Kathleen Harrington (7 page)

“I won’t forget about it,” Lychester gritted. “And both of them will pay in time.”

As they executed a sliding, sideways move, he stumbled, nearly trouncing on her gown. He cursed under his breath, but quickly recovered. At the best of times, he wasn’t light on his feet when dancing. In his agitation, he was downright clumsy, which only fed his renewed sense of mortification at having been held up for ridicule.

“Don’t blame Charles Burby or Reginald,” Francine urged. “They were simply following the author’s directions. Save your hatred for the person who created the idiotic comedy in the first place.”

At her words, Lychester abandoned any pretense of dancing. He led Francine off the floor and into an alcove at the back of the hall. He tightened his hold on her hand, till it felt as though he’d crush her fingers.

A purple vein bulged at his temple. “If I ever find out who that filthy bastard is, I’ll strangle him with my bare hands.”

Francine tried unsuccessfully to pull free of his grasp. “Really, Elliot,” she snapped, “you need to rein in that black temper of yours. ’Tis most unbecoming for a gentleman.”

Her criticism of his manners had an immediate, sobering effect. He released her hand, clasped her shoulders, and drew her close. His straight black hair fell over his brow, as he bent his head and spoke huskily. “You could teach me how to control my anger, Francie. I’d do anything you asked me if you . . .”

“I’m asking you to leave Charles Burby and Reginald the Fool alone,” she interrupted, before he could go any further.

His dark eyes glittered malevolently; his words came slow and measured. “And so I will, my dear, since you ask it. Now
I’m
telling
you
to have nothing more to do with that goddamn Scottish pirate. He’s not worthy to touch the hem of your gown with his bloody, butchering hands.”

Startled, she stared at Lychester in confusion. “The Scot? What does that man have to do with anything?”

“Dammit, Francie, I saw you two dancing together. Laughing with him, the way you’ve never laughed with me. Not even when we were children. You, of all people, should know what that race of miscreants is capable of doing. Can you forget how the thieving knaves crossed over the border to raid our cattle and burn our fields? Have you forgotten what happened at the battle of Cheviot Hills?”

His words knocked the wind out of her like a fall from a galloping hunter. “I’ll never forget what happened at Cheviot Hills,” she whispered, surprised that, even now, after so many years, tears sprang to her eyes. She swallowed and blinked them back, not wanting to show weakness in front of him.

But Elliot saw her tears and seemed to take a measure of satisfaction in her misery. He softened his grip, his words cajoling. “Just remember, Francie, that Scottish bastard could have been at that battle.”

“The Scotsman has spent the last ten years terrorizing our ships,” she reminded him. “I doubt he was involved in a land battle along the border.”

“Whether he was there or not, what matters is that you need to keep him at arm’s distance. Allow him no liberties. I saw the way that filthy whoreson looked at you.” Lychester paused, his bold gaze roving over her breasts with a possessive insolence. “I know goddamn well what he was thinking. And feeling. I won’t let him covet what is already mine.”

Francine took a deep breath, attempting to remain calm. “I’ve told you, Elliot, I have no wish to marry a second time. Mathias left Angelica and me well provided for. I’ve no need of another husband. Now let go of me. People are looking.”

He glanced around the room, then reluctantly released his grasp on her shoulders and took a step back. But now that the subject was broached, he had no intention of retreating. “You need a man with power and influence to protect you, Francie, and your little girl needs a stepfather to provide for her.”

“Protect me from what?” she flung at him. “Unwanted suitors who persist long after they’ve been refused?”

The look of rage that crossed his blunt features made Francine regret her rash words. This was one man who should never be provoked.

She raised her open hands in a gesture of conciliation. “Besides, I already have the protection of the king,” she added. “And I can provide my child with all she needs.”

“Why do you persist in this foolishness, Francine?” he demanded. “You know we’ll be married as soon as we return from Scotland. King Henry has all but given his blessing.”

“I know no such thing!” She bit her lip and sighed, wondering how he could be so oblivious to her true feelings. “I am perfectly content in the role of a widow, Elliot. I have a manor house on fine lands and a generous settlement that will last me the rest of my days. Angelica will inherit a small fortune from both Mathias and her grandfather. There is no need for me to seek more.”

