Kathleen Harrington (18 page)

Slowly, she became aware of someone’s presence in the room and felt his gaze upon her.

And remembered.

Bolting upright in bed, she turned to find the earl of Kinrath wide awake.

He sat on his sleeping pallet with his back against the bedchamber’s bolted door, watching her in silence. He’d removed his shirt and belt, and his kilt covered his lower body like a blanket. His claymore rested on the boards beside him, scarce inches from his hand.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded in a hushed voice. “Why are you awake? Did you hear something?”

“Everything’s fine,” he answered quietly. “Go back to sleep.”

On the other side of the inner door that led to Francine’s dressing chamber and the adjoining bedroom beyond, Lucia slept beside Angelica on a small mattress. Walter MacRath kept watch in that room, though it had only a tiny window which no man could possibly slip through.

As long as Francine was safe, her daughter was safe, as well.

She drew a shuddering breath. “Why aren’t you asleep, Kinrath? Have you been awake all night?”

He smiled. She could see the flash of his even white teeth in the darkened room. His quiet voice carried a touch of humor. “How could I close my eyes, milady, when I have you to watch over?”

He made it sound as though they were engaged in a careless flirtation, instead of the life and death struggle they were in.

Racked by indecision, Francine studied the Scots nobleman in the faint light. Could it be possible that he had no more power than any other man? What if she were wrong in her belief that he was a sorcerer? What if the Highland chief was a mere mortal, after all, despite the phenomenal feat of archery she’d witnessed that afternoon.

If so, he could be waylaid and murdered just like any other human being.

Guilt tightened Francine’s stomach into a knot at the thought. She dare not assume that Kinrath had the ability to ward off any danger with his magic.

God above knew.

She had to warn him.

Earlier that evening, the marquess of Lychester had insisted on dancing with Francine.

“I’m going to kill him,” Elliot had stated without a trace of emotion, as he led her in the stately pavane. When she stared at him in disbelief, he’d clarified, so there’d be no doubt of his intentions. “I’m going to kill your Scottish lover, Francie.”

From the icy hatred in Lychester’s black eyes, Francine realized he meant every word. And she dared not dispute the notion that she and the Scotsman were having an affair.

Apprehending now that she must inform Kinrath of the threat against his life or likely carry the blame for his death the rest of her days, she swallowed back her indecision.

“Kinrath,” she began hesitantly, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

“It can wait till morning,” he replied in a soothing tone. “You should get your rest, Lady Walsingham. We leave for Newark shortly after daybreak.”

“No, we need to talk now,” she insisted, unwilling to put the discussion off a minute longer.

If he were not the shapeshifter she suspected him to be, the danger to his life was real and imminent. Lychester made a formidable enemy.

Perched on the edge of the bed, she patted the coverlet beside her. “Please come over here by me, so we can speak quietly. I don’t want to wake the others.”

Kinrath rose, his tartan wrapped loosely around his hips, and walked across the room. But he didn’t sit next to her, as she’d indicated. He crouched down in front of her instead.

The silvery token that hung from his neck glittered in the candlelight. Without thinking, Francine caught it in her fingertips and lifted it closer to the flame. Its strange lettering was indecipherable. Whether a prayer or a secret rune, there was no way to know.

“What does it say?” she whispered.

Lachlan gritted his teeth. Hell. She’d carelessly brushed the back of her hand across his nipple. Her touch on his naked skin sent a bolt of desire through him with the force of a crossbow’s quarrel. His entire body reacted in glorious expectation.

Lady Francine’s open gaze showed no awareness of his aroused state, only curiosity about the Gaelic blessing on the holy medal in her hand. Dammit, he’d vowed to protect her, even from himself.

She’d taken him at his word.

’Twas his intention to honor her faith in him, despite the lust seeping through his veins.

When Francine had signaled him to sit next to her, Lachlan knew he dare not. No way on God’s earth could he sit on that soft bed beside her and not draw the sloe-eyed enchantress into his arms. Not sink back with her onto the downy mattress. Not press his mouth to her sweet lips while he caressed her with his practiced hands.

A driving hunger demanded that he take Francine at once, with all the passion building inside him.

