Kathleen Harrington (20 page)

“Mm, hmm,” she said with a nod. “We’re going to cover him in feathers. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.”

“He’ll make a prodigiously tall swan,” Kinrath commented with a wry grin. The corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth. “However did you convince my bashful cousin to do it?”

Francine couldn’t suppress a giggle of satisfaction. “Oh, I didn’t! I had Diana ask him. I knew Colin would never refuse her anything.”

“I’ve noticed that you’re content to allow Lady Pembroke to be the center of attention amongst the courtiers.”

Scowling, Francine shrugged and glanced away. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as obtuse as she’d hoped. “It helps Diana take her mind off other things.”

“What other things?” he asked, sounding mystified.

“Most people see Diana as a practiced flirt,” Francine explained. “They think she doesn’t have a care in the world. But at the age of fourteen she was forced to marry a shallow, ignorant man nearly fifty years her senior, his only asset being his extreme wealth. Which, of course, was the only asset necessary for her uncle and guardian.”

“Forced marriages are seldom happy,” Kinrath said with compassion.

Francine leaned closer and lowered her voice so that Roddy, seated behind them, wouldn’t hear her next words. “Diana’s very unhappy with you, Kinrath.”

“What did I do to upset Lady Pembroke?” he asked in a clear tone, apparently unconcerned whether or not his gillie overheard their conversation.

“You were supposed to become Diana’s lover,” Francine clarified in a hushed voice. “She fully expected it. Truth to tell, the entire court expected it. In fact, many people made wagers on how long it would take Diana to lure you into her . . . arms. I’m sure they’re very disappointed, now that everyone thinks we are . . . alas . . . you must be aware . . . what everyone . . .”

He didn’t wait for her to stop sputtering. “And had you placed a wager as well, Lady Walsingham?”

“Nay,” she answered with a muffled laugh. “But I was sorely tempted. No man has ever rebuffed Lady Diana’s advances.”

“So ’twas considered only a matter of time till I succumbed to her charms?”

Francine jerked her chin in assent, then frowned as she searched his amused gaze. “Are you sorry that’s no longer a possibility? Now that you’re forced to spend your nights guarding me?”

“Oh, I’m perfectly content spending my nights in your bedchamber,” Kinrath said without a second’s hesitation. “And what about Lady Diana? Is she unhappy with you?”

“No, only curious.”

“Curious about what?” he prodded with a devilish grin. Hilarity lit up his green eyes, hinting that he knew very well why Diana had quizzed her.

Francine burst out laughing. “You’ve met Lady Pembroke, milord. What do you suppose she’s curious about?”

Before he could reply, the skiff bumped against the dock, next to a similar craft. Kinrath threw a rope over the piling, jumped out and reached down to assist her.

“Wait here, Roddy,” he ordered. “And stay alert.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the towheaded gillie answered with a knowing grin as he neatly trimmed the sail.

On the dock, Cuthbert Ross and three other kinsmen waited, their welcoming smiles an unspoken assurance that the storehouse was safe to enter.

O
fficially, the huge wooden warehouse belonged to the collective guilds of Newark on Trent. On special occasions, such as holy days and seasonal festivals, various guilds bore the responsibility of presenting processions, pageants, or morality plays for the enjoyment and edification of the city’s populace. The bakers, butchers, fishmongers, innkeepers, wheelwrights, leather craftsmen, and stonemasons had collected all the various accoutrements necessary for these lavish spectacles and secured them in a common storehouse.

Entering the cavernous building, Lachlan and the enterprising English countess found a maze of winding aisles between row upon row of open cupboards that reached to the ceiling. Boxes of theatrical devices, pots of face paint and cosmetic brushes, outlandish wigs of every color and description, and brilliant costumes were piled indiscriminately on the shelves.

“If it’s inspiration you’re looking for, Lady Walsingham,” Lachlan told her, “’twould appear you’ve come to the right place.”

“Oh, look at this!” his vivacious companion exclaimed. She lifted a black Venetian mask and peered at him through its narrow slits. “Can you imagine what it must be like to be in Venice during carnavale? To glide up a moonlit Grand Canal in a gondola and alight on the steps of the Doge’s Palace?”

“Actually, I have,” he said.

