Kathleen Harrington (28 page)

Francine pushed the weapon against his hard abdomen.

“Good!” he said. “Now try to remember to pull the blade out as you back away. And still holding the dirk, put distance between you as fast as you can. The man’s first instinct will be to cover his wound. You don’t want him to yank the blade out and turn it on you.”

“I’ll remember,” she said, her voice taut and creaky.

Next, Kinrath turned his back to her. “If somehow you end up behind him, the same rule applies. Don’t try to stab through his ribcage. Aim lower, straight to his kidney.” He placed his hand on his lower right side. “Show me,” he insisted. “Where would you shove the blade?”

Francine touched the tip of the sheathed weapon in the spot he’d indicated.

“Good lass!” he exclaimed. “Now what will you do, once it’s buried to the hilt in his flesh?”

The thought made her squeamish. “Oh, dear God,” she murmured. “I don’t think . . .”

Kinrath pivoted and clasped her by both elbows. “It’s your life or his, Francie. Don’t hesitate. And don’t be squeamish. Now tell me. What will you do?”

“I’ll . . . I’ll try to pull the knife free and run away as fast as I can. Screaming like a banshee.”

Kinrath’s white teeth flashed in approbation. His broad smile etched crinkles around his eyes. He enfolded her in his embrace and kissed the top of her head. “Brave lass,” he said softly.

“I thought you were always going to be right by my side,” she complained, blinking back tears.

“That’s my intention,
a ghràidh
. But after what happened last night, I want you to carry this weapon at all times.”

Picking up her girdle from the bed where Lucia had laid it, Kinrath slipped the narrow belt through the slotted tab on the top of the dirk’s sheath. “You’ll have the element of surprise, for no man, least of all Lychester, will be expecting you to fight back. Just don’t hesitate. Quick thinking and steadfast determination can save your life.”

Kinrath dropped to his knees in front of her. Without a word, he pulled her close and buried his face in the soft folds of her night robe. She could hear him draw a long, deep breath and release it, before regaining his feet.

Francine stared at him in surprise.

“Have I mentioned my fondness for lavender and roses?” he quipped with a slow, sideways smile. He ran his fingertip along her jaw line and touched her chin with the pad of his thumb, as he whispered, “But nothing compares to you, love.”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

Alnwick Castle

North Yorkshire, England

A day’s ride from the Scottish Border

L
ord Harry Percy, first duke of Northumberland, sat at his desk and gazed across the room to meet the eyes of his irritable Scottish guest. They were meeting in secret in Percy’s personal suite of rooms.

Archibald Campbell, second earl of Argyll, made no attempt to hide his dissatisfaction. He rose from the wooden armchair and limped across the room. Dressed in a green-and-blue kilt and green jacket, he wore a bonnet with the three plumes of a clan chief. When he reached the fireplace, he turned and scowled ferociously.

“What in God’s name was your idiot cousin thinking?” Argyll demanded. “If he’d succeeded in murdering Kinrath in the gladiator arena, our plan would have been a complete disaster!”

Percy held up his hand in an attempt to placate the angry Scot. “I’ve sent explicit orders to Elliot, warning him not to try such a stupid trick again.”

“Why in the hell did he attempt to kill Kinrath in the first place?”

Percy sighed. “My cousin fancies himself in love with the dowager countess of Walsingham. We’ve both known her since we were children. Elliot has wanted to marry Francine since she was fourteen. He’s insane with jealousy, now that she’s taken Kinrath as her lover. Elliot has no idea what we have in store for them both.”

Argyll snorted in disgust. “I’ve had my dealings with Kinrath’s older brother, Rory MacLean. And believe me, they weren’t pleasant. All three of those damnable brothers are favorites of James Stewart. We have to tread softly and carefully. I could lose my head if my part in this scheme is discovered.”

Percy laughed mirthlessly. “Yours won’t be the only head to go on the block if our plans goes awry. Don’t worry, I’ll get my cousin under control.”

Argyll returned to his chair and sank his solidly built frame down on the plump cushion with a soft grunt. He’d confided earlier that the journey south had aggravated his gout. “After that debacle at Doncaster, Kinrath’s fully aware that someone wants to kill him.”

Percy steepled his fingers and gazed thoughtfully at the Scot. “Kinrath doesn’t know that we intend to kill the countess of Walsingham and her daughter and place the blame on him.”

