Kathleen Harrington (23 page)

And he
had
put her under his spell. She was certain of it now.

For kissing other men had been nothing,
nothing
compared to kissing the earl of Kinrath.

As though in a trance, she gazed at his mouth. Only a moment ago, he’d spoken in his mystical language, and the same strange, inexplicable feeling rose up inside her. Exactly as before. An undeniable longing to press her lips to his, to touch her tongue to his, to hold her body against his. To feel him suckling her breast . . . oh, God! Had he really done that? Or had that been a dream?

“Uh,” she continued on a rush of air, “that is . . . if they could, uh, compare . . .” She raised her eyes to meet his, nearly frantic to hide her own feelings, but unable to look away. “I was comparing . . .”

Kinrath stared down at her for the longest time. “Comparing what?”

“Must you be so obtuse?” she demanded.

Slowly, slowly, comprehension began to light the depths of his deep green eyes. A tantalizing smile skipped across his lips.

Without warning, he wrapped his arm around her waist and drew her willing, submissive form against his massive one.

“Let’s find out,” he said softly. “Let’s compare.”

Lachlan breathed in the scent of lavender and roses that lingered about the countess of Walsingham. His body, already taut with rage and frustration, reacted with pounding sexual need. Carnal desire seared his veins. And swamped his heart.

He caught her waist in his hands, lifted her off the floor and turned, bracing her slim form against the wall behind them. He eased one knee between her legs, hidden beneath the soft folds of her gown, and let her slide down to rest on his thigh. Beneath his kilt, his thickened sex pulsed and throbbed.

She gasped at the intrusion but didn’t try to fight him. Her thick lashes fanned her cheeks, her eyes closed in an obvious ploy to deny his presence. She wasn’t attempting to resist. They both knew it would be futile. But she refused to encourage him. She strove to maintain a distance between them, even if it was only in her mind.

Every nerve and fiber within Lachlan fought to take her. Here, up against the wall. It’d be so damn easy to shove her skirt and smock up to her hips and push himself deep inside her.

The thought of Francine kissing those wretched bastards nearly drove him to madness. He needed the release of coming deep, deep inside her. He deserved that release after the scene he’d just witnessed.

God! No woman had ever brought him to this. Jealous and angry and so sexually frustrated his balls ached when he touched her.

Hell! His balls ached when he
thought
about touching her.

“Look at me, Francie,” he ordered harshly. “I want to be certain you know who’s kissing you. Certain you remember which man it is who has you longing for more. Wanting more. Needing more.”

She opened her eyes, and the sensual awareness in their nut-brown depths sparked the bonfire of lust within him. She threaded her fingertips into the base of his braid, just as she had when she feared she was drowning. Her lips parted slightly and she lifted her face for his kiss.

Lachlan covered her lips with his open mouth. His heart kicked inside his chest, as she touched her tongue to his and sweetly, shyly entered.

He shifted his hands from her waist, sliding his palms up her ribcage to brush the sides of her full breasts. Then pulled away slightly to lower his head and touch the dewy skin above her low décolletage with his tongue. She purred deep in her throat as she lifted her breasts higher for his kisses.

“Say my name,
a ghràidh,
” he murmured.

“Lachlan,” she whispered on a breath of surrender. “Lachlan MacRath, earl of Kinrath.”

The sound of his name on her lips, soft and tender with female submission, eased the rage inside him, but not the driving need to possess her.

Lachlan gently, methodically pulled down the square neckline of her gown with his thumbs, till her breasts were exposed to his gaze. The taut material of her bodice pushed the perfect round globes upward, and he covered one velvety crest with his open mouth and suckled deeply. Hearing her tiny mewl of pleasure, he moved to capture the other nipple.

He reached behind her and cupped her bottom in his palm, lifting her tight against his bulging crotch. The feel of his hardened shaft must have startled her, for she arched her back and abruptly tried to push him away. He met her gaze to find her eyes round with apprehension.

Lachlan knew nothing at all about Francine’s dead husband, except that he’d been elderly. And frail toward the end. Perhaps since Walsingham’s demise, she’d never taken a lover as large or powerful as Lachlan. Perhaps his size and strength frightened her.

