Kathleen Harrington (15 page)

“I’ll sleep when I reach Scotland,” Lachlan replied, hand resting on his sword hilt.

The room grew silent, the atmosphere heavy with unspoken dread. The weight of responsibility rested on Lachlan’s shoulders, but it was Francine’s that drooped as the full extent of their proposal struck her.

Beddingfeld walked over to Francine and placed his gnarled fingers on the poufs of satin covering her upper arms. Peering at her over his thick spectacles, he tipped his head to meet her eye-to-eye. “I’m beseeching you, my young friend, to follow our arrangement to the letter. Kinrath’s uncle, Walter MacRath, will guard your child and her nurse just as closely. They won’t be left alone for a minute.”

“Nay, I protest!” she cried. “’Tis unthinkable!”

“You’ll be completely safe in my care,” Lachlan assured her from his place by the desk. He knew if he tried to approach, she’d recoil in aversion. “I’ll protect you from anyone who’d try to harm you, Lady Walsingham. Including myself.”

She grasped her elderly friend’s hands and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “And you believe him, Oliver? You’d take the word of this . . . this pirate?”

“Truth it is, Francie,” Beddingfeld replied, “I’d never have agreed to this strategy if I didn’t trust him. During our negotiations with the Scots emissaries, Mathias often spoke of his respect for the earl of Dunbarton, who’s now vouched for Kinrath’s honor. Gillescop has known the laird since his youth.”

Lachlan placed his hand over his heart. “I swear on my life, Lady Francine, I will never hurt you. I’ll swear it on the Gospel if you wish.”

“What will people think?” she gasped, her eyes wide with dismay. “Have you gentlemen considered the court gossip in your planning? Have you considered the blight on my virtue?”

Lachlan squelched a grin of relief. If she was starting to worry about clacking tongues and not his lecherous intentions, they were halfway there.

“You’re a widow,” he pointed out, “not an innocent, untouched maid.” He kept his tone as reasonable as a parent chiding a youth for a minor indiscretion. “None will think the worse of you for indulging in an amorous fling.”

“Mother of God,” she answered in a tremulous voice, “to save my life and the life of my daughter, I must sacrifice my reputation? And with a . . . Scottish pirate?”

Lachlan lifted the decoded letter from the desktop and held it toward her. “’Tis not only your two lives that are in danger, Lady Francine. If the traitors succeed, thousands of people will die when our two countries go to war.”

“God’s witness,” Gillescop interjected, “we’d nae ask this of ye, milady, if the situation were not so dangerous. If the court believes you’ve taken Laird Kinrath as your lover, they willna question his close presence at every step of the journey to Scotland. And the traitors willna suspect that we’ve tumbled to their wretched scheme.”

“And should the rumors reach his majesty’s ear, all the better,” Oliver added. “For the bloody bastards plotting against the peace accord might begin to question whether King Henry would react to your death at the hands of a Scot with a declaration of war after all.”

Francine pressed her fingers tightly against her waist to keep them from visibly shaking. She looked down at the tips of her embroidered velvet shoes as she pondered the three men’s proposal. Although her overriding instinct was to take Angelica and race back to London, she respected the two elder statesmen and valued their judgment.

She met Oliver’s worried gaze. “My dearest friend,” she whispered, “I would trust you with my life. If you believe this is the best way to protect us, Mathias probably would have agreed.” Her lips trembled as she turned to Kinrath. “And now it seems, sir, I must trust you as well.”

The idea of losing her standing as a virtuous widow had shocked Francine at first. But perhaps, on second thought, it would be advantageous for the court to believe she was having an affair with the handsome Scottish laird. That way, none would continue to wonder why she’d repulsed every suitor after her husband’s death. Besides, she had Kinrath’s sworn word that he wouldn’t attempt to molest her. Her secret would remain safe while keeping every other man at a distance. Including Lychester.

“Very well,” she said. She interlaced her fingers as in prayer and looked from one man to another. “I will agree to your plan, at least for now. But I reserve the right to change my mind should I believe that Angelica and I are no longer safe in Kinrath’s keeping.”

“You’ve made a wise decision, milady,” Dunbarton said. “Ye willna regret it.”

