Kathleen Harrington (42 page)

Attired in black-satin doublet and breeches, with long hose and short boots, Lychester strutted confidently back and forth. He drew his broadsword and whipped it through the air, the honed blade sparkling in the sunlight.

Surrounded by the wedding guests, the two combatants moved to face one another in the center of the courtyard. Each man, in turn, placed his hand on a Bible held by a cleric, swearing an oath to the righteousness of his claim, adding that no amulets or sorcery would be used, and that he would accept the judgment of God as final.

Lachlan met Lychester’s gaze, his black eyes blazing with hate and jealousy. Well aware of the vicious beating Lachlan had recently endured, the marquess sneered in contempt, certain of victory. His intent to inflict a mortal blow was unmistakable in his arrogant stance.

However much he longed to kill his foe, Lachlan knew he must keep the man alive if he were to learn where Angelica had been hidden.

King James nodded his assent for the trial by battle to begin.

“
En garde,
” cried one of the three knights chosen as judges of the contest. They would watch for any breech of the rules of fair combat.

The two broadswords flashed in quick salute. Their double-edged blades clashed in an explosion of steel upon steel, ringing out across the courtyard. The onlookers stepped back in reflexive reaction.

Lachlan had one goal, to disarm his adversary as quickly as possible. He pressed an immediate attack, forcing Lychester to retreat under his heavy blows.

The marquess struggled to maintain his footing, surprised at the strength and speed of a man who’d suffered such recent punishing injuries. He parried the flurry of blows, desperately retreating to keep the distance from Lachlan’s greater reach and his deadly blade.

Lachlan kept up his attack, pressing Lychester to defend against his relentless sword work with instinctive reactions, not giving him a chance to devise a strategy to thwart the attack and gain the offensive.

Rory had been correct, however. The constant brutal offensive began to drain Lachlan’s stamina, despite the strength and agility gained through years of hard training. Every breath brought agonizing pain, as his heaving lungs pressed against his cracked ribs.

Lachlan needed to bring the struggle to a quick end. He changed tactics and retreated a step, inviting his opponent to follow in a counterattack.

Sensing his enemy’s agony, Lychester smiled in anticipation, ready to seize the advantage.

Lachlan allowed Lychester to advance briefly; then, at the precise moment when the marquess shifted his weight and raised his sword, Lachlan made a short jump forward, followed immediately by a lunge. He thrust his sword point just short of his Lychester’s chest, catching his enemy unprepared and off balance.

The Englishman stumbled, slipped, and fell backwards on the paving stones, his weapon dropping from his grasp.

Lachlan braced his foot on his antagonist’s barrel chest and pressed the tip of his blade against the exposed tendons of his throat.

“I yield,” Lychester cried, flat on his back on the courtyard stones. And then came the formal surrender, required from the loser of a trial by combat. “I cry craven.”

“Where is the lassie?” Lachlan gritted. “Tell us, you black-hearted sonofabitch, or I’ll kill you here and now.”

“She’s at Lauriston Castle,” Lychester told him, gasping for breath. “But you can’t rescue her without me. If I’m not there, the detachment of guards won’t release her.”

Lachlan reached down and grabbed a fistful of his doublet. He yanked him to his feet. “Take us to her,” he said, as he sheathed his sword. “And if anything happens to that child, I swear to God, I will flay you alive.”

Francine broke away from the ladies crowded together at the edge of the courtyard. “I’m going with you.”

“Nae,” Lachlan said. “Leave this to me and my brothers. We’ll bring Angelica back safe and well.”

“She’s my child,” Francine insisted. Clenching her hands into fists, she thrust out her stubborn chin. “I’m going with you.”

“Allow Francine to come,” Lychester suggested. “The guards at the castle will be expecting that I’ll bring her back with me.”

Lachlan hesitated. If he refused to take her, she’d follow him anyway. She was safer with him and his brothers than chasing behind on her own. He gave a curt nod. “Only if you promise to stay close to Rory,” he told her. “Otherwise, I leave you here.”

“I promise.”

By then, Keir had brought their mounts from the stables. A lackey hurried to fetch a mare for Francine.

In less than five minutes, they were galloping through the Canongate Tolbooth and up High Street towards the outskirts of Edinburgh, their horses’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones.