“You promised,” she pleaded in a strangled voice. “You promised never to force me.”

Her shaky words brought Lachlan back to his senses. He pressed his forehead against hers and released a harsh breath. “I will never hurt you, Francie,” he said. “But dammit, love, dinna ever let me find you in another man’s arms again. For I made no such pledge for the safety of the other man.”

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

Borough of Doncaster

South Yorkshire, England

F
or every magic spell, a counterspell existed. Fingus Mackay had been adamant about that. In all of the wonderful tales the grizzled falcon keeper had told Francine when she was a child, there had always been a way to counteract a sorcerer’s enchantment.

But the opposing spell generally involved solving an unknowable riddle or performing a feat of heroism so bold, so intrepid that only the bravest could survive the ordeal.

“In the ancient days of the Highlands, lass,” Fingus had explained with a wag of his crooked finger, “a warrior-god fought a giant with twelve heads and made a road of his skulls. Another hero traveled into the Otherworld to bring a dying princess a cup of healing potion.”

Francine knew she couldn’t take on such a daunting challenge as entering the world of the faeries, but she could, perhaps, solve an enchantment riddle. The problem before her was to discover the nature of the conundrum and its correct answer. All without the sorcerer, himself, realizing her intent. For if he suspected, chances were he’d never allow her to divine his secret.

“Your thoughts seem very far away, milady.” The earl of Kinrath, riding his powerful chestnut Arab alongside Francine’s dainty barb, offered an encouraging smile. “Perhaps you’d like to share them with me.”

Francine looked over at him with a start, realizing she’d been daydreaming for the last several miles. “I was thinking ahead to this evening’s rest,” she equivocated. “I’m certain Angelica and Signora Grazioli are growing weary.”

“We’re almost there,” he replied in a bracing tone as he pointed ahead. “You can see St. Sepulchre Gate through the stand of trees on your right.”

Two days prior, they had left Newark-on-Trent, staying the first night at the Blue Pig in the village of Tuxford, where, she suspected, none of the Scots had enjoyed more than a few hours’ sleep. She was almost positive that Kinrath hadn’t slept at all.

Tonight they would lodge in comfort and safety at the Abbey of St. Mary Magdalene just inside Doncaster’s earthen ramparts. There they’d await the arrival in the following days of Princess Margaret and her slower-moving entourage.

Francine’s party had hurried up the Great North Road under the watchful eyes of Kinrath and his men. Following close on their heels, Charles Burby and his retainers were expected to arrive the next day. Everyone would have time to rest and regroup at the abbey before staging the gladiator spectacle planned for the site of an ancient Roman fort along the River Don.

Passing through the gate, Francine’s small group, along with her brawny Scots guards, rode into the abbey’s outer courtyard, where a brown-robed friar with a cheerful smile stood waiting for them in the shade of an arched portico.

In what by now had become routine on the journey, Kinrath lifted Francine down from her saddle. Walter assisted Angelica off her small Welsh pony, while Cuthbert helped Signora Grazioli dismount. Colin and Roddy Stewart gathered the horses’ reins and led them to the stable. The rest of the MacRath kinsmen, along with Francine’s liveried servants, followed with their mounts and the baggage carts.

“Welcome, Lady Walsingham,” a Franciscan friar called, hurrying to greet them. “And Laird Kinrath, welcome, welcome! We are honored to have you stay with us here at Magdalene.” He smacked his pudgy hands together in an energetic show of pleasure. “I am Friar Croft, the abbot’s secretary. Abbot Wheeler is presently on pilgrimage to Rome, but I’m exceedingly happy to be your host in his absence.”

He turned and looked down at Angelica, who held Signora Grazioli’s hand. Walter stood behind the pair, his great bulk casting a protective shadow in the late afternoon sunshine.

“And you, my child,” the friar continued, beaming at the little girl, “I’m sure you’re hungry.” Not waiting for a reply, he whisked about to address Francine again. “We’ve prepared a light repast to tide you over till supper, my lady.”

Angelica dropped a wilted curtsy. “Thank you, Friar,” she mumbled with a sigh, “but I’m too tired to eat right now.”