“Aye, Francie, I agree,” Oliver added with a comforting sigh. He placed his arm around her shoulders and squeezed reassuringly.

Lachlan met her tortured gaze. He didn’t allow himself a victorious smile. But relief surged through him. “You’ll have no need to doubt your decision, Lady Francine. I and my kinsmen will keep you and the wee lassie alive and well.”

Lachlan drew in a deep breath.

As he’d watched Francine come to grips with the ramifications of their plan, Lachlan realized he’d willingly jumped into the boiling cauldron of male lust with no hope of recourse or reprieve. It’d been his intention, almost from the start, to seduce the exquisite English countess.

Since their kiss in his bedchamber at Collyweston, his need for her had become a persistent, unquenchable ache. Now, because of his vow, a vow he’d been compelled to make in order to ensure her compliance, he would be constantly in her company and unable to act upon his own desires. Being so near and yet never allowed to touch her, to kiss her, to lie beside her . . .

Hell and perdition.

In the ensuing battle between honor and lust, he’d probably be the only fatality. Knowing the self-willed, vivacious female as he now did, by the time they reached Edinburgh and he could relinquish his pledge, he’d be stark raving mad.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

G
rantham’s village green sparkled like a jewel on that perfect June morning as Francine and the earl of Kinrath strolled together across the grassy commons. Puffy white clouds drifted across a cerulean sky. The splendid fleur-de-lis blooms of yellow flag reflected the bright patches of sunlight along a gurgling brook. Gaily striped tents lined the edge of an open meadow dense with spring grass and wildflowers.

’Twas a glorious day for a village fair.

Attired in their finest garments, the townsfolk awaited the celebration of their princess’s coming wedding with an air of joyous expectation. That afternoon, the London nobility would watch the recreation of the legend of Robin Hood from wooden stands, where colorful awnings atop the highest seats would provide shade for Princess Margaret and her ladies.

“Thank goodness, everything looks ready for the pageant,” Francine said in a near whisper to her broad-shouldered companion. After their somber conversation earlier that morning in the duke of Beddingfeld’s library, she remained on the verge of tears and didn’t trust her own voice.

God’s witness, it took all her courage to walk amidst the jubilant fairgoers as though nothing whatsoever was wrong. Every fiber in her being told Francine to gather Angelica in her arms and race to the protection of the castle, which stood like a welcoming sanctuary on a hill overlooking the town.

At her trembling words, Kinrath drew her arm snugly through the crook of his elbow. He patted her gloved fingers in encouragement.

“Nothing will happen in front of all these spectators,” he told her quietly. “And if it does, we’re quite prepared for a fight.”

Francine glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You’re certainly right on that score,” she said. “With all your daggers, broadswords, and claymores, the whole MacRath clan resembles a walking arsenal.”

Kinrath favored her with a lazy half-grin. “Such a show of weaponry would hardly be considered unusual in the Highlands, my lady. Clan chiefs often call for wapenshaws to demonstrate the battle readiness of their men.”

“Well, I don’t doubt you’re ready,” she replied.

Directly behind Kinrath and Francine, Walter MacRath strode purposefully alongside Angelica, who held onto Signora Grazioli’s hand. Colin, the earl’s lanky, red-haired cousin, and Cuthbert followed closely on the small group’s heels.

Kinrath had explained that having any more of his men hovering nearby would alert the plotters that their treasonous letter had been intercepted and decoded. But Francine could see the other MacRaths, clad in their distinctive red-and-black tartans, mingling here and there amongst the crowd. Should a fight erupt, no doubt they would happily join the fray.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Francine said, keeping her voice low, so those behind wouldn’t overhear. She tipped her head toward the claymore slung across his back.

He arched a russet eyebrow and sent her a questioning look. “Knew what, milady?”

She drew a shaky breath. “You knew before we even left Collyweston that we were in danger, didn’t you? You knew it all along. That’s why you refused to follow the prepared itinerary and rest at the planned midday stops. Or stay overnight at the inns expecting our arrival.”

He shook his head, but she didn’t give him a chance to deny it.

“’Tis why you insisted we ride farther each evening than originally planned,” she continued, “in spite of my complaints and my threats to replace you. And why you always sent two riders ahead to scout the road and search an entire inn before we settled down for the night.”

