Kathleen Harrington (40 page)

The Scottish king ordered a change of residence for his bride-to-be and her ladies in an attempt to cheer her. They were moved to Castle Newbottle, less than a mile away. There a series of parties and dances and games of cards were devised to entertain the guests and take the princess’s mind off the terrible accident.

Despite her own personal loss, Francine participated in the festivities, along with Lady Joanna and Lady Emma. Both women immediately took a delight in Lady Pembroke and laughed at the outrageous remarks she made regarding members of the opposite sex. Every male, of course, except Colin MacRath.

The three half-brothers, Rory, Lachlan, and Keir, along with their uncle, Duncan Stewart, second earl of Appin, stood in a group, enjoying drams of Scots whisky. Their good-natured camaraderie seemed amazingly at odds with their blood-chilling sobriquets.

Francine had to shake her head in astonishment, for there stood the Hellhounds of Scotland, joshing and laughing with one another. Not a soul in England would give it credence when she told them about it upon her return.

King James exhibited his skill at the clavichord and lute to entertain Princess Margaret and her ladies-in-waiting. At his invitation, Lachlan sang several ballads, while all the ladies, most of whom were already half in love with him, sighed. The court poet, William Dunbar, read a wedding ode he’d composed for the occasion.

That next afternoon, everyone walked outside to the bailey to see the string of spirited horses presented to Margaret from the king to replace the ones lost in the fire.

Craigmillar Castle

Edinburgh, Scotland

“D
ammit to hell!” Northumberland exclaimed. “To think we almost succeeded!” Hands propped on his hips, he paced back and forth across the sitting room of his apartment.

He and the earl of Argyll were the guests of the Preston family, feudal barons who owed their rise in affluence and power to the years of political chaos which had preceded the reign of the current king. The city was packed with visitors for the royal wedding. Everyone had to rely on friends and acquaintances for a place to lodge.

In an especially sour mood after their recent failure, Archibald Campbell studied the young and vigorous Harry Percy, duke of Northumberland. “All is not lost,” he assured him.

The Englishman rounded on him, his face florid with exasperation. “How can you say that, Argyll? After that fire, Kinrath doesn’t let Lady Walsingham stray two feet from him. We’ll never pry that cursed female away.”

“Unless we snatch the child first,” Argyll replied.” I think we may have been going about it all wrong.”

Northumberland exuded the impatience and impetuousness of the inexperienced gamesman. “What good would it do to kidnap the little girl now? We can’t prevent the royal alliance. The wedding is tomorrow.”

Argyll readjusted his gouty foot on the stool in front of him. His big toe throbbed like a rotten tooth. “We can’t prevent the royal alliance from taking place,” he agreed. “But we can still blow apart the Treaty of Perpetual Peace.”

Percy flung himself down on a chair and crossed a booted foot over his knee. He was dressed to go hunting and anxious to get their meeting over with. “How exactly?”

“If we take the child, the mother will quickly follow. And Kinrath will chase after the two of them.” Archibald snapped his fingers. “Three fish caught in the same net.”

The English duke nodded thoughtfully. “What about his brothers? I’ve heard tales that can curl your blood about their days of piracy at sea.”

“Those bastards are tough and resilient, I’ll give them that,” Argyll agreed. “Rory MacLean once killed eight of my men singlehandedly. But the three brothers together can’t fight off a force of trained soldiers. Besides, we’ll hold the upper ground.”

“And where, exactly, is that?”

“Castle Lauriston, just outside Edinburgh. The tower house stands empty at the moment, waiting for repairs after the last Sassenach incursion into Scotland. With the Firth of Forth at its back, there’s only one way to approach it. And our hired mercenaries will be waiting there with the lassie.”

Northumberland rubbed his jaw, debating the suggestion. Their heads could end up on a stake, if their treachery were discovered. “How do you propose to kidnap the girl? She’s guarded as well as the mother.”

“I don’t intend to do it at all. Your cousin, Lychester, will jump at the suggestion that he use the child as a bargaining tool to gain the mother’s hand. I take it he doesn’t know we’re responsible for setting the fire?”

