Kathleen Harrington (5 page)

God, in His wisdom, however, did not deign to intervene in the coming catastrophe, but allowed the revel to proceed exactly as Francine had planned it.

The Angel of Love standing on the topmost battlement of the castle, charmingly portrayed by Lady Constance, raised her hand in a cautionary gesture. “Wait, Scotsmen!” she cried. “’Twasn’t you who broke Beelzebub’s evil spell! Our brave champion, Sir Reginald, deserved the hand of the fairest maid for his bride. Not your leader, though a tall and handsome devil he may be.”

The pseudo Highlanders in black-and-white kilts worn over their long, tight-fitting hose and the edges of their plaids pinned across the shoulders of their satin doublets, laughed and scoffed at the angel’s words. Dark gypsy eyes flashing, they braced their hands on their narrow hips and swaggered across the floor.

“You can’t deny us our prize,” their leader, still balanced on his tall stilts, called to the seraph above them. “We will take what we want by force, if need be!”

With soft, startled cries, the ten gentlewomen drew back in dismay, clearly alarmed by the Highland laird’s threat. “Please save us from these wicked creatures, dear angel,” they pleaded.

“Don’t be foolish,” they mocked derisively. “We will not go away without our brides. We’ll stay here until you surrender!”

The men huddled together, making a secret plan. Then with a shout of deep, masculine voices, they catapulted themselves across the oak boards in a series of spinning tumbles. In a brilliant display of artistry and strength, some of them leapt high into the air like tigers, soaring over their tumbling friends to land in a succession of forward rolls. Others performed one-armed cartwheels, spinning over and over, as they flew across the floor, while still others walked on their hands.

“Storm the castle!” their leader ordered at last.

At his command, the acrobats began scrambling nimbly up the vines that grew on the castle walls. Some clambered onto each others’ shoulders to stand three men high in an attempt to reach the topmost windows. But as the men climbed upward, the lovely maidens took rescue into their own hands.

Their feminine laughter floating toward the vaulted ceiling, the young ladies pelted their attackers with oranges and dates. Brave as any defenders of a besieged English castle, they launched figs and candies, repelling the marauding Scots.

Struck on their heads and shoulders with a barrage of fruit and sweets, the gypsy acrobats flipped backwards, rotating in the air several times on their way down, and the audience broke into spontaneous applause at their feats of grace and athletic skill.

At the distraction afforded by the clapping, Francine moved ever so slightly, just enough to catch sight of Kinrath from the corner of her eye. He was laughing out loud in great, hearty guffaws, as were all of his fellow clansmen. Even the elderly earl of Dunbarton joined in their hilarity. Not one Scot seemed the least bit discomfited by the outrageous farce.

Relieved at their good-humored reaction, Francine stiffened as the Highland laird turned his head and met her gaze. His eyes seemed to glow with fond amusement, as though the two of them shared some marvelous secret.

God above.

He knew the truth.

There was no possible way he could know the truth.

But he knew it.

Somehow, he seemed to be daring her to deny her role in the comedy, while at the same time remaining vastly amused.

The Romany troupe used all their acrobatic tricks to reach the maidens. Just as the men started to breach the windowsills, the girls poured bowlfuls of walnuts over their heads. With high-pitched giggles, the winsome females showered the men with basins of rosewater, and their would-be attackers were forced to retreat.

Dazed and sodden, the men regrouped in front of the castle, while the young ladies’ victorious laughter joined with that of the watching nobility.

And once again, Francine, from the corner of her eye, peeked across the room at the earl of Kinrath. The laird and his kinsmen were howling now, right along with the rest of the onlookers. Rather than being angry or sullen at the portrayal of themselves, they were taking the raillery in stride.

When the laughter finally quieted down, the Angel of Love spoke to the mock Highland leader once again. “Have you decided, Scotsman, to give up your claim to these lovely creatures?”

“Not at all,” he answered boldly. “We won’t be discouraged by a few puling projectiles launched at our heads. And we thank you kindly for the basins of perfumed water. We were sorely in need of a bath tonight.”

