Kathleen Harrington (21 page)

Francine couldn’t help but smile with relief at his answer. “And did you sing it to her?”

He shook his head as he absently strummed the guitar strings. “Nay. A seventy-year-old troubadour named Fergus MacQuisten sang the ballad to Joanna at her wedding feast.”

Francine burst into laughter. “Clever brother! I can easily guess why Rory wouldn’t let you sing your marvelous ballad to his new wife.”

Kinrath arched a brow in an unspoken question.

“’Tis obvious,” she told him, still giggling. “Your brother didn’t want his bride to fall in love with you.”

Kinrath’s sudden smile revealed his quick understanding. His eyes sparkled at her unwitting confession.

Too late, Francine realized what her careless words had implied. Any female listening to the handsome Scottish earl would immediately fall in love with him.

“Sing something else,” she announced abruptly. “Something completely different and not romantic at all.”

He immediately launched into a sailor’s chanty, the ribald lyrics as salty as an ocean breeze.

Feeling her cheeks warming, Francine jumped to her feet and grabbed a gossamer cloth from a nearby shelf. She held it in front of her face like a veil. Her shyness only seemed to encourage him, and Francine’s embarrassed laughter overflowed.

“Shame on you!” she scolded, unable to smother her mirth. “Wherever did you learn such a naughty song?”

Kinrath set the guitar aside and moved to stand in front of her. “I learned the words in Paris,” he replied with a lazy grin, “when I was a scholar at the university.”

“A scholar!” she exclaimed. “Dear Lord! That’s what your music tutors taught you?” She lifted the gauzy scarf, slipped it around his neck and drew him nearer. “What else did you learn as a diligent young student?”

The spicy scent of sandalwood enticed her senses, and Francine tipped her head back to look at him. His sculpted features still reminded her vaguely of someone in her past. But his impervious self-confidence could be likened to no one she’d ever met. Francine had never known any man to have such an unquestioned air of leadership. Or such an aura of barely leashed power.

Kinrath caught her by the waist and pulled her even closer. “I’ll be happy to share my knowledge with you, Lady Walsingham” he said, his voice suddenly husky.

Francine gazed into his deep green eyes, then down at his strong mouth. At that very moment, she decided to kiss him one more time. Just to discover if she would feel the same sense of bewitchment she’d felt twice before. She had to know if he’d previously cast a spell on her with his magical words.

“I would enjoy a further study in kissing,” she told him brightly, “but only if you promise not to speak. Needless chatter would merely distract me.”

“I won’t say a word,” he promised as he bent over her.

Francine closed her eyes and offered her pursed lips for his expert tutelage.

But he didn’t kiss her on the lips, as she fully expected. Instead, he moved his open mouth slowly up her bare neck to gently nip her earlobe, then dipped his head to touch his tongue first in the hollow of her collarbone and then in the crevasse between her breasts.

Startled, Francine gasped at the unforeseen intimacy. All at once, she was treading a new and unfamiliar path for which she had no preparation and no previously learned skills. She wondered if she’d made a foolish, possibly dangerous, mistake in encouraging him.

Yet, she inexplicably yearned for more. Her entire body quivered in anticipation of his touch. She found herself breathless with mounting excitement. At twenty-two she was finally going to get that long-desired lesson in the art of seduction. Indeed, this might prove to be the most valuable instruction she would ever receive.

“Mm,” she murmured with growing enthusiasm.

True to his promise, Kinrath didn’t utter a sound. But he apparently knew exactly what she’d meant by
mm
, for he didn’t stop their exercise in carnal knowledge.

Francine’s heart thump-thumped in heady expectation the instant she felt his fingertips brush against the bare skin above her low décolletage. Her breasts reacted of their own accord, growing firmer and tauter, awaiting his touch.

Great God above . . .

Be he sorcerer or no, she’d never halt her education now.

Lachlan gently tugged on the front lacing of Lady Francine’s wide, square-cut bodice, loosening the brocade material that hid the twin globes beneath.

He heard her hushed sigh as he placed lingering kisses on the dewy skin above her gaping neckline. He breathed in her intoxicating scent, and his body reacted with ravenous intensity. Beneath his kilt, his groin muscles clenched with raw sexual need. He ached to pleasure her. He ached for her to pleasure him.

