Kathleen Harrington (17 page)

Kinrath returned the brunette’s scintillating smile. “Thank you, Lady Pembroke. With all these good luck kisses, I won’t need any skill whatsoever this afternoon.”

At the mention of previous kisses, Diana glanced over her shoulder at Francine in surprise, then stepped even closer to the large Highlander. Rising up on her toes, she slid her arms around his neck.

“This is to bring you Lady Fortune’s felicity,” she murmured, her gaze locked on his lips.

Francine watched in astonishment as Diana pressed her lips to Kinrath’s willing mouth in a long, lingering kiss. Thank heavens, his hands were already occupied with his longbow and quiver, or Francine would have had to hustle Angelica outside for modesty’s sake.

“There,” the ebony-haired beauty said, breaking the embrace with a husky laugh and patting his chest like a doting wife. “Let’s join the others, shall we? Princess Margaret is already in the stands and awaiting Robin Hood’s entrance. And I believe more than a few people have placed bets on who will win the contest today.”

Diana turned and held out her hand to Angelica with an engaging smile. “Come, dearest,” she said. “Let’s go find our places, while your mother gives Laird Kinrath his last-minute instructions.”

As the two left the tent, Francine scowled in annoyance at Kinrath’s boldness. She reached out and caught his arm before he could attempt to leave.

“You’re supposed to be having an affair with me,” she hissed. “Not trying to seduce other women.”

He lifted his brows in mock surprise. “I thought Robin Hood was supposed to kiss Maid Marian.”

Francine glared at him. “Not until after you’ve won the archery contest, you idiot!” She turned on her heel and stomped out of the tent.

At the burst of masculine laughter behind her, she clapped her hand over her mouth.

Oh, dear Lord! Had she truly just called the Sorcerer of the Seas an idiot? If he turned her into his familiar, the last word she might ever utter would be . . .
meow.

S
till chuckling, Lachlan followed Lady Walsingham out of the field tent to find the entire populace of Grantham milling about the edge of the commons. All along one side of the meadow, the wooden stands were filled with London nobility. Oliver Seymour, the English duke of Beddingfeld, sat beside Gillescop Kerr, the Scots earl of Dunbarton. Next to those two venerable counselors, the ambassadors from France and Spain, de Chastellux and de Ayala, watched with obvious curiosity. High on the topmost bench, young Princess Margaret and her sumptuously attired ladies-in-waiting were seated in comfort beneath the shade of the tapestry awnings.

The noise of the crowd filled the air.

Excitement thrummed amongst the spectators like the steady hum of a thousand bumblebees.

Lachlan nodded briefly to Walter, Colin, and Cuthbert, who were hovering close to the ladies who’d just exited his tent. He watched as the group walked over to the stands and took their places.

There was no need for concern at the moment. Lady Francine and her daughter would be safe while he was performing the role of Robin Hood in front of the whole village. There’d be no attempt on their lives unless he could be blamed for the murders.

At the near end of the green, England’s best archers, attired in the medieval livery of the Sheriff of Nottingham, waited in a row, longbows in hand, to take their turns. The first round of archers had already been eliminated.

The straw-filled butts, with their circular targets painted on canvas, stood far across the grassy field, now some three hundred paces away.

John Hartley, the king’s master bowman, stepped out of the crowd to acknowledge Lachlan. Somewhere in his early forties, Hartley stood nearly as tall as Lachlan and could probably match his weight, stone for stone. He had the hardy physique of a man who’d earned his living drawing a bow, day after day, week in and week out.

“Good luck, sir,” Hartley said, touching the brim of his cap with his bandaged fingers.

Lachlan reached out and shook the bowman’s good hand. “Thank you again for the use of your weapon, Master Archer.”

Hartley gave him a wry look. “Nay, do not thank me yet, milord. As I told you yesterday, few men are strong enough to use this particular longbow consistently. ’Tis over seven feet in length and has a draw weight of a hundred sixty pounds. It belonged to my father, a giant of a man. I’ve rarely struck a bulls-eye at four hundred paces with his bow or any other.”

“I havena done it that often myself,” Lachlan replied with a self-deprecating shrug. “But if any bow’s powerful enough to send an arrow that distance, this one will do it.”