“Don’t underestimate the bastard. Those three hellhound brothers stormed the nearly impregnable fortress of Castle Dhòmhuill to retrieve Lady MacLean.” Argyll’s umber eyes grew cold and calculating. “If Kinrath has grown fond of the Englishwoman, you’ll have to climb over his dead body to get to her.”

Percy smiled. “That won’t bother me at all.”

“Thanks to your cousin’s bungling interference, Kinrath’s going to be on the offensive,” Argyll stated. He twisted the large ruby ring on his gnarled finger. “Forewarned as he is now, he’ll be well prepared for an attack. Best make certain Lychester isn’t the one who sets it off.”

“I’ll take care of Elliot,” Percy promised. “My cousin won’t cause any more trouble.” He poured two glasses of port and rose to offer one to Argyll.

“Then you’re going to include your cousin in our plot?” the earl asked, appearing somewhat mollified as he took the glass of wine.

Percy shook his head. “No. Elliot must never know that we are planning to kill Francine Granville and her daughter. He’d likely do something rash.”

Argyll swirled the aromatic liquid in his glass and inhaled its rich bouquet. His thin lips curved in a humorless smile. “Will he ever forgive you when it’s done?”

Percy snorted in derision. “Once Lady Walsingham is lying in her grave, Elliot will forget her soon enough and move on to bedding another female. He’s fathered three bastards by three different women on his estates. Quite devoted to the youngsters, actually.” Percy frowned and shook his head, mystified at his cousin’s devotion to sons who weren’t his legitimate heirs.

Archibald Campbell smiled, his shrewd gaze glittering with anticipation. “You and I will see the collapse of the Treaty of Perpetual Peace and with it, the planned nuptials uniting the Tudor princess and James Stewart.”

“Thus enraging the kings on both thrones and pushing our countries into war,” Percy agreed.

“Weak kings make strong nobles,” Argyll added with immense satisfaction. “While James is occupied fighting a war with King Henry, a Macdonald rebellion in the Isles will be certain to break out. And I’ll take advantage of the opportunity chaos always brings to enlarge my estates and my power in the western Highlands. By the time the rebellion is quelled, all of Argyllshire will be under my thumb.”

“I suggest we wait awhile before striking against Kinrath, hoping he’ll relax his guard,” Percy said.

Argyll shook his head. “Kinrath will never relax his guard. How do you think he survived a surprise onslaught by those thugs in the arena?”

“Then we’ll do the opposite,” Percy said, shrugging with indifference “We’ll attack immediately, before their party has a chance to reach the safety of York.”

The two men clicked their glasses in salute.

“To the destruction of the impending marriage and treaty,” Percy said with a smile.

“To the death of the earl of Kinrath, may that bloody bastard rot in hell,” said Archibald Campbell.

They turned and smashed their glasses on the fireplace hearth, sealing the bargain and their mutual fate.

Pontefract Castle

West Yorkshire, England

A
fter leaving the Spartan shelter of the Abbey of St. Mary Magdalene, Lady Walsingham’s party arrived that evening at Pontefract. They would be joined by Princess Margaret and her entire entourage on the second day.

The ancient Plantagenet castle, originally established at the time of the Norman conquerors by Ilbert de Lacy, still belonged to the wealthy de Lacy family. Situated high on a ridge surrounded by a wide ditch, the castle’s thick stone walls protected two outer baileys and the barbican. Seven large square towers and a strong curtain wall enclosed the keep. Within the inner bailey stood an enormous Great Hall, flanked on both ends by a chapel.

The enormity of Pontefract Castle’s Great Hall delighted Francine. The size would provide all the space necessary to stage the spectacle she and Charles Burby had planned.

Francine’s luxurious suite of rooms on the third floor offered a chance for real privacy.

“At last you can have a bedchamber all to yourself and your gillie,” she told Kinrath, expecting his immediate agreement.

“Nay,” he said, “I’ll be sleeping on the floor in front of the outer door, as usual.”

Since Lychester’s attack, Kinrath had barely allowed Francine the privacy of the garderobe, demanding that Signora Grazioli always go with her. He even insisted on checking the bath area before the hot water was brought in by the servants.

“I don’t think anyone’s going to hide out in the bathing chamber in our personal suite of rooms,” Francine protested.