“Elliot hasn’t a clue,” Northumberland said. He leaned forward, considering the suggestion. “While everyone else is attending King James’s wedding, my cousin can kidnap the little girl and secure her at Castle Lauriston. You and I will be seen at the wedding celebration. No one will link us to her abduction, no matter what happens.”

“What about Lychester?” Argyll asked, unsure how Harry Percy would react to using his own cousin as an unwitting player in their treasonous plot.

Northumberland smiled with satisfaction. “Everyone is well aware that Elliot is insane with jealousy over the affair between Kinrath and Francine Granville. If he plays his cards right, he can claim the man’s death was an affair of honor. Unfortunately for Lychester, he’ll be forced to explain the demise of the woman and child as a tragic accident, or risk execution for murder.”

“Then you agree?” Argyll asked.

“I hope to God this turns out right,” Northumberland replied, as he rose from the chair and reached for his gloves. “Because if something goes wrong, my cousin won’t be the only man executed for treason.”

P
rincess Margaret entered Edinburgh the day before the wedding, riding pillion behind King James on a gentle palfrey. The people of the city welcomed their new queen with thunderous cheers. Thousands lined the cobblestone streets as they slowly made their way through Scotland’s largest city. Two hundred Scottish knights escorted them. They were followed by English ladies and Scottish gentlemen paired together, riding side by side.

The previous day, the earl of Kinrath, along with his brothers, had moved their family from the Hogshead of Claret to their townhouses on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile.

On the wedding morning, a mist hung over the city. No one seemed to notice, for the lords and ladies rivaled the sun in their finest clothes, adorned with precious jewels.

Francine wore a gown fashioned of gold cloth. Lady Emma and Lady Joanna had chosen crimson and black velvet, while Lady Diana sparkled in blue silk embroidered in silver.

They gathered around Princess Margaret in a private room in the palace of Holyroodhouse, offering their sincere compliments to the young bride..

Margaret Tudor was arrayed in white satin trimmed in crimson velvet. She wore a gold crown studded with pearls, rubies, diamonds, and sapphires. Her brown hair fell down her back. She waited with outward serenity for the lords to arrive and escort her to the chapel.

While all the noblewomen waited, Lady Emma drew Francine aside. “Are you feeling well?” she asked solicitously.

Francine understood her concern. Beads of perspiration had formed on her upper lip and her palms were clammy. “I shall be able to last through the ceremony, I hope. But I must confess that I’m feeling nauseous this morning. I couldn’t eat any breakfast.”

Lady Emma took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I’ve already warned my son that you might be suffering with morning sickness. Lachlan will be standing right beside you throughout the ceremony, ready to catch you, should you faint.”

“Does he know I’m with child?” Francine asked in dismay.

Lady Emma smiled, her holly-green eyes filled with understanding. “It’s hard to keep that kind of news a secret for long, dear.”

The earl of Kinrath, splendidly dressed in Highland garb, with red jacket, red-and-black kilt, and buckled brogues, came with the other Scottish lords to fetch the bride. He smiled when he saw Francine. “You look beautiful,” he whispered.

“So do you,” she said. She didn’t have to ask how he felt about becoming a father. The happiness sparkled in his eyes.

The ladies-in-waiting followed Princess Margaret to the chapel.

King James entered from the north transept and strode into the domed chancel, accompanied by his brother, the archbishop of St. Andrews. The royal groom appeared, splendid in white damask trimmed in crimson satin to match his bride.

The English and Scottish ladies walked down the aisle together, four abreast. Earlier, Francine had suggested this solution to prevent any squabbling over precedence.

Once they reached the front of the chapel, the ladies-in-waiting joined the lords standing near the communion railing. Francine smiled in relief as Lachlan stepped forward to offer his elbow for her to hold. Their gazes met and he told her without words that he would be there to steady her throughout the ceremony. If she grew faint, he’d catch her.

At Lady Diana’s absolute insistence, she’d been paired with Colin MacRath, and the couple stood close by. She flashed Francine a triumphant smile. The strong-willed brunette’s aged and nearly blind husband stood somewhere in the crowded nave of the chapel with the rest of the congregation.

The archbishop of York and the earl of Surrey accompanied Margaret Tudor down the aisle, the countess of Surrey holding her train along with several liveried grooms.