“Aye, that it will,” Hartley agreed with a look of pride on his rough features. “’Tis as perfect a longbow as a skilled bowyer can make.”

Together, they watched the next round. The competitors took turns sending their arrows flying to the targets. After each had received a score, the butts were moved farther away. Round by round, the contestants were eliminated, until only a few remained.

At last, the targets were set at four hundred paces.

Lachlan recognized the signal from Charles Burby, Master of the Revels, that it was time for Robin Hood to make his appearance amongst the Sheriff of Nottingham’s finest bowmen. When he stepped up to take his place, there was a roar of recognition from the crowd.

Then quiet fell as the audience waited for the storied outlaw to re-enact one of England’s greatest legends.

One by one, the other archers took their turns. None succeeded. Every arrow fell far short of its goal.

When Lachlan’s turn came, he didn’t immediately assume a shooting stance. Instead he pointed to the sky over the butt, indicating he wanted the target moved farther down the meadow.

Hell, if Lady Walsingham wanted a show for the future queen of Scotland to remember, he was going to give her one.

At his signal, a townsman hurried to re-station the target.

F
rom her place in the stands, Francine clasped Angelica’s hand and held her breath. She watched in horror as Robin Hood shook his head and pointed for the second time to a place beyond the target.

“Dear God above,” she croaked, “what is that madman doing? Has Kinrath completely lost his wits? No one can shoot an arrow that far! No one!”

In the ensuing silence, she turned to Colin MacRath seated beside her. “Tell me he can do this,” she implored, her voice choked with dread. “Please tell me you’ve seen Kinrath do this before.”

Running his long fingers through his tight red curls, Colin hunched his shoulders as though a cold wind had just whistled down his back. “C-can’t s-say that I have, L-lady Walsingham.”

Francine put her hand to her throat to stifle the moan rising up inside her. But Colin heard the strangled sound and courageously met her horrified gaze, his blue eyes wide with concern.

“D-doesn’t m-mean he
can’t
do it,” he hastened to add.

On the other side of Angelica and Signora Grazioli, Walter MacRath started chuckling deep in his chest. The subdued hilarity shook his huge frame till it burst forth in raucous guffaws.

“Hell and thunder,” Walter said between gulps of laughter, “if the pawky lad . . . isn’t going to try . . . to beat his best distance!”

“Four hundred fifty paces,” the townsman shouted down the length of the meadow.

A disbelieving gasp came from the crowd.

No man alive could shoot an arrow that far.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

A
steady breeze blew across Lachlan’s shoulder toward the butts. Not so strong as to alter the trajectory of the missile’s flight. Just enough to carry the extra distance . . . if his judgment proved correct.

One by one, he took the arrows from his quiver and stuck them in the grass in front of him for quick access.

Then Lachlan bowed formally to Princess Margaret seated on the bench high above him. His gaze searched and found a pair of wide brown eyes watching him with a mixture of hope and despair.

He was going to change that worried look to one of complete admiration. Then he’d take the kiss Francine would owe him for saving her spectacle from ruin. He intended to enjoy that kiss of gratitude to its fullest measure and add a little something of his own.

Turning away from the viewing stand, Lachlan closed his mind to everything but the target.

An instinctive shooter, Lachlan thoroughly enjoyed the song of the string, the feel of his body’s strength flowing into the bow, and the hum of the shaft speeding to its mark. He relished the satisfaction of watching arrow after arrow strike the bulls-eye with a gratifying
thunk
.

As total silence reigned, Lachlan raised the powerful English longbow to address the target, drew the string back to the anchor point just under his jawbone, and released the first arrow.

From her place between Colin and Angelica, Francine could scarcely bare to watch. She couldn’t breathe. She knew the Royal Herald dutifully recorded every moment of this historic pilgrimage to Scotland.

If Robin Hood should fail to best the Sheriff of Nottingham’s archers on this perfect afternoon, the pageant in Grantham would be remembered by future generations as a colossal failure. More important, still, would be Princess Margaret’s disappointment.

Fortunately, Francine kept her eyes wide open or she never would have believed such a feat possible.

In less than a minute, twenty feathered shafts flew in twenty graceful arcs to the bulls-eye. Four hundred fifty paces away.