“Then mayhap, sir, if it pleases you, we can reach a compromise,” the heavenly being suggested warily. “Would you agree to a truce if you, and only you, receive our loveliest damsel for your wife?”

“I will!” he agreed, not bothering to confer with his compatriots.

While his fellow clansmen grumbled loudly, their leader jumped down from his stilts and strutted over to the closed door of the castle, which swung open to reveal a stout, hearty female, nearly as tall as the laird, himself.

Swathed in a flowing Roman palla, her features concealed behind the blue cloth she held in front of her face, she stepped forward with an engaging sway of her hips.

As the Highland laird yanked her into his embrace, the ten windows of the castle slammed shut, securing the safety of the virtuous demoiselles behind the heavy wooden boards.

“My
darrrling
lass,” the Scotsman said, undeterred as his prize tried to lean away from him. He puckered his lips and smacked the air just as she jerked aside. But he kept hold of her veil when she pulled away, revealing the dark-bearded face of a handsome Romany.

The gypsy simpered and batted his thick, black lashes. “Oh, dear laird,” he proclaimed in a mocking falsetto, “I am undone by your manliness. I swear, I shall make you a most pleasing and docile wife.”

The Scot recoiled in disgust. “What damnable trickery is this?” he roared, shoving the man away. He looked up at the seraph atop the battlement and shook his fist. “You tricked me! What kind of an angel would be a part of this perfidious deceit?”

“I suggest you look for a marriage partner elsewhere,” Lady Constance answered with a coy smile. “These young ladies have already been promised to their handsome countrymen.”

Furious at being outwitted, the Highlanders grabbed their chief, lifted him above their heads, and carried him off through an open doorway.

The spectators responded with thunderous applause. Even the MacRath clansmen joined in, their whoops of deep-pitched laughter booming through the room.

With a sense of relief, Francine avoided the perceptive gaze of the real Scots leader. Who would have expected a pirate to have such a prodigious sense of humor?

Francine pressed her fingertips against the thick threads of gold embroidery which decorated her tightly bound waist, fighting the sensation of being smothered alive.

She bowed her head in a prayer of gratitude for her deliverance.

God have mercy.

It was going to be a very, very long journey to Scotland.

At his place at the table in the farthest corner of the great Tudor hall, Lachlan turned to his cousin, Colin, seated beside him. “Find out the name of the musician who played the bagpipe,” he said in a low voice, starting to rise for the dancing that would follow the revel. He bent his head and added, “But do it quietly.”

O
nce the tables and benches had been removed by the lackeys, the musicians in the gallery began to play the familiar melody for the basse dance, always the first performed in any formal court celebration. Each couple lined up according to their rank and wealth behind King Henry and his daughter, Princess Margaret, in a solemn processional around the Great Hall.

Her head high, her shoulders back, Francine promenaded beside the French ambassador, their upraised fingers barely touching, their feet scarcely leaving the floor.

She tried to spy over the shoulders of the people in front of her, stretching her neck to catch sight of the fearsome Scots pirate. As one of the representatives of King James of Scotland, he’d been designated to lead the princess’s grandmother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, around the room.

To her surprise, the notorious MacRath completed the stately march with casual mastery, all the while conversing lightheartedly with the elderly queen mother. Lady Margaret, usually such a stickler for status and protocol, laughed and chattered with the earl of Kinrath as though he were a long lost nephew on the Lancastrian side.

Francine glanced back over her shoulder to see Lady Pembroke partnered with Gillescop Kerr, earl of Dunbarton. The attractive brunette paid scant attention to the gray-haired Scottish diplomat who’d worked so diligently with Mathias on the historic treaty and marriage contract. Instead, Diana made no attempt to hide her fascination with the chief of Clan MacRath, following his every move with a gaze replete with longing.

Tonight Diana had far more competition than usual for the man she’d set her sights on. Looking around the room, Francine realized that she and her dark-haired friend were far from the only females watching Laird Kinrath’s every move. Scores of noble ladies sent bright, flirtatious glances his way, openly encouraging the Highlander to ask them for the next dance.

Merciful heavens, didn’t any of them realize the danger they longed so eagerly to embrace? Francine scowled to herself as she envisioned just what those embraces might entail.