The archbishops of Glasgow and York presided over the vows. Then with a blare of trumpets, King James and Queen Margaret moved to kneel on the gold cushions of the pair of prie-dieux before the high altar. The choir began the hauntingly mystical chant of the
Kyrie eleison,
as the royal nuptial mass began.

All the bells in the city rang with the joyous news, while at Edinburgh Castle, high on the rocky cliff above the Firth of Forth, the cannons boomed in salute. Scotland had a new queen.

E
lliot Brome cautiously entered the MacRath mansion situated on Edinburgh’s Royal Mile. He could hear the far-off noises coming from inns and taverns throughout the old town as the common folk celebrated their king and queen’s marriage. Inside, the richly furnished townhouse was still.

He glanced at his two henchmen, signaling them to remain quiet and follow behind. Together, they walked cautiously up the stairs to the second floor, and then to the third. Everywhere they went, they found the drugged occupants, some fallen asleep seated in chairs, their heads lying on the table, others sprawled on the floor. He smiled to himself at the success of the ploy.

Earlier, he had sent bottles of wine to the staff and guards, marked as though coming from the earl of Kinrath, so they could share in the joyous celebration of the royal wedding. Elliot had sent enough wine to the MacRath kinsmen to drug a small army.

He would steal the child and leave a note, telling Francine she must agree to marry him or she would never see her little girl again. If it hadn’t been for his cousin Harry, he never would have thought of such a clever scheme.

They stepped over a broad-shouldered guard, who’d fallen unconscious in front of a closed door. Pushing it open as gently as possible, Elliot spied Angelica sleeping peacefully in her bed.

Her sharp-featured nursemaid sat in a chair close by. The black-eyed crone was wide awake, guarding her small charge.

“
Diavolo! Diavolo!
” Signora Grazioli screamed when he entered the room. The child woke and started to cry

“Shut your mouth, you bloody bitch!” Elliot snarled. He moved toward the little girl, but the woman jumped in front of him.

“Don’t take the child!” she cried, her words barely intelligible in her broken English. She grabbed hold of Elliot’s arm, and he shoved her out of the way with an oath. The nurse fell to the floor, striking her head with a vicious
thunk
on the edge of a cupboard.

Elliot turned to Angelica, who stood on the mattress, watching him with a frightened expression. She clutched the doll he’d given her, tears trickling down her cheeks. Her golden curls and enormous brown eyes jolted him. She looked so damn much like her mother, when Francie was a little girl, it was uncanny.

“Don’t be afraid, Angelica” he soothed. “I’m not going to hurt you. Your mother wants me to take you to her. She sent me to get you.”

Angelica shook her head. “Mummy told me she’d let me sleep with her tonight, when she comes home, and I have to wait here for her.”

“No, Mummy wants you to come with me.” Elliot jerked a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around the struggling child, swaddling her tight in its folds.

“Let’s go,” he called to his men, who’d waited nearby on the landing. He chuckled to himself. This had been far easier than he’d thought it would be.

As he carried Angelica toward the door, Signora Grazioli reached out and caught hold of his foot. “Wait!” she cried. “Don’t hurt our baby girl! Stop! Stop! Only a fiend from hell would harm his own daughter!”

Elliot shook off her grip on his boot. Setting Angelica down, he crouched beside the nursemaid, who’d come from Naples with the family.

“What did you mean by that, you old harpy?” he demanded.

But the woman had slipped back into unconsciousness.

Elliot rose to his feet, lifting his daughter up in his arms. Still wrapped in a blanket, the child was sobbing hysterically.

Sweet Jesus, God Almighty! He’d never once questioned Angelica’s paternity. He’d assumed that the earl of Walsingham had fathered the little girl, who so closely resembled Francine.

When they’d returned from Italy, he’d watched the elderly Walsingham carry the chubby, fair-haired toddler in his arms during church services. Elliot had been consumed with hatred and envy. The old man had been so smug and proud, with his beautiful young wife standing beside him.

But Francine wasn’t Angelica’s mother.

Eliot had impregnated her sister, Cecilia, during the rape.

Elliot grinned in glee at the unforeseen change in circumstances. Francine would never willingly marry him, but her willingness was no longer an issue. Now at long last, he had the leverage he needed to take them both back to England with him.