The Daring Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (2 page)

Amusing … until now.

But there was little he could do about the matter. No, it was better the lass continued to think of him simply as the scandalous Lord Gray, the shockingly disgraceful young Scottish lord intent on gambling away his family fortune and bedding every maiden he encountered.

Brushing his momentary touchiness aside, he rose from the bed and peered down at her with an easy grin. Clad in his close-fitting breeches, his chest was bare, exposing hard muscles that never failed to elicit sighs of admiration from any lass that beheld them.

“Tarry a wee spell, my lady,” he murmured in a suggestive tone. “And ye’ll soon see how mistaken ye are.”

But the wicked beastie was clearly unaffected by his physical prowess. Lifting a mocking brow, she scooped up his white shirt from the foot of the bed and tossed it over his broad expanse of naked chest.

“Impressive, mayhap, for a Scotsman
. Bondagnénte smoroxéto,
” she replied with a coy smile. “But in my land, men like you are of the most common kind!”

Common kind? He highly doubted that. Would an ordinary man know that she’d just called him a
good-for-nothing
gallant in Venetian? Aye, but how could she know he’d been mentored by a Venetian master spy and was fluent in their language. His grin broadened as his interest ignited even more.

“I must be gone, Lord Gray.” Liselle gave a laugh as a wicked smile curved her full lips. “This has been a pleasant diversion, but the sun is rising.”

Blowing him a kiss, she turned lightly on her heel and headed for the door.

He watched her go with a twinge of disappointment and a full measure of admiration.
But, as the door closed behind her, he quickly donned his shirt and collected his weapons, shaking his head all the while.

Now there
was a lass worth kissing. And the fact that such an act might
be rewarded with a knife in his gut made him all the more interested in attempting the deed. What a delightful challenge she would be!

But alas, he had not the time for such pleasantries. He was on a mission. Alexander Stewart, Duke of Albany, and the last surviving brother of King James III of Scotland, appeared to have embarked, yet again, on another foolish attempt to wrest the throne from his brother.

Just a few years prior, the king’s lowborn favorite and latest lover, Thomas Cochrane, had accused Scotland’s youngest prince, John Stewart, the Earl of Mar, of witchcraft, and had murdered and buried him. Albany, afraid for his own life, had then fled to France with Julian’s help.

Julian sighed, pushing back his shoulder-length blond hair and pulling on his black leather boots. He despised Albany. He’d only aided the man as a favor to his friend, Cameron.

The instant Albany had set foot in the French court of King Louis XI he had embroiled himself in one treacherous plot after another.

Aye, the prince was angry over Mar’s unjust death; it was an anger that most in Scotland shared. But Albany was no better than James; the king was a fool, but Albany was unscrupulous.

In the bid to gain the French king’s favor and support, Albany had unceremoniously dissolved
his marriage to Lady Katherine—disinheriting his three grown sons and daughter in the process—and had then married Anne de la Tour. After which, he redoubled his pestering of Louis to put him on the Scottish throne.

But the French king would have none of it.

Now banned from court, Albany was skulking in Sarlat, a town nestled in a hollow between the hills and the Dordogne River in Aquitaine, in southwestern France.

Julian had been almost relieved last week to discover a man shadowing Albany, a man who proved to be the Venetian assassin, Orazio di Franco.

But as Albany continued to walk in the light of day, Julian had become intrigued, knowing that if Orazio had truly wanted the treacherous prince dead, he would be. And then Julian would even now be standing on Scottish soil with Albany buried six feet beneath him.

No, Orazio clearly had other designs in pursuing Albany. And those designs were fair interesting to Julian as
Le Marin
. And mayhap
this Liselle was even part of that plan, a thought Julian found even more enthralling.

Aye, s
omething was brewing, and he more than ached for a game of wits with worthy opponents.

He knew little of his sister, but from what he knew of Orazio, the man would be the worthiest of opponents.

Crossing the chamber, Julian cracked a shutter open.

His room was on the top floor of the inn, affording him a stunning view of the sun which was now rising on the sleepy town of Sarlat and
bathing its shale roof tiles in a warm red glow.

