Kathleen Harrington (2 page)

Francine didn’t have to ask which creature had caught Diana’s attention, since the lady’s gaze remained riveted on the Highland leader. Scarcely a surprise. Francine’s lovely friend was known for her affairs with the court’s handsome young gentlemen. How she kept them a secret from her much older husband was a mystery to Francine, who could only surmise that the deceived spouse chose to ignore his wife’s scandalous ways rather than face the open mockery of the courtiers.

In spite of Diana’s flagrant indiscretions, however, Francine held the audacious brunette in sincere affection. Truth be told, she secretly admired her friend’s carefree ways.

Francine scrutinized the man’s classic features. Diana was right. He truly was a beautiful creature.

“He reminds me of someone,” Francine said in an undertone. “Perhaps from my childhood history lessons. Or possibly some Celtic god from the ancient pagan myths.”

“That’s one Celtic god I’d love to tame,” Diana responded with a quiet laugh. “I’d wager my wedding ring he’s a veritable lion in bed.”

“Should you be so foolish as to invite that Scotsman into your bed, you probably
would
lose your wedding ring,” Francine warned softly, trying not to smile. In the past, she’d often implored Diana to be more circumspect, lest her romps bring marital disaster down upon her pretty head.

Francine turned her gaze back to the Highland leader. She still remembered the wonder tales her family’s falcon keeper, Fingus Mackay, had told her. Tales of Scottish clan chiefs who, in their youth, were given the powers of sorcery by Celtic wizards. But just because this man was a Scot didn’t mean he was a clan chief, much less the scion of wizard.

“He must be a valiant warrior,” Francine murmured to her brash companion. “There’s not a mark on his handsome face.”

Lady Pembroke shrugged, clearly unconcerned about the Highlander’s fighting prowess. ’Twas his prowess in bed that intrigued her. She giggled softly in anticipation of the coming evening’s banquet, then leaned closer to speak in Francine’s ear. “From the perfection of his features, Francie, I’d say the man’s never been bested in hand-to-hand combat.”

Francine nodded reluctantly. “All the more reason to think twice, Diana, before becoming involved with such a fearsome soldier. That kind of man can be dangerous.”

“Oh, pooh,” Diana responded. Her gray eyes glowed with mischief. She touched two fingertips to her mouth, as though to keep from drooling. “Why, I’ve been told the ferocious Highlanders are more talented in the arts of love than the ordinary Frenchman.”

On that subject, Francine decided to hold her tongue. After all, what did she actually know about what went on under the blankets with Scotsmen? Or Englishmen, for that matter, let alone the amorous French. Lady Pembroke had more knowledge of carnal relations than Francine could ever hope to have. Not that carnal relations with any man were in Francine’s foreseeable future.

As the Highlanders approached the throne, the entire English court, attired in their finest regalia, politely stepped aside to create an aisle for the newcomers. The noblemen and their wives had accompanied the king from London to say farewell to his oldest daughter, Princess Margaret, who’d been married by proxy, at the tender age of twelve, to the Scottish monarch the year previous.

As the Scottish clansmen strode between the inquisitive courtiers toward the king’s chair, the herald announced in his booming voice to the room at large, “Your Majesty, may I present the official Highland representative of James IV of Scotland, Laird Lachlan MacRath, earl of Kinrath and chief of Clan MacRath, with his kinsmen.”

A mind-numbing chill of terror raced down Francine’s spine.

Oh, dear God!

The Hawk! The Sorcerer of the Seas!

A collective gasp of shock reverberated through the room. Everyone in the hall drew back in horror from the notorious Lachlan MacRath, known to the English people as the Sorcerer of the Seas.

English seamen believed his ship, the
Sea Hawk,
appeared magically out of the mist and fog. The sailors returned to their homeland to tell of how that privateer’s captain had conjured up violent storms to dash the English ships upon the rocks, where he could plunder them. In London inns, all manner of stories were told in the evening firelight about this dreaded Scotsman’s exploits.

Here, before Francine’s very eyes, stood . . .
a shapeshifter.

A Highland chief with the powers of a wizard.

The paralyzing fear that gripped her spine spread all the way down to her toes.

