Kathleen Harrington (36 page)

“Elliot brought his body home,” she replied. “He told me what had happened. He said that a Scot soldier killed him while he lay helpless and bleeding.”

“Francine, Lachlan said, then stopped. There was no need to cause her even more pain. He began again. “I’m sorry for your loss, darling. But it might not have been a soldier. It could easily have been scavengers from either side, bent on stealing whatever they could find.”

She nodded silently and turned to go.

As they passed a weathered statue on a pedestal, she grabbed his arm. “Look!” she exclaimed. “Look at the angel!”

Lachlan glanced from the stone figure to her and back. “What about it?” he asked, unable to understand her excitement. She must have seen the statue many times before.

“Look at the face!” she insisted. “Can’t you see the resemblance?”

“Nae, Francie,” he said, still mystified.

“Why, he looks just like you. St. Michael the Archangel looks exactly like you.”

Lachlan tipped his head one way and the other, trying to see what she saw. “I can’t say that I agree.”

“When I first met you,” Francine said, “’twas almost as though I already knew you. You reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t recall who. Now I know. ’Twas the statue of an archangel.”

Lachlan grinned. “Maybe one of my ancestors inspired the sculptor. We’re not that far from the Border. These lands changed hands many times through the years.”

“Living so close to the border,” Francine said solemnly, “I witnessed raids and skirmishes even as a child. Three years after Will’s death, Mathias worked hand in hand with Oliver Seymour and Gillescop Kerr to hammer out a peace treaty ending, at last, the almost constant warfare between our two countries.”

The thought that she’d slept with one of her country’s former enemies brought a pang of guilt. But she remembered Mathias telling her that people must put aside past grudges and old hatreds and begin anew.

Berwick-upon-Tweed

The English-Scottish Border

L
achlan’s party left Berwick Castle, the last English bastion of defense on their journey to Scotland, at daybreak. The fortress was situated at the confluence of the River Tweed and the North Sea. Because of its strategic location on the border that divided the two old enemies, the castle had changed hands many times throughout the years.

Even though Lady Walsingham no longer carried the responsibility for the spectacles and pageants, Lachlan continued to push his small band, planning to keep them well ahead of the others for the next four miles, where they’d draw near to Lamberton Kirk. Princess Margaret’s entourage had swollen to two thousand English and Scots.

Lachlan was no closer to discovering the names of the nobles involved in the plot to destroy the royal marriage and the Treaty of Perpetual Peace than he’d been at Beddingfeld Castle near Grantham. He’d conferred with Gillescop and Oliver Seymour during their stay at Berwick Castle. Both counselors had agreed with him that the ambush on the road to York had most likely been the responsibility of the traitorous nobles. Given the past rebellions in Yorkshire against the crown during the War of the Roses, all three suspected Northumberland. But they had no proof, nor could they guess the names of the others involved in the plot.

The fact that his assailants had been Scottish mercenaries deepened the mystery. Did it mean that a Scottish noble was also involved in the plot? During Scotland’s long history of warfare, its nobles had frequently betrayed their king to the English in order to gain more property and power.

Lachlan’s ruminations were interrupted by his wee riding companion.

“Signora Grazioli’s really angry with you, Laird Kinrath,” Angelica told him. She rode her small Welsh pony beside Lachlan’s chestnut mount. She looked up at him, her chubby face concerned.

“Signora Grazioli’s always angry with me, angel,” he told the child, still preoccupied with his own worries. “Dinna fash yourself over it, lassie.”

Angelica shook her head. “No, this time she’s really, really, really angry. I heard her tell Mummy that you made her sick.”

Lachlan frowned. “Your nurse said I made her sick? I didn’t realize Signora Grazioli was unwell.”

Angelica giggled. “No, no, Nursie isn’t sick, Mummy is. She’s been sick every morning since the day we first came to Berwick Castle.”

“No one told me,” he said with a frown.

The past few evenings, he’d noticed dark circles under Francine’s eyes and a pallor on her usually rosy cheeks. He’d held her cradled in his arms at night, concerned that she’d grown overtired from the strain of launching the spectacular diversions in each new city or town. They’d slept each night curved together like spoons with her rump pressed against his crotch.

He’d already determined that he wasn’t going to let the vibrant English countess go back to England after the wedding. He and Francine and Angelica would be the family he’d always longed for.

