Kathleen Harrington (24 page)

Francine realized there was nothing she’d rather do than snatch her nightdress over her head and clamber into the tub with the long limbed Scot.

She shook her head. “I’ve already bathed. Thank you.”

His wicked grin enticed her. “That shouldn’t stop you, Francie. A bath is twice as enjoyable when shared with another.”

“You’ve done this before?” she asked, unable to hide her astonishment.

His low, seductive rumble of laughter seemed to wind a string around her heart and tug her towards him. “Nothing in the past could compare to bathing with you,
a ghràidh
.”

She wrinkled her nose in feigned distaste. “I think mutual bathing must be a Scottish habit. Or a pirate’s.”

Or a sorcerer’s.

He arched an eyebrow and shrugged. “If you won’t get in, then at least hand me that cloth and the soap on the bench.”

Francine frowned and pursed her lips in disapproval.

“Or I’ll have to get out and drip water over the floor,” he added.

The thought of Kinrath standing there in all his sleek glory, only an arm’s reach away, threatened to break down her resistance.

“Stay right where you are!” she ordered. “I’ll get them for you.”

Francine cautiously entered the bath chamber and scooted around the tub to the wooden bench beyond. She snatched up the soap and cloth, eased over to the tub and dropped them into the water in front of him.

Before she could beat a hasty retreat, Kinrath grabbed hold of her wrist. Flashing a diabolical grin, he pulled her over the edge of the tub and into the bathwater with him.

“Oh, oh, dear!” she yelped in surprise. “You’re getting my nightdress all wet!”

He chuckled. “Here, let me help you take it off.”

Francine laughed in spite of herself, as she pushed his hands away. “No, you don’t,” she said. “One of us has to remain fully clothed for decency’s sake.”

“Only if you insist,
a ghràidh
,” he murmured, cuddling her close. “But I never knew decency required you to keep your clothes on while taking a bath.”

Finding herself wrapped in his arms, Francine tipped her head back against his shoulder and met his playful gaze. His eyes were bright with amusement.

“You are shameful,” she scolded softly.

Shameful, he might well be. But Kinrath also held the key to the bewitchment he’d cast over her. Why else would she be here in the bathtub with him at this very moment, if she wasn’t under a magic spell?

And now that she was here, Francine wasn’t going to let the opportunity to search for the countercharm slip by.

She traced one fingertip across the mystical lettering on his left armband. “What do these strange words say?” she asked, trying to sound no more than mildly interested.

His bulging muscle flexed beneath her light touch. “Death before Dishonor,” he said lightly, as though such a motto was an everyday pledge.

“That’s a fine vow for a pirate!” she scoffed.

He grinned as he slid one hand down her thigh and drew her even closer. “I’m not considered a pirate in my own country, Francie. In Scotland, I’m a respected sea captain.”

“Did you know the English sailors call you the Sorcerer of the Seas?” she asked with a lift of her brow. “They say you can control the wind and rain and fog. They say you are able to dash their ships upon the rocks by conjuring up violent storms. They say you have magical powers.”

Kinrath’s laughter rumbled deep in his chest. “The only magic I possess, love, is the power of my sword.”

“What about the other armband?” she questioned in an offhand tone. “What does that lettering say?”

Cupping her breast through her nightwear, he bent his head and spoke softly in her ear. “Why are you suddenly so interested in the Gaelic? I thought you didn’t like hearing words you don’t understand.”

“Mere curiosity,” she said with a shrug. “What does the other armband say?”

“It says curious lassies often get their noses snipped,” he replied with a chuckle.

“Hardly!” she protested, realizing that while she’d been focused on discovering the meaning of the mysterious words, Kinrath had slipped one hand beneath the hem of her nightdress. With the other hand, he traced the shape of her nipple, showing pink and round through the soaked white cotton.

Lachlan slid his hand up the length of Francine’s smooth calf and thigh, until he reached the soft curls that covered her mound. He could feel her slim body jerk in surprise, as she tried to squirm upright. Her movement drew her awareness to his hardened shaft beneath her round little rump.

“I really should get out now,” she said on a breathy rasp.

“Lie still in my arms, Francie,” he coaxed softly. “Let me pleasure you a bit. No more than that, I promise.”

