He tried not to feel a flutter around his hearts at the thought, tried to ignore it and pretend it wasn’t there, but the joy that she was choosing him was overpowering.
It made him feel invincible.
Like the center of the universe.
Without thinking, he brought his arm up and her hand with it, leaning down to meet her fingers with his lips.
She looked a little taken aback, a soft frown soon enough between her brows. He thought he saw the faintest trace of dragon fire in her veins, so light blue it was almost white, but couldn’t be sure. It was so brief. He wondered what it would be like to see her truly set aglow.
“Stop that,” she remonstrated, clearly worried someone might have seen, but there was pleasure in her eyes.
“Doubtful,” he smirked as they reached the staircase. “Very doubtful.”
That made her burst out laughing, and she seemed finally at ease as he led her down the stairs. He wanted her to feel as confident as he did. Wanted to infuse her with the attitude she was blessing him with.
There were more than a few heads turning as they reached the bottom steps of the stairs, greetings heard while curtseys and bows occurred all around them. Iona’s grip on his arm was tightening again, but at least she kept her chin up and her eyes from gliding away from those greeting them. Instead, she held their gaze steadily. There was tittering, a few frowns, courtiers confused by a familiar face though most of them clearly could not attach a name to it.
“They do not know you,” he whispered to Iona as they entered the great hall. “They think you’re a princess from some far-off shore.”
She shook her head a little, a soft blush on her cheeks that made him suddenly want to wrap an arm around her waist again, pull her close with the excuse that he simply wanted to test her dancing skills. She’d let him, without any hesitation. She’d followed his lead as though it was second nature, when it was anything but. Why? Why had she not pulled away from him and laughed and teased?
Choose a mate, his father had said. One highborn or one from the lowest classes.
Malcolm’s hearts gave a soft thrill at the sudden inclination to see what sort of figure Iona would cut on a throne with a crown being placed on her head.
The image was so clear in his mind he had to blink to come back to the moment, letting the image go with a stubborn shove that it was ridiculously pointless.
Iona would never accept him.
Not that he would want her to.
They had arrived before the dais where king Morton was waiting, a small smile on his mouth. Lady Shannon, standing next to the dais with a drink in her hand, had gone deathly pale at the sight of the arrivals. Malcolm would have to give her plenty of attention to ensure color returned to her cheeks, but for now, he focused on Iona.
She kept her hand on his arm as she curtseyed low for the king.
“The lady of Lakely, I presume,” the king said, smile broadening. He had always gotten along well with Iona, no matter her station, and the teasing was done in all friendliness. Iona’s hold on Malcolm’s arm eased a little. Having the king’s approval was clearly important to her.
Malcolm wasn’t surprised his father hadn’t even reacted to the sight of the dress. Or perhaps his father didn’t want to make a fuss. Either way, it was an acceptance and Malcolm was grateful for it.
“Not so, sire,” she said. “I am no lady. Though of Lakely, aye, that I am.”
He laughed then, getting to his feet and stepping off the dais to place his hands on her shoulders, taking a better look at her.
“I believe you are she,” he said. “A lady born, meaning you bear the title in the truest sense of what it means. You were always kind of hearts and clear of head,” he winked at her. “There is much to discuss tonight,” he added with a glance at Malcolm, who gave a soft nod.
They had business of the crowns to attend to and the dinner was the perfect cover, meant to keep everyone preoccupied while the rulers retired to a private chamber for their secretive deliberations. It was not unheard of for a king’s moot such as this one to not partake in the festivities of their courts, thrust together as they were. It would not raise more than one eyebrow or two.
“I wish Iona to join us,” Malcolm told his father, who paused for only a second before giving a nod of acceptance.
“Join you where?” Iona asked.
“You shall see,” Malcolm replied cryptically, granting her a smile of encouragement. “Rest by my father a moment, and I will be right back,” he added, leaving Iona in order to approach Lady Shannon. “May I entrust you with a task, my lady?” he asked her once he had her returning his smile.
“Of course, my prince,” she said.
“Might you lead the revelers into the dining hall? We take our leave and retire to take our meal in private with the other crowned heads and would be grateful for someone trustworthy to bring the room together in our absence,” he said. Her smile faltered for only a moment.
“It would be my pleasure, Malcolm,” she then replied. He could tell she was beginning to thrill softly at the faith he was bestowing in her capabilities as hostess.
