Kathleen Harrington (14 page)

Both Kinrath and Dunbarton, as well as Oliver, had been absent from the previous evening’s banquet. She’d wondered at the time what had been so pressing as to require their presence elsewhere, and if their failure to appear had anything to do with Oliver’s summons.

Kinrath had changed from the doublet, breeches, and long hose he’d worn at their bowling competition. Now both Scots were formally attired in their jackets and clan tartans in anticipation of the village fair, to be followed by the afternoon’s archery contest.

The musty smell of ancient documents wafted through the room, though only a slight breeze floated in the high window. Floor to ceiling bookcases, enclosed in lead-paned glass, lined three walls.

Francine dipped in a curtsy, and they bowed in return.

From their somber manner, she had the feeling that the trio had been waiting anxiously for her arrival. That feeling brought with it a sudden sense of unease.

The top of Oliver’s enormous desk was stacked with papers, weighted down with a marble inkwell and a brass candlestick to keep them from scattering. For a disquieting moment, the only thing to be heard was the slight rustle of parchment.

Kinrath, who’d been holding what looked to be a letter when she entered, walked over and tossed it on the desktop. Then he leaned back against the desk, folded his arms and met her gaze once again.

Gone was the usual hint of teasing laughter in his eyes. His sea-weathered features grew stern, as a crease deepened between his auburn brows. All at once, he seemed larger and far more forbidding. Francine recognized, at last, the notorious pirate known to her countrymen as the Scourge of the Seas. Here stood unadulterated male power, lethal and merciless.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, her mouth so dry her words came out in a croak.

“First, please have a seat, milady,” Gillescop Kerr said kindly. He motioned to one of the three wooden armchairs in front of the desk and smiled again, as though to reassure her.

Which only served to increase her nervousness about this inexplicable meeting.

Francine sank onto the middle chair’s brocaded cushion. Dunbarton, whom she knew well from his lengthy negotiations with Mathias over the terms of the peace treaty and the royal marriage, sat down next to her. Bracing his elbow on the chair’s padded arm, the gray-haired earl turned to her with a solicitous air.

“May I once again offer my condolences on the loss of your husband last winter, Lady Francine,” he said. He shook his head, and his heavy jowls quivered. “Lord Walsingham’s steady counsel is sorely missed today, not the least by myself.”

She met his worried eyes and heard the unspoken concern in his tone. “Why especially today?” she asked, struggling to stay calm.

Oliver released a deep sigh and sat down on the opposite side of Francine, while Kinrath remained standing in front of the desk. The men exchanged glances, as though trying to decide which gentleman should speak first.

“Please,” she entreated, her voice now raspy with dread. “Whatever is wrong, I need to know.”

Oliver glanced up at the tall man standing in front of the desk and nodded for him to begin the explanation.

“Lady Walsingham,” Kinrath began gravely, “we have come upon some disturbing information. Yesterday, secret documents were found on an unfamiliar courier trying to sneak into the castle’s donjon. The letters have now been decoded. A group of unidentified English nobles—we suspect from the house of York—are plotting to destroy the new alliance between Scotland and England. Their plan is to abort the marriage of King James and Princess Margaret before she reaches the border.”

“But how?” Francine asked in astonishment. She looked from one man to the other, reading the anger on their faces. She gasped as she jumped to her feet. “Surely they don’t intend to harm the princess!”

Beddingfeld and Dunbarton both rose to stand beside her.

“Nay, nay, not the princess,” Oliver assured her. “If the marriage is called off for any reason, the young bride-to-be will be returned safely to her father, who can then negotiate with a different crown for another royal marriage and treaty. ’Tis not Princess Margaret they intend to assassinate.”

Bewildered, Francine clasped her hands in front of her in an effort to maintain control. “Who, then? Who’s death would provoke King Henry to break off the Treaty of Perpetual Peace and bring his daughter home?”

Lachlan could read the terror on Lady Francine’s delicate features. The rosy hue quickly drained from her cheeks. Her dark eyes, pooling with tears, appeared enormous in her pale face. She suspected the truth, and she deserved their honesty.

“’Tis your death, Lady Walsingham,” he told her calmly. “They plan to murder you and your daughter.”

“Dearest Jesus,” she whispered. “Not my innocent baby girl!” She swayed and started to sink to the floor, her knees buckling beneath her.