“All of which could be wiped away in the blink of an eye.”

Francine searched his smoldering gaze. “What do you mean?”

Lychester smiled grimly. “The winds of fortune blow where they may, my dear. The ownership of the lands on which your manor house sits is now being questioned in a Northumberland court. Surely you realize the legitimacy of the titles to the entire Walsingham estates is presently in doubt.”

“There was never a question about the ownership of those lands until after Mathias’s death,” she retorted, striving to keep her voice low and even. “Questions brought by the spurious papers your magistrates introduced in the courts.”

Lychester languidly shook out the folds of lace at his wrist with an air of complete self-assurance. “All of this unpleasantness could be settled in the lines of our marriage contract.” A smug grin parted his lips, his teeth white against the dark mustache and beard. “I assure you, my dear, I’m prepared to be generous.”

Francine’s bottom lip trembled as she met Lychester’s complacent gaze. “There’s only one problem to the solution you offer, milord. I don’t love you.”

A flash of pain flared in his eyes, and his words were thick and choked. “I could make you love me.”

She slowly shook her head. “You can’t make a person love you, Elliot. It just happens or it doesn’t.”

Before he could reply, Francine pivoted on her heel and hurried away to join the other widows just as they were making their curtsy to the king before retiring. As she reached the far door with her elderly companions, she looked back at the crowded hall, where it seemed that everyone was watching her departure with rampant curiosity. She and Lychester would be the talk of the entire court tomorrow.

Francine carefully avoided the Scotsman’s gaze.

Let him think what he will.

He was no concern of hers, nor she of his.

F
rancine turned the corner and hurried down the deserted corridor, casting quick glances back over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed. She’d spied Lychester waiting for her to return to her quarters after attending an early-morning service in the chapel to pray for Princess Margaret’s safe journey to Scotland. The entire entourage of English and Scots were leaving Collyweston Palace today to begin the long trek northward.

At the sight of the dark-haired marquess, Francine had abruptly changed course and hustled in the opposite direction of her rooms, where her daughter and nursemaid were waiting for the time to depart.

The palace was a rabbit warren of small courtyards and suites with which Francine had become familiar in the past few weeks. If Lychester caught up with her in this seldom-used section of the building, he wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of their isolation.

She could hear his rapid footsteps behind her, though he hadn’t as yet turned the corner. Knowing she couldn’t evade him much longer, her only hope was to conceal herself in one of the empty suites. With mere seconds to hide, she was desperate to find a safe retreat.

She turned the knob on one of the arched oak doors lining the passageway and gave a sigh of relief to find it unlocked.

“Thank you, God,” she mouthed silently. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stepped inside the room and quietly closed the door behind her. With any luck, Lychester hadn’t caught a glimpse of her bright blue gown before she’d disappeared from view.

Afraid to turn the metal latch to secure the door, lest he hear the distinctive sound of the click, Francine pressed her ear to the wooden panel and held her breath.

The only noise she heard was the soft splash of water coming from behind her. A chill raced up her spine to tingle at the base of her skull.

Merciful Lord in heaven.

She wasn’t alone in the room.

Too late, she remembered that the contingent of Scottish emissaries had been given lodging only yesterday in this rarely occupied section of the rambling palace.

Looking over her shoulder, she saw a large rumpled bed, thankfully empty. A carved walnut chest stood against one wall, on which sat a silver basin and a man’s shaving brush and razor. A sword and dirk in their scabbards rested on an armchair beside the bed. A discarded red-and-black tartan lay draped across the settle, which stood at the end of the canopied four-poster.

Red-and-black plaid.

The distinctive MacRath clan tartan, as she’d learned to her surprise the previous evening.

The only thing worse than being caught in the bedchamber of a Highland clansman would be discovery by the English marquess searching for her on the far side of the door. If Lychester found her in this room with another man, he’d never be satisfied until he’d killed him. And quite possibly her, as well.

Pressing her hand to her chest, Francine turned to survey the rest of the bedchamber, searching for some clue to its occupant’s identity.

