Kathleen Harrington (11 page)

“Mummy did, but the cupboard was empty because all my clothes had already been packed, and my pony’s name is Merlin because he comes from Wales, and so did King Arthur’s wizard, and do they have wizards and witches in Scotland?”

“I’ve never seen any,” he said, “but I’ve been told there are faeries and elves in the Highlands.”

Angelica wriggled excitedly in the saddle. The pony shook his head in response, sending the long brown mane flying.

“Will we see any?” she asked hopefully.

He caught Merlin’s halter and patted its soft black nose. “We won’t be going up into the Highlands,” he told her. He suddenly felt a pang of regret that he would never show the child and her lovely mother the mountainous beauty of his homeland.

Lachlan motioned for his uncle. “Recheck the child’s stirrups,” he told him, “then help the nursemaid onto her horse.”

“Ye jawboxy slug, ye,” Walter muttered under his breath. He propped his large, sword-calloused palms on his hips. “Next time, I’ll tend to the halflin, and ye can deal with that sour-mouthed old crone yerself. She’s been standin’ there givin’ me the evil eye, like she’s kin to Lucifer himself.” Scowling ferociously, he made the sign of the cross, then spat in the dirt.

“She’s harmless,” Lachlan replied with a shake of his head.

Moving to the spirited mare waiting beside his big chestnut stallion, Lachlan crouched down and offered the countess his assistance, just as Angelica had instructed him to do.

“Milady,” he said, the laughter returning to his voice.

Without a word, Lady Walsingham placed the tips of her gloved fingers on his shoulder and her booted foot in his cupped hands. As Lachlan tossed her lightly up into the saddle, he wisely resisted the temptation to slide his palm along the length of her calf, concealed beneath the soft black leather.

Accepting the reins he offered, she looked down and met his gaze, her luminous eyes half-hidden beneath the twin fans of her lashes.

“What is it that you find so entertaining?” she demanded in a suffocated voice.

“I’m merely pleased to learn that you had such a diverting bed partner last night,” he answered. He made no effort to conceal his amusement or lower his voice. “And I must agree with Lady Angelica. You do smell nice. I’ve always been partial to the scent of lavender.”

Francine stared down at the exasperating man, wishing that she could wipe the idiotic grin off his face with a crushing rejoinder. But she was well aware that everyone around them was waiting with bated breath for her reply. Not a soul within hearing distance, other than her innocent daughter, believed the two of them were engaged in casual conversation. The undercurrent of seduction in the earl of Kinrath’s deep voice was unmistakable.

Meeting his eyes, glinting with humor, she bit her lower lip and refused to be lured any further into his trap.

Earlier, she had noted with surprise that Kinrath no longer wore his red-and-black kilt, but was attired in brown doublet, breeches, and long hose. He was armed to the teeth, with a broadsword and dirk at each side, an enormous claymore slung across his back, and a small dagger jammed into his wide leather belt.

Glancing around, Francine noted that all of his kinsmen were similarly armed and attired. Large, broad-shouldered men bristling with weapons, they made a formidable sight.

“I see you’re no longer dressed for dancing,” she said. “Do you expect to meet a band of brigands on the Great North Road?”

“I’ve learned to be prepared for the unexpected,” he replied, as he adjusted the length of her stirrup straps. He gripped her ankle encased in the riding boot and squeezed reassuringly. “You’ve nothing to worry about, milady. ’Tis very unlikely I’ll even have to unsheathe my dirk the whole, long, blessed way home.” From his tone, he considered that possibility rather disappointing.

Remembering the heathen bands that encircled his muscular arms and the soaring hawk that spanned his broad upper back, Francine realized the fierce Scotsman would actually enjoy a skirmish with bandits along the way.

The bloodier, the better, no doubt.

Kinrath mounted his magnificent Arab and drew up beside her. “Now, if you’re ready, Lady Walsingham,” he said, the ghost of a smile still lingering about his mouth, “let’s go to Scotland.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Beddingfeld Castle

Grantham

Lincolnshire, England

“O
h, do come play with us, Kinrath! We’ll let you choose your teammates, if you will only say you’ll play.” Lady Diana’s soprano voice chirped even higher than usual, making it clear how very much she wanted the Scottish earl’s attention.