Lachlan reached out and caught her. He cupped her elbows in his palms and guided her gently into the chair behind her. At the look of anguish on her white face, he fought to keep his rage under control. He didn’t want to frighten her more than was necessary to ensure her full cooperation.

She must agree to their plan. The threat to her life and the life of her daughter was very real.

Lady Francine pressed her hands to her breast. “Why?” she asked, her voice choked with fear. “Why would anyone want to kill us? What do Angelica and I have to do with Margaret’s marriage settlement or the peace accord between our countries?”

Beddingfeld moved to a sideboard near the window, poured a glass of red wine from a decanter and brought it over to her.

Shaking her head, she waved it away. With her shoulders drooping and her honey-gold hair falling in loose ringlets about her neck, she looked incredibly fragile. The folds of her gown swirled about her hips in a pouf of pink satin, making her the living embodiment of the storied English rose.

Lachlan took the crystal goblet from Beddingfeld and knelt down on one knee in front of her. “Take a sip, Francie,” he ordered in a tone that brooked no dissension. “You’re as white as a sheeting of sail. I’ve no doubt your heart is pounding like a cannon barrage, as well.”

He felt a surge of relief. For once, the headstrong countess didn’t argue with him. She gave a slight nod of acquiescence and allowed him to hold the glass to her lips. Meeting his gaze over its rim, she took a small drink.

“Better?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she replied on an exhalation of air. Two tears trickled down her cheeks. She looked from one man to another and, with a shudder, seemed to gather her courage from somewhere deep inside. “Tell me everything.”

Gillescop ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair, unable to hide his wrath any longer. “The filthy blackguards plan to make it look like Laird Kinrath committed the double murder,” he growled.

“I don’t understand,” Lady Francine said. “Why would Yorkist nobles want to kill me? Is it because Mathias negotiated the peace agreement with the Scots?”

Dunbarton shook his head. “This has nothing to do with your late husband, milady.”

“What, then?”

The duke of Beddingfeld sat down in the chair beside her and clasped her hand. “My dear young friend,” he began. He paused to search her gaze, no doubt wondering how she would react to what he was about to say. “Everyone at court knows how much King Henry cares about you. If he believed that Laird Kinrath and his kinsmen murdered you and your child, he’d renounce the treaty of peace and bring Princess Margaret back home to Richmond immediately. He would then declare the proxy marriage null and void, after which he’d proceed to wage war on Scotland. Instead of King James becoming Henry’s son-in-law, he’d be his hated enemy, once again.”

Frowning, Lady Francine touched her brow with trembling fingers. “This still doesn’t make sense. Why would the king take England to war over my death and that of my child?”

Patting her cheek like an indulgent uncle, Oliver started to speak, then stopped. He cleared his throat before continuing, an indication of just how much he disliked what they were going to ask of her. “You may be the only person at court, Francie, who doesn’t realize that Henry is in love with you. Should our sovereign remarry, he must secure an alliance that would enhance the safety and prosperity of his kingdom. So he could never ask you to wed him.” Oliver smiled at her as he slowly shook his head. “And his majesty knows full well that you’d never willingly become the royal mistress.”

“Nonsense,” she protested. “King Henry doesn’t love me. He loved Elizabeth!”

“Yes, he did,” Oliver agreed. “And you loved Mathias. Everyone at court knew that. But the queen died six months ago, along with her baby daughter, and you’ve been in mourning since you lost your husband last winter. You must admit, my dear, that you and the king have grown close in your mutual losses. Why do you suppose Henry has refused to give permission for the marquess of Lychester to marry you, despite the entreaties of Harry Percy on behalf of his cousin?”

“Because I don’t want to marry Lychester, that’s why!” she replied.

“Exactly,” Beddingfeld agreed. “Henry puts your wishes above the demands of the powerful duke of Northumberland. That has to tell you something about his true feelings.”

Lady Francine pursed her lips and stared down at her lap. “If this is true, I must return to London,” she declared. “I must get Angelica to the safety of Richmond Castle as quickly as possible. We should leave at once.”

Lachlan immediately contradicted her. “No, Lady Walsingham,” he said. “It’s too late to turn back now.”

She leveled the full force of her irate gaze on him. No matter. He’d already steeled himself for an argument.