Voices drifted up from the cobblestoned street below, and he glanced down to see Orazio standing almost directly beneath him.

The man was pacing, appearing genuinely agitated as he waved his hands at Lady Nicoletta who was standing nearby.

Liselle was nowhere to be seen.

With his eyes trained on the pair below, Julian strained forward to catch his words.

“…
and we must not fail!” Orazio made a harsh chopping gesture with his palm. “Not again!”

“She is no longer a child, Orazio.” Lady Nicoletta heaved a great sigh, laying her hand on her brother’s arm. “We have held her back long enough.”

“And you know
exactly
why that’s so! She’s too passionate. She leaps and then looks to see where she’s falling!” Orazio growled. “And now she’s playing some ill-thought-out game with that fool!”

Julian grinned, and tilting his head to one side, took a cloth from his pocket and absently began to polish one of his blades.

“Indeed, I agree, of all men, why that one?” Lady Nicoletta waved a disgusted hand in Julian’s direction. “
Macarón!
” She began to pound her chest with her palm.

Julian’s grin widened. He and Lady Nicoletta had never seen eye-to-eye. She’d called him the demeaning term at every opportunity.

Lady Nicoletta’s wailing stopped abruptly as a man stepped out from the shadows to murmur something into Orazio’s ear.

The effect was immediate. “Then, to the market square with haste!” Orazio ordered, and all three whirled upon their heels, their cloaks billowing out behind them as they disappeared into a nearby alleyway.

Julian’s eyes lit with exhilaration. Finally, the game was afoot! Quickly, he inserted a blade into each boot and concealed a third within his sleeve. Grabbing his cloak, he slipped out of his chamber and went down the narrow, dark stairs of the French inn,
Les Trois Couronnes
.

At the bottom of the stairs he spied the flat-faced innkeeper huffing about the common room, poking several snoring men with the handle of a broom.

Julian chuckled under his breath. He’d never met a more righteous innkeeper; the man should have been a priest. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the room, lurching sideways in feigned drunkenness. After all, he had a reputation to uphold as the irresponsible, reckless Lord Gray.

“Did ye see a lass run through here a wee bit ago?” he asked the innkeeper, slurring his speech and bracing himself unsteadily against the doorpost. “A green gown, I think she wore!”

The innkeeper brushed back his gray hair which hung in straggly, limp strings, and his long face lengthened even more as he eyed Julian with rank disapproval. “No, my lord.”

“Well then!” Julian blinked as if in surprise and stepped back, weaving a little before adding with a grin, “I’ll take any lass then ... or two. Can ye send a few to my chamber and more of that fine Frankish wine of yours, aye?”

The frown on the man’s face deepened. “I run a respectable inn, my lord. I do not employ
demoiselles
of the kind you seek.”

Julian gave a loud groan, but judging he was on the verge of losing Orazio’s trail, he heaved a disappointed sigh and stumbled towards the front door. He paused on the threshold a moment and grinned at the innkeeper who huffed in disgust, and then Julian stepped out into the cobblestoned street.

Once out of the innkeeper’s sight, Julian dropped the act and set off in hot pursuit of Orazio and his companions.

Shafts of morning sunlight fell in crisscross patterns through the narrow, crooked lanes as he hurried to the market square in the center of the town. It was still early, and most of the stalls were closed, but for a thick-lipped man with a bulging belly arranging baskets of mushrooms, and a lad with a face more fit for a lass, driving a flock of geese into a pen.

At the edge of the market square, he caught sight of Orazio and the others striding determinedly towards a stone cottage with a walled courtyard and red-shuttered windows. Herbs grew in pots on the sills, and ivy covered the courtyard walls and half of the brown slate roof as well.

Pausing before the cottage’s gate, Orazio peered over his shoulders in both directions.

Quickly, Julian ducked into a nearby alleyway, inadvertently startling a flock of pigeons. He frowned as the birds fluttered to rest on the rooftop ridges of the narrow buildings flanking him. No doubt, Orazio would see and know he was being followed.

