Kathleen Harrington (12 page)

“We won’t have time for a complete game,” Lachlan cautioned. “Shall we wager it all on the first end?”

“Why not?” Francine replied, forcing a smile. She fought the sinking feeling that she’d been outmaneuvered by a master gamesman.

Colin and Walter were chosen as leads. Then Diana would play against Angelica, while Francine and Laird Kinrath, as captains of their respective teams, would go last.

The men flipped a coin, and Francine’s team won the honors. She moved to her position at the back of the rink, where she could give her teammate any needed coaching.

Colin, as lead of the first team, placed the mat on the near edge of the green and rolled the white jack to the far end to serve as their target. Then it was his turn to bowl.

“Come on, Colin,” Francine encouraged. “Remember, the grass is still wet from the dew, so the bowl is going to run slow and stop sudden. But you can do it. I’m certain you can.”

“Oh, I’m positive you can do it,” Diana added brightly, turning the full radiance of her smile upon him. She moved nearer in the hope of stirring his male pride. “We’re counting on you, Colin, to score most of our points.”

Though she was close enough to reach out and touch him, there was no need. The mere sound of his name on her lips seemed to be his undoing.

Instead of executing a smooth, one step delivery with an easy swing, he jerked his arm and dropped the blue bowl on the grass in front of him. It bounced and ran in a deep arc across the rink, barely stopping short of the left ditch and more than two feet from the jack.

“’Twill be all right, Colin,” Francine reassured him down the length of the green. “That’s just one bowl. The first throw in the game is always the hardest.”

Trying desperately to hide her disappointment, she moved aside to allow Kinrath access to the captain’s spot behind the jack. He smirked in condescension, and she tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Lachlan watched in satisfaction as Walter took his place on the mat, poised and ready to send his first wood down the rink. His uncle had a bowler’s relaxed, natural stance.

But at the last moment, Walter’s gaze, which should have been fastened on the correct line of aim, slid sidewise to Signora Grazioli. The woman had dropped her lacework in her lap. She watched the brawny man with utter disdain.

Walter’s spinning red bowl curved wide to the left. It came to rest alongside the ditch, a good fourteen inches from the white jack, but still in play.

Damn.

When Lachlan had made the wager, he’d been certain his team would win. And win handsomely. Too late, he realized his error. He’d overlooked the presence of a pawn.

There was no doubt Lucia Grazioli detested any man who came near her beloved countess. The nurse’s sharp tongue and scowling demeanor made it plain, however, that she held the Highlanders in special contempt.

Walter, upon first hearing her unintelligible invectives, had leaped to the conclusion that she was hurling evil incantations their way. Lachlan had explained to his uncle that the tiny, dark-eyed woman was merely speaking in Italian. Walter acerbically pointed out that whatever the old crone was saying about them, her words were anything but flattering.

Lachlan couldn’t disagree with him there. He understood every word spoken in Italian between Lady Francine and her servant. His many voyages had taken him to Naples, Rome, and Venice, where he’d acted as King James’s representative at the royal courts. But he hadn’t shared that particular information with the beautiful countess.

Some things were best kept to oneself.

After Walter’s bungled throw, Lady Francine met Lachlan’s gaze with a beatific smile. In her bright yellow dress, with her blond curls shimmering in a halo around her head, she looked like a goddamn angel. Her eyes sparkled with an irrepressible pugnacity. He fought the sudden urge to sweep her in his arms and cover those impudent lips with a kiss that would rock her down to her toes. Even if she boxed his ears for it, it’d still be worth it.

Instead, he politely gestured for her to replace him behind the jack, as Colin returned to the mat.

Francine refused to allow Laird Kinrath to intimidate her with his large size and formidable presence. She called to her lead player down the length of the green. “Forget everyone else around you, Colin. Try to think of no one and nothing but the game.”

“Oh, my, yes, Colin,” Diana piped enthusiastically from the sideline. “You’re so big and strong. I know you can win for us. I just know it!”

“Shh, be quiet!” Francine warned her, but it was too late.

Colin’s second wood curved to the left in a long, wide arc, knocking his first into the ditch.

“Hell,” he muttered under his breath.

Francine took the opportunity, while Walter was preparing to bowl, to grab Diana’s arm and drag her over to the bench, where Angelica and her nursemaid sat watching.