However, he’d no intention of sending a messenger to London, asking King Henry’s permission to marry Lady Walsingham. He’d wait until they were safely in Scotland and under the sway of King James.

Francine wasn’t ready to admit she was in love with him. That would come in time. Meanwhile, Lachlan would move heaven and earth to prevent Lychester from taking her back to England.

Lamberton Kirk

Berwickshire, Scotland

C
rossing the border into Scotland along the Great North Road, Lachlan slowed his party to merge with the royal procession. Riding three abreast, they approached Lamberton Kirk, where a thousand Scots waited to welcome their future queen to her new homeland.

It was a beautiful morning, the sunlight sparkling in the blue sky. Not a cloud darkened the horizon. The breeze from the North Sea had ushered in a perfect summer day for Princess Margaret to meet her enraptured subjects. ’Twas a good omen for a good beginning.

The archbishop of Glasgow, along with the earl of Glasgow, was surrounded by hundreds of Scottish knights, lords, and their ladies. Gentlemen and women followed, with their squires, henchmen, and servants. Multitudes of common people carried gifts of fruit and flowers. The Highlanders amongst them were arrayed in brilliant tartans; the men in kilts, the ladies in their finest gowns. Their plaids reflected all the colors of the rainbow.

The clarion sound of trumpets filled the morning air. In the distance, steeple bells rang out, their echoes slowing dying against the faraway hillsides.

Pavilions had been erected on the grounds of the ancient church, where Margaret would meet the Scottish nobles of the highest rank. And here, Lachlan searched for his family.

Francine accompanied Kinrath through the crush of people, holding tight to her daughter’s hand. They were followed as always by Lucia, Walter, Colin, Cuthbert, Roddy, and the rest of the MacRath kinsmen.

Suddenly, Francine was the one on strange turf. Many of the Scots spoke English, but not all. She heard the strange, lilting language of the Highlands.

In addition to the press of people chattering all around her, the air in the immense tent they entered had grown stifling in the warm summer sun. She fought back the nausea that had tormented her since Berwick Castle.

Kinrath steered his party to a far corner, where a small group had gathered and were talking amongst themselves.

“Darling,” he said, beaming happily, “come meet my family.”

With his hand placed possessively at the small of her back, he introduced her to his loved ones. “I want you to meet the lady I brought with me to Scotland,” he told them, “Lady Francine, dowager countess of Walsingham.”

Francine looked at the people who stared back at her in obvious curiosity. God above! Who wouldn’t, after an introduction like that?

A lovely lady, somewhere in her forties, stepped forward. She had Lachlan’s striking green eyes. Wearing precious jewels and a gown embroidered in gold thread, she was clearly a lady of great status and wealth.

“My dear,” she said with a sweet smile. “I’m Lady Emma MacNeil, Lachlan’s mother.”

Francine released a sigh of relief. Thank goodness, his mother was too polite to comment on Lachlan’s obvious suggestion of their intimate status.

Lachlan kissed his mother’s cheek, then turned to the others. “And this is the rest of my family,” he told Francine. “My uncle, Duncan Stewart, earl of Appin.

The older man moved forward, bowed and kissed her hand. His warm hazel eyes glowed with happiness at the reunion with his nephew.

Lachlan continued with the introductions. “My oldest brother, Laird Rory MacLean, and his wife, Lady Joanna.”

Joanna didn’t wait a moment longer. She bounced forward and kissed Francine on her cheek. “Welcome, Lady Francine,” she said. She turned and grasped her large husband’s hand, pulling him toward the newcomer. “Now, don’t be frightened by my husband,” she told Francine. “He may look ferocious, but he wouldn’t harm a soul.”

The rest of the group burst into laughter, including all of the MacRath kinsmen standing behind Francine. Clearly, Rory MacLean’s petite, redheaded wife was the only person present who’d describe her husband as harmless.

At the shouts of laughter, Joanna frowned. She tilted her head and looked up at her golden-haired husband. “Well, I
was
afraid of you when I first saw you.”

Laird MacLean chuckled good-naturedly. “You were never afraid of me,” he said, “despite my attempt to intimidate you into compliance.” He turned and moved closer to Francine.