Yet at the same time, Lachlan felt no need to hurry their inevitable mating. ’Twas as though, somewhere deep within him, he knew they’d have a lifetime to lie in each other’s arms. He only need wait for her to recognize the certainty of their union.

Lachlan wanted to see the longing he felt reflected in her expressive eyes. For this bewitching female, he’d find the patience to wait. Every fiber in his being knew her eventual surrender would be all the sweeter for the waiting.

“What is it you need to tell me, Lady Walsingham?” he asked.

At Laird Kinrath’s hoarse whisper, Francine dropped the object in her hand and met his gaze. “I have a confession to make,” she admitted.

The corner of his mouth quirked up. She could hear the amusement in his voice. “You? A confession? What did you do? Light a candle in the chapel and not leave a pence in the poor box?”

She laughed at his teasing, in spite of herself. “I wish it were that simple. And that easy to remedy.”

He waited, seeming to sense how difficult it was for her to go on.

Francine threaded the long blue ribbons of her nightdress back and forth through her fingers as she stared down at her lap. With a fortifying breath, she lifted her chin and met his gaze.

“’Twas very selfish of me to accede to the plan you proposed this morning in Lord Beddingfeld’s library, Kinrath. I didn’t agree to it for my own safety,” she clarified, placing her hand on her breast. “I was terrified when I learned evil men were plotting to kill my little girl.”

He took her hands and squeezed gently. “’Twas a very natural reaction,” he reassured her. “Dinna blame yourself, Lady Francie, for wanting to save your wee lassie.”

Her name pronounced in his soft Scots burr acted as a balm to her guilt-ridden heart, giving her the courage to go on.

“But by accepting your offer of protection,” she said, “I have placed you in mortal danger.”

He shrugged. “I knew there was danger when I devised the scheme.” Grinning, he chucked her under the chin with his knuckle. “As long as you’re alive, Lady Walsingham, I’m perfectly safe, myself. For the bloody bastards won’t move against me, until they can claim that I’ve killed you.”

“You are in danger from more than the Yorkist traitors,” she informed him bluntly.

He raised his brows at her words. “Who else wants to kill me?” he inquired lightly, as though death threats were as common as mice in a stable.

“Are you familiar with the marquess of Lychester?”

Lachlan watched the tears pool in Francine’s velvety eyes, and his heart tumbled to her feet. “Aye.”

She sniffed and drew a shaky breath before continuing. “Elliot Brome and I were raised on neighboring estates in Northumberland. We’ve known each other since childhood. He’s asked King Henry repeatedly for permission to marry me.”

Lachlan smoothed his hands up and down her arms reassuringly. He’d enjoy slowly choking the life out of Lychester, but now was not the time to vent his wrath. “I gathered as much from your conversation with Lord Beddingfeld this morning.” He nodded encouragingly for her to go on.

“This evening, when Elliot and I were dancing, he told me he’s going to kill you. He believes we are lovers.” Two teardrops rolled down Francine’s cheeks, and she wiped them away with the lacy cuff of her nightdress. “I . . . I should have warned you immediately, Kinrath, instead of waiting till now. I’m sorry for the danger I’ve put you in. Had you been harmed tonight, it would have been my fault.”

Lachlan caught her hands and brought them to his lips. “If I’m killed, ’twill be my own fault,” he said, “for being so damn clumsy as to allow it.” He chuckled softly. “Dinna worry, Lady Walsingham, no one’s going to murder either one of us. Nor Angelica, I promise you. I’m not your only protector, dinna you ken? Every one of my kinsmen would give his life to save yours. And your daughter’s, as well.”

“You sound very certain,” she whispered. She leaned toward him, and the scent of lavender filled his nostrils.

“I am certain,” he replied, meeting her doubtful gaze.

In the intimacy of the moment, time seemed to stand still. The quiet candlelit room, the midnight hour, their hushed conversation, the delicate smocking on her high-necked nightdress, her soft breath caressing his face . . . all . . . all of it would be burned into his memory.

Lachlan knew, without a doubt, he’d recall every detail of this night when he was an old man . . . and relive its heart-stirring pleasure.

God. He could drown in the depths of her tear-filled eyes.

