Kathleen Harrington (19 page)

But this was no dream. This was so achingly real, Lachlan’s breath caught in his throat.

To his delight, Francine framed his face between her hands once again, bent her head and kissed him. This time, the tip of her pink tongue brushed against his lips, and, at his clear invitation, she explored his mouth as he’d once explored hers.

The intoxicating taste of her sent the heated blood surging through his veins. A driving compulsion to take her, here and now, burned through his vitals like a fireball launched from a catapult.

Lachlan lowered her slowly, slowly, till her soft mound was pressed against his groin. Beneath the red-and-black plaid wrapped about his hips, he was fully aroused. Every muscle and nerve in his body tightened, as moral strength and sexual intent warred within him.

“Just give me leave, Francie,” he whispered in her ear. “Only say the word . . .”

The instant Francine felt Kinrath’s carnal state, she came to her senses. She pushed against his chest, suddenly frantic with the realization that she was unable to break free.

“Enough,” she said hoarsely.

With a strangled groan, he set her on her feet and stepped away.

“Enough,” he agreed in a choked whisper. “For now.”

The fearsome Scot walked over to the bed and tossed back the coverlet. Then he scooped her up in his arms, laid her gently on the mattress, and tucked the goose-down quilt around her, as though she were a child.

“You need to get some sleep, milady,” he said. He bent and tenderly kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose. “Dawn will soon be here. We have a long day in the saddle ahead of us.”

He drew his fingertips lightly over her face, and she instinctively closed her eyes.

Just before drifting to sleep, Francine realized she hadn’t felt so safe and protected since the death of Mathias six months ago.

F
rancine looked up at the statue on the side altar of St. Wulfram’s Church, where she’d just lit a candle. “Please, St. Cecilia,” she whispered to the carved stone face gazing down at her with unseeing eyes, “pray for that poor woman’s soul. And comfort my darling sister, there with you in Heaven. I offer this prayer for all innocent women who’ve been harmed by men of evil intent. Amen.”

Francine reached out to run her fingertips over the marble lyre at the figure’s sandaled feet. Bittersweet memories of her younger sister playing the harp brought a slow half-smile. Like her patron saint, Cecilia had loved music. Friends and neighbors had often remarked that she sang like an angel . . .

Coming back to the present, Francine looked across the narrow side aisle, where Lucia Grazioli, rosary beads sliding through her gnarled fingers, sat in the pew beside Angelica.

Walter stood guard directly behind them, a scowl on his blunt features. Ferocity emanated from his uncompromising stance, as he clasped the handle of his broadsword, battle ready.

Similarly armed and prepared, Colin and Cuthbert waited a respectful distance from Francine, far enough to allow her the privacy of her prayers, yet close enough to reach her in a trice, if need be.

Outside the church’s ornately carved doors, their mounts and packhorses waited for them to begin the trek to Newark-on-Trent. But the plan to leave Grantham shortly after daybreak had been tragically disrupted.

Hearing booted footsteps on the stone floor, Francine turned to see Kinrath enter the high-pitched nave, two more MacRath kinsmen following behind.

Bareheaded in the house of worship, the Scottish earl was dressed for riding in doublet, breeches, and long hose. The light streaming through the high stained-glass windows reflected the coppery tints in his braided hair as he strode up the wide center aisle. Like the rest of his men, he was armed with sword, dirk, and claymore.

Kinrath signaled for Walter to join him, then nodded to Francine to come, as well.

She hurried to their side. “What did you learn?” she asked, keeping her voice low so Angelica wouldn’t overhear.

“The rumor’s true,” Kinrath stated succinctly. “Someone attacked Madame Sibylla in the dead of night and left her body in the wood behind her wagon.”

“Damn the maggot-sucking bastard to hell,” Walter said with a drawn-out hiss of outrage.

“Who would do such a heinous thing?” Francine asked, trying hard to suppress a shudder. She had to act brave for her daughter’s sake.

Francine’s heart went out to the Romany female, who’d smiled so cunningly at Kinrath as she’d told their fortune that previous afternoon. Intelligence sparkling in her black eyes, Madame Sibylla had laughed with good-natured abandon as she’d nimbly caught the extra coin he’d tossed her. Little did any of them suspect she’d not see another sunrise.

