Kathleen Harrington (6 page)

Francine frowned and lifted her chin in an attempt to forestall any misapprehension on his part. She had no intention of being seduced by the handsome Scotsman. Forsooth, she had no intention of being seduced by any man.

“Are you familiar with the lavolta?” she asked, unsure if he’d recognized the melody that signaled the lively dance.

He raised his straight russet brows in surprise at her question. “Of course.”

She tried to hide her misgivings. How would a Scottish privateer know a dance newly imported from the court of the Sforzas? Only that spring, a dancing master from Milan had instructed the Tudor courtiers and their wives in the newest fashion from Europe.

As Francine accompanied Kinrath onto the floor to take a few lightsome steps around the room in preparation for the dance, she prayed he was one of those taciturn men who preferred not to converse while dancing. He was absolutely the last person she wanted to chatter with, particularly if he brought up the subject of that evening’s revel.

As the lively rhythms swirled around them, Kinrath slid his muscular arm about her waist, and pressed his other hand against her middle. The next second, Francine felt herself lifted off the floor as though she were a fluff of thistledown.

“Oh, my,” she murmured under her breath.

He did, indeed, know the dance.

Placing her right arm across his broad shoulders to steady herself, she secured her skirt and petticoat with her left hand to prevent them from flying up and revealing the ruffles on her chemise.

“I take it you enjoy the lavolta,” he said with a soft chuckle. “I was hoping you’d be familiar with the dance.”

He twirled her in a three-quarter turn with astonishing ease, holding her higher than she’d ever been held, then brought her down to floor level again.

Francine smiled in delight at the sheer pleasure of whirling through the air. “I often danced the lavolta when I was in Naples with my late husband. ’Tis almost as marvelous as sprouting wings and swooping amidst the clouds like a falcon,” she confessed with a laugh. “Did you ever . . .”

The instant the words were out, she could have bitten her tongue. Fie! It was too late to take them back now.

“Did I ever what?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Between the graceful swirling turns, their feet flew together in perfect communion, moving back and forth across the polished boards to the lilting melody of the flutes and fast beat of the drums.

“Did you ever feel like flying?” she blurted out.

He grinned. “Flying?”

“Yes, flying,” she persisted. Now that she’d started, she needed to know. “Like a hawk?”

“That’s a strange image to conjure,” he replied, without answering her question.

The tightly leashed strength she’d sensed that morning was now undeniable. Clasped against the side of his powerful body, she could feel the solid muscles of his arm contract and expand as he effortlessly lifted her up again and turned with her. Breathless, she looked down into his brilliant eyes, eyes that seemed to promise untold pleasures for any woman fortunate enough to capture his attention.

Each time he raised her up and held her aloft as he spun round, Francine became more and more lightheaded. She fought the increasing sense of vertigo. Tightening the arm placed across his massive shoulders, she caught hold of his sleeve with her other hand to steady herself. “Be careful,” she begged.

“Don’t worry, Lady Walsingham,” Kinrath assured her with a roguish grin. “I won’t let you fall.”

Francine burst into laughter. “If anyone is going to take a spill, Scotsman, it won’t be me alone,” she warned him with a giggle, “because I have no intention of letting go of your jacket. And if the sight of my bare knees shocks the entire court, ’twill be all your fault.”

“Hold on tight, then, milady,” he said, his gaze locked with hers, “for I’ve no intention of slowing down; the entire court be damned.”

Lachlan brought the gorgeous woman closer to him, as they performed the quick steps of the lavolta. Each time he raised her up and twirled her around, her sweet breath fanned across his face like a cooling sea breeze on a becalmed night.

Her silken breasts were only inches from his lips each time he lifted her up. Those tempting globes rose and fell above the deep, square neckline of her lavender gown in tempo with the lively measure. He could feel the suppleness of her figure. The slender waist encased in the embroidered satin. The soft curve of her hip pressed against him.

Her bubbling laughter conveyed a sense of joyous expectation, and Lachlan’s body responded to that joyful sound with unexpected urgency. The need for her struck him with the full force of a cannon barrage from a marauding ship.

Lady Francine’s radiant smile told him that she hadn’t the least notion what he was thinking. Just as well. For in his mind he was already slipping that lavender satin all the way down her curvaceous body to pool around her pretty toes.

