Ian to continue to hold her hand and sing to her.

Bess stepped back and watched Ian escort the queen regent by his hand and song from the great hall. All of the court watched, all eyes wide with astonishment.

Like Bess, the queen regent, the mother to the King, shared a peculiar weakness for a most peculiar and frighteningly powerful bard. The only question that loomed in Bess’s mind was just where was Ian taking the Her Majesty? As much as she desired to, she dared not follow them to find the answer.

* * * *

The hour was so late that the iron torches bolted to the walls of the corridor held only smoldering coals. Ian groped his way in the dim, praying he would find the door to his chamber.

“If they would only put numbers on the doors in this castle,” he rasped. His voice was all but gone.

The queen had needed him to distract her. He had gladly accompanied her to her chamber his motives to only help Bess. She had looked confused and a wee bit pissed off when he had lured the distressed queen away from her court by singing that old Righteous Brothers tune, the song she had enjoyed the first time he sang it to her. Bess deserved an explanation why, but now his voice was all but shot and he needed some sleep, just an hour or two.

And she had commanded that he sing it again and again until his voice was fried. He promised himself never to sing it after this night was over.

Ian had done Her Majesty’s bidding while her ladies in waiting prepared her for bed. He guessed from the looks on their faces they expected him to join their queen between the sheets. But Ian had sat on the edge of her bed, singing softly to her. The queen had drifted to sleep after thanking him for taking her thoughts away from her son who was once again stolen from her. She drowsily told Ian he could have anything he wanted. She would grant it while she still had power. Her son’s councilors, including the one who had taken him so quickly away from the great hall, were probably already working on usurping any power the she had left.

She gave him a gift to prove her royal promise to him. Ian accepted the token, a gold ring with a faceted ruby in the center and a pair of small emeralds on either side.

Then she closed her eyes and began to snore.

Her attendants ushered him out of the queen’s bedchamber. Ian bowed to all of them, drawing forth their smiles, and then he got the hell out of there.

Now, if only he could find his room. All he wanted to do was strip off his clothes and pass out in a decent bed instead of a pile of rushes.

Shouts pushed through a closed door to his immediate right.

Gaelic shouts.

“
Mac cú boirionn!
” Son of a bitch.

Aye, he recognized that one from the few years he stayed in school where they had to learn the Gaelic, he and his mates made it their mission to learn as many curses as they could. Extra-credit that would get them a slap in the mouth.

“
Neach dìolain!!!!!
” Bastard!!!!!

He knew that one as well. And he knew the voice. Bess’s.

A loud series of thumps, grunts, female grunts, then a louder thump.

Sounds of a struggle.

Lachlan MacLean was here. Spittal wasn’t lying about his imminent arrival.

Ian grabbed one of the iron torches and with a loud grunt that echoed the grunt coming from the other side of Bess’ door. The torch gave way from the wall; the iron bolts squealing against stone. Ian dumped out the dead coals and held the torch in one hand like a club. He tried the door latch with the other hand, but it did not budge. He took a deep breath and a step back from Bess’s door.

He lifted his left leg and smashed the bottom of his foot once, twice, and a third time into the door, near the iron latch. A splintering sound on the third try sounded victory. Partly. The door remained locked.

Ian leapt back from the door and took aim with his right shoulder. He rushed forward making painful contact with the wood. The door gave way and he found himself stumbling across a polished wooden floor and into Bess. They both sailed into the four-posted bed bringing the velvet curtains down with them.

At least he found a bed. Having Bess in it with him was an unexpected pleasure.

Then she punched him in the jaw.

Chapter Eleven: The Duet

B
ess swung her fist at Ian a second time.

He rolled off the bed not giving her the satisfaction of striking him again.

He stood, swiping at the blood in the corner of his mouth with two fingers, and looked at the crimson smear on the tips. Then he seared her with a harsh stare.

“Dinnae look at me like that,” she snapped. “Ye’re the one who invaded my bedchamber!”

“Blaze!” he snarled, eyes wide. “What the hell is wrong with you? You hit first, and accuse later. I was trying to rescue you.”

She gripped a handful of bed curtain. “Rescue me?”

“Aye,” he said. “I heard you cursing in the Gaelic, heard thumps, and a few non-sexual moan and grunts from you.”

He looked about the chamber, his amber eyes reflecting the firelight, the shadows embracing his features and the ark bristles on his chin. Bess took him in as he searched the room.

“He’s not here,” Ian said.

“Who?”

“Lachlan MacLean.”

Bess swallowed the knot that suddenly formed in her dry throat. “He’s no’ here. Why would ye think so?”

Ian locked his gaze on her. “Just backstage rumors. Nothing.”

“Ye didnae barge in here as if ye thought it was ‘nothing’.”

“Who or what were you fighting in here?” he asked.

“My bodice. I cannae get at the lacings and there is no servant to be found at this hour.”

He smiled, one corner of his lips higher than the other. “I’ll help you. Come over here.”

She slipped off of the bed and moved steadily toward him, drawn by the firelight in his steady gaze and the desire to escape from the confines of her clothes. Slowly, she turned around, the laces of her bodice toward him.

But Ian did not oblige her.

Over her shoulder, Bess watched him walk to the broken door. He set it back into its hinges. The door wobbled a bit, but when Ian threw the latch it locked solidly into place.

The privacy of the bedchamber restored, he turned and walked back to her. Bess averted her gaze back to the fire in the hearth, showing her laces to him.

His fingers worked behind her, knuckles brushing her back as he released her from the gown eyelet by eyelet. She could hear him breathing, softly, as he unlaced her. She closed her eyes. His warm breath lightly brushed the back of her neck as he did her bidding.

Her brother had once said that a good warrior never turned his back on the enemy.

But Ian isnae my enemy, she thought. He has in his own way become my champion.

He finished her unlacing. Silence surrounded her. She could no longer sense Ian’s presence behind her.
A good warrior never turns his back on his enemy.
She held her loosened bodice tightly to her body and slowly turned around.

Ian was staring out the narrow window of her bedchamber, at the sleeping city below this lofty castle perched on a great rock. The misty
haar
had rolled in from the great firth to the north, shrouding the city, and approaching the castle ramparts like a silent invader.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. His gaze looked so very far away as if he was searching for something.

“Ian?” Bess asked softly.

Reverie broken, he blinked turning his attention to her.

“I was with the queen,” he said.

“Aye,” she said. “All in court saw ye lure her away with yer Siren’s song.”

“The woman needed comforting,” he continued.

She put her hands on her hips, her bodice slipping down to her hips, revealing her tunic. “Aye, and ye took it on yerself to comfort her.”

“I know she liked my song and I saw she was distressed at having her son taken away. I had my reasons.” His voice was so ravaged.

“To warm her bed, no doubt.” She couldn’t keep the accusation from leaving her lips. The thought of Ian in the queen regent’s bed this night had kept her from finding rest in her own bed. And now he was boldly admitting it.