No one moved.

Not a soul made a sound.

Then as one, the crowd roared its deafening approval. And pandemonium broke loose. The townsmen lifted the storied folk hero onto their shoulders and carried him around the meadow amidst the ringing huzzahs of the populace.

Francine watched in a daze as Maid Marian rushed across the grass to give Robin Hood the legendary kiss. The cheering grew louder and longer, as though ’twould never stop, when Princess Margaret came down from the stands and rewarded her future subject, who’d dropped to one knee, head bowed, with a silver arrow.

“Och, I told ye the lad was going to beat his best distance,” Walter said, unable to stop chortling. “And ye nae believed me, ye
glaikit
loons!”

“How could we have d-doubted it?” Colin asked with a sheepish grin. “When have we ever s-seen my cousin fail at anything?”

As for herself, Francine no longer had the slightest doubt.

Lachlan MacRath, chief of Clan MacRath and earl of Kinrath, had been abducted by faeries as an infant and raised by a wizard high in the faraway mountains of Scotland.

And she, Francine Granville, dowager countess of Walsingham, along with her innocent daughter, Angelica, depended on him for their very lives.

They were completely and unequivocally held in the sorcerer’s palm.

T
hat night, Lachlan watched over Francine as she slept. Damn. The watching proved bittersweet. He’d never received that grateful kiss he’d anticipated with such relish. Rather than gazing at him with starry-eyed admiration, she’d scarcely come near him after Princess Margaret had awarded him the silver arrow.

At the banquet following the archery exhibition, Francine had avoided meeting his eyes. Twice, when she thought he wasn’t looking, he’d caught her staring at him in open trepidation. ’Twas as though, for some inexplicable reason, she were suddenly terrified of him.

Even during their one and only dance together, she’d scarcely uttered a peep. He’d tried his best to cajole a smile from her. In vain. He was forced to admit to himself that she actually seemed to cringe at his touch during the lavolta.

Now Lachlan sat on his pallet on the floor of Lady Walsingham’s bedchamber and recalled the words of his older brother, Rory.

“Someday, Lachlan, you’ll meet a sonsy lass who doesn’t immediately fall into your arms. And you’ll finally get a taste of what it’s like for the rest of us poor blokes, who haven’t been blessed with your Adonis features and courtly graces.”

At Lachlan’s grimace, Rory waved his hand to silence any protest. “Admit it, brother. You play every instrument known to man, compose music and poetry, and sing like a goddamned archangel. ’Tis no wonder all the lassies swoon at your feet.”

Lachlan refused to acknowledge the truth of his brother’s gibe. “Hell, Rory,” he gritted,” not every female who crosses my path throws herself at me.”

His younger brother, Keir, had snorted in derision. “Nay, only the ones ye wish to entice, ye sleek-spoken jongleur. Which is to say every bonny lass ye e’er laid eyes on.”

At the time, Lachlan had believed his two brothers meant only to roast him for their own amusement. But he had to admit that, up until he’d met the enchanting English countess now sleeping only a few feet away, any woman he’d set out to seduce had ended up in his bed. And without much effort on his part.

He could see Francine’s delicate profile in the soft glow of candlelight that filled the small room. Her long, curving lashes fanned her cheeks. Her tempting lips were parted slightly in sleep. The golden curls lay strewn across the pillow like a seraph’s halo.

Lachlan longed to lift those silken tresses and watch the strands glide through his calloused fingers.

Every time she moved in her sleep, the scent of lavender and roses floated across the room to entice him. At the thought of the alluring figure hidden just beneath the coverlet, the heated rush of carnal need flooded Lachlan’s body. The ache in his groin throbbed with an unremitting insistence.

The longing to throw back the quilt, lift up her voluminous cotton nightdress and slide his hands over her satiny skin nearly overcame his resolutions.

Christ.

He’d given his pledge not to harm her.

He’d keep his pledge, no matter the hellish torment he suffered.

But if she so much as beckoned him with a crook of her little finger, he’d make damn sure she never wanted to sleep with another man again.

F
rancine awoke with a start. A single candle burned on the nearby table, casting shadows in the dim light. For several confused moments, she wondered why she hadn’t extinguished the flame before falling sleep.