Kathleen Harrington (3 page)

What terrible form would he take?

A dragon?

A sea monster?

Unable to say a word, she bit her lower lip and wisely held her tongue.

King Henry patted Francine’s hand with fatherly indulgence, clearly unaware of the frantic thumping of her heart.

“Since you will need to go ahead of the main party and travel quickly each day,” Henry continued, “we petitioned King James to select a clan of Highlanders noted for their strength and bravery to act as your honor guard. Laird Kinrath and his kinsmen will accompany your group and ensure your well-being.”

Henry Tudor might be unaware of Francine’s heart-pounding panic, but Kinrath wasn’t fooled for an instant. A mocking smile played about his mouth. His sardonic eyes glowed with complacent satisfaction, as he bowed low, clearly expecting to kiss her hand.

Not on the most fortunate day of his life.

Or the worst day of hers.

The mere thought of placing her trembling fingers in his open palm brought a feeling of acute suffocation.

Through her mind-numbing distress, Francine remembered her late husband’s disbelief in all forms of sorcery and witchcraft. Mathias would have told her that the earl of Kinrath was a mere mortal, no more powerful than any other man.

But then again, Mathias had never lived in the Highlands. Never even visited there. While Fingus Mackay had been born and raised on the Isle of Mull and was well versed in the legends of Celtic magic.

Blast Kinrath! Why did his mere presence threaten to overwhelm her? If he was, in God’s truth, just a foreign emissary to the English court, he was far less important than many princes and potentates Francine had entertained as her late husband’s hostess.

And definitely not a wizard of any kind. Whatsoever.

Ignoring her blatant display of bad manners, Kinrath spoke with unctuous politeness, and the easy, beguiling roll of his “r’s” seemed to curl around her lungs and bewitch the breath right out of her.

“Lady Walsingham,” he uttered softly, “you may place yourself entirely in my hands.”

Francine started at his words and peered at him suspiciously. How could such a gracious statement carry such an undercurrent of seduction? Such unparalleled self-assurance? Something about the dratted man seemed to exude unadulterated male enticement. Perhaps he dabbled in the black arts when it came to unwary females. Had he, in truth, lured many an innocent maid to her ruin by the craven expedient of casting a sorcerer’s spell?

“You are too kind, sir,” Francine replied, praying he didn’t hear her voice tremble, “but I am quite able to take care of myself.”

She met his bold gaze, making certain he realized that she’d sensed his hidden meaning and wasn’t one bit afraid of him. Should he try any wizardry on her, he’d find she wasn’t quite so easy to ensnare as some foolish, impressionable girl.

The king, however, seemed unaware of what was all too obvious to Francine. Instead of accusing the Scot of evil intentions, Henry returned his attention to Francine. He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently drew her closer. His hazel eyes shone with warm affection. “Unlike many of our lovely ladies who will remain in Scotland with Princess Margaret, we are expecting you to return to our court immediately following the wedding ceremony, dear friend. And we will count the days until we see you again.”

Francine returned his smile, as she dipped in a curtsy. “As will I, Your Majesty.”

Henry and his queen had shown such heartfelt kindness after the death of her husband that winter. Mathias Granville had been England’s secretary of state, esteemed above all of the king’s privy counselors. And when Elizabeth of York had died in childbirth, only four months ago, Francine had shared her sovereign’s deep sorrow, for she had loved the gentle queen dearly. The two deaths, coming so close upon each other, had forged a bond between the monarch and his elder statesman’s widow. The pain of their bereavement was deep and sincere, for both had truly loved their deceased spouses.

“We must set aside our mourning clothes and show our joy in the marriage of our little princess,” the king continued. “’Tis what our beloved queen would have wanted.”

Francine glanced down at her somber wool gown, knowing that she was the single member of the court not arrayed in her finest apparel. God knew, it wasn’t solely the memory of her dead husband that had kept her in the unsightly widow’s weeds for the last six months. She had done so for her own protection.

Still, she couldn’t defy the king’s explicit request. “As your majesty wishes,” Francine replied quietly.

“Ah, good, then,” he said in a bracing tone. “We’ll expect to see you at the festivities this evening wearing your loveliest gown.”