“Sit down beside Signora Grazioli,” she admonished her friend, “and don’t say a word to Colin until after he takes his last turn.”

Francine turned to find Kinrath grinning at her, the light of certain victory glowing in his eyes.

“Whenever you’re ready, ladies,” he said with a mocking lift of his brows, “we’ll continue the game.”

“You may proceed,” she told him frostily.

Walter’s next bowl followed the same wild trajectory as the first, coming to rest directly behind it.

Walter strode up the green to stand by Lachlan at the far end of the rink. “To the devil with that evil crone,” he muttered under his breath. Burly arms braced akimbo, he glared past his captain’s shoulder to the oak trees beyond. “How’s a man to stand a chance, when that old woman is peering at him like some black-eyed elf perched on a slimy toadstool?”

“If you’d kept your own eyes on the point of aim,” Lachlan answered curtly, “instead of the child’s harmless nurse, you might have put at least the second bowl near the jack.”

“Blood and bones,” Walter replied, “aren’t we in a tetchy mood?”

Without Lady Pembroke’s effusive encouragement, Colin’s third and final bowl was a study in perfection. It curved gently across the green and came to rest a mere ten inches to the left of the jack.

Francine could barely refrain from executing Angelica’s earlier dance of joy, as she called exultantly to her teammate. “That’s the way, Colin!”

She whirled to face the opposing team’s captain. “Whenever you’re ready, gentlemen,” she said, trying to copy Kinrath’s mocking lift of the eyebrows.

His slow, sideways grin lit up his face, revealing his appreciation of her blatant mimicry. In the morning sunlight, his thick, reddish-brown hair, tied back with a leather thong, shone like a burnished helm. The dratted buccaneer was as handsome as some mythic sea god. And probably just as formidable.

Francine met Laird Kinrath’s gaze. The memory of his bare, muscled shoulders and broad chest brought the warmth of a blush to her cheeks. Neither of them had ever mentioned the scorching kiss they’d shared in his bedchamber at Collyweston. But sometimes she’d caught him watching her, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth, and she’d been certain he was thinking of it.

“I believe we’re ready, milady,” he said, and motioned for his uncle to take his turn.

On his last try, Walter MacRath managed to ignore the presence of Signora Grazioli and delivered a well-thrown bowl, not much farther from the jack than his son’s.

So far, the teams were even.

Lachlan left his place behind the jack, when Angelica skipped over to the mat. He crouched down on one knee at the little girl’s side and showed her how to grip the small red bowl correctly.

“Grasp the wood in your right hand,” he told her, “and steady it with your left.”

She nodded her head, the golden curls bouncing up and down in her eagerness. “Yes, Mummy showed me how to hold it,” Angelica said. Her small frame seemed to thrum with excitement.

“Stand erect with both arms extended. Now, lean from your waist and bring the bowl back in your right hand, like this,” he instructed, guiding her. “As you step forward, swing your arm and release the bowl in one smooth movement. Don’t just drop it on the grass. You want it to hit the ground rolling.”

She tugged on the bowl, clearly anxious for him to release her hands and let her begin her turn.

“Before you start, Angelica,” he said, gently taking the wood from her, “show me where you’re going to aim.”

“There,” she answered, pointing at the white jack.

Lachlan shook his head. He kept his tone patient and reassuring. “The bowl’s going to curve,” he reminded her. “So you need to aim toward the side of the rink, allowing for the curving path the wood will take.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied with a happy giggle. “I remember, now. Mummy showed me how to aim at the marker on the edge of the bank, but I just forgot for a moment.”

“Go ahead then, lass,” he said. He gave her a smile of encouragement and handed her back the child-sized wood. “Take your first turn.”

Frowning in concentration, Angelica followed his instructions. The lop-sided sphere rolled toward the fixed peg on the edge of the embankment, curved across the grass and came to a stop in the middle of the rink. It wasn’t very close to the jack, but it hadn’t landed in the ditch, either.

“Hooray!” the girl shouted. She waved her small hands high above her head in jubilation. “Hooray, hooray, hooray!”

Lachlan rose to his feet. With a shrug of his shoulders, he met her mother’s gaze. “I assumed ’twas acceptable for me to coach the wee lassie.”