“Wherever did you learn to dance the lavolta?” she asked with a quizzical look. Clearly, she hadn’t expected a Highland mercenary to be familiar with the latest court pastimes.

“I don’t spend all my time aboard ship,” he replied. “When we’re in port, I do go ashore and mingle with polite company now and then.”

She gasped in obvious disbelief. “And polite society is willing to mingle with a . . . a . . .”

“Pirate? Dinna be afraid to say what ye think, Lady Walsingham,” he told her. He deepened his Scottish brogue as he drew her even closer. “And by the way, lass, that was quite a droll comedy this evening.”

A dubious smile froze on her heart-shaped face. Her brown eyes suddenly widened in trepidation. Without doubt, she had the biggest eyes he’d ever seen, fringed with impossibly long lashes, and at the moment so clearly filled with alarm, he had to stifle a chuckle. She was amazingly transparent, even for a female. He suspected it’d be next to impossible for her to hide her true feelings from anyone, friend or foe.

“You . . . you weren’t offended, I . . . I hope,” she stammered, her words rushed and breathless. “If you took offense, Laird Kinrath, please let me apologize for the entire English court. We only laughed at the outrageous display to be a polite audience. You must believe me, ’twas all done in the spirit of fun. No insult was intended.”

Lachlan smiled, inhaling the perfume of lavender that drifted from the lush golden strands imprisoned within her jeweled snood.

“None was taken. In point of fact, milady, you seemed to be the only person in the room this evening not laughing at the comic antics of the acrobats. As though, somehow, you felt responsible for the entire farce, should someone complain. If any person needs to be called to account, ’twould seem to be the Master of the Revels.”

Before she could answer, he lifted her up and twirled her around, then caught her against his ribcage. She braced her hand on his shoulder, their faces only inches apart.

“Oh, no!” she protested. “You mustn’t blame Charles Burby. He merely follows instructions.”

Beneath Lachlan’s steady gaze, she dropped her lids. Her luxuriant lashes cast shadows on her creamy cheeks. “That is . . . I only meant . . . if you intended to complain to the king that you and your kinsmen were insulted . . . well, I’m certain his majesty knew nothing of the nature of the revel beforehand. And ’twould be a shame to cause Master Burby needless embarrassment before the court.” She raised her eyes to meet his, the worry in her gaze unmistakable. “It could even cost him his livelihood, if you were to demand retribution as a matter of honor.”

Holding her close to his side, Lachlan guided her across the floor, their feet flying together. “Why do you think I or my clansmen might be offended?” he asked. “The farce had nothing to do with us.”

“It didn’t?” she exclaimed, her smile returning. “But surely . . .”

My dear lady,” Lachlan said, “the Romany tumblers were obviously portraying members of Clan Campbell. Their foolish tricks had nothing to do with the MacRaths.”

She stared up at him, confusion on her delicate features. “They were? They didn’t?”

“Of a certain,” he explained, barely able to suppress a grin. “The gypsies wore the black-and-white tartans of the Campbells. Anyone with knowledge of the Highlands would know that.”

“So you didn’t perceive the man on stilts as an insulting imitation of yourself,” she said with a gasp, then added, “even though you’re clearly the tallest man in the room?”

“Hardly. Aside from portraying a Campbell in his black-and-white plaid, the performer wore no feathers at all on his Scottish bonnet. The laird of a clan always wears three feathers to signify his status.”

She looked up at the pair in his hat and frowned in bewilderment.

“And so . . . you laughed because you thought the acrobats were impersonating some men named Campbell? Didn’t just the fact that they were pretending to be Scots anger you?”

At the look of worry on her upturned face, it was all he could do not to stop in the center of the dance floor and cover her lips with his. Did she always lie so unconvincingly? ’Twas something he intended to find out in the nights that lay ahead.

“The Campbells have been rivals of Clan MacRath for decades,” he explained. “When my kinsmen saw our ancient foes so comically portrayed, they thought their defeat at the hands of the wee lassies quite hilarious.”

“I see,” she said. The frown that creased her smooth forehead indicated that she didn’t understand at all.