She peeked at him shyly from beneath lowered lids and her mouth curled up in a rueful smile. “I never thanked you for saving the archery contest this afternoon.”

He grinned in return. “I wondered when you were going to get around to that.”

“I believe I owe you a kiss, Laird Kinrath.”

“I believe you do, Lady Walsingham.”

Intrigued, Lachlan watched her squeeze her eyes shut, pucker her lips, and lift her face to the air in front of her. All the while, her hands remained folded loosely in her lap.

“That’s not exactly the kiss I was expecting,” he said, making no effort to accommodate her.

She opened her eyes wide in surprise. “Since I’m the one bestowing the reward, I presumed I’d be the one to determine the kind and quality of the prize.”

“Since I’m the one who earned the reward, I presumed the prize would match up to my expectations.”

She frowned, unhappy with the way he’d twisted her words to his own advantage. “You’re wicked clever with your tongue, milord,” she protested.

“So I’ve been told, milady.”

Lachlan didn’t add that one night he’d demonstrate just how wickedly clever his tongue could be. Instead he waited, curious to see what the unpredictable countess would do next.

Francine searched the large Scotsman’s steady gaze. Just how far could she trust him? How far could any woman trust any man?

His upper arms bulged with muscles, their inked bands a reminder of his piratical reputation. The barbaric ruby earring glittered in the flickering candlelight. His broad unscarred chest, covered with a thick auburn pelt that tapered downward to disappear beneath the covering of his tartan, silently proclaimed his undefeated status as a warrior. Sheer male power seemed to radiate to the four corners of the room.

Kinrath was different from any fighting man Francine had ever known. Unlike the English knights of the Tudor court, he didn’t boast of his exploits. Yet his reputation for valor had spread throughout Europe. Since arriving in England, his unflinching self-assurance had instilled respect and admiration in every man he met. While the ladies of the court . . . well, Heaven knew . . . their behavior towards the Scottish earl was downright shameful.

Still, she owed him that kiss.

And he was obviously prepared to wait till Kingdom Come to get it.

Francine placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned a tiny bit closer. His reddish-brown hair, freed from its braid, brushed loosely across her fingers.

“Is this better?” she asked huskily, annoyed to feel herself trembling.

“A definite improvement,” he conceded. But he continued to make no move to assist her.

Francine tilted her head first one way and then the other, trying to decide just how best to go about conferring his reward. Could he tell she was woefully inept in the art of dalliance?

Determined to get the whole thing over and done with, she caught his face in her hands. The bristly feel of his whiskered jaw surprised her, and she released a pent-up breath. Gathering all her resolve, Francine tentatively pressed her lips to his warm, welcoming mouth.

Encouraged by his unspoken compliance, she slid her arms around his neck, leaned against his solid chest, and continued to demonstrate her thankfulness for his help that day.

His bare skin smelled like sandalwood and leather.

God’s witness, Francine had always loved the smell of sandalwood and leather.

Breaking the kiss with a sigh, she drew back to look into his eyes.

“Your skill with the bow and arrow today was truly remarkable,” she whispered, her lips only inches from his. “Almost unbelievable, some said.”

He closed the slight space between them to nibble softly on her lower lip. “Mm, do you know you taste like honey?”

“Though, of course,” she persevered, “I have to believe it. I saw your twenty arrows strike the center of the target with my own eyes.”

Without replying, he brought her closer and resumed the kiss, apparently far more interested in collecting his prize than discussing his achievement at the butts that afternoon.

Once again, Francine pulled back to search his gaze for some clue to the mystery. “All in all, the feat seemed . . . rather magical.”

“The only magic I’m aware of,
a ghaolaich,
” he said with a throaty laugh, “is here in this room.”

Lachlan rose from his haunches to stand in front of Lady Francine. Cupping her round little bottom in his hands, he lifted her up above him and gazed at her in captivation.

Her loose curls falling about her slender shoulders, her expressive eyes filled with wonder at his skill with the bow, her pure white nightdress billowing around her, she was femininity personified.

She was Aphrodite. Athena. Isolde. Helena.

This spirited Englishwoman he held in his arms was everything a man could dream of.