“After what happened at Doncaster, I’m not taking any chances,” he stated with that air of total authority he wore like a robe of state.

Francine knew from previous experience that once Kinrath made up his mind, he couldn’t be budged. Especially when it came to their safety.

He glanced at his gillie, who was carrying his gear. “You can put my saddlebags in any room not already taken by the ladies. And you can bunk in there with Colin.” The two Scots exchanged knowing grins. “Of course, tomorrow night my cousin may prefer to bed down in a suite of rooms more to his liking.”

Francine waited for Roddy to disappear into a nearby sleeping chamber with his master’s baggage.

“You didn’t warn Colin, did you?” she asked, making no attempt to hide her disapproval.

Kinrath planted his hands on his hips and rocked back on his heels. His green eyes sparkled. “Colin’s a grown man. He needs to learn to handle life’s wee disappointments.”

Francine scowled at the labeling of a blighted love affair a mere trifle. “Diana will trounce all over your cousin’s heart and never even stop to look back. She may be my friend, but the honest truth is, she changes lovers like she changes nightdresses.”

“Nevertheless, when it comes to choosing sleeping partners, Colin’s on his own. Who knows? Maybe ’tis Lady Pembroke’s heart that will be broken.”

Francine rolled her eyes. “I doubt that could ever happen.”

Kinrath came closer and placed his forefinger under her chin. His lips twitched with amusement as he tilted her face toward his. “What about you, Francie?” he asked in a teasing tone. “Do you intend to trounce all over my heart and walk away, never looking back?”

She batted his hand away. “Don’t be foolish,” she admonished. But she had to fight to keep from smiling. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to regain the sense of playfulness between them that had been destroyed by Elliot’s brutal behavior.

Perhaps now they were ensconced in the comfortable rooms of the huge castle, they could find the privacy needed to rebuild that feeling of trust.

Elliot’s charge that Kinrath had fought at the battle of Cheviot Hills continued to haunt her. If she ever learned that he’d been there, she’d never look at him with anything but suspicion.

After watching Kinrath and Colin defeat a group of thugs in the arena at Doncaster, Francine was more than ever convinced that the Scottish earl possessed magical powers. Until she discovered the riddle and its answer, which would unlock the spell he’d cast over her, she’d remain in his thrall. But that didn’t mean she’d be unable to withstand his sexual allurements. Tempting as it might be to lie beside him and discover the pleasures he’d promised, she would find the strength to resist.

As always, Walter MacRath remained close by Angelica, never letting her from his sight, not even in their private suite. During the journey, he and the child’s nurse had finally struck a truce.

Lucia had ceased her vituperative outbursts against the burly Scot. And Walter no longer grumbled accusations of her giving him the evil eye. Each seemed to recognize the necessity of the other person’s presence. They grudgingly awarded the other a modicum of civility.

Lucia’s shrewd black eyes had quickly noticed the sudden appearance of the Scottish dirk on Francine’s girdle and, without explanation, she had seemed to understand its significance. Somehow, the nursemaid surmised that Elliot had attempted to molest her mistress during their stay at Brodsworth Manor. And that Kinrath had stopped him.

Francine knew that above all other persons on the face of God’s earth, Signora Grazioli despised the marquess of Lychester. And for good reason. Lucia had been present at Angelica’s birth in Naples. She had attended the lovely young mother, who lay dying of childbirth fever.

T
he extent of Lady Francine’s creativity never failed to impress Lachlan. They were in her private suite of rooms in Pontefract Castle, when she informed him that he needed to wear a costume.

“Everyone will participate in the masquerade,” she insisted, “so pray, do not quibble. The evening’s theme is The Parade of Love, and everyone is to come disguised as a figure from Roman mythology. “You will go as Mercury to my Cupid. And if you don’t comply with all my demands this evening, I shall shoot you with my little bow and arrow.”

Lachlan studied her fetching costume. Her hair had been pulled up and away from her face and fastened in back with a garland. The loose curls fell in a golden cascade to her waist. She wore a white pleated tunic, which draped down to her knees in an uneven hem. Her golden sandals, revealing her bare toes, were laced up her shapely calves.

“May I ask what you’re wearing beneath that short tunic?” he inquired with a frown. A woman’s undergarment consisted of a voluminous shift that fell nearly to the ankles.