Kathleen Harrington (16 page)

Sorcery could be the only explanation for her sudden shortness of breath. She felt as though she’d just raced pell-mell across the meadow, gathering wildflowers on her way. Mesmerized, she looked down, half expecting to find a bouquet of bluebells clasped in her gloved fingers.

Apparently Kinrath had untold experience in acting the part of an enamored beau, for he did it with such casual ease. Fie, she should have guessed he’d be an expert when it came to wooing a lady. She bit her lip and looked away, trying to act as nonchalant as her fictitious lover. But Francine was attempting to follow the steps of an unfamiliar dance. She prayed to God her inexperience would not betray her.

At the edge of the commons, enormous oaks shaded a path into a nearby wood. Brightly painted gypsy wagons stood waiting for customers beneath the leafy canopies. Some carts had their sides lowered for the puppet shows, which would entertain the children that morning. In a field nearby, Romany horse traders gathered in a circle to discuss their prancing wares with curious buyers.

Morris dancers in flamboyant costumes, complete with bells, mingled with the villagers and the London nobility, jingling out uneven rhythms as they moved. Later, they’d perform a wild, exuberant dance in the market square.

The origins of the outdoor festivities could be traced all the way back to pagan antiquity, when summer rites were held to honor fertility gods or ward off evil spirits. A certain aura of devil-may-care permeated the gathering assembled to honor their beloved Tudor princess.

Happiness for the young bride and the era of peace her marriage to the king of Scotland would bring glowed on the faces of the populace. ’Twould mean the end of centuries of warfare between the two enemies.

Angelica skipped up to Francine and tugged on her skirts. “Mummy, Mummy, may we go see the puppet show?” She pointed to a bright blue wagon, where a crowd was beginning to gather.

Lifting her brows in question, Francine glanced at Kinrath. “I’m not sure . . .”
if it’s safe.

He seemed to read her mind and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. If his magic was strong enough, he probably could read her mind. With a sorcerer close by, she wouldn’t even have to finish her thoughts out loud.

“Aye, let’s go watch the puppet show,” he agreed.

Without a word, Angelica broke away from her nurse, intending to hurry toward the gypsy wagon ahead of the others. Kinrath reached out and caught the child’s arm as she went by.

“Wait for the rest of us,” he told her. “Remember, lassie, your mother advised you to stay near her today.”

Angelica stared up at the kilted Highlander in astonishment. His firm, quiet tone left scarce doubt he’d brook no disobedience. And it was equally clear the little girl had never been spoken to quite so sternly before.

Francine knelt on the grass and embraced her daughter. “Laird Kinrath is right, dearest. Today I want you to stay especially close to me or Signora Grazioli. There’s too many people for you to go racing off.”

“I was going to wait for you by the wagon,” Angelica explained. “I wasn’t going to get lost.” Her bottom lip trembled and tears filled her brown eyes.

Kinrath crouched down and took her small hand in his large one. “Angel,” he said, his words soothing, “’twill be far more pleasant for us if we stay together on an outing like this.” He brushed her tears away with his thumb. “You wouldn’t want Signora Grazioli to miss out on the puppets, would you? And what about my uncle? Why, Wally’s favorite pastime is watching puppet shows at village fairs.”

Angelica looked doubtfully from the thin, sharp-featured nursemaid to the burly Scotsman. The two were staring at each other, a look of mutual consternation on their faces.

Kinrath rose to face his uncle. “Isn’t that right, Wally?” he prodded with a grin.

“Do you, sir?” Angelica asked Walter MacRath. “Do you really like puppet shows?”

From his great height, Walter gazed down at the five-year-old and a broad smile creased his bearded face. “Aye, ye’ve the right of it there, lass,” he boomed in his gravelly voice. “The only nonsense I like better than puppetry is telling faery riddles to halflins who always obey their mothers.”

Angelica broke into a delighted giggle. “Will you tell me a faery riddle later?”

“Och, I may, lassie, I may,” Walter replied. “But Laird Lachlan, here, can tell you far more than me ownself ever could. By Thor’s hammer, The MacRath kens the answer to every faery riddle that’s ever been told.”

Francine jumped to her feet. “You do?” she asked Kinrath.

She whirled to face Walter. “He does?”

’Twas just as her falcon keeper had described.

The answer to every faery riddle that had ever been told!