Lachlan watched the touching tableau played out before the entire English court as Henry Tudor brought Lady Walsingham even nearer and kissed her chastely on each smooth cheek before letting her go.

Hell and damnation.

Were they lovers?

Henry made no attempt to conceal his fondness for the young widow, and she was certainly bonny enough to attract royal favor.

Devil take it, what woman in history had ever refused the tender attentions of a king?

Lachlan felt a spike of aggravation, which he ruthlessly squelched. What was it to him, after all, if the lovely countess was Henry’s paramour? Sassenach females were notorious for their amorous intrigues. And as every adult male with an iota of common sense knew, a pair of sparkling brown eyes could lure a besotted fool to his untimely destruction.

If Lady Walsingham were truly the king’s bedmate, Lachlan would be wise to look elsewhere for feminine companionship on the return trip to his homeland. He’d come to England as a representative of the Scottish crown. He certainly didn’t plan to end up in the Tower for seducing a royal mistress. And James Stewart wouldn’t appreciate a scandal of that proportion ruining his nuptials and upsetting his princess bride.

Dammit, ’twas just as Lachlan had predicted before leaving the comfortable safety of the Highlands.

Entering the English court would be like wading blindfolded into a nest of vipers. And even as a youngster, he’d never much cared for the game of blind man’s bluff.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

T
he banqueting hall of Collyweston Palace blazed with the light of a thousand candles. Tudor opulence glistened and shimmered everywhere. From his place at the far end of the room, Lachlan MacRath looked around the magnificent setting with begrudging admiration.

“If Henry’s purpose in all this splendor is to impress his foreign emissaries,” Lachlan murmured to Gillescop Kerr, who was seated at the table beside him, “I’m sure he’s succeeding admirably.”

“When it comes to the importance of royal pomp in portraying a strong and unshakable hold on the throne,” the earl of Dunbarton replied quietly, “Henry is well aware that a lavish display of wealth underscores his God-given right to rule. And when it came to settling his daughter’s dowry, he was really quite generous.”

“A tale of generosity that pleases all the lovely ladies at court, no doubt,” Lachlan said.

“No doubt,” Dunbarton agreed with the hint of a smile.

Musicians sat in the wooden gallery above, which ran the entire length of the room. The softly strummed melodies of lyres, gitterns, citoles, and harps floated down around the chattering guests.

At the head table elevated on a dais, Henry Tudor sat beneath a canopy of gold cloth with his eldest daughter, Margaret, betrothed bride of King James of Scotland. Beside the young princess hovered her grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, countess of Richmond.

At a table not far from the king and his daughter, Lady Francine, dowager countess of Walsingham, sat wedged between the ambassadors of France and Spain.

From his limited vantage point across the immense room, Lachlan scowled as he watched the two diplomats vie for the young widow’s attention. Hell, they were preening like popinjays in their brilliant court finery.

Lachlan could barely keep his gaze, impaired though it was by the constant movement of servants, off Lady Francine. And scarce wonder. This morning’s shapeless gown had disappeared, replaced by a bodice of lavender tightly laced with white ribbons. The deep folds of her satin skirt fell from her slender waist. Instead of that god-awful headdress, which had prevented even a glimpse of her hair, a jeweled snood, its diamonds winking flirtatiously at every man in the room, revealed peeks of the lustrous golden-brown sheen beneath.

If the king were, indeed, her lover, he was a mighty lucky man. For the English widow was that marvelous miracle of nature, a sloe-eyed blonde.

Reluctantly, Lachlan returned his attention to his own table partners and met Gillescop’s knowing eyes.

“Whoever prioritized the list of names for tonight’s seating was no expert at court etiquette,” the earl of Dunbarton remarked.

Lachlan nodded his agreement. As the personal representatives of James IV, each holding the title of Scottish earl, they should have been seated near the head table. “Knowledgeable enough, perhaps,” he replied, “for the foreign dignitaries are seated in proper ascendance.”

“By god, not so very expert at all, I’m thinking,” Colin MacRath complained. “Or we wouldna be stuck in the back of the room like a bunch of Lowland farmers.”