I
n the courtyard of Holyroodhouse, Archibald Campbell watched from the safety of a shadowy alcove as the Hellhounds of Scotland rode away. The duke of Northumberland came to join him.

Argyll glanced at the wealthy young man, who no longer looked quite so sure of himself.

“It must have rankled, your grace,” Archibald said quietly, “to be forced to deny your cousin’s pleas for help before the Scottish king. Especially since the whole scheme to kidnap the girl was your idea in the first place.”

Lord Harry Percy sent the earl of Argyll a look of pure disdain. “What good would it have done for me to take responsibility for the child’s abduction? It would only have drawn suspicion to me and led to a rather unpleasant questioning by those three damnable brothers.”

“What’s going to happen when they find the lassie?”

Northumberland shrugged. “The mercenaries can’t be traced back to me. I made certain that Elliot dealt with them. I sent secret orders to their captain to execute the child and her mother. For all I know, the little girl may already be dead.”

Argyll shook his head at the man’s foolishness. “There’s no way we can place the blame for their deaths on Kinrath now. The wedding guests heard your cousin announce to one and all that he’d taken the child.”

Northumberland’s voice grated with bitterness. “Our plan to instigate a war between our countries has come to naught. What the hell do I care about the lives of a woman and a little girl?”

“Not all plans reach fruition.” Archibald Campbell smiled placidly, unmoved by the brash gentleman’s frustration. “I have just received word that Donald Dubh Macdonald has escaped from his imprisonment in Innischonaill. The son of the last Macdonald high chief will be declared Lord of the Isles. And the western islands will rise in rebellion against King James. I’ll soon be afforded an unprecedented opportunity to gather more lands and more castles in the chaos of civil war.”

Northumberland looked at him thoughtfully. “Wars have a way of spilling over into other countries,” he said. “Perhaps all is not lost after all.”

C
astle Lauriston sat on a rocky ledge overlooking the Firth of Forth. The ancient tower house had been abandoned for several decades, waiting to be rebuilt after its partial destruction in past Sassenach raids. There was only one way to approach it, from the open front grounds, well in sight of anyone guarding it.

Lachlan rode in the vanguard of his party, with the English marquess alongside. At Lychester’s hail, several guards came to the main door with Angelica beside them.

When she saw Lachlan and her mother approaching, she suddenly broke free and raced down the gravel roadway.

“Mummy! Mummy!” she cried

Francine urged her horse forward, pulling close to Lachlan and Lychester. “I’m here, Angelica,” she called.

Two mercenaries armed with crossbows appeared at the top of the stone turrets.

“No! No!” Lychester shouted. He waved his arm wildly, trying to get their attention. “Hold! Hold! Don’t shoot!”

He spurred his horse forward. Leaping from the saddle, he caught Angelica and turned with her in his arms. His body lurched as he was struck twice in the back by the square-tipped quarrels. Releasing the child, he fell to the grass.,

Mother and daughter raced toward each other. Lachlan dismounted, caught them in his arms and moved them out of range of the weapons before the soldiers could reload.

Racing their mounts at top speed, Rory and Keir reached the door of the tower house before the guards had the wits to bolt it shut. They rode their horses right into the stone building, slashing and hacking with their claymores.

With Lachlan beside her, Francine held her sobbing daughter in her arms and attempted to console her.

Keir approached, clearly hesitant to interrupt. “Lychester is begging for you to come to him, milady.” He met Lachlan’s gaze and shook his head. “The wounds are mortal.”

Francine gave Angelica over to Lachlan. “Wait here and try to calm her,” she told him with an imploring look.

Francine hurried across the high summer grass to where Elliot lay sprawled on his back. Rory had removed the quarrels. He crouched beside the wounded man, holding his shoulders up, so he was able to talk.

Francine knelt down on the grass, now soaked with Elliot’s blood, and took his head in her lap. His eyes were closed. A stream of bright red trickled from the corner of his mouth. She took his hand, tears blurring her vision.

“I’m here, Eliot,” she said, the words burning her throat. “’Tis Francie.”

