Kathleen Harrington (22 page)

Gasping for air, Francine sank down on the bench, her toes squishing in her ruined velvet slippers. She looked around frantically.

“Where’s the dragon’s tail?” she demanded.

“Bertie’s got it and the head, too,” Roddy replied over his shoulder, as he helped Kinrath back into the boat. “Both pieces sailed right past him and he fished them out with an oar.”

Dripping wet, Kinrath sat down in the bow across from Francine. He’d lost his shoes or kicked them off. His sodden shirt was plastered to his chest, and the sight of that muscular physique was enough to make a lonely widow weep with longing. He shook his head, and the drops flew. Then he scrubbed the water off his face with the palm of his hand and met her gaze.

“God damn,” he said with a slow, sideways grin, “you are one stubborn, single-minded female, Lady Walsingham.”

Francine pushed her straggling wet hair out of her eyes, crossed her arms beneath her soaked bosom, and scowled at him. “Well, my fine Scottish laird, clearly you should have given me more help when I stepped into the skiff. I’m sure the sea monster is completely ruined by now. If this evening’s pageant is a disaster, ’twill be all your fault.”

Unrepentant, Kinrath tipped his head back and gave a whoop of laughter. “You’ll feel better after a hot bath,” he assured her, still chuckling. “I’ll wrap you in a soft towel and brush your hair dry before a roaring fire.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she snapped.

The towheaded gillie peeked from one passenger to the other, hunched his shoulders and didn’t say a word. But Francine caught a glimpse of Roddy’s sheepish grin before he turned to the mast and raised the sail.

She quickly looked away, gazing across the water at the other skiff, where the waterlogged dragon, bobbing up and down in the stern, stared back at her with huge accusing eyes.

In spite of herself, Francine started to giggle. She clapped her hand over her mouth, attempting to smother the sound. When Kinrath caught her eye and flashed her a good-natured grin, the hilarity of their combined antics struck her. The laughter inside burst forth. Francine laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.

T
he evening’s spectacle proved a grand success, contrary to the countess of Walsingham’s dire prediction. The
Ship of Felicity
sailed into the Great Hall of Newark Castle, drawn by six seahorses and accompanied by tritons, water nymphs, and singing sirens.

“Very impressive, Lady Walsingham,” Lachlan told his tenacious and energetic companion.

“Oh, yes,” Lady Francine replied proudly, then added, “Charles Burby is truly a genius. All of this can be credited to the Master of the Revels and his clever retainers.”

She stood at Lachlan’s elbow, gorgeous in peach silk, with her golden-blond curls piled on top of her head and held by two diamond-studded combs. Diamond earbobs decorated her small pink lobes. The dimple in her cheek peeked in and out enticingly with every
ooh
and
ah
from the audience.

On their return to the castle that afternoon, Lady Walsingham had enjoyed a hot bath, just as Lachlan had predicted. But he hadn’t been allowed to wrap her in a towel or brush her waist-long hair in front of the fire. That privilege went to Signora Grazioli, who’d alternately clucked like a mother hen over a lost chick and sent glares of withering admonishment toward Lachlan, all the while berating him in Italian.

“
Scozzese barbaro!
” she hissed, her black eyes flashing like the fires of Hades.

Lachlan had understood every word,
barbarian Scot
being the most frequent pejorative. If he’d expected Francine to defend him, he would have been disappointed.

Angelica, however, gleefully translated her nursemaid’s stream of invectives for their Scottish guest, as she hopped and skipped around the bedchamber. Delighted by the story of her mother’s dunking in the River Trent and subsequent rescue, the wee lassie bombarded Lachlan with questions, followed by trills of girlish laughter.

“Oh, I wish, I wish, I wish I’d been there,” she sang, as she danced to the accompaniment of her own childish melody.

Later, he’d watched as Francine lovingly tucked Angelica into bed before they left for the Great Hall and the evening’s spectacle. The intimate scene of mother and daughter sharing nighttime kisses brought back the near-forgotten yearning for a family of his own. The dull ache of emptiness inside him returned and with it, a restless discontent.

Now in the enormous hall of Newark Castle, Lady Diana Pembroke stood at the
Ship of Felicity’s
starboard rail. She portrayed an enchanting and exuberant Leda, while Colin, a swan’s mask over his head and all six-foot-plus of him covered in feathers, enacted the role of an ardent Zeus.