Shortly after daybreak, the news that a gypsy woman had been murdered traveled quickly through the town. Everyone in Princess Margaret’s entourage had gathered for the morning meal in the Great Hall of Beddingfeld Castle, where it’d been rumored that the perpetrator was a Scot.

Lachlan looked at Lady Francine’s lovely face, drained of all color, and dreaded telling her the rest. Her eyes haunted, her shoulders drooping, she appeared incredibly fragile. But she would eventually learn the truth, whether from him or another.

“She’d been raped,” he said, “and her throat cut.”

Deep-felt horror on her pale features, Francine staggered backward and caught hold of a nearby pew. “Merciful God,” she gasped. “Do they know who did it?”

Lachlan shook his head, prepared to catch her, if she fainted. The ghastly news seemed to overwhelm her. She was even more distraught than he’d expected.

“Nay,” he answered in a quiet tone, trying his best to keep her calm. “But whoever it was, ’twas not a thief. The woman’s purse, filled with coins, still hung on her girdle.”

He paused, not wanting to go on. His brief hesitation didn’t pass unnoticed. Lady Francine narrowed her eyes in growing revulsion as she realized there was more unhappy news to come.

Lachlan steeled himself and continued. “A bag of Scottish crowns was discovered near the scene.”

“Scottish crowns . . .” she repeated, as though unable to comprehend the meaning of his words. She put her hand to her brow and shook her head in confusion. “Surely . . . surely . . . not one of your men?”

“Nay,” he answered curtly. “I questioned all of them. Every last man. I’m certain they were nowhere near the fortuneteller’s wagon last night.”

Lachlan couldn’t blame Francine for her suspicions. Whoever had killed Madame Sibylla had planned for just that accusation to arise.

But something about the position of the body and the way the throat had been slashed from ear to ear reminded Lachlan of another crime. A coldblooded murder he’d witnessed years ago on a nearly deserted battlefield. He didn’t voice his thoughts aloud, for there was no need to upset the overwrought countess any further.

But the fact that Madame Sibylla had foretold Lachlan and Francine’s blissful life together may have been the very reason for her brutal death.

“Will you and your men be detained?” Lady Francine asked. She placed her hand on his arm and stepped closer, then continued in a hushed tone. “Will you still be able to leave Grantham with Angelica and me?”

“I’m carrying documents of safe passage signed by two kings,” Lachlan replied with conviction. “We’ll not be delayed.” He drew her against him, bent his head and spoke into her ear. “Dinna fash your pretty head, Lady Walsingham. I’m going to be right by your side the whole blessed way to Scotland.”

Lachlan felt a small hand tugging on his elbow and looked down.

“Are we leaving now, Laird Kinrath?” Angelica asked in a plaintive voice. “I’ve said all my prayers and I’m getting tired of waiting. Signora Grazioli said I must be patient, but I don’t think I can be patient very much longer.”

Lachlan smiled down at the bonny lassie and took her small hand. Once again, the child wore a riding outfit that exactly matched her mother’s. This time the two were arrayed in blue velvet with tiny hats perched askew on their golden-blond curls.

“Aye,” he reassured her. “We’re leaving now. Come with me, Lady Angelica, and I’ll lift you up on your pony.”

“Merlin,” she reminded him with a happy little laugh. “My pony’s name is Merlin.”

“How could I forget the name of King Arthur’s wizard?” he chided her. “Why, wizards are some of my favorite people.”

He turned his head to give Francine a wink. She stood stock still, gaping at him as though she believed the nonsense he’d just spouted.

Surely she knew he was teasing the child.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

Newark-on-Trent

Nottinghamshire, England

F
rancine glanced at Kinrath, seated beside her in the skiff. She secretly admired his appearance, though she’d never admit it to him. He was wearing his Scots apparel, saffron shirt with ruffled cuffs, black-and-red kilt with short checkered hose and buckled brogues. The three feathers in his chief’s bonnet ruffled gently in the breeze.

Seated behind them and similarly attired in clan garb, Roddy Stewart, Kinrath’s sixteen-year-old gillie, manned the tiller as their little craft skimmed over the River Trent, the slight wind filling its only sail.