Cursing under his breath, Julian waited longer than he liked before peering cautiously around the corner, just in time to see Orazio disappear behind the gate.

Apparently, the man hadn’t suspected he’d been followed.

Julian expelled a breath of relief, stretched, and glanced around.

Already, there were more people on the street, and they were growing more numerous by the moment. As a cart rumbled by, Julian stepped out of the alleyway to casually weave through the square, approaching the stone cottage from the back. It was easy enough to scale the courtyard wall and peer inside the enclosure.

There was a garden, and it was small, barely room enough for its single raised herb bed and several large clay pots. A tree grew near the smoke-stained sandstone wall of what appeared to be the cottage’s kitchen. Swinging his legs over the wall, he dropped lightly on his feet and swiftly darted to the nearest window.

The soft murmur of voices met his ear, but he couldn’t make out any words. He was ready to move on when a loud laugh caught him by surprise.

He would recognize that laugh anywhere.

It was Albany.

“…
and I’ve been assured that ye are the finest spy in Christendom,” the Scottish prince was saying gruffly.

Julian rolled his eyes in scorn. The fool had been misled. Orazio was an assassin, not a spy. And even if he were a spy, he was nothing
akin
to
Le Marin
.

“Aye, the reason I’ve need for your particular kind of service is that I’m on my way to England and will need my own man to watch my back and to uncover what those treacherous English rats will undoubtedly try to hide from me!” Albany continued, clearing his throat. “I’ll expect ye to journey with me the whole way to Fotheringhay, where ‘tas been arranged I should be a fortnight hence.”

Sweet Mary! Julian’s gray eyes widened. Fotheringhay? England? If Albany were to gain the support of Edward, King of England, then Scotland was in serious danger.

“I will send a man of mine to accompany you—” Orazio’s unmistakable tones began.

“Nay, not so!” Albany interrupted angrily. “’Twas
ye
I was told to hire, not another!”

“My man will suffice! As I have said, my lord, you will be pleased with my services—services, may I remind you, that you’ve yet to pay for.” Orazio’s voice hardened.

Julian frowned. Orazio was not a gatherer of information; the man was an assassin. There could only be one reason for the deception. His true target must be a man of Albany’s acquaintance.

“Aye, aye,” Albany mumbled. There was the sound of a wooden chair scraping against a stone floor, and then the prince’s voice floated through the window from different angles as he began to pace. “Then, I’ve nae choice but to trust ye. Ach, ‘tis a princely sum that ye’ve asked of me! I dinna have such a sum of gold at hand! I can only pay ye half now.”

At that, Julian raised a brow in admiration. Aye, Orazio was a wily one to collect the prince’s gold while at the same time using him as a tool to gain access to his true target! ‘Twas no wonder the man was infamous. Such deviousness could only be admired.

“I see,” Orazio replied. His tone was cool. “Then perhaps our services are not really what you need.”

“Nay!” Albany quickly inserted. “I’ll see ye paid the rest soon, I swear it! But give me time!”

“No, my lord,” came Orazio’s reply. “I require the entire sum first, as I have said. When you have it, send word and—“

“God’s Wounds!” Albany swore loudly and there was a crash, as if he’d kicked over a chair. “Surely, the word of the future King of Scotland means something to ye?”

There was a long pause.

And then Orazio’s deep voice dropped. “Mayhap … mayhap there
is
a way, my lord.”

“A way?” Albany seized the words eagerly.

“Mayhap…” Orazio murmured. There was a drumming sound, as if he were drumming his fingers thoughtfully upon a table. “On this one occasion, my lord, I could wait on the full payment in return for a favor.”

Albany’s voice turned suspicious at once. “A favor? What favor is this?”

“A simple request. ‘Tis my sister, the Lady Nicoletta. I must see her returned to the Scottish court to the care of Princess Anabella, and I cannot accompany her myself,” the man answered calmly.

Julian raised a brow, wondering what kind of threat Orazio might pose to the Scottish court if he were using his relationship to Nicoletta as part of his scheme. It was something that he should delve into, and forthwith.

“Nicoletta?” Albany cleared his throat and paused a moment. “