He heard her draw a sudden, sharp breath as he gently touched her fragile tissues. He bent his head, teasing her mouth open with his tongue as he teased her soft petals open with his fingertips.

She clutched his forearm like a lifeline. “We really shouldn’t . . .” she cautioned, though she bent her knees to allow him better access.

Lachlan stroked her, slowly and carefully, letting the water swirl around her, intensifying her arousal, until her little bud grew swollen and erect.

Francine lost all awareness of time and place. Only the pulsing pleasure brought by Kinrath’s touch, the feel of his breath fanning over her face, the lapping of the water that surrounded her feminine parts, the keening sound of purest enjoyment deep in her throat, until she thought she couldn’t bare the pleasure a moment longer.

“Lachlan . . .” she said in a strangled voice. Her heart pounded wildly. She couldn’t catch her breath. She’d never felt anything like this before.

“Don’t fight it, Francie,” he urged in a whisper. “Let it happen.”

Francine stiffened against him while undulating ripples of ecstasy spread through her body. As the throbbing sensations gradually ebbed, she relaxed into his protective embrace.

Francine slipped her arms around Kinrath’s neck as he rose from the bath, taking her with him. He set her on her feet in front of the bed, lifted her nightdress up over her head and dropped the sopping cloth on the bare boards.

“God, love, you’re perfect,” he said hoarsely.

Francine stood shocked and wordless. Her mouth suddenly dry, she swallowed painfully.

In the bath chamber, she’d viewed his backside. In the tub, she’d felt his swollen manhood pressed against her bottom through the folds of wet cloth.

But until that moment, she’d never actually seen a man naked and sexually aroused. She took a step back and then another, till her bare legs bumped against the mattress behind her.

Kinrath reached out to brush a tousled curl from her face. Without conscious thought, she held one palm towards him, signaling him to keep his distance.

Her mesmerized gaze moved from his engorged sex upwards, across his flat belly and deep chest to his perfectly chiseled features. His drenched mahogany hair made a startling contrast to his emerald eyes. The hunger in his gaze unmistakable, Kinrath waited for her to give some sign, some slightest invitation.

’Twas an invitation Francine ached to give. But the potential price of his deceit would prove far too great.

If it were only her life in the balance, she might be willing to take the chance that he would never betray her secret.

“Lachlan,” she croaked, “I can’t. I dare not.”

“Why?” he demanded, his voice thick with passion. “Why can you not dare, Francie? You owe fidelity to no one. You’ve nae made any vows.”

“Oh, yes, I have made a vow,” she told him. Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “’Tis a promise I must keep till I die.”

Kinrath stepped closer and clasped her shoulders, mounting impatience apparent in his voice. “Your dead husband cannot hold you to your wedding vows from the grave, Francie. The promises between the two of you died with him.”

“You don’t understand,” Francine protested, choking back a sob. Her vision blurred with tears. “’Tis not Mathias who . . .”

A polite rapping on the door interrupted her heartbroken explanation, followed by the cheerful voice of Brother Hector. “Lady Walsingham, the evening meal is ready for you and your party whenever you’d care to come to the dining hall.”

“We’ll be there shortly,” she answered, her gaze still locked with Kinrath’s.

But they both knew the moment of intimacy had fled.

He stepped away and silently reached for his tartan, as she turned to lift her smock from the bed.

Brodsworth Manor

Doncaster, England

T
wo days later, Lachlan followed a pair of servants attired in royal green-and-white livery across the immense space of Brodsworth’s dining hall. The floor’s polished oak planks had been cleared of tables and benches to create a receiving chamber. The stately home belonging to one of the county’s wealthiest families had been awarded the singular honor of a visit by Princess Margaret on her wedding journey to Scotland.

Seated at the far end of the room in a high-backed wooden armchair, the princess looked even younger than her thirteen years. Every bit the pampered daughter of Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, she clearly delighted in the pageantry of her royal status. Her bejeweled gown of velvet and gold, adorned with the silkiness of ermine at her wrists, sparkled with the lust for life she’d inherited from her Plantagenet and Tudor ancestors.

“Your highness,” Lachlan said with a formal bow. “How may I serve you?”

Solemn-eyed, she tipped her head, signaling him to come closer. “Laird Kinrath, I have a request to ask of you.”

