Kathleen Harrington (39 page)

He traced a fingertip along her cheek and across her lips. “If you marry me, darling, you’ll be a Scottish subject. ’Twill no longer matter what Henry expects.”

Francine turned her face away and looked out at the forest that surrounded them. “I have Angelica to think of,” she said with a frown. She struggled to sit up. “Her welfare comes before my own wishes.”

Kinrath moved to sit beside her. He put his arms about her, refusing to let her withdraw, until he’d finished what he had to say.

“I love your daughter as though she were my own. I’ll provide for Angelica and see that she’s educated And when the time comes, I’ll choose a husband who will love and cherish her. She’ll never want for anything. I promise you that.”

Francine couldn’t tell him that she suspected he’d placed her under a spell. He’d laugh and deny there was anything magical about the overwhelming and uncontrollable desire she felt for him.

Shrugging out of his embrace, she rose to her feet and pulled on the drawers he’d set aside on the tartan, then tucked the tails of her shirt under her belt.

Kinrath moved to stand beside her in disapproving silence, as though using his height and powerful build to intimidate her.

She avoided his piercing emerald gaze. “I won’t marry you,” she stated unequivocally. “I deeply appreciate your protecting Angelica and me. But my gratitude is not reason enough to marry you.”

He propped his hands on his hips and scowled at her. “We’ll talk about this later,” he said, reaching for his shirt.

Francine had the sinking feeling that he’d not taken her refusal as final. And should he learn she was carrying his child, he might never willingly accept it.

She needed to discover the counterspell as quickly as possible.

But she didn’t know the first place to look for the answer.

A
lthough they left their tryst in strained silence, Kinrath quickly set aside his disgruntlement and entertained Francine with stories of the Highlands. She suspected he was painting an idyllic picture to entice her. Whatever the reason, he clearly loved his mountainous homeland.

Dusk was gathering when they rode their horses into the stables at Dalkeith. Although they were lodging at the Hogshead of Claret in the town, they kept their livestock in the castle’s extensive outbuildings.

Kinrath dismounted and came around to Francine’s side. He bracketed her waist in his hands, lifted her down, and drew her into his embrace.

Standing on tiptoes, she slid her arms around his neck. “’Twas a beautiful outing,” she said softly.

“I’m happy you enjoyed it,” he answered with a teasing grin. “You make an adorable gillie.”

He covered her mouth with his. The passion in his kiss told her without words that he fully intended to marry her. And he was certain she would eventually agree.

Before she could reply, Kinrath gave a strangled grunt and crumpled under the vicious blow of a club.

Francine tried vainly to hold him up, but his greater weight dragged him out of her arms and down to the stable floor. His unconscious body sprawled on the straw-covered dirt at her feet.

Their horses neighed and stomped their hooves, moving away from Elliot Brome and his two burly henchmen.

Ignoring the three men, Francine stooped and bent over Kinrath, praying to God he was still alive.

With a growl, Lychester jerked her away, twisting her wrist in a painful hold. She screamed as his ruthless lackeys attacked Kinrath’s still form, kicking him unmercifully with their heavy boots.

At her frightened cries, the horses in the nearby stalls whinnied in confusion, some kicking at the stall doors in an attempt to break out.

“Stop it!” she screamed. “Stop it! You’ll kill him!”

“See what you’ve done, Francie,” Elliot shouted in frenzied excitement. “This is your fault! Yours! I warned you what would happen, but you continued to ignore me.”

“Don’t punish him for what I did, Elliot,” she begged, struggling to break free of his punishing grip. “If you need to hurt someone, hurt me. Don’t beat an unconscious man to death. Dear God, show some mercy.”

Despite her pleas, Lychester’s vicious minions stomped on Kinrath’s back and kicked at his head.

Elliot shoved Francine to her knees. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, her forced her to watch the savage beating.

“I told you to stay away from that bloody bastard, Francie,” he yelled, “but you were too damn obstinate to listen. By God, I’ll break that stubborn streak in you when we’re married, if I have to thrash you every night before I take you.”

He shoved her down near Kinrath’s still form. “How brave does your hero look now?” he taunted. He motioned to his two brutish lackeys. “Let’s leave them to lick their wounds.”

They hurried out of the stables, leaving the club lying on the floor beside the fallen Scot.