Before the older man could reply, Kinrath slipped his arm about Francine’s waist. “My uncle likes to exaggerate,” he said with a dismissive shrug. “Now take your daughter’s hand, Lady Walsingham, and let’s go see the puppet show.”

L
achlan guided mother and daughter across the grass toward a blue wagon adorned with painted sunflowers, the others following close on their heels.

Once again, the sprightly pair wore outfits that matched, right down to the pointed toes of their shiny leather boots. Their pale orange gowns, trimmed in dark brown lace, enhanced the sheen of their golden curls. ’Twas scarce wonder the people of Grantham stopped to stare at the two sloe-eyed blondes and then broke into smiles of appreciation.

Hell, Lachlan could barely keep his hands off the spirited English countess. Each time he’d brought her curvaceous figure up against his taut male body, carnal need pulsed through his veins. Keeping the promise he’d given to Lady Francine in the castle library that morning was going to prove more difficult than laying siege to an enemy fortress. When he looked into her sparkling eyes, he had the distinct feeling he was already outgunned and outmanned before he’d even fired the first salvo.

The knowledge that a cabal of disgruntled Yorkist nobles intended to assassinate the countess and her child for their own wretched political gain filled Lachlan with a cold, implacable anger. He’d foil any attempt they might make to harm Francine and Angelica. And he’d make damn sure that the filthy bastards paid with their lives. To a man, their deaths would be slow and painful.

Lachlan’s small party joined the crowd gathered around the gypsy wagon to watch the comic performance.

“I can’t see,” Angelica complained. Hanging on to her mother’s elbow, she stood on her tiptoes and craned her neck. “Mummy, I can’t see the puppets!”

“Here, lass,” Lachlan said. “I’ll help you.” He swung the child up in his arms, much as he’d often done for his own young niece. “Is that better?”

“Now I can see!” she crowed with delight. “Thank you, Laird Kinrath! Now I can see Punchinello’s big nose and pointy chin.”

Angelica wrapped one arm about Lachlan’s neck and pressed her cheek against his. She’d clearly forgiven him for the unexpected scolding.

The display of childish affection touched Lachlan more deeply than he could have imagined. The yearning for a family of his own, which he’d long since abandoned, resurfaced like a whale broaching the Baltic’s white-capped waves. The thought of taking the beautiful widow for his wife and raising her child as his own surprised and intrigued him.

A family of his own . . .

Until they reached Edinburgh safely, his hands were tied.

The antics of the puppets consisted mostly of banging each other over the head with sticks and screaming at the top of their lungs. Their appreciative audience roared with laughter.

“It would seem there’s nothing like domestic mayhem to please the crowd,” Lachlan said with a chuckle.

Meeting his gaze, Lady Francine returned his smile. “Mayhem always seems more amusing when it happens to Punchinello and his poor wife Joan.” She looked at Angelica and then back to Lachlan. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

“You’re welcome,” he mouthed back.

The admiration shining in her eyes washed over him like molten sunshine. Once again, his kindness towards her child, a simple act second nature to the men in his family, seemed to move Lady Walsingham far more than any show of gallantry ever could.

When the puppet show was over, Lachlan’s little band wandered amongst the other wagons, admiring their wares. Brightly embroidered shawls, painted fans, leather gloves, and fur-trimmed capes enticed the London courtiers and their ladies. More practical items such as woodworking tools, copper kettles, and pewter spoons attracted the townsfolk. There was something for everybody, including sharp steel blades, suitable for daggers and swords, being forged on a smithy’s anvil while potential customers waited and watched.

The enticing aroma of newly baked bread wafted on the cool morning breeze. They stopped at the baker’s stand, where Lachlan treated his party to an early dinner of meat pies. Colin, Walter, and Cuthbert joined Lachlan in quaffing cups of ale. The trio of females—countess, nursemaid, and child—sat in the grass beneath the branches of an ancient oak and sipped apple cider.

Signora Grazioli must have sensed that something was dangerously wrong. She no longer seemed to resent the presence of her mistress’s armed guards. Once they resumed their stroll around the village fair, Lucia hovered near her small charge like a guardian angel.

Next to one of the painted wagons, an attractive Romany woman sat on a stool, a small table before her and a deck of cards in her hands. She wore a scarlet gown, with a filmy red veil trimmed in gold filigree covering her pitch-black hair. Shuffling the cards, she smiled at Lachlan invitingly.