Along the vessel’s upper deck, the daughters of the English nobility, dressed as sea maidens, with wreaths of yellow daisies encircling their heads and their long tresses loose and flowing, sang a cantata written especially for the occasion. Ten violinists accompanied them as they warbled the praises of Princess Margaret Tudor. In addition to the soaring strings of the violins, the plaintive wail of a single Highland bagpipe, played by Ned Fraser, reinforced the theme of her status as the future queen of Scotland.

Lachlan was fairly certain that Francine had created the music, though she’d insisted that Burby and his assistants deserved all the praise. Whoever had written the melody and lyrics showed a distinct talent for composition.

The great mythical sea monster resurrected from the bowels of the City of Newark’s warehouse, a little soggy and water stained from its swim in the river but impressive nonetheless, brought a burst of applause from the courtiers and their ladies. At their wholehearted response, the countess of Walsingham beamed like a new mother at the baptism of her firstborn child.

In the
Felicity’s
wake, Poseidon, brandishing his trident over his head, rode the rippling blue satin waves in a sea chariot followed by leaping dolphins and singing mermaids.

At the completion of the pageant, Lachlan turned to compliment Lady Francine on its success.

She wasn’t there.

Damn. She’d been right beside him the entire evening.

Now she’d disappeared.

Lachlan’s gaze flew over the crowded Great Hall, searching for a glimpse of her golden hair caught up in the sparkling diamond combs. Hell. She couldn’t have gone far. He’d told her emphatically not to leave his side that evening, while Walter and Cuthbert remained upstairs guarding Angelica and the vituperative nursemaid.

At Lachlan’s signal, Colin, still dressed in the swan’s costume, with the white mask-head tucked under one downy wing, joined him immediately.

“Have you seen Lady Walsingham?”

Colin nodded. “Aye. The countess came to congratulate Diana a few minutes ago. The two of them were whispering about something they were planning. We were separated when other people swarmed around us offering their congratulations on the night’s triumph.”

Lachlan searched the room again, his worried gaze roaming over the crowd. “Dammit, I told her to stay close to me this evening,” he grumbled, half to himself. “Let’s take a look in the hallway.”

Together, they fought their way out of the densely packed room and into a crowded corridor. In front of a closed door leading into a nearby anteroom, one of Francine’s sturdy grooms stood guarding the entrance from any curious intruders.

“Sonofabitch,” Lachlan muttered under his breath. “I have a feeling we’ve found her.” Without a word of warning, he shoved the servant aside and entered the room, Colin right behind him.

Inside the small chamber, Lady Francine Walsingham stood wrapped in the enthusiastic embrace of Edmund de la Pole, the young earl of Suffolk, her lips locked with his. Unaware of the two Scotsmen’s intrusion, she stepped back, shook her head in apparent disappointment, and moved to the next gentleman eagerly waiting in line.

Lady Diana, the countess’s irrepressible, empty-headed friend, cheerfully introduced the lucky fellow. “Give Charles Somerset a chance,” she urged with a tinkle of laughter. “I know you’ll like him. The lord chamberlain’s kisses are wonderful.” She gave Francine a little push from behind. “Go on! Allow Charles an opportunity to impress you.”

Lady Francine smiled tentatively as the earl of Worchester threw open his beefy arms and enveloped her inside. They kissed. Not long enough for the earl but apparently more than enough for the countess. She broke free with an audible groan of dissatisfaction.

“No,” she told Diana. “His kisses aren’t any better than the first two.”

“Don’t give up,” Lady Pembroke encouraged brightly. “I have seven more gentlemen for you to sample.”

Both ladies stood with their backs to the doorway. By now, however, the row of wealthy, titled males lined up against the far wall had become aware of the presence of the two large Scots.

Grasping the hilt of his sword, Lachlan took a menacing step forward and glared at them. Then jerked his head toward the door.

The idiots might be salivating for a chance to kiss the golden-haired countess, but they weren’t ready to forfeit their lives for the pleasure. Each courtier, in turn, met Lachlan’s murderous gaze and recognized death when it stared him in the face. And every single man, right down to the last puling coward, chose life. Hell and damnation. Lachlan was fairly itching to separate some fool’s head from his body. The sexual frustration building inside him all day threatened to explode like an overloaded canon, sending shrapnel in every direction.

