Kathleen Harrington (9 page)

Francine stared at him in shock. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her at the sight. The inked image of a hawk in full flight, its outspread wings covering his shoulder blades, traversed his broad, muscular upper back.

God above. How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, who he really was?

The Hawk. Sorcerer of the Seas.

Mortification and dread brought the heat of a flush to her cheeks. She had nearly succumbed to his tantalizing ways. The Highland chief’s power was far greater than she’d imagined. His mysterious words, spoken with such soft enticement, had fairly bewitched her.

“I have to go,” she whispered hoarsely. “Now.”

“I believe it’s safe to leave, my lady,” Kinrath said with a gallant sweep of his arm toward the door.

Avoiding his eyes, Francine hurried past him into the empty corridor, picked up the hem of her skirts, and raced down the hall. Just before turning the corner, she glanced back.

Arms folded, the earl of Kinrath stood in the open portal, one shoulder propped lazily against the wooden frame, his large, athletic physique adorned with only the slightest wisp of linen toweling. A faint smile played about his mouth. His deep-green eyes seemed to glow with the assurance that, sooner, rather than later, he’d lure her into his bed, despite any assertions to the contrary.

Merciful Lord. This was the man who would hold her safety in his hands for the entire journey to Scotland.

A sorcerer, he might well be, with his strange, magical words and shocking ways. But he’d never succeed in seducing Francine. Too much depended upon her remaining a widow. And taking a lover would pose far too great a risk, regardless of the temptation.

Not that she could ever be tempted by a Highland clan chief with the powers of a wizard. And the face of a god.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

“I
cannot imagine what the king was thinking when he appointed that disreputable buccaneer and his men to accompany my party to Scotland,” Francine complained. “The choice is entirely inappropriate.”

Oliver Seymour, fifth duke of Beddingfeld, settled back in the comfortable chair behind his desk, ran a hand through his shock of white hair, and met her gaze with calm deliberation.

“I can see you’re clearly unhappy about His Majesty’s selection of Laird Kinrath as your escort, my dear, but for the sake of diplomacy, you must strive to conceal your personal feelings toward him.”

Francine sniffed in disparagement. “All I know for certain is that the man’s a pirate.”

“While it’s true the English people consider the fellow a pirate,” Oliver conceded, “in the eyes of his countrymen, he’s a brilliant sea captain and privateer. His king issued him letters of marque and reprisal, which, according to naval law, gave him the right to attack and capture enemy ships. For the last eight years, he and his two equally renowned brothers have protected Scottish vessels from marauding Portuguese and Dutch privateers, not to mention our own corsairs. We, as a nation, have also inflicted our share of piratical attacks on seagoing merchantmen. And in addition, Francie, Laird Kinrath happens to be a particular favorite of King James.”

“Well, he’s no favorite of mine,” Francine replied as she plopped down on the seat in front of Beddingfeld’s desk. “That vexatious man has the grace of a varlet and the sensitivity of a goat.”

The two friends were meeting in the duke’s private quarters in Collyweston Palace, where she’d luckily caught the king’s elderly chancellor before he’d left to join the others in the courtyard to wish her Godspeed. Francine’s group would be the first to leave that morning, departing well before the main entourage.

Oliver leaned forward, folded his blue-veined hands on the desktop, and gazed at her thoughtfully. “Kinrath is your equal in rank, Francie, and has quite a reputation, especially amongst the highborn ladies, for his debonair manners and engaging address. He and his clansmen are quite capable of protecting your party from any danger on the road. And while his loyalty, very rightly, lies with King James, he knows it’s in the interest of his country and his sovereign to see that all of you arrive safely in Edinburgh for the wedding. Why, I daresay, he’d sacrifice his own life to defend you from harm.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Francine countered. “The Scotsman is arrogant, and ill-mannered, and entirely too . . . too . . . foreign.”

Oliver’s perceptive eyes glimmered with curiosity. “I was there in the Great Hall when King Henry introduced you to Lachlan MacRath. I noticed no reason to accuse him of being ill bred. In fact, I was rather impressed with his dignified bearing in the midst of so many enemies.” Beddingfeld offered a smile of encouragement. “Come, come, Francie. Tell me the truth. What is it about Kinrath that offends you so?”