Lady Francine stood absolutely still, watching him. Her luminous eyes glowed with tenderness.

“Of course,” she said softly.

Lachlan’s breath caught in his throat. In that brief moment, he enjoyed the heart-stopping experience of basking in the countess of Walsingham’s unqualified admiration.

Helping Angelica hadn’t been a ploy to gain her mother’s approval. The action had come quite naturally. In Lachlan’s wealthy family, children were considered their most cherished possessions. He often played with his niece and nephew whenever he visited Kinlochleven, his brother’s castle in the Highlands. The knowledge that by helping the young lass he’d raised his own stature in her mother’s eyes came as a delightful surprise.

Diana’s turn came next. “Take your time,” Francine warned her friend from the captain’s place behind the jack. “Pray, dear, do not let the men intimidate you into rushing your turn.”

But her advice went unheeded, and Lady Pembroke’s first bowl quickly ended up in the ditch.

Neither Angelica nor Diana improved on their second and third turns, but at least the child tried her best, which was more than could be said for Francine’s aggravating friend.

By the time it was Francine’s chance to play, the game was still nearly even, with the opposing team only slightly ahead.

Francine pressed her lips together and forced herself to concentrate. Her bowl flew across the green in a graceful arc and came to a stop in the exact middle of the rink, only inches in front of the target.

It was a perfect shot.

“Very, very nice, my lady,” Laird Kinrath said.

“Thank you,” she answered politely. She bit her lower lip to keep from grinning. She dipped a gracious curtsy before moving aside to let the Scottish earl take his turn.

Francine expected her opponent to try to knock her bowl, situated so close to the jack, out of the way. It’s what she would have tried to do, had she been him.

From the team captain’s place at the far end of the rink, Walter signaled silently to Kinrath, who gave the slightest shake of his head. Relaxed and confident, he made a strong backhand shot.

To Francine’s relief, his wood sped over the grass without touching her blue bowl and came to rest close to the jack on the right side of the rink.

Close, but not as close as Francine’s.

“Oh, splendid try,” she said, feigning sympathy, though she could barely keep the laughter from her voice.

She turned to Diana, who watched from the sideline, and rolled her eyes at the mediocre throw. The Scottish pirate should have remained on his ship. His talents on dry land were shockingly limited.

Resisting the urge to skip up to the mat like Angelica before her, Francine took her place for her next turn.

This time, Colin signaled her to throw a guard bowl, using her second wood as a block to prevent Kinrath from taking out her first shot.

Francine shook her head at the unnecessarily cautious strategy. Since the tall earl clearly lacked any great skill at the game, she couldn’t resist taking the offensive. She repeated her success, her second wood landing right beside her first.

Another perfect shot.

“You are good, milady,” Kinrath said with an appreciative smile. “I’m sincerely impressed.”

Then ignoring Walter’s signal, he proceeded to make another backhand toss, placing his second red bowl right beside his first. Francine’s two woods were still closer to the jack than either of his.

For whatever reason, her opponent had made no effort to strike either of her bowls.

Perplexed, Francine glanced over at Colin, who stood with his arms akimbo, staring dumbfounded at his older cousin, and clearly every bit as mystified as she.

She turned and eyed Kinrath suspiciously. He hadn’t even tried to throw a drive and knock her bowls away from the jack. It seemed he was going to play the gentleman by allowing her to win. Heaven above, he was as transparent in his wooing as Diana. But if the handsome Scot thought he was going to worm his way into Francine’s bed by letting her win the wager, he was doomed to be disappointed.

“Oh, too bad,” she commiserated, trying her best to sound sincere, “but it was a fine attempt, nonetheless.”

“We can’t all be perfect, Lady Francine,” he replied, a ghost of a smile skipping across his lips. His emerald eyes glimmered, as though he were already anticipating her easy capitulation after the banquet that evening.

Mercy, if he were going to play the courtly swain for her sake, this would be far easier than she’d first thought.

From the far end of the rink, Colin signaled that she should attempt to knock one of Kinrath’s bowls off the green. Francine considered it, then discarded the idea. Why bother with such a defensive move on her last throw? Especially when she was so certain of her opponent’s ulterior motive. Rather than play it safe, she was going to go for the whole pie.