Lachlan grinned at his younger cousin’s disgruntled scowl. “You’re seated next to the dreaded Scots pirate, lad,” he reminded him, as he clapped his hand on his shoulder. “We’re lucky we’re not eating supper in the garderobe.”

“And luckier still, the meat’s not been poisoned,” Cuthbert Ross, seated beside Colin, added with a sly grin.

“Christ almighty!” Colin exclaimed. He swallowed a huge gulp of ale and simultaneously shoved away his plate. His face turned pale, making the freckles scattered across his hooked nose stand out like copper coins.

Up and down their table, the MacRath clansmen burst into guffaws at his comical look of dread.

“God’s wounds, ye daft gomerel,” Colin’s father, Walter MacRath, called from the end of the board. “You’ve gobbled up half a roast pig and washed it down with three tankards of ale. If the meal had been tainted, you’d be toasting yer toes in Hades by now.”

Colin rose in indignation, his large fists clenched. At six feet, two inches, his height nearly matched his laird’s, though he was a good five years his junior. With a lean, whipcord build and the determination of a contrary mule, he could take on all challengers in any manly sport. He could hurl a caber straight as an arrow’s flight and take down a man twice his weight in a matter of seconds. On the battlefield, he was a veritable scythe of death. But place him in the vicinity of a bonny lass, and his tongue twisted itself into knots, making him the frequent butt of raillery by his older kinsmen.

“Aw, go on, man, sit down and finish your meal,” Bertie said, waving his knife in the way of an apology. “Dinna fash yourself about it none, laddie. Naebody’s all that happy to be here, but I dinna think the Sassenachs invited us to supper just to poison our food.”

Slowly, Colin sank back down in his chair, a sheepish grin on his face. He ran his long fingers through his bright red curls and tucked his chin into the lace at his throat. “A’weel,” he said, staring down at the tablecloth, “I never really thought it was.”

Lachlan took the opportunity awarded by the laughter and good-natured gibes that followed to speak quietly with Gillescop. “We may not be the only ones worried about the meal,” he said with a smile. “Lady Walsingham looks as if she’s just spotted a beetle paddling around in her claret.”

Dunbarton chuckled. “Perhaps the possibility of the two ambassadors demanding a meeting of honor has occurred to the countess as well.”

“Or mayhap ’tis her attempt to switch from French to Spanish and back again without missing a word in their three-sided conversation that makes her so ill at ease.”

“I doubt that,” Dunbarton said with a knowing shake of his head. “Lady Francine is well skilled in the art of court etiquette. Her husband entertained any number of foreign dignitaries in his home with his young wife at his side.”

“Just how much older was he?”

“Fifty years. The late earl died last winter at the age of seventy-two.”

“Hell, I don’t know why the great difference in ages surprises me,” Lachlan grated. “English noblemen frequently sell their daughters to the highest bidder.”

“As do the Scots, and well ye know it.”

Lachlan was forced to agree. Yet somehow the thought that such a bright-eyed lass would meekly allow herself to be carted off by some horny reprobate seemed particularly reprehensible. “She must have married the old goat for his title as well as his treasure.”

“Old goat?” Dunbarton chided. Though he feigned displeasure, his eyes twinkled suspiciously. “I don’t consider myself an ‘old goat,’ and I’m exactly the age of Walsingham at the time of his marriage.”

Lachlan threw his hand up in a placating gesture. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“During the negotiations for the royal marriage and the treaty of peace between our countries,” Dunbarton continued, “I was invited to their home in London on several occasions. I must say they appeared to be sincerely devoted to each other. The earl seemed a kind and gentle spouse, whose primary goal was to please his young wife.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt the old man was besotted with her,” Lachlan replied with a sarcastic curl of his lip.

“Since my return to England,” Gillescop added with an impartial lift of his shoulders, “I’ve been told that the countess nursed her husband through his last illness with devotion. So there must have been some tender feelings on her part, as well.”

Lachlan frowned. That unlikely information didn’t fit with his ideas of the English aristocracy, most especially the females of that blighted race. “Hell, a woman feigning affection is probably as old as Adam and Eve.”

Dunbarton raised his snowy brows. “You sound remarkably jaded for a man of thirty years.”

“Experience can be a harsh schoolmaster,” Lachlan replied with a shrug of indifference.