Kneeling on the grass beside her daughter, Francine peeked up from the corner of her eye at the three tall men who’d just rounded the corner of the hedge. Kinrath, his uncle, and his cousin, attired in fine woolen doublets, breeches, and long hose, walked up the pathway leading to Beddingfeld Castle’s manicured bowling green.

Kinrath smiled as he and his companions drew near. “What do you say, lads?” he asked, glancing at his kinsmen. “Shall we join the ladies in a game of bowls this morning?”

Cringing with self-consciousness at the sight of the gorgeous brunette, Colin MacRath tucked his chin into his ruffled collar and shrugged. His freckled face turned nearly as red as his hair. “Wh-why n-not?” he agreed.

He shifted from one large booted foot to the other and stared at the hem of Lady Pembroke’s green silk dress. Whenever he came within three feet of Diana, Colin seemed to lose his ability to speak.

“Aye, ’tis a rare, fine idea,” Walter MacRath replied with a nod, his wide grin revealing a chipped front tooth. His twinkling eyes moved from Diana to Colin. He seemed fully aware of his son’s tongue-tied infatuation with the ebony-haired English beauty and found it hilarious.

But Walter’s smile quickly faded when he spotted Lucia Grazioli seated on a stone bench nearby, her crooked fingers flying as she crocheted the delicate lacework of Napoli. Her black eyes, filled with malevolence, skewered him, and he glared back in retaliation.

Lucia distrusted any able-bodied man who came within her mistress’s social circle. She seemed to hold an intense dislike for these three Scotsmen in particular.

Diana scarcely glanced their way. Her gray eyes fastened solely on Kinrath, she gifted him with her most alluring smile. ’Twas a smile that had halted many a love-smitten man in his tracks, and Diana knew, full well, the power she wielded with such lethal delight.

“We can play triples,” she suggested, stepping closer and laying her perfect oval fingertips on Kinrath’s dark brown sleeve. “Go ahead and pick your team.”

“Since I have first choice,” Kinrath replied, “I’ll choose Lady Angelica and my uncle.”

Ignoring Diana’s look of dismay, he turned his own charming smile on Francine’s daughter, and Angelica bounced up and down in excitement. Clasping a bright red bowl in both small hands, she skipped over to him, her face lit with joy

“Do you really want me to be on your team?” she squeaked in disbelief. “Do you, sir, do you, for I would so like to be on your team, do you truly want me to play with you?”

“I do,” he affirmed. He crouched down on one knee beside her. “That is, if you’ll have Wally and me as your teammates.”

She leaned forward to whisper in Kinrath’s ear. “I am not very good at bowls.”

“But I am,” he whispered back. As he regained his feet, he put his finger to his lips to indicate it was a secret between them.

Diana made no attempt to hide her disappointment. “Then I suppose that leaves Francie and me to play with your cousin.” She pursed her lips and frowned at Colin. “Just how well do you play bowls, sir?”

His gaze still fixed on the hem of her dress, he cleared his throat, and his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “W-w-well enough, I g-guess.”

Francine rose and brushed the grass from the front of her morning gown. She’d been helping her daughter choose the smaller bowls best fitted to a child’s hands. “We’ll be happy to have you on our side,” she reassured Colin. “As a matter of fact, we’ll probably win, for Diana and I are quite adept at this game, too.”

At her assertion, Kinrath chuckled deep in his chest, and Francine met his mirthful eyes. Annoyed at his obvious doubt in her ability to best him, she couldn’t help but add, “You think not, milord?”

“Would you care to make a wager?”

“I’ll wager with you, Kinrath,” Diana offered breathlessly.

Kinrath didn’t take his gaze off Francine. His slow sideways grin and mocking silence prodded her more than if he’d delivered an outright boast.

“What exactly would you like to wager?” Francine queried cautiously.

He lifted his broad shoulders in seeming indifference. “If I win, I sit beside you at all the coming banquets, beginning tonight.”

“And if I win?”

“You won’t.”

“But if I do,” she insisted. “You have to make it worth my while, Kinrath. Otherwise, why should I bother to risk anything at all?”

“You name the prize,” he said, fairly oozing male confidence.

The man always exhibited supreme self-assurance. ’Twas one of the things about him that worried her the most. No one around him ever questioned his assumption of leadership, not even the Englishmen in their party. Everyone seemed to rank him right up there with the legendary heroes of old.