Murmurs of dismay and indignation rippled through the Great Hall. The contemptible MacRath and his two equally despised half-brothers, Rory MacLean and Keir MacNeil, had raided English and Dutch ships for the past ten years, disrupting normal trade and taking as prize some of the finest ships afloat. ’Twas not for nothing the three men bore the infamous title of the Hellhounds of Scotland.

A buzz of low, guarded conversation spread throughout the room. According to the recently signed Treaty of Perpetual Peace between England and Scotland, the man must have been awarded diplomatic immunity and sent as an envoy of the Scottish sovereign to the English court.

Coming to stand before Henry VII, the Highlanders swept off their bonnets and bowed courteously.

But not deferentially.

“Your Majesty,” the earl of Kinrath said with unruffled composure, “I bring the salutations of his grace, King James of Scotland. He sends you his good will and his prayers for your well-being.”

Wordlessly, Francine reached out and clasped Diana’s hand. They watched the dreaded pirate in mutual and morbid fascination.

The Highland leader exuded an unconscious grace, giving no sign of awe at the royal wealth and panoply that surrounded him. Collyweston Palace was the home of the king’s mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort.

Despite the very presence of King Henry himself, however, every eye in the room was focused on the Highland leader.

Without a hint of discomfiture, the Scots pirate stepped forward to offer the king a tribute from James IV of Scotland.

“May I present Your Majesty this gift,” Kinrath said with the distinctive burr of his countrymen, “as a small token of my sovereign’s esteem on this momentous occasion.”

King Henry rose from his ornately carved chair and moved from beneath its gold-fringed canopy to stand in front of the Scot. If he felt annoyed at the effrontery of James Stewart sending his favorite privateer to represent him, Henry concealed it behind a mask of inscrutable Tudor diplomacy.

Taking the gilded scabbard from Kinrath’s outstretched hands, Henry drew the magnificent claymore from its sheath and studied it with admiration. The emeralds, rubies, and sapphires on its gold handle sparkled like a sultan’s treasure in the light cast from a nearby window.

As the English monarch studied the weapon, Lachlan MacRath’s gaze drifted slowly over the Sassenachs gathered in the Great Hall, then flew back to a pair of enormous brown eyes watching him with obvious trepidation.

By God. Whoever she was, she was a rare beauty.

Suddenly aware of his perusal, she blinked and looked away. Which merely gave him the opportunity to study her more closely.

The young woman wore a horned headdress which covered every strand of her hair. The hideous style had gone out of fashion years ago and was seldom seen now, except on elderly widows. Her loosely gathered wool gown hid any curves she might possess, but the huge nutmeg eyes framed by dark, curving lashes, the creamy complexion, and the beguiling lips could steal a man’s breath away.

Lachlan smiled with a connoisseur’s appreciation.

If her figure matched the beauty of her face, the lady would be goddamned perfection in the bedroom.

From her outmoded gray apparel, he could safely assume she was a widow and, perchance, open to a lighthearted affair. Suddenly, he looked forward to the evening’s ceremonial feast and the entertainment to follow.

With reluctance, Lachlan brought his attention back to the king.

A faint smile of pleasure played about Henry’s mouth, as he raised his eyes from the marvelous two-handed sword. “We are most pleased with your sovereign’s gift,” he said, handing the weapon to a lackey nearby. He turned back to Lachlan and surveyed him with dispassion. “I understand, Lord Kinrath, that you’ve been told of my wish for you and your kinsmen to accompany one of the princess’s ladies-in-waiting on her journey to your country.”

Lachlan’s smile faded.

Only last evening, Gillescop Kerr, earl of Dunbarton and one of the senior members of the Scots party of representatives, had told Lachlan of the English ruler’s request.

King Henry had asked that Lachlan be responsible for the safety and well-being of the dowager countess of Walsingham on their trip to Scotland. He was to ride ahead of the main entourage with the lady and her servants and see that all her needs were met.

Lachlan had reacted with disgust at the thought of playing nursemaid to an elderly widow. But hell, he had no choice. To refuse would be a personal affront to the king.

Now, he pushed aside the annoyance that rankled like a thistle in his brogue. Lachlan met Henry Tudor’s shrewd gaze. Unable to return the royal smile, he gave a polite nod of confirmation. “Your Majesty,” he said with a sweep of his hand, endeavoring to keep the irritation he felt from his voice, “it is my great privilege to be of any service whatsoever to the future queen of Scotland and her gentlewomen.”