Francine’s small party of retainers and armed guards had arrived in Newark the previous evening, only slightly later than originally planned. Kinrath had set a wicked pace upon leaving Grantham. When Angelica grew weary, he’d taken the child up before him on his powerful Arab stallion. This time, Francine had made no complaint about his arbitrary orders or the lack of sufficient rest periods. She knew his sole concern was their safety.

“Always keep your enemies off guard and wondering what your next move will be,” he’d said in brief explanation as they’d galloped their horses up the Great North Road to enter the city through its southern portal.

She’d nodded, too exhausted to even reply. Nearly too exhausted to eat the evening meal served in her private quarters. After listening to Angelica’s prayers, Francine had tumbled into bed, where she’d slept undisturbed till morning.

Princess Margaret had spent an extra night on the road from Grantham and arrived in Newark-on-Trent shortly after noon that day.

People had lined the roadway, cheering the princess’s arrival. The bishop of Lincoln presented her with the key to the city. Children, dressed like angels, sang a
Te Deum
on the steps of the Market Cross, while the gray-haired clergyman, leaning heavily on his shepherd’s crook, blessed not only the young Tudor princess, but also her entire entourage of more than five hundred nobles and their ladies. For their ranks had continued to swell with each village and town along the way.

This afternoon, however, Francine’s attention remained riveted on the large man beside her in the skiff. Kinrath no longer seemed like a dangerous outlander in his Highland garb. Just very masculine and outrageously handsome.

God’s witness, sometimes ’twas hard to keep her eyes off him. Or to keep from recalling the feel of his lips on hers. Or the way he’d scooped her up off the bed, his palms cupping her bottom, to lift her easily above him. His physical strength seemed nigh unbelievable. The sexual longing in his eyes unmistakable.

Now, as Kinrath turned his head to meet Francine’s gaze, she smiled in return. “Did you remember to bring the warehouse keys?” she asked brightly, as though ’twas the reason she’d been studying him so closely.

“I sent the keys ahead of us with Bertie,” he said. “He and three other men will have searched the warehouse before we arrive.”

“Oh, that wasn’t necessary,” she told him. “No one knew I was coming this afternoon except Charles Burby.”

When Kinrath failed to reply, she continued. “You can trust Master Burby. He would never wish me harm.”

“Perhaps,” Kinrath said. “But an overheard conversation or a careless slip of the tongue can lead to grave circumstances. The only men I’d trust with your life or your daughter’s are my own kinsmen.” He smiled as he continued in a lighter vein. “Exactly what is it we’re looking for this afternoon?”

She shrugged. “I won’t know till we see what’s there. Master Burby has planned a spectacle that includes a three-masted caravel being rolled into the banqueting hall of Newark Castle. But we’re short of costumes for the ladies who’ll be standing at the ship’s railing and singing a cantata. So while Charles is working on the last-minute adjustments to the
Ship of Felicity
, I told him I’d search the city’s warehouse for suitable regalia.”

“Tonight’s spectacle will include a mock galleon?” Kinrath queried with a deep chuckle. “How do you come up with these fantastical ideas, Lady Walsingham?”

“Oh, I don’t plan the pageants,” she lied. “The Master of the Revels is in charge of that, along with any preparations made by each city’s aldermen or guildsmen. I only make a few suggestions which might be pleasing to the audience.”

Kinrath cocked an eyebrow and favored her with his slow, sideways grin. He obviously took her at her word, however, for he made no further comment on Charles Burby’s responsibilities. Or hers.

“And are you going to be standing at the railing with the other ladies as the
Felicity
sails into the hall?” he asked.

Francine nearly sighed in relief. Kinrath didn’t suspect that during the past spring she’d spent most of her time devising themes, writing verses, composing music, and supervising artists, musicians, singers, and costume designers. ’Twas amazing how easily he could be fooled. Most likely, he was no wizard after all.

“No, I’ll be too busy with other concerns,” she answered truthfully. “But Lady Pembroke will be at the starboard rail dressed as Leda. And Colin has agreed to be the Swan.”

“Colin?” Kinrath asked, clearly unaware that his cousin had consented to enact the part of the mythical beauty’s seducer—Zeus in the guise of a swan—in front of the entire court.

Mercy. If he hadn’t as yet discovered what Colin was planning to do, Kinrath most certainly was no sorcerer. Francine bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud at the astonishment on the earl’s face.