“Don’t die,” Francine pleaded, as she crawled over to Kinrath, who lay face down in the bloodied straw. “Oh, God, Lachlan, please don’t die.”

Someone hurried into the stables in answer to her screams. Francine looked up to see a shadowy figure in a hooded cape toss a torch into a manger and retreat. The dry hay quickly burst into flames. She tried desperately to drag Kinrath’s body toward the open doorway. He was far too heavy for her to move.

Her only hope was to go for help.

Screaming “Fire! Fire!” at the top of her lungs, she raced outside.

Keir MacNeil caught her as she tore by. “I’m here, milady,” he said. “I just came to look for you and Lachlan. You’ve been gone since this morning. I’ll get help!”

“No!” she cried, pointing at the open stable door. “Lachlan is in there unconscious. He’s badly beaten. You’ve got to save him before you do anything else.”

She ran beside Keir, who quickly outpaced her. She followed him into the stables, where the smoke was already filling the building.

Horses neighed in fright as flames rose up to the wooden rafters, where bales of hay were stored in the loft above.

Keir hoisted his brother across his shoulders and carried him outside. He laid him gently on the ground, well away from the fire.

Francine sobbed uncontrollably as she cradled Kinrath’s head in her lap.

“You stay here with Lachlan” Keir shouted over the noise of the fire. “I’ll get a wagon and send word to Rory.”

By then, the fire bells were ringing out in the quiet night. People were running back and forth, carrying pails of water from a well to throw on the flames. The smoke became so dense, getting inside to rescue the horses proved impossible.

No one seemed to pay any attention to the two figures lying on the ground. The smoke and confusion and fear that the flames would spread to the other outbuildings, added to the screams of the trapped and dying horses, drowned out every other consideration.

Through the bedlam, Keir returned with a blacksmith and his apprentice from the castle’s smithy. They carefully lifted Lachlan and placed him in the farm cart they’d brought with them.

The broad-shouldered men pulled the wagon by hand down the road that led to the town, while Keir and Francine followed behind.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

L
achlan sat propped up on pillows in Lady Emma’s bed at the Hogshead of Claret. He waved away the spoonful of broth she was trying to feed him.

“I’m not dying, Mother,” he said, trying not to sound peevish. “I’m just banged up a bit.”

Rory entered at that moment and walked over to his bedside. “God damn it, Lachlan, those men almost killed you. You’ve got two cracked ribs and several large lumps on your skull. If you weren’t so hardheaded, you would be dead. Now sit back, show some grace, and allow your mother to take care of you.”

Lachlan gingerly touched the back of his head and grimaced. “Where’s Francine?”

“Lady Walsingham will be here shortly,” his brother told him curtly.

“I want to see her now,” Lachlan insisted. “I need to see if she’s been hurt.”

Rory scowled, clearly nearing the end of his patience. He drew a chair up beside the bed and sat down. “I told you the moment you regained consciousness that the lady was unscathed. Hell, she spent most of the night at your side. She was here when you first regained your senses and talked to you. You simply don’t remember. She refused to leave you until we convinced her that you’d sleep through the night and one of us would remain at your bedside until she returned in the morning.”

Rory looked across the bed at his mother. “May I speak to my brother alone?” he asked.

Lady Emma set the bowl and spoon on the table beside the bed. She smiled at both her sons. “Try not to shout at one another,” she suggested with her usual serenity. She looked at Lachlan, her green eyes serious. “We are all very upset about this beating. Rory most of all. As the oldest brother, he feels responsible for you and Keir. Listen to what he has to say, dear.”

She left the room with a rustle of satin.

Rory folded his arms and gazed at Lachlan. “Is the woman worth it?” he asked. “Worth the beating you just sustained?”

“Aye,” Lachlan said. “She’s worth it. She’s carrying my child. I intend to marry her.”

“Our mother told us she is with child.” Rory arched a brow, doubt written on his sharp features. “You’re certain the bairn in her womb is yours?”

“I’m certain,” he replied. “Francine was a virgin when I first took her. The baby is mine.”

Rory stared incredulous. “What about her daughter?” he asked in confusion, obviously trying to sort the matter out in his mind.

“There, I must swear you to secrecy,” Lachlan said. “Angelica is her dead sister’s child.”

“And the father?”