She lowered the sequined mask and stared at him in amazement. “You’ve been there?” she asked. She tossed her head in disbelief, and her loose curls shimmered like spun gold beneath the skylight overhead. “You’ve ridden in a gondola?”

He nodded. “My brothers and I were guests of the Doge, while we negotiated a trading agreement between Venice and Scotland.”

Lady Francine sank down on a large crate that stood nearby, the mask dangling from her fingers on its long silver ribbons.

“Ah,” she said quietly. “I’m envious of your travels, Laird Kinrath. When Mathias and I lived in the Kingdom of Naples, I learned a great deal about the Italian city-states. In fact, we visited Milan, where I met the duke of Sforza. That’s where I learned to dance the lavolta,” she added, pausing to flash him a lighthearted smile. “But we never journeyed to Venice,” she continued. “I’ve been told that the Venetian courtesans are the most beautiful women in the world.”

“Aye, they’re certainly bonny,” Lachlan agreed. “But I wouldna say they’re the bonniest creatures on the face of the earth.”

Beneath his steady gaze, her cheeks bloomed the exact color of the roses on her brocaded gown. Her dark eyes sparkled in response to his unspoken compliment.

But Lady Francine didn’t wait for him to expound any further. She jumped up from the wooden box, tossed the mask back on the shelf, and proceeded ahead of him down the aisle.

“Here’s something interesting, milady,” Lachlan called to her.

She turned, curiosity lighting up her eyes when she saw the turban in his hand. Made of deep purple satin, with a huge glass ruby and an enormous white ostrich feather, it might have belonged to the caliph of Bagdad.

“Put it on,” she insisted. “And this Turkish robe, as well.”

She shook out the garment’s silk folds, sneezing as a cloud of dust swirled around them.

Lachlan complied, all too willing to participate in her imaginative adventure. He donned the turban and embroidered caftan and stepped closer for her perusal.

Lady Francine reached up to adjust his headwear, then brushed more dust off his shoulders. “You look like you could rule the entire Ottoman Empire,” she told him, irrepressible humor curving her lips. Then she scrunched up her nose and studied him thoughtfully. “All except for your hair. No self-respecting sultan would ever have red hair.”

“My hair’s not red,” he protested, enjoying her close scrutiny immensely. Who’d have suspected playing at dress-up with the unpredictable countess would prove so enticing?

“Indeed, that braid hanging down your back certainly has some red woven through it,” she replied with a burst of laughter. “You sparkled like a polished copper kettle beneath the stained-glass windows at St. Wulfram’s.”

Lachlan reached out, caught one of her long curls in his fingers, and tugged gently. He moved closer and bent his head toward her smiling face. “Not everyone can have tresses kissed by the sun, Lady Walsingham.”

She sobered at his husky tone and gazed at him warily. Probably remembering their last night in Grantham.

Hell, he certainly hadn’t forgotten the feel of her lithe body, shielded by only a thin nightdress, as he’d pressed her against him. The memory acted as an aphrodisiac, pulsing and throbbing through his heightened senses.

Touch. Smell. Taste. Sight. Sound.

He wanted to drink in every part of her, enjoy every silken inch, every whiff of her lavender scent, every breathless gasp as she reached fulfillment.

“We’d better keep searching for suitable costumes,” she suggested with a tentative smile.

Lachlan released her curl and waved his hand toward the winding aisle before them. “Lead the way, milady,” he said, pitching the turban and robe back on the shelf.

“Here’s a promising find,” Lady Francine called over her shoulder.

She hurried to a tall open cupboard, every shelf piled high with the paraphernalia used for enacting myths of the sea. Costumes for tritons, naiads, sirens, seahorses, dolphins, and mermaids had been haphazardly discarded. Nearby, on the rough planked floor, rested the two halves of a giant sea monster.

“Oh, this is what I’ve been looking for!” she exclaimed, her pure soprano rising in her excitement. “I’ll have Master Burby send some servants to bring all of these disguises back to the castle. However, I want to take the green sea dragon with me now. I have an idea, but Charles will need to start working on it as soon as we return.”

“I’m not wearing that dragon’s head in the skiff while holding onto the tail end at the same time,” he warned her with a scowl.

His lack of enthusiasm failed to daunt her.

“Oh, we can each carry half,” she declared. “It won’t be too heavy for me. Truthfully, I’m quite strong for my size.” The dimple in her cheek deepened as she smiled up at him in mischievous entreaty.