Francine jumped to her feet and paced back and forth across the rug. Looking up at the ceiling, she propped her hands on her hips and tightened her mouth, unwilling to explain further.

The duke of Beddingfeld and her late husband had been close confidantes since they’d first come to the Tudor court nearly twenty years before, when Henry, then earl of Richmond, had wrested the crown from Richard III. Francine knew she could confide in Oliver Seymour, for Mathias had often praised the brilliant statesman’s trustworthiness.

But if she confessed to the duke that Kinrath had kissed her and asked her to sleep with him, she’d also have to explain the entire truth: that she had entered the man’s bedchamber uninvited. Whatever happened after that had been, for the most part, her own fault. In fact, she’d been fortunate that all he’d taken from her was a kiss. For a pirate and a sorcerer, he’d bordered on being chivalrous.

Francine looked down at her fingertips and shrugged. “You know my feelings about the Scots,” she offered lamely. “I’ve never tried to hide my fear of them from my close friends.”

Beddingfeld smiled as he slowly shook his head in admonishment. “I also know that Mathias encouraged you to take a more liberal view in the matter, Francie. Why do you continue to dislike them so, when our young princess will soon be the queen of Scotland?”

“I have my reasons,” Francine replied with a lift of her chin. “And believe me, my heart goes out to Princess Margaret, being required to marry the Scottish king for the sake of a peace treaty. That poor, innocent girl! Everyone in England, except Her Highness, knows that her future husband has already fathered several bastards by three different mistresses.”

“Any child of royal birth can expect to be contracted in marriage for political purposes,” Oliver said with a patient lift of his snowy brows, “for which sacrifice the rest of us should be eternally grateful. As you well know, my dear, peace between nations is often secured, not on the battlefield, but in the nuptial bed. King Jamie has been a bachelor up until now, and at thirty, his by-blows can hardly come as a surprise.”

“Well, at least I’m not expected to remain in Scotland after the royal wedding,” Francine said as she moved to the diamond-paned window and looked down on the cobblestone courtyard, where her horses would soon be waiting. “I thank God I won’t be expected to choose a Scot for my husband like some of Margaret’s ladies.”

“Speaking of choosing a husband,” Beddingfeld said kindly, “do you know that the marquess of Lychester is once again pressing King Henry for permission to marry you? Though you’re not a princess, Francie, you are an heiress. And in spite of the Treaty of Perpetual Peace between England and Scotland, the lands left to you by your father and late husband lie too close to the border not to be of great interest to the king.”

“I know.” Francine turned and sank down on the gold-velvet window seat with a sigh of resignation. “Lychester refuses to accept my rejection of his suit, though I’ve told him I’ve no intention of ever marrying again. Why can’t I simply remain a widow?”

Oliver walked over to the cushioned seat and sat down beside her. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “If you were a poor widow, Francie, I’m quite sure you could. But given the size and location of your estates, the king will want a strong man in a position to protect them. And Lychester has a very powerful ally in his cousin. The duke of Northumberland has King Henry’s ear.”

Francine was well aware of it. Lychester was Lord Harry Percy’s cousin and protégé. And it was rumored that Northumberland was even richer than the king.

She shook her head as she met Oliver’s steady blue gaze. “What I can’t understand is why Elliot is so relentless in his pursuit of me. Are you aware that he first asked my father for my hand when I was fifteen?”

“Yes.” Beddingfeld patted her cheek fondly. “Mathias told me on the day he explained that you and he were going to be wed. I admit, at first I was taken aback by the news that you were marrying my old friend, given the vast difference in your ages. But knowing Lychester as I now do, I can heartily agree that you made the right decision there. And I’m quite certain Mathias never regretted it for a moment.”

“Flatterer,” Francine said with a soft chuckle.

“As to why Lychester persists, you’ve only to look in the mirror, Francie. You and Elliot grew up as neighbors. I’ve no doubt he’s been in love with you from a very early age. When a green, callow youth sets his sights on a winsome young girl, only to have her rebuff him, he never forgets it.”