The two unsuspecting females realized that the English noblemen were quickly fleeing the chamber. Finding themselves deserted, Francine and Diana turned toward the doorway to discover the reason for such a precipitous abandonment.

Lady Pembroke sent the Scots intruders a wide, unabashed smile. “Oh, you scared them all away!” she called across the room. “Do you want to join us?” She gave a tiny flutter of her fingertips. “You can play our kissing game too.”

Lady Walsingham didn’t appear quite so carefree. Nor did she invite the newcomers to take part in their pastime. Staring at Lachlan with stricken eyes, she clasped her hands in front of her and didn’t say a word.

“Colin, why don’t you and Lady Pembroke join the dancing,” Lachlan suggested in a low growl as they approached the two women. “I’m sure it’s started by now.”

“That’s a lovely idea!” Lady Diana exclaimed. She slipped her arm through Colin’s feathery wing. “But first I’ll help you out of your disguise.” She gave him a flirtatious wink and leaned against him provocatively. “You made a marvelous Zeus, Master MacRath.”

Colin’s freckled face turned as red as his hair. “Th-thank you, m-milady,” he stammered. “But I can get a k-kinsman to do that.”

“Nonsense,” Diana countered with a gurgle of laughter, patting his downy chest possessively. “You must let me help you shed these feathers so I can admire your handsome physique. Why I swear, I can feel your muscles right through the costume.”

Francine hurried to join Diana as the pair started to cross the room arm in arm. Before she could take two steps, Kinrath reached out and caught her elbow.

“Not you,” he stated ominously. “You’re staying right here.”

She glanced at her friend, who blew her a kiss from the doorway and promptly disappeared with Colin.

Heaven above! How could Diana desert her so callously? Granted, the study in kissing hadn’t been the capricious brunette’s idea, but she’d certainly made no effort to dissuade Francine from the escapade, which at the moment seemed fraught with unfortunate possibilities.

Thankfully, Colin had the good sense to close the chamber door behind him, and they were no longer being watched by a crowd of curious spectators.

Straightening her spine, Francine turned to face the earl of Kinrath. Magnificent in his red-and-black tartan, he glared down at her in silent condemnation. The space between them crackled like lightning striking a weather vane.

Francine refused to be intimidated. She doggedly held her place. “Did you wish to speak with me, milord?” she inquired with all the determination she could muster. It wasn’t much, given that her knees were knocking beneath her satin gown.

Silent as a gravestone, Kinrath still clasped her elbow. She could feel the cold anger radiating down his arm and through his taut fingers. When he spoke at last, she wished he’d remained mute.

“What the devil were you doing?” he grated between clenched teeth.

Startled, she looked into eyes blazing with fury. God’s witness, she’d never seen any human being so furious.

If he really
was
a human being.

Francine forbade herself to show the least hint of fear. Her only hope was to brazen it out.

“I was merely trying to . . . to discover something,” she said with a dismissive shrug of one shoulder.

His quiet words were laced with venom. “What in bloody hell were you trying to discover, Francie?”

She jerked her arm in an attempt to break free.

“Dinna try,
a ghaolaich,
” he warned softly. “You’ll only hurt yourself.”

She bit her lip and looked away. Dear Lord. Why did he have to find her kissing other men? How could she explain what she didn’t understand herself? She should have seen that the door was securely locked. Now it was too late.

She peeked at him from the corner of her eye, unable to utter a single syllable. His strong chin seemed chiseled from marble. His mouth had flattened into a line of condemnation. His brilliant eyes glittered like shards of green glass. His softly spoken words were chilling enough to frighten the dead.

“I’m waiting for an answer.”

Francine drew a deep, fortifying breath and her reply tumbled out in a rush. “I was trying to . . . to . . . learn if . . . if . . .” Unable to finish, she looked longingly over her shoulder at the entrance and her path to freedom.

“Go on,” Kinrath insisted. He leaned closer and spoke just above a whisper. “You were trying to learn . . . if . . . what?”

“I wanted to find out . . .” she continued, then stopped, unable to tell him what she’d just tried to discover. The Lord above knew all too well. If the Sorcerer of the Seas had truly put her under a love spell with his magical words, he’d scarcely admit it.