Lachlan drew her even closer and breathed in her tantalizing scent. He wasn’t quite sure when he’d decided to bed her, regardless of whose mistress she might happen to be. There was no doubt in his mind, however, he’d use everything in his power to do just that.

“Thank you for your concern, milady,” he said. “I’m deeply appreciative that you care so much about my tender feelings. But I can assure you, I’m not that easily wounded.”

“You mistake my concern in the matter,” she declared. She lifted her chin and scowled for further emphasis. “I just don’t want you to demand an apology from the king and cause a rupture of the peace treaty and the royal marriage contract.”

“Oh, I’ve no intention of demanding an apology from the king or from the Master of the Revels. I believe both of them are innocent of any malice aforethought. But I’ll accept your apology, Lady Walsingham, whenever you’re ready to give it.”

“My apology?” she said with a startled look. “Whatever would I have to apologize for?”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

They had come to the end of the dance. Lachlan caught her hand and placed it on his arm, as good manners dictated. Returning Lady Walsingham to her former spot at the side of the Great Hall with the other ladies, he bent low in a deep bow.

She didn’t bother to curtsy. Just leaned closer so only he would hear her reply. “I’m mystified as to why you think I should beg your pardon,” she said in a low tone.

“For such a bonny lass, you’re certainly stubborn,” he told her with a grin. “But I’ve never been known to run from a challenge. I’ll wager I get that apology before a fortnight goes by.” He took her hand and brought her slender fingers to his lips. “And if you’re very sweet about it, milady, I’ll be more than willing to forgive you.”

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

K
inrath had no sooner bowed and retreated than the marquess of Lychester loomed directly in front of Francine.

“We need to talk,” he said grimly.

Not bothering to ask permission, he gave the slightest of bows, grabbed her hand, and pulled her toward the dance floor. His swarthy complexion was flushed with irritation. The deep scowl that creased his forehead told her he hadn’t enjoyed the revel she’d worked so hard to prepare for the evening’s entertainment.

Francine could feel the simmering anger in his grasp. She knew from past experience it’d be wise not to antagonize him further by refusing the dance. Though he wouldn’t attack her directly, he could easily lash out at others, and she would be to blame.

She couldn’t help but compare Elliot Brome’s tendency to bully and berate with the suave appeal of the earl of Kinrath, whose dazzling smile and emerald eyes exuded the carefree charm of a tinker peddling his wares to a spellbound kitchen maid.

Moving beside Lychester to take their place in the dance, she glanced up at the tall, dark-haired marquess. A glower, half-hidden by his thick black beard and mustache, deepened the craggy lines on his rough-hewn features.

“What exactly would you like to talk about?” she asked with a placating smile, as they began the slow and graceful steps of the pavane. “I hope you weren’t upset by that silly farce earlier this evening.”

Lychester glanced at her with a questioning look, and she realized it wasn’t the jester’s performance that had him so agitated.

“I ought to carve out Charles Burby’s liver and feed it to the dogs,” he replied. “Then toss that puling little dwarf from the turrets for good measure.” But though the words were venomous, his tone sounded more abstracted than menacing. Apparently, the two servants were no more than a minor irritation.

Ahead of them, Francine could see Lady Pembroke chattering away with one of Kinrath’s younger kinsmen. The lanky red-haired man, attired in the MacRath red-and-black tartan, grinned down at the vivacious brunette. He seemed to be at a loss for words, content just to gaze at her with a look of complete enchantment.

Elegantly dressed in a black-velvet doublet with gold-satin slashes on the sleeves, breeches, and tight-fitting long hose, Lychester stood six feet tall and was built with the strength and stamina of a warhorse. He used his impressive physique to intimidate and coerce anyone, male or female, who had the temerity to disagree with him. Now that she’d foolishly drawn his ire toward the two hapless men, she felt the need to redirect his anger.

“The Master of the Revels is one of King Henry’s most trusted servants,” she reminded him. “And Reginald is his favorite fool. If his majesty enjoyed tonight’s performance, I don’t think it’d be wise for you to complain too loudly. Besides, Elliot,” she continued in a coaxing voice, “no one pays any attention to such outright buffoonery. People laugh and forget all about it before the evening’s done. No one will think twice about it, unless you make a fuss.”