Francine grimaced at the idea that her unwanted suitor would remain focused on her indefinitely. “But Elliot is wealthy enough and titled enough to attract any number of women, despite his haughtiness and indifference to people less fortunate. Good lord, he’s sired as many bastards as King James. Why does he keep pursuing me?”

Beddingfeld’s pensive frown accentuated the deep lines on his forehead. “The marquess’s tenacity may be due merely to the fact that you refused him, but I don’t think so. I believe Elliot, whatever his faults, does love you, as much as a man like him is capable of loving anyone. And he is determined to have you. It may be, Francie, that, just as before, the only way you can avoid a forced alliance with Elliot Brome is to marry another gentleman instead, before the combined efforts of Northumberland and Lychester succeed with His Majesty.”

Francine clasped Oliver’s timeworn fingers and brought them to her lips. “How about you marrying me?” she asked with a playful grin.

Beddingfeld broke into a hearty laugh. “No, no, Francie. ’Tisn’t that I’m not tempted, my darling girl, but at seventy-six, I know my own limits. Next time you wed, you must choose a strapping young chap. One who can give you lots of children to surround you in your old age.”

Searching his astute gaze, Francine wondered if Oliver Seymour had surmised the truth about her marriage, for he had known Mathias so well. But the duke of Beddingfeld was no friend of Lychester’s. He would never voice his suspicions aloud, for her sake and the sake of her daughter.

“I have expressed your reluctance about the proposal to the king,” Oliver continued, his words laced with compassion, “and relayed my concerns regarding a match that would cause you so much unhappiness. He has agreed to refuse Lychester’s request, at least until you both return from Scotland, and His Majesty has had time to weigh the various possibilities for a bridegroom. If, in the meantime, your fancy should light upon a suitable alternative, I’m quite sure King Henry would be willing to listen.”

Francine gently squeezed Oliver’s hand and sighed. “Ah, if only there were someone as kind and caring as Mathias. Someone who would love Angelica the way her father did. But few gentlemen are inclined to consider another man’s child anything more than a source of aggravation. Besides, I am determined never to marry again.”

Beddingfeld cupped her cheeks in his hands and bussed her lightly on the forehead. “Perhaps on this trip, my dear, you will come to change your mind. In any case, I am glad you sought me out, for I have another subject I wish to discuss with you. The queen mother spoke with me earlier this morning after Mass. She questioned the seating of the Scottish dignitaries at the banquet last night. Protocol demanded that the two earls be seated above the ambassadors from Spain and France.”

Francine didn’t try to hide her grin. “I know,” she replied, ready to admit the truth to Oliver, but no one else. “But I didn’t want to sit at the same table with them and attempt to make polite conversation.”

“Francie, Francie,” Oliver chided softly, “your husband worked hard to bring the marriage of Princess Margaret and King James to fruition. I urge you to put aside your fears and treat the two Scottish nobles as allies.”

“I’ll try,” she said. “But I can never forget that it was a Scot who murdered my betrothed in cold blood on a deserted battlefield.”

Oliver patted her shoulder in sympathy. No doubt, Mathias had told him of how a wounded Will Jeffries had been killed at the battle of Cheviot Hills, his throat slashed by a merciless Highlander.

“Well, my dear, Lady Margaret stressed the importance of courtly proprieties at the banquets, which will take place in the various cities along the way. At no time are the foreign ambassadors to be seated above the two Scots peers.”

“I will put aside my personal feelings,” Francine promised, “and behave exactly as Mathias would have wished. For the sake of his memory and for the alliance both of you worked so hard to bring about, I will laugh and chatter with the Scottish lairds like a pet monkey on a velvet leash. But don’t expect me to like it.”

Oliver chucked her under the chin, then put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a bracing squeeze. “Forsooth, my impudent minx,” he said with a conspiratorial wink, “if I were forty years younger, I’d take you up on that marriage proposal.”

Francine returned his smile, then grew sober. “Oliver, do you believe in witches and sorcerers?”

He lifted his white brows in surprise. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “Mathias didn’t believe in such things as spells and enchantments. But I wonder . . .”

“It’d be best not to wonder out loud,” he cautioned her. “Anyone accused of black magic tends to suffer a terrible fate, whether anything can be proven or not. And openly denying its existence may invite the unwanted attention of the clergy in a most unfortunate way.”