Before Francine could draw her daughter close to comfort her, Kinrath swept the exhausted child up in his arms. “Let’s get the ladies to their chambers,” he told Friar Croft. “They’ve ridden hard for two days. They’ll need to bathe and rest before the evening meal. Have a servant bring them some fruit and cheese.”

Accompanying the group toward the arcade, Friar Croft nodded his enthusiastic agreement. He motioned for a tall, thin cleric waiting nearby to join them. “Brother Hector will take you to our guest quarters and see that all your personal needs are met.”

Angelica, already half asleep, had laid her head on Kinrath’s broad shoulder. With a tender smile for the child, he placed his hand in the small of Francine’s back and guided her into the monastery.

L
achlan looked forward to sinking down into the tub of hot, soapy water. The ladies had bathed earlier and were now resting on their straw-filled mattresses. Angelica and her nursemaid had been ensconced in a nearby chamber under Walter’s watchful eye. Lady Francine napped in the room she was compelled for her own safety to share with Lachlan. The outer door had been securely barred, and Cuthbert stood guard in the corridor.

Roddy, after filling the copper tub with steaming water and assisting Lachlan with his riding boots, had departed with Colin for the stables to bed down the livestock.

At last, Lachlan’s turn to wash off the dust of the road had arrived. He’d left the inner door slightly ajar so he could hear Francine should she call out for any reason. He yanked off his doublet and breeches and tossed them on the bench nearby. Pulling his shirt over his head, he stood ready to climb into the tub when the sound of a furtive footstep caught his attention.

Only one person could be standing at the door of the bathing chamber, watching him. Lachlan turned his head slightly, just enough to catch sight of Francine’s bare toes out of corner of his eye. Half hidden behind the partially open door, she stood peeking at him.

Lachlan smiled to himself, more than willing to allow her to see him stark naked. The thought of her secretly watching him strip off his clothes sparked the fire he’d kept carefully banked since finding the exasperating countess kissing other men.

Hell. He’d known at the start of this journey that his sanity would be sorely tested.

Little had he guessed just how insane she’d make him.

Experiencing a jealousy so overpowering he’d wanted to kill someone had pricked his male pride. Learning now that Lady Walsingham had secretly watched him undress came as a welcome balm to his bruised and humbled self-regard.

Oh, my gracious Lord! Francine knew very well what she was doing was wrong, even though all she could see was Kinrath’s backside. Spying on a man taking a bath was a very, very naughty thing to do. Shameful and sinful. She’d have to confess it to Friar Croft the next morning. But that didn’t stop her from enjoying it now. Truth be told, she couldn’t have taken her eyes off the auburn-haired Scotsman had she wanted to.

Kinrath’s body surely rivaled the gods of old. The tendons of his back and upper arms had tautened and bulged as he’d stretched to pull off his shirt. His narrow hips and tight buttocks led the eye downward to his powerful thighs and calves. Every inch of his magnificent form proclaimed the undefeated warrior. Even stark naked, the tall Scot emanated ferocity and lethal aggression.

Her gaze riveted on the sight before her, Francine’s breath caught high in her chest. She pressed her hand against her heart, as though she could slow its wild beating.

The hawk in full flight inked across Kinrath’s broad shoulders seemed to portend the unrivaled power of a sorcerer’s spell. Could the raptor be a clue to the riddle she sought?

Feeling the warmth of a blush spread across her cheeks, Francine bit her lip and gaped in fascination as Kinrath stepped over the edge of the copper tub and into the steaming water. The very same copper tub she’d bathed in just a short time ago.

Settling down into the bath, he reached behind his neck and untied the thong that held his braid. Dropping the leather strip on the floor next to his sword, he threaded his fingers through his reddish brown hair to loosen it, then sank completely below the suds.

Francine knew she should retreat before the man realized he had an audience. But even her carping conscience couldn’t make her feet move.

At that moment, Kinrath resurfaced and shook the water from his hair. By then it was too late to leave.

“Come join me, love,” he said softly, not even looking her way. “There’s plenty of room for us both.”

She gasped and stepped back.

How long had he known she’d been peeking?

She remained perfectly still and pretended not to hear him.

Kinrath turned his head to meet her gaze and held out his arm to her. “Join me,” he coaxed, his eyes warm and inviting.