Nudging aside the lacy edging of her chemise, he uncovered one delicate pink aureole. He flicked his tongue across the velvety crest, till it tightened into a hard bud.

When Francine arched her back and stiffened in his arms, Lachlan prepared himself for a sudden change of heart. Then her head fell back, her long hair cascading in a golden waterfall past her waist, and she closed her eyes once again. Her exquisite bosom rose and fell beneath his kisses. Her breathing quickened.

Lachlan moved to the other nipple, licking and kissing her firm, full breast as he wordlessly eased her into submission.

He suckled her gently, methodically, moving from one breast to the other, all the while holding her narrow waist between his palms.

“Dear Lord,” she whispered on a long, plaintive exhalation of air. She clutched his upper arms, making sweet, soft murmurs of enjoyment.

The suspicion that she’d insisted he remain silent so she could imagine he was a previous suitor didn’t bother Lachlan one whit. In time, he would erase every other man’s lovemaking from her memory.

Lachlan’s manhood throbbed and pulsed under the cover of his sporran and tartan. He was fully aware that this was neither the time nor the place for their inevitable consummation. Yet the rapacious hunger pounding through his veins threatened to overcome his iron will.

He’d promised not to seduce her.

But damn!

He’d be more than willing to let
her
seduce
him
.

So far however, she’d shown no great aptitude for female enticement. Unlikely as it seemed, the young widow appeared a novice at courtly flirtation.

As though reading his thoughts, Francine suddenly straightened. She splayed her fingers across his chest. “Your men,” she whispered. “They may come into the warehouse.”

“They won’t,” he reassured her.

But he took a slight step back, knowing the intimacy of the moment had been shattered,

“How can you be certain?” she asked with a dubious frown.

Lachlan spoke softly, as he began refastening the ribbons on her bodice. “I told them not to.”

Clearly, his answer didn’t please her. She shoved his hands aside in a flutter of irritation. “I can do that,” she said, fumbling in her attempt to retie the bow. “It’s time to leave.”

“We’d better retrieve the sea dragon before we go,” Lachlan suggested, trying to ignore the ache in his groin as he moved away from the unpredictable enchantress.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

“I
’m quite capable of carrying this,” Francine insisted for the third time. She ignored Kinrath’s look of amusement as she cradled the long dragon’s tail in both arms, rested her chin on its green scaly back, and marched across the dock. “I told you I’m very strong for my size.”

Walking beside her, the large Scotsman held the enormous head under one arm. “I offered several times to have Bertie fetch the tail end from the warehouse,” he reminded her with a crooked grin. “No one expects a countess to tote her own baggage. Least of all a singular English countess like you.”

The hilarity on his chiseled features strengthened Francine’s resolve. When she’d insisted upon bringing the back half of the unwieldy papier mâché sea monster with her, she hadn’t realized it’d be nearly as heavy as a real dragon. She was puffing now with exertion, determined not to admit she needed assistance. She staggered and nearly tripped over her own feet.

“Oh, dear,” she muttered under her breath.

Kinrath reached out to steady her but wisely kept his own counsel. Somehow he seemed to know that her insistence on managing the awkward load without anyone’s help served to keep her mind off the intimacy they’d shared in the warehouse only moments ago.

Francine was determined to meet the present challenge in order to make up for the weakness she’d displayed earlier.

Merciful Lord.

How could she have allowed the brash Scot such liberties?

Well, she had no one to blame but herself.

For just as he’d promised, he hadn’t uttered a word.

Not so much as a teensy-tiny magic syllable.

Drowning in mortification at her scandalous behavior, Francine could barely meet his gaze.

When they reached the skiff tied up at the piling, they found Roddy seated at the rudder, waiting for them. The gillie’s pale locks glistened like ripening wheat in the July sunshine. His youthful features glowed with merriment the instant he caught sight of Francine and her cumbersome burden.

In the boat next to theirs, Cuthbert Ross and three other kinsmen sat waiting to depart. Seeing Francine struggling with her bulky load, they exchanged amused glances but managed not to grin.