“Of course, I can go back,” she insisted, her dark eyes flashing at his attempt to interfere. “I can take my servants and a small armed force for protection while you and your kinsmen remain with Margaret on her journey to Scotland. That way, no one can blame you or any other Scot should something happen to us. Hence, I shall be safe and my daughter with me.”

“You’re mistaken, Lady Francine,” he said, “if you think you’d be safe on the road back. You’d never reach Collyweston alive, let alone London and the safety of Richmond Castle. These bastards wouldn’t hesitate to kill you and the lassie. They’d leave something to incriminate me beside your slain bodies. Then I and my kinsmen would be arrested and tried for murder. And because of your stubbornness, we’d all have died in vain.”

“I don’t believe you! Get out of my way,” she demanded. “Let me up.”

Francine pushed with all her strength against Kinrath’s chest but knew in that same moment the futility of even trying to move him. She recognized the determination on his set features. Barely exerting pressure, he kept her pinned in the chair. She might as well have been imprisoned by iron bars.

She stopped struggling and folded her arms, admitting defeat for the present. “Very well,” she snapped. She leaned forward till their faces were inches apart. “Just what is it you propose that I do?”

Kinrath released her and sat back on his haunches. “Perhaps it would be best coming from your old friend, Beddingfeld, here,” he answered with a wry grin. “I don’t think you’ll like the plan coming from me.”

“I have a notion I shan’t like the plan at all,” she retorted.

“I have a feeling you’re right,” Kinrath agreed, as he rose to his feet to tower over her. Clearly, he was taking no chances on letting her bolt from the room.

“Francie, dear,” Oliver said, reclaiming her hand before she could rise. “The three of us have discussed this situation thoroughly, searching for some way to insure the safety of you and your daughter. We’ve come to the agreement, uncomfortable as it may be, that it wouldn’t be wise for you to attempt a return to London just now.”

Francine gave a soft, unladylike snort. “What, prithee, am I supposed to do?” she inquired. “Wait for someone to attack me in a dark hallway and scream for help? Or carry a knife on my girdle to ward off an attacker, myself?”

“God sakes, milady,” Dunbarton said at once. “We surely wouldna expect ye to try to defend yourself.” The elderly statesman’s face reddened, and he released a long drawn-out sigh before continuing. “We think it best if Laird MacRath stayed as nigh you and your wee lassie as possible.” He glanced up at Kinrath then met her gaze once again, adding gruffly, “All the time.”

“Kinrath
is
with me all the time!” Francine exclaimed. She snatched her hand from Oliver’s grasp and bounded to her feet. But she didn’t try to leave the library. Instead, she moved to the sideboard, drew in a deep draft of air, then turned to face the gentlemen standing in the center of the room watching her with apprehension.

“Everyone is fully aware that the MacRath clansmen are escorting me ahead of the princess’s larger retinue,” she said, propping her hands on her hips and scowling.

Lachlan could hear the exasperation in Francine’s voice and read the mounting desperation in her stance. Her slim figure rigid with defiance, her chin thrust forward, her shoulders back, she appeared ready to challenge all three of them at once. She had pluck, no doubt about it.

Now was not the time, however, to compliment her courage. He needed to keep her calm enough to remain rational, yet frightened enough to do their bidding. And he knew from previous experience that Lady Francine Granville, dowager countess of Walsingham, wasn’t exactly a biddable female.

Careful to remain still and nonthreatening, Lachlan spoke in a soothing voice meant to convey quiet, but irrefutable, conviction. “’Tisn’t our intention that I just escort you on the road, my lady. Rather, from now on, I’ll be within arm’s reach at all times.”

At her baffled expression, Beddingfeld stepped toward her. “Jesu have mercy, Francie. Kinrath must remain close to you every minute. Day and night.”

“That’s preposterous!” she declared, pulling back in alarm. “Why he’d have to sleep in the same room with me to stay that near!”

“Ach, my dear lady, ’tis what we’ve decided is the best recourse to protect ye,” Gillescop explained. “Laird Kinrath will remain at your elbow during the day and sleep in your bedchamber at night.” He glanced at Lachlan and lifted his shoulders in commiseration. “Though considering the threat to your life, just how much sleep he’ll be getting is debatable.”