“Good,” replied the king. “Then let us acquaint you with your charge.” He held out his hand in a graceful gesture for the lady to approach.

Lachlan turned his head in the direction the English monarch indicated, as a curious silence descended on the crowded room.

Standing in a cluster near the throne like a gaggle of geese, the highborn ladies-in-waiting craned their graceful white necks and looked at one another in bafflement, clearly caught off guard by the pronouncement. Some shuffled nervously, and their satin gowns rustled in the sudden quiet, like the soft shush-shush of downy wings. They looked at their waiting sovereign and then back to the twelve Highlanders, most in dismay, but a few with smiles of bold enticement.

Lachlan smothered a grin. Christ. No one had even bothered to explain to the baffled females that the battle-hardened MacRath clansmen would escort one of their exalted number all the way across the rolling hills of northern England and into the rough and rocky Scottish countryside.

King Henry turned slightly and smiled, and this time his smile was far more than a polite formality. His long, lean face lit up with sincere affection. “Lady Walsingham, please join us.”

The look of incredulity in those gorgeous brown eyes was unmistakable. The beautiful widow with the ugly headdress glanced from the corner of her eye at the brunette beside her, as though hoping against hope that she’d not heard aright. The other woman nudged her, and the dowager countess almost tripped on the hem of her gown as she stepped toward the king.

Lachlan smiled broadly, scarce able to believe his good fortune. Could the safety of this adorable creature possibly be placed in his care for the entire journey? The aggravation he’d been trying so hard to conceal changed to delighted anticipation.

Ah, yes. Indeed. He’d be more than happy to comply. ’Twas a goddamn shame the trip north wasn’t to be longer.

A slow voyage around the world might do. Even that sounded far too brief for his liking. How long would it take to lure the enchanting widow into his bed?

As Francine approached the two men, she swallowed back a moan of despair. God’s truth, she could feel her heart clanging like a fire bell against her ribs.

“Dear friend,” Henry said, catching hold of Francine’s hand and drawing her close. “As you know, Lady Beaufort has asked that you be responsible for seeing correct protocol is followed on the royal procession to our daughter’s new homeland. Although, we have grave misgivings in allowing you to leave us for such a lengthy time, the Queen Mother is right. On this auspicious occasion everything must be done according to historical precedence. And since you have the diplomatic experience afforded by your late husband, Lord Walsingham, we bow to our lady mother’s choice.”

“Th-thank you, Your Majesty,” Francine stammered. She stepped back and tipped her head up to meet the piercing emerald gaze of the large Highland chief. Taking a deep breath, she attempted to ignore the fear that clawed at her insides. She quickly looked away, for she’d been told how a sorcerer could enthrall an unsuspecting person with no more than his gaze.

Sorcerer.

Shapeshifter.

Had Lachlan MacRath, chief of his clan, been taught since infancy the ways of black magic? The English sailors claimed that at the very appearance of his ship on the horizon, the powers of the deep conspired to destroy their hapless vessels.

Close up, Laird Kinrath towered over her. Francine was above-average height for a woman and not normally intimidated by a big man, but the breadth of his shoulders impeded her view of the clansmen behind him.

There was an aura of such unfettered ferocity about him that she fought the urge to flee the room. He radiated an unflinching strength of purpose. ’Twas as though he knew he could bend her to his will with a mere flick of his finger. Or the incantation of a magic spell.

She didn’t doubt he’d seen close-quarter combat. She wondered frantically just how many of her innocent countrymen he’d single-handedly killed in battle.

Trying to hide her fright, Francine clenched her teeth and berated herself for a sniveling coward. Never would she let her country’s former enemy see the panic that threatened to devour her whole.

She was an Englishwoman.

She was strong.

She was brave.

She was shaking in her shoes.

Great God, could it be that this bloodthirsty Scottish chief was to be responsible for her safety? What incredible irony! She’d be lucky if he didn’t murder her in her sleep—after turning her into a toad first.

She remembered the stories that Fingus had told her. How the Celtic wizards had the ability to shift shapes. Had MacRath the power to change into another form?