When Cuthbert started to jump back onto the dock to assist her, Kinrath shook his head. “Lady Walsingham is determined to handle the dragon’s tail by herself,” he informed his clansmen. “You fellows can start back for the castle. We’ll be right behind you.”

With a look of astonishment, Cuthbert dropped back down on the seat. At his signal, the men pushed off from the dock, raised the skiff’s only sail, and were soon skimming across the water, pushed along by the steady breeze.

Kinrath stepped lightly into their own small craft, carrying the ponderous dragon’s head under his arm with ease. He turned and offered his assistance as Francine stepped into the boat.

“Come on,” he said, “in you go.” His eyes twinkling at her self-inflicted predicament, he cupped her elbow in his large hand to steady her.

To Francine’s alarm, the skiff started to rock beneath the lumbering weight of the dragon’s tail. The more the boat rocked, the more the long, heavy tail swayed. The more the tail swayed, the more the little boat rocked.

“Wait,” she gasped, trying to adjust her stance as the hull shifted under her feet. “I’m not steady.”

Unwilling to let go of the tail, Francine unintentionally wrenched her elbow out of Kinrath’s grasp and lost her footing.

“Drop the damn tail and take hold of my hand,” Kinrath said, reaching for her once again.

She shook her head. “No, no,” she cried. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Francine lurched and bobbled as she sought to regain her balance.

Taking on a life of its own, the long scaly tail swung around with a
whooph
and clipped Kinrath neatly behind the knees.

The tall Scot toppled into the water, still holding onto the front of the dragon. As he sank beneath the lapping waves, the papier mâché head floated down the river.

“Dinna worry, milady,” Roddy said with a chuckle. “The laird swims like a bloody sea serpent.”

Immense relief for his safety washed over Francine. “Then grab the head,” she told the gillie. “Hurry! Don’t let it drift away!”

At that moment, Kinrath broke the surface of the water, moving his arms back and forth to stay afloat. At the sight of him, with his hair plastered to his head, water dripping down his nose and chin, and a look of astonishment on his face, Francine burst into hysterical laughter.

“Oh . . . dear . . . Lord,” she said between gulps of air, “you look like a drowned cat!”

His diabolical grin should have warned her.

Without a second’s hesitation, Kinrath reached up and grabbed the long green tail. He jerked so hard that Francine, refusing to relinquish her prize, followed it into the river, shrieking at the top of her lungs, until she hit the water, where she wisely shut her mouth and let go of her treasure.

As she started to go under, Kinrath caught her in his arms, and they submerged together. Beneath the surface, he took the opportunity to kiss her briefly, before kicking their way back to the top.

“I . . . I can’t sw-swim,” she gasped the instant she could draw a breath.

“You should have thought of that before you knocked me into the damn river,” he said, laughter rumbling deep in his chest.

“Don’t let go of me,” she pleaded. “Don’t you dare let go!”

She clutched the ruffles on the front of his shirt in a death grip and tried to climb up his long form. Kinrath pried her fingers loose and placed her arms about his neck, freeing his own to keep them both afloat.

“Hell, little Sassenach,” he said with a grin. “At least you had the common sense to let go of that bloody tail.” He released a boom of laughter, then grimaced. “Try not to yank the hair out of my head, love.”

In her fright, Francine had somehow wrapped his braid around her hand. She clung to it now like a lifeline.

She looked into his eyes, their faces only inches apart. “I’m not s-sure I c-can let g-go,” she stammered. “I th-think my hand’s stuck in your hair. My fingers are so c-cold I can’t make them m-move.”

Kinrath grimaced again. “Try,” he urged softly. His cold cheek brushed against hers and he started to nibble on her ear.

Oh, good heavens. She knew right where that nibbling would lead. Through sheer determination, Francine freed her fingers from the tightly woven braid.

By that time, Roddy had pulled the skiff up beside them. “Here, milady,” he called to her, “take my hand.” He reached down to pull Francine into the boat.

“I don’t think I c-can climb b-back in,” she answered, her growing exhaustion apparent in her voice. “My gown is s-soaking and weighs too m-much.”

“Hoist away!” Kinrath called to his gillie. He cupped her rump in his hands and pushed, as Roddy dragged her over the side like a hooked trout.