Opposite the wall with the armoire and its masculine accoutrements stood a large fireplace, the light of its flames casting a rosy glow on the chimney stones. A sturdy dressing screen had been carefully placed to catch and hold the warmth of the blaze.

Once again, the splashing of water caught Francine’s attention, and she stared at the patterned silk damask that decorated the screen. She put her hand to her mouth to stifle the laughter that rose up inside her. Though she should have been mortified by her shocking predicament, its very outrageousness tickled her sense of humor.

Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined herself in such a disgraceful, and yet comic, situation.

She’d just interrupted someone’s bath.

And that someone was male.

Which MacRath was it, who sat lolling about in a tubful of warm, soapy water?

There was no doubt that he’d heard her come in, for he called out now from behind the screen in obvious irritation. “I forgot the damn toweling. Give it to me, will ye, lad?”

Although the Scottish laird was unaware of her identity, Francine recognized that aggravated baritone immediately.

Not daring to answer, she pressed her ear flat against the oak panel. Through the closed door she could hear booted feet coming down the tiled corridor. Lychester was quickly approaching. If she stepped outside now, he’d likely crash right into her.

Kinrath must have thought she was his servant. His gathering impatience sharpened his tone, as he called out, “Roddy, toss me the cloth hanging on the footboard.”

Glancing about, she spied a swath of linen draped over the end post of the bed. She tiptoed stealthily across the room, grabbed the toweling, and flung it neatly over the screen. She congratulated herself on the accuracy of her throw as she tiptoed back to the door and pressed her ear against the polished wood once more.

Francine could hear Lychester pacing back and forth in the corridor, as though unsure if he should knock and chance disturbing the occupants of the various rooms.

“From whom are we hiding?” a deep male voice asked only inches from Francine’s ear.

She whirled to find the earl of Kinrath towering beside her. Without stopping to think, she reached up and clamped her hand over his mouth before he had a chance to say another word.

“Shush! Be quiet!” she commanded in a hoarse whisper.

His eyes lit up at her imperious manner. Not making any effort to peel her hand off his lips, he grinned in mute acquiescence. When he had the temerity to cover her fingers firmly with his own and press a kiss to her open palm, however, Francine yanked her hand away.

“What are you . . .” she started to ask, still in a whisper, then stopped and gaped at him.

Holy Savior.

He was nearly naked.

The toweling she’d tossed over the screen was now draped casually about his lean hips. Around both powerful upper arms, inked bands of unintelligible designs formed exotic armlets. The mysterious lettering contained powerful magic. For despite the many battles she knew he’d fought on the sea, there wasn’t so much as the tiniest scar on his broad chest.

She took a cautious step to the side, wrenched her gaze from his bare torso, and looked up to meet his curious eyes.

Clearly, he was neither shocked at her uninvited presence in his bedchamber nor ashamed of standing there in front of her like some fierce warlord just before battle, the bulging muscles of his chest, arms, and legs stripped bare in a wanton and barbaric display of male ferocity.

She’d read that in olden times the Scots rode to war wearing nothing more than blue paint on their bodies and pagan tokens hanging about their necks. Ironically, a medal hung from a gold chain around his, its image hidden in the thicket of his reddish-brown chest hair. She prayed to God it was the image of a saint and not an enchanter’s rune.

Francine felt the warmth of a flush suffuse her cheeks. But though she was embarrassed at being caught in his room without an invitation, hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up inside her. The merriment gleaming in his eyes and the fact that, though he leaned closer than was necessary, he hadn’t made any attempt to touch her, persuaded her that she was in no real danger. At least, for the moment.

“Have you no shame?” she chided, determined to conceal the breathless reaction she felt at his unconscious virility. “Put some clothes on.”

The light in his eyes seemed to dance with an unholy humor. “I’ll admit, lass, I’m not a pretty sight without my shirt,” he agreed. “Had I known you were coming to call, I’d have finished my bath sooner and donned my finest apparel.” He paused and jerked his head toward the dressing screen. A smile played about the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps I can convince you to join me in the tub?”