“Nay, I dinna ken the plot,” he replied with a shrug. “But when an English king requests that a small force of battle-hardened Scots accompany his dear friend and her child to Edinburgh, rather than have her protected by his English knights, there has to be a reason. And a serious one at that. The thought occurred to me at Collyweston that Henry might not trust his own nobles.” Kinrath grinned and added laconically, “When I’m surrounded by my old enemies, I take nothing for granted.”

Francine ignored his disavowal. She was now more suspicious than ever that the chief of Clan MacRath had been abducted at birth and raised by a wizard, just as Fingus Mackay had said. Hadn’t she seen with her own eyes the mystical hawk inked across Kinrath’s broad back? And the curious lettering which formed amulets around his upper arms?

Of course Kinrath knew about the plot.

“You should have told me,” she scolded, “instead of letting me berate you every step of the way, when your only thought was to keep us safe.”

He grinned, his eyes glinting with humor. “Was that what you were trying to do, Lady Walsingham? Berate me? Strange. I thought you were merely fussing and fuming because you were used to having your own way. Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to your tantrums.”

She sniffed in admonishment. “I never have tantrums. And don’t try to distract me by making me angry. I’m far too frightened.”

Kinrath bent his head, his tone reassuring. “Don’t be frightened, sweetheart. I won’t let anything happen to you or your daughter.”

Well, Heaven’s mercy, that did it.

He’d finally managed to irritate her just enough to forget her fear.

“Fie!” she warned him with a scowl. “Don’t use meaningless endearments with me. Your amorous reputation has preceded you, sir. I shan’t believe a seductive word you say.”

He chuckled as he slipped his arm about her waist and pulled her closer. “We’re supposed to be lovers, remember? Who will believe our little charade, Lady Francine, unless I act the part of the love-smitten swain?”

His soft teasing words, murmured in that deep male baritone, set Francine’s nerves tingling. The feel of his powerful body brushing against hers brought an unaccustomed awareness of her own much smaller frame. The unfamiliar sensations left her bewildered and a little cross—whether with him or herself, she wasn’t quite sure. She seldom gave any thought to the subtleties of courtship. God knew, she’d spent the last six months trying to avoid one at all costs.

Despite her confusion, however, she smiled up at him. “For right now,” she cautioned with an admonishing shake of her head, “just concentrate on being ready to play the part of Robin Hood.”

“I’m ready,” he declared with a laugh.

They paused to gaze over the meadow to the far side, where a long row of butts had been positioned amidst the wildflowers for the pageant taking place that afternoon. The distance across the field looked impossibly far for even the best of archers, though Francine knew the targets had been set at the usual two hundred fifty paces.

“Did you get a chance to practice?” Francine asked. She stared at the straw-stuffed targets, trying to conceal the anxiety she felt. “How long has it been since you’ve used a longbow?”

“Yesterday,” he replied, seemingly unruffled by the challenge that lay ahead. “I met with the Master Bowman of the Royal Archers, right after I learned I’d be entertaining Princess Margaret and her entourage this afternoon. John Hartley agreed to grant me the use of his strongest bow.”

Kinrath lowered his voice and spoke in Francine’s ear. “That was just before the courier was intercepted and the coded letter discovered, after which I was otherwise occupied.”

“Were you there when the man confessed?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.

Kinrath nodded. “The fool died during questioning. That’s why we never learned the names of the bastards who hatched the bloody scheme.”

The mention of the murderous plot sent a jolt of terror through Francine. She stumbled in the dense grass. In an instant, Kinrath brought her tight against his side, holding her upright.

“I will protect you, Lady Francine,” he assured her softly. “You and Angelica are safe in my care.”

“I’d like to believe you,” she said, touching his hand as she regained her balance.

“Believe me,
a ghaolaich
,” he replied. “For ’tis the absolute truth.” He brushed his lips against her temple before easing his grip about her waist.

That was all.

Just the lightest touch of his lips.

And Francine could scarcely breathe.

Pure, unadulterated fear was replaced in an instant by an indefinable ache beneath her breastbone. It had to be his magical words, for ’twas exactly as before, when he’d kissed her at Collyweston.