Realizing that she’d taken a worried step back, Francine admitted to herself that she was intimidated by the ferocious Scots warrior known as the King’s Avenger. Rory measured well over six feet. Even taller than Lachlan, and built on a heavier scale. She looked from Laird MacLean to his diminutive wife and back again.

A smile played about his mouth, reminding her instantly of Lachlan, and she relaxed a bit.

Rory bowed formally and kissed her hand. “My lady wife is correct,” he said in his deep baritone. “To you, dear lady, I am, and always will be, absolutely harmless.”

Lachlan steered Francine to the third enormous man. “And this is my youngest brother, Laird Keir MacNeil.”

A chill swept up Francine’s neck. Here before her stood the man known throughout Western Europe as the Black Raven.

Larger even than his two formidable brothers, Keir had the look of a ferocious pirate. Where Lachlan’s features were classic perfection, Keir’s rugged face was bluntly cut, with a scar running through his eyebrow and across the bridge of his broken nose. His straight black hair brushed the nape of his neck and a gold hoop dangled from one earlobe.

Rory MacLean was intimidating.

Keir MacNeil was downright terrifying.

In London, she’d heard Kinrath and his two brothers labeled the Hellhounds of Scotland by the knights of the Tudor court. She could now understand why. They were an awe-inspiring trio.

Unaware of her frightened assessment, Lachlan’s younger brother gifted her with a marvelous smile. “My lady,” he said, his emerald eyes fairly sparkling. “Has anyone ever told you how bloody beautiful you are?”

Startled by his openly flirtatious manner in front of his entire family, Francine glanced at Kinrath from the corner of her eye. He was scowling at his large sibling.

Keir grinned openly at his unhappy brother. “She’s only just met me, Lachlan. Back away and give her a chance to make up her own mind.”

“She’s already been claimed,” Kinrath told his brother bluntly. “Save your pawky flattery for the other English ladies, ye
glaikit bowdykite
.”

Heedless of the warning, Keir bent and kissed her cheek. “If you ever get tired of him,” he said sotto voce, “I am ever at your service, milady.”

Lady Emma immediately intervened. “And who is this lovely lassie?” she asked politely.

“My daughter, Lady Angelica,” Francine said, glad to follow her lead.

During the introductions, Angelica had been clinging tightly to her mother’s skirts. At the kind woman’s encouraging smile, she stepped forward and curtseyed politely.

“
Madainn mhath,
” she said. “
Tha mi toilichte ur coinneachadh.
”

Everyone gasped in delight and burst into a chorus of praise.

“Good morning to you, child,” Lady Emma replied, smiling in delight. “I am pleased to meet you, as well.”

Francine stared in shock at her daughter. When had she learned Kinrath’s strange language?

“Does your mother speak the Gaelic, also?” Lady Joanna asked the little girl.

“No,” Francine interrupted. The stale warm air in the tent had become stifling. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip. The contents of her stomach roiled in protest. “Not a word of it. In fact, until this moment, I never realized that my daughter did.” She looked in puzzlement at Kinrath.

“When the wee lassie would grow tired on the journey,” he explained to his family, “I’d take her up in front of me on my horse. I’d relieve the boredom of travel by teaching her some phrases in the Gaelic. She proved to be a quick learner.”

“I should say so,” Lady Emma exclaimed. She clapped her hands in appreciation of the child’s precociousness.

Everyone crowded around Francine and Angelica, bombarding the child with simple phrases, which she answered, only too happy to display her new accomplishment to such an appreciative audience.

Francine fought the feeling of nausea that had plagued her all morning. She clutched Kinrath’s arm and leaned against him. “’Tis over warm in here,” she whispered, embarrassed to be ill in front of his family. “I need a breath of fresh air.”

“Catch her,” Lady Emma told her son, “before she falls.”

Surprised at his mother’s warning, Lachlan caught Francine and lifted her up in his arms. “She’s fainted,” he said in bemusement, half to himself.

“Yes, dear,” Lady Emma said in her commonsense way. “Let’s take her outside. We can lay her on a blanket in the shade.” She nodded to the child’s nursemaid standing in the small group behind her son. Signora Grazioli immediately took Angelica’s hand.

Lachlan carried Francine through the curious crowd of people in the pavilion and out to the grass-covered grounds of Lamberton Kirk.