On one side of her intricately carved chair, Elliot Brome, marquess of Lychester, watched with an insolent sneer as Lachlan approached. Lychester’s black eyes glittered with anticipation.

Standing on the other side of the princess, the elderly earl of Dunbarton nodded a brief salute to his countryman. From his gloomy demeanor, it was clear that Gillescop Kerr disliked the reason for the coming interview but could do nothing to forestall it.

Lachlan ignored Lychester, bowed briefly to his elderly friend and mentor, and then turned his attention back to the Tudor princess.

“Whatever your highness wishes will be my wish as well,” he said.

Lachlan’s audience was interrupted by the abrupt arrival of Charles Burby. Clearly bewildered by his preemptory summons, the Master of the Revels hastened forward and bowed low.

“Your royal highness,” he said, huffing to catch his breath. He turned his hat round and round in his pudgy fingers. His pink scalp shone through the strands of his thinning dark hair. “I only just received your summons. I pray that nothing is amiss with our plans for this afternoon’s spectacle.”

Princess Margaret’s smile grew wide. “There was no need to run all the way here, Master Burby,” she said in an amused tone. “Indeed, nothing at all is wrong. But I so much enjoyed Laird Kinrath’s portrayal of Robin Hood at the archery tournament in Grantham that I have a request to make. I would like the earl of Kinrath to participate in the gladiator exhibition you will be staging this afternoon.”

She turned her brown eyes on Lachlan. Round-cheeked and squarely built, she would never be a beauty. But her royal linage far overshadowed her lack of the dainty prettiness which her affianced husband generally sought in his mistresses.

“I think it would be a fine display of cooperation between the Scots and the English if you would participate, sir,” she told Lachlan.

“I will be most honored to comply, your highness,” he immediately agreed.

Lachlan met Lychester’s gaze. His dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction. His teeth flashed white in his heavily bearded face.

The frown on Gillescop’s craggy features betrayed his disapproval of the whole idea. But now that Margaret had expressed her desire, no one could politely refute it.

“Very well, then,” she said, turning to the Master of the Revels. “Can you furnish Laird Kinrath with the necessary disguise to portray a Roman gladiator by this afternoon’s spectacle?”

“Certainly, your highness,” he replied. “I shall make the necessary arrangements immediately.”

Margaret beamed at them. “Then ’tis settled.”

Lachlan, accompanied by the earl of Dunbarton and the Master of the Revels, bowed himself out of the room. The three moved quickly down the corridor and out a side door before speaking.

“I’ve a bad feeling about this,” Gillescop muttered under his breath. He shook his head, his heavy jowls quivering.

Lachlan jerked his chin in agreement. “Something tells me this new scenario has been devised by the marquess of Lychester.”

“There’s nothing to worry about, my lord,” Burby assured him. “The performers enacting the roles of the other gladiators will be fighting with wooden swords and spears. As will you. Nothing can go wrong, for real weapons will not be allowed on the field.”

“Thank God for that,” Gillescop said. “For I dinna trust the marquess.”

“Well, whatever Lychester has in mind,” Lachlan said, “we’ll find out soon enough.”

F
rancine sat waiting impatiently for Kinrath to join her before the start of the spectacle. From her place beside Colin on the bench, she gazed around the tiered stands, searching for the large Scottish earl.

At Richmond that prior spring, Francine and Charles Burby had decided upon a gladiator exhibition for this stage of the journey.

Doncaster had once been the site of a Roman fort situated on the confluence of the River Don and the Great North Road, connecting London to Edinburgh.

Oliver Seymour had helped Francine translate the Latin writings of Ovid, Suetonius, and Marcus Aurelius, which she’d found in Mathias’s extensive library. She’d wanted to make the costumes and performance of the gladiator competition as accurate as possible.

On the open field alongside the waterway, a mock coliseum had been recreated for the afternoon’s lavish entertainment. Dry sand from a nearby quarry had been carted in and poured across the arena floor. In ancient Rome, the sand had allowed the blood to soak down. Of course this afternoon, there’d be no blood to cause the fighters to slip and fall. The Romany acrobats would use their athletic skills to portray a fierce competition in which no one would actually be harmed.