He slowly opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. “’Twas I who killed Will Jeffries,” he rasped. “And I raped your sister. You must believe me, Francie. I never planned to attack Cecilia. My rage took over my reasoning when you married Walsingham instead of me. Can you ever forgive me?”

“I don’t know, Elliot,” she said in all honesty. “But I will try.”

“I’ve loved you since we were children playing together,” he said. He stopped to gasp for breath, coughing up blood. “Why could you never love me in return? I would have been a different man if you’d have loved me the way I loved you.”

Francine brushed her tears aside with shaking fingers. Looking into the haunted eyes of the man she’d despised for so long, the man she’d blamed for the death of her sister, her heart ached. For good or evil, their lives had been entwined since their youth.

“I love you now, Elliot,” she said, her lips trembling. “I love you for saving Angelica’s life.”

His words were barely audible. She leaned closer to hear. “Tell my daughter I loved her.”

“I’ll tell her you gave your life to save hers.”

Elliot struggled for breath. “Will you kiss me once, Francie?” he asked, his gaze fastened on her face. “Will you kiss me, at last, and not push me away?”

Francine bent and pressed her lips to his cold mouth.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. “I’m afraid to die. I’ve done evil things, Francie. Will you say a prayer for my soul after I’m gone?”

She fought the sobs that clogged her throat. “Let’s pray together now, Elliot.”

They began to say the Lord’s Prayer, his breath shallow, his words faint. “Our Father, who art in Heaven . . .”

When Elliot’s voice faded away, as his spirit left his body, Francine continued for her childhood playmate.

“. . . forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who’ve trespassed against us . . . but deliver us from evil . . .”

Kinrathcairn Castle

Western Highlands

L
achlan peeked into the solar, where the ladies gathered nearly every afternoon. They looked up as he came into the chamber.

Smiling a welcome, Angelica jumped up and hurried over to him. “
Athair,
” she said, calling Lachlan her father in the Gaelic. “We’re practicing with Master Wardlaw, but Mummy’s having trouble saying the words right, and Master Wardlaw said no one was allowed to laugh at her when she got the sounds so mixed up, although he admitted it was funny, and I’m trying my best not to giggle, though sometimes I can’t help it.”

Lachlan picked the lassie up and bussed her on the cheek, then set her on her feet with a pat on the back. “Good lass,” he said. “We don’t want to hurt Mummy’s feelings.” He looked over at the tutor. “And how are your students really doing?”

Fitzroy Wardlaw rose to his feet and bowed stiffly. “They make excellent progress, laird,” he said. The man’s thin face grew beet red, as though he’d been caught filching food from the larder.

Lachlan was well aware the tall, gangly scholar was head over heels in love with Francine, in spite of the fact that she was visibly pregnant. As long as the fellow kept his feelings to himself and didn’t upset the object of his affections, Lachlan had to admit he couldn’t fault him. For Lachlan was as smitten with his wife as her adoring tutor was.

Lady Emma looked over from her tapestry loom, which had been set to catch the light from the window. His mother had accompanied them from Edinburgh after the wedding. She would stay through the winter and spring to be with Francine during the pregnancy and birth.

Nearby, Signora Grazioli sat making lace. Contrary to Lychester’s belief that the nursemaid had died from the blow to her head, Lucia had survived. Since all the other servants in the castle spoke in the Gaelic, she sat in on the lessons as well.

“Oh, you’re early this afternoon, dear,” Lady Emma told her son. She smiled with her usual serenity.

“I just came from the stables. The mare and colt are doing fine,” he said. “Wally and Colin are watching over them.”

Lachlan bent and kissed the top of his wife’s head. “I thought you might like to see the new colt.”

“I’d like that,” she said, apparently eager to leave her studies. She rose, shaking out the folds of her flowered gown.

“May I go, too?” Angelica asked, her brown eyes bright with entreaty. She was holding the fair-haired doll that Lychester had given her when they’d visited Hadrian’s Wall.

The lassie had no idea the English marquess had fathered her, but she did know that he’d given his life to save hers. Elliot Brome’s name, as well as her Aunt Cecilia’s, was always included in her evening prayers.

Lachlan smiled at his energetic daughter, but shook his head. “Not this time, angel. You keep Lady Emma company while I entertain your mother. You can come with me to the stables after breakfast in the morning.”