As the last strains of the music fell away, Lady Pembroke came to stand beside her. For the past two weeks, Diana had been encouraging Francine to remain in the hall and take part in the dancing that followed the meal, but she’d always insisted on leaving immediately with the older widows.

“Are you going to withdraw early again this evening?” Diana asked with a solicitous smile. “You know his majesty wants all of us to put our mourning aside and join in the celebration.”

In the past months, Francine had left the Great Hall early for good reason. She dared not let down her guard. The ever-present marquess of Lychester had become increasingly persistent as the days went by.

But after six lonely months of grieving, Francine yearned to linger with the company and enjoy herself, if only for a few minutes more.

She gave a half-hearted nod of agreement. “I believe I will stay a while longer this evening.”

“Good for you,” Diana said in a bolstering tone. “You’ve fulfilled your duty by dancing with that tiresome ambassador. You’ve earned the right to accept any partner you wish, without consideration of rank.”

Francine smiled at the petite brunette. Diana wore a gown of deep rose satin, embellished with silver and black threads. A round, pearl-studded headpiece was set back to allow a view of her ebony hair, parted in the middle and pulled back over her ears.

“You look stunning tonight,” Francine told her friend.

“But I’m not the one catching every man’s eye,” Diana replied. “Look around the room, my dear,” she encouraged with a tilt of her elegant head. Her gray eyes gleamed with naughtiness. “The evening’s filled with possibilities. Choose a handsome swain to be your partner,” she advised with a wink, then added with an infectious giggle, “and I don’t mean just for the dancing.”

Francine shook her head in reproof, but couldn’t help laughing at her friend’s outrageous suggestion. “I think a dance or two will be quite enough, thank you.”

The musicians struck up a lively tune for the lavolta, and Francine smiled in anticipation. Until that evening, she hadn’t danced since Mathias’s death that past winter, and she could feel her body responding to the exuberant melody played in triple time on the tabors, oboes, and flutes.

No sooner had the music begun than the imposing figure of the earl of Kinrath loomed directly in front of Francine. He must have positioned himself so as to be the first man to reach her once the music started.

“Lady Walsingham, may I have the honor?” he asked with all the assurance of a man who attracted countless females without so much as crooking a finger.

And why not?

The red-and-black kilt and checkered short hose showed off his long muscular legs and emphasized his great height. The ruby sparkling on one earlobe, the tartan fastened with a pewter bodkin in the shape of a hawk on the shoulder of his red wool jacket, the feathered Scots bonnet, the wide leather belt with its gold buckle embossed with strange designs, all served to give him the fascinating appeal of an exotic outlander.

Once again, his chiseled features reminded her of someone she’d known in her past, yet how she could have forgotten any male that beautiful was beyond comprehension. His smile, revealing even white teeth, was quite simply devastating. The corners of his eyes crinkled engagingly; his bronzed, sea-weathered skin only adding to his masculine appeal.

An appeal Francine was determined to resist.

Beside her, Diana released a low, drawn-out sigh of disappointment. Francine resisted the temptation to shove Kinrath toward her friend with the suggestion that he ask Lady Pembroke instead. Considering the breadth of his shoulders and the depth of his solid chest, she probably couldn’t budge him if she tried.

In any case, Francine couldn’t possibly refuse him. ’Twould be against all sense of proper decorum. “Certainly,” she agreed, attempting to hide her fright behind a welcoming smile. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

“Milady is too kind,” he replied softly, bending low in a courtly révérence. He tipped his head closer to hers, and his eyes sparkled with amusement, as though he were fully aware that she had just lied through her teeth but was far too polite to mention it.

Fie on him! When it came to gracious etiquette, Francine could out perform a Scots pirate any day. She sank into a deep curtsy to match his formal bow, then instantly straightened like a pike man as she realized she’d just afforded him more than a passing glimpse of her cleavage. By the time she’d regained her full height, his gaze was fastened on her face, but the delighted smile hovering around the corners of his mouth told her he hadn’t missed the opportunity she’d so foolishly laid before him.