“My lord,” she called to him, “come have your future revealed by Madame Sibylla.”

Lachlan steered Francine toward the comely fortuneteller. “Not my future,” he told her, “but my lady’s.” He set a stack of three gold crowns on the table.

With a shrewd smile, the gypsy scooped up the coins and dropped them into a purse hanging from her girdle.

Curious, the others gathered around the table. Angelica held Signora Grazioli’s hand, while Walter, Colin, and Cuthbert stood in a row behind them.

The glint in the Romany woman’s dark eyes told Lachlan she was fully aware of what he wanted revealed about the ravishing creature on his arm.

“Very well, my lord,” she said, reshuffling the tarots, “I will tell the beautiful lady’s future.”

“No, no, they’re your coins, Kinrath,” Lady Francine protested. “Have Madame Sibylla tell your fortune.”

“T-tell b-both their f-fortunes, then,” Colin encouraged with a hearty laugh. When everyone glanced his way, he grew flushed. “’Tis only a s-suggestion,” he added.

Lachlan nodded his agreement.

With a flourish of her ringed fingers, Madame Sibylla began laying the tarots in four vertical lines down the table’s green felt covering. At the top of each row was a king, followed immediately beneath by the matching suit’s queen.

The fortuneteller looked from Lachlan to Francine, a canny smile curving her lips. “You will both live long and prosperous lives,” she pronounced with an air of complete certainty. “You will grow old together and your love for each other will be triply blessed.”

“Oh no, we’re not . . .” Lady Francine began and then, as Lachlan squeezed her hand in warning, trailed off in mid-sentence.

“Here’s another crown for your expertise,” he told Madame Sibylla, tossing it to her.

Black eyes flashing, the gypsy caught the coin in midair with a throaty laugh.

T
hat afternoon, Francine lifted the canvas flap of the field tent and ushered her daughter inside. The earl of Kinrath turned toward them as he finished adjusting his arm guard.

“Did you come to wish me good fortune?” he inquired with a welcoming smile.

His belted tunic of Lincoln green with matching breeches and long hose revealed the Scotsman’s powerful body, ridged with muscles. Instead of his feathered clan bonnet, he wore a green hunter’s cap. With his reddish-brown braid hanging down the middle of his broad back and his ruby earring winking in the tent’s muted light, Kinrath quite resembled a fearsome bandit who’d only recently left the refuge of Sherwood Forest.

“Oh, you look just like Robin Hood!” Angelica exclaimed. She skipped toward him with a happy gurgle of laughter. “Mummy said I might give you a kiss for good luck, if it’s all right with you.”

“What a great idea!” Kinrath lifted the child up so she could place a kiss on his cheek, then set her back down.

“What about Mummy?” he asked in a teasing tone, meeting Francine’s gaze. “Did you come to bring me a kiss for fortune’s sake?”

“Why?” she asked, unable to conceal her doubt in his skill. “Do you need a good luck charm from me?” She wrung her hands, suddenly frantic with worry. “You said you could shoot an arrow four hundred paces and win the archery contest. Either you can, Kinrath, or you can’t. A token from me won’t make a bit of difference one way or the other now.”

“On second thought,” he replied, “you’re probably right.” The gleam of amusement never left his eyes, as he gave her a slow sideways grin. “Why don’t you wait, Lady Walsingham, and give me that kiss as my reward after I’ve won the contest.”

“I believe Lady Diana is already planning to do that,” Francine told him, “in her role as Maid Marian.” She lifted her brows and glanced pointedly at Angelica to remind him of the child’s presence.

Kinrath fastened his shooting glove, then picked up his longbow and case of arrows from a wooden trestle nearby. “After I rescue you from what otherwise would have been certain disaster for your Robin Hood pageant, Lady Walsingham, I will expect a suitable demonstration of your thankfulness.” He looked at Angelica and winked broadly. “And I will win.”

“Oh, I see you’re all ready!” Lady Diana cried, hurrying into the field tent. “My, my, how handsome you look!” She brushed past Francine and Angelica to stand directly in front of the Scottish earl. “I came to bring you a kiss for fortune’s blessing.”

Diana was garbed as a medieval maiden in a softly draped rose gown, belted just below the waist. Her long black hair was plaited in one thick braid, and a crown of garlands encircled her head. ’Twas as though Maid Marian had stepped off the page of a storybook.