Everyone but her.

She was far too worried about his ability to cast spells over unsuspecting damsels.

She drew a deep, steadying breath. “Starting tomorrow and for the rest of the journey north,” she said, “you will consult me before making any major changes along the route.”

Though he raised one quizzical eyebrow, Kinrath showed no real surprise at the unlikely wager.

They’d been on the road for two days, reaching the duke of Beddingfeld’s castle on the outskirts of Grantham the previous afternoon. And for those past two days, he never once consulted her before making decisions about their progress through the English countryside. While they were on the road, he arbitrarily assumed complete control. He decided when they would stop for a rest, where they would take the midday meal, and where they would spend the night. She’d pointed out, time and again, that their itinerary had already been established, and they were expected to follow it. He never bothered to argue. He simply made every decision along the way and had one of his men inform her afterward.

However, when it came to Francine’s prerogative of seating the nobility at the evening banquets, she’d repaid his stubbornness in kind. Although Kinrath was no longer placed at the farthest table in the room, he was always seated too far away from her for them to converse without shouting.

She could barely resist a smile. She hadn’t realized, until that moment, just how much it had irritated him.

Tapping her forefinger lightly on her upper lip, Francine gazed at him as she debated the wisdom of such a wager. Given his superb athletic stature, he probably was quite proficient at every sport in which he engaged. And if she lost the game, it would mean spending each day on the road meekly abiding by all his commands and every evening meal in his close company, as well.

Francine’s wiser self warned her not take such a foolish gamble. But if she backed away from Kinrath’s dare now, he would forever treat her like a timid little mouse, who could be ordered around at will.

“Hmm, I don’t know,” she quibbled. “I’d be playing against Angelica. I’m not certain I could be all that competitive when it comes to besting my own daughter.”

“Forbye, dinna fret about the halflin, milady,” Walter broke in with a contagious laugh. “Lachlan and I will more than make up for the wee lassie’s lack of skill.”

At his uncle’s words, Kinrath grinned broadly, the challenge sparkling in his eyes spurring her on. “Well, there you have it, my lady. You either have the courage to accept the stakes laid out or cry coward and run away.”

“Oh, don’t run away, Mummy!” Angelica squealed, hopping up and down on one foot and tugging on Francine’s elbow. “Stay and play with us, please, please, please, don’t be a coward and run away!”

Francine looked down at her daughter’s imploring face and then back at Kinrath. Aware that everyone was waiting to see if she’d prove craven, Francine had the uneasy feeling that she’d just stepped into a deftly placed trap.

Lachlan watched the conflicting emotions that flitted across Lady Walsingham’s delicate features. Since leaving Collyweston Palace, they’d clashed repeatedly. He’d been surprised, at first, when she’d complained that he never consulted her before issuing directives. Hell, he’d taken it for granted that he would be in charge of their progress through England. After all, he was responsible not only for her and her daughter’s safety, but also for the well-being of every member of their small band.

She’d attempted to engage in a battle of wills over the most mundane decisions on their first day out. He’d realized then that the fair-haired countess was used to being treated with total indulgence by everyone around her. Lachlan had no intention of allowing her to gain the upper hand. But he’d refrained from squelching her tantrums with the biting sarcasm he was so capable of administering.

From the very outset, she’d been vying with him for control. Her spirit and stubbornness both intrigued and amused him. She watched him now, her enormous eyes filled with wariness and a cautious speculation. She was clearly weighing her options, trying to decide if avoiding the wager was in her best interest. Or not.

He stepped closer, effectively blocking her avenue of retreat down the gravel pathway that led through the formal garden to the castle’s keep. “If you’re afraid, Lady Walsingham” he goaded softly, “we can always play for no stakes at all.”

“Afraid?” She tossed her head, and the morning sunlight glinted off the golden-brown hair that fell in loose curls to her hips. “Of you? Hardly.”

Lachlan reached down, picked up a blue bowl and handed it to her before she had second thoughts. “Then it’s a bet.”

“Hooray, hooray!” Angelica cried. Her yellow dress billowed around her as she twirled in a joyous dance in front of them. “It’s a bet, it’s a bet, it’s a bet!”