Ian did. Praise God he had found them.
“Which room are they in?” Ian said, starting toward the stairs.
“The younger lad might be up there, but the tall one left some time ago.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Funny thing, he’d found himself a pretty lass and said they was going to visit the queen.”
People on the street moved out of Ian’s way as he strode toward the castle. Connor was beside him, matching him stride for stride, and the other two behind them.
“Mind your temper,” Connor said, as they drew near the gatehouse. “If ye draw your blade, twenty guards will be on ye before ye can say her name.”
They told the guards at the gatehouse they were looking for a clanswoman.
“She was with a big lad of fifteen, and she’s so high,” Ian said, holding his hand to his chin, “and has flaming red hair.”
“Couldn’t forget that lass, now could I?” one on the guards said. “Ach, she’s a fair one.”
Ian took a deep breath to keep from punching him.
“If that were my wife, ye can be sure I’d keep her home,” another said.
Ian gritted his teeth while Connor and Alex talked the guards into letting them pass, then they hurried to the King’s House. As soon as they got past another set of guards at the door, he saw Niall.
His brother’s eyes widened as Ian and the others crossed the hall to him, but he stood his ground.
“Where is she?” Ian grabbed Niall by the front of his shirt. “Tell me now.”
“A servant took her to the queen’s private parlor,” Niall said, and Ian saw the worry in his eyes. “He said men were not permitted to go there.”
Ian knew from personal experience that was a lie. The queen’s ladies sneaked men in all the time.
“I didn’t like it, but it’s only women in there, so Sìleas should be safe enough,” Niall said, but there was a question in his voice. “But she’s been gone a long while.”
Ian turned to the others. “Can ye hold the guards for a wee bit?”
“Wait, I see an easier way in.” Alex shifted his gaze across the room. “I believe that is the English lass who used to have an eye for ye.”
Ian followed Alex’s gaze to a woman with a graceful figure and a delicate, perfectly proportioned face framed by very fair tendrils.
“Are ye speaking of Lady Philippa?” Niall asked in a wistful voice.
She was, indeed, Philippa, the woman Ian had once planned to marry. It seemed a lifetime ago.
“I’d wager Philippa can get ye into the queen’s parlor in a wink, if she’s a mind to it,” Alex said, pushing Ian forward. “So make an effort to be charming.”
Philippa turned her head and blinked several times when she saw Ian walking toward her. After whispering something to the man standing next to her, she swept across the room to meet him with a smile lighting her face.
“You are as handsome as ever, Ian MacDonald,” she said, holding her gloved hand out to him. “How many other ladies’ hearts have you broken since last we met?”
“I must speak with ye alone,” Ian said, and took her by the elbow.
She glanced sideways at him and smiled as he led her into a darkened alcove. “Oh my, the ladies will be all atwitter—and green with envy.”
Ian bit back his impatience.
“I never apologized for not coming back for ye.” He owed her that—and it seemed politic to apologize before asking a favor. “I did mean to return and marry ye, but… it wasn’t possible.”
“Heavens, Ian, I couldn’t have married you,” she said, and laughed that tinkling laugh that used to enchant him. “I was one of King James’s mistresses at the time.”
Ian was stunned. He had thought her an innocent—and in love with him.