Lachlan had been right in his first assessment. Lady Walsingham could charm the pots and pans right out of a tinker’s wagon.

“Let’s continue our search first,” he suggested, realizing he had no recourse but to accede to her request or face the disappointment in those enormous brown eyes. “We can come back for the sea monster when we’re ready to leave the warehouse.”

She gave a quick nod and proceeded blithely down the aisle.

Gazing at her retreating backside, Lachlan wondered if anyone had ever refused her anything.

’Twas possible. But he doubted it.

N
ext they came to a section that held musical instruments. The sheer size and variety of the collection fascinated Francine. Drums, bells, lyres, vielles, and tambourines lined the shelves. As a child she’d learned to play the lute and harp, but not with great artistry. Though she did have a talent for composition and the staging of pageants, of the two sisters, ’twas Cecilia who’d been the truly gifted musician.

Francine picked up an Italian mandolin and absently plucked a string. She looked over at Kinrath, who stood watching her, one shoulder braced against a wooden post.

“Do you play?” she asked.

“A little.”

She’d expected a negative reply. At her look of surprise, he shrugged good-naturedly.

“La, milord,” she said as she set another string quivering, “indulge me with an exhibition of your talent.”

Now he’d have to admit the truth. He probably couldn’t play a note. Since when were Scottish buccaneers schooled in the finer arts?

“As you wish, Lady Walsingham,” he agreed, giving a brief nod.

Kinrath picked up a Spanish guitar, sat down on a crate, and adjusted a few strings as he tentatively strummed.

The moment he started to play, the instrument seemed to come alive in his hands. Francine’s wonderment deepened as she listened to a lovely and familiar melody soaring around her.

At the close of the lively madrigal, the earl met her captivated gaze, his own eyes twinkling with amusement. The smile hovering at the corners of his mouth told her he was well aware of her former doubts.

“What would you like to hear next, milady?”

“Anything you wish,” she answered, unable to hide her astonishment.

Though Francine really shouldn’t have been astonished. While a pirate wouldn’t likely be skilled in music, a sorcerer could, if he wished, play every instrument known to man with a master’s proficiency.

“Only if you join me,” Kinrath replied, that aggravating smile still skipping over his lips.

Francine sat down across from him, the deep-bellied mandolin resting in her lap, and quickly tuned the instrument. She’d practiced on a similar one while living in Naples and was fairly certain she could acquit herself without embarrassment. But if his repertoire proved as remarkable as his talent, she might have to admit her own shortcomings.

Trying to outshine a wizard hadn’t been her best idea yet, that much was certain. And the distinct possibility of eating humble pie served to her by a laughing Scotsman brought an annoying lump to her throat.

Francine swallowed convulsively.

Dear God, please don’t let my voice sound like a bullfrog calling across the pond to his ladylove.

“What shall we sing together?” she asked, struggling to keep her tone light and carefree.

“Ah, let’s see,” he said thoughtfully. “Something we’re both certain to know.” He launched into
Sumer is a Cumen in.

With a sense of relief, Francine joined him in the beautiful English round written over a hundred years prior. As a youngster, she’d often played and sang the tune with Cecilia. ’Twas one of their father’s favorites.

“Have you composed any music yourself?” she inquired when they’d finished the song.

“Aye,” he said with a nod.

Francine smiled in delight, thoroughly entranced that they should share an affinity for composition. “I’d like to hear something you’ve written,” she suggested as she set the mandolin aside.

To the accompaniment of the Spanish guitar, Kinrath sang an astoundingly beautiful ballad. The romantic words sung in his magnificent baritone seemed to reach out and touch Francine’s very soul. The song hinted at the lover’s need for his beloved. For a physical union, yes. But so much more. It spoke of a yearning deep within every human heart for a life’s mate. And of the unquenchable ache of unfulfilled longing.

When he finished, she drew a deep breath, realizing with a start that she’d forgotten to breathe.

“That was magical,” she whispered. For the first time in her life, Francine felt the prickly sensation of jealousy. She hung her head and looked up at him from lowered lids. “For whom did you write those heartfelt praises?”

“Actually ’twas on the occasion of my older brother’s marriage,” Kinrath replied. “Rory asked me to compose a ballad in honor of his bride.”