“Unknown.”

Rory rose to his feet and paced across the room. He turned to look back at his brother. “How can that be?”

“Francine’s sister never revealed the name of her married lover. Cecilia died in childbirth in Naples, taking the secret with her.”

They were interrupted by a soft knock on the bedchamber door. Lady Emma peeked in.

“Lachlan has a visitor,” she said. “Lady Walsingham is quite anxious to see him.”

She opened the door and Francine hurried in. She’d changed from the shirt and kilt of the day before and wore a gown of yellow silk. Her golden-blond hair fell in loose curls about her shoulders. She walked to the foot of the bed, tears spilling from her worried brown eyes.

“Please forgive me, Kinrath,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “The beating was all my fault. Elliot warned me to stay away from you. I should have listened.”

“It wasn’t your fault, love,” Lachlan insisted, as he held out her hand to her. “No one is to blame but Lychester.”

“Oh, no!” she protested. “I should have believed him.” She looked from Rory to his mother, her lower lip trembling. “I know the evil he’s capable of,” she explained.

“Come here, Francie,” Lachlan demanded. “Come hold my hand,
a ghràidh
.”

She shook her head as she tried to wipe away the tears. “I only wanted to tell you how very sorry I am. And then I must go.”

Exasperated, Lachlan glanced over at his mother and brother, who stood at the side of the room, clearly fascinated by their conversation. “May we have some privacy?” he snapped.

They both grinned at his annoyance, unashamed of their obvious eavesdropping. But they immediately left the room, closing the door behind them.

“Francie,” Lachlan said sternly, “if you don’t come over here and sit down in this chair, I will get up and drag you over.”

She hurried to his side and plopped down on the seat he’d indicated. “You have two cracked ribs and God knows how many bruises and bumps,” she scolded, her tears forgotten. Her eyebrows drew together in a frown. “You’re lucky you don’t have any broken bones. ’Tis fortunate you’re alive. Don’t you dare get out of bed until the physician says you can do so.”

Lachlan caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “I promise I’ll stay here for the rest of the day, if you’ll agree to remain beside me. Rory and Keir wrapped my chest, under my mother’s supervision. I’m bound up tighter than a merchant’s bag of silver groats.” He patted the mattress in an obvious invitation. “Better still, darling, why not climb under these covers and keep me company?”

She burst into laughter at his outrageous suggestion. “With your family on the other side of that door? I think not. Besides, I cannot stay long. Angelica needs me.”

Lachlan sobered. He reached out and cupped Francine’s cheek in his hand. “I’m sorry Merlin was lost in the fire. And your horses, as well. I understand Princess Margaret is devastated that her favorite mounts were destroyed.”

Taking his hand in hers, Francine couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “What a wretched thing for Elliot to do.”

Kinrath squeezed her hand in sympathy. “Lychester’s henchmen were responsible for my beating. But he would never have left you to die in the fire. That much I’m certain of.”

Surprised at his conclusion, Francine met his determined gaze. “Who then?”

“Whoever hired the mercenaries to ambush us on the road to York. If both of our bodies had been found in the ashes, they could have claimed I caused the fire and the ensuing tragedy in a jealous rage.”

“Then they still want to use our deaths to abort the royal marriage and the peace treaty,” she said sorrowfully. “We’re no safer now than we ever were.”

“Not until James and Margaret are wed. As soon as I can move about, my brothers and I will take our people to Edinburgh. That includes you and Angelica and your servants. Rory and I both have homes there. His two children are being cared for at his home by MacLean kinsmen.”

“Oh, but if I stay in your townhouse,” she protested, “everyone will think we’re going to be . . .”

Kinrath put his finger to her lips to silence her. “The entire English court knows I’ve slept in your bedchamber since Grantham, Francie. Let people think what they want. And Lady Emma has agreed to stay with us for propriety’s sake. Your safety and the safety of your child are the only things I’m concerned with at the moment.”

T
he morning following the fire, King James hurried to Castle Dalkeith to comfort Princess Margaret. She had lost the faithful palfreys that had carried her all the way from Collyweston. It was as though her last connection to her past had been severed, and her grief was nearly inconsolable. Homesickness overwhelmed her, for she had lost her mother that winter and would likely never see her father, brother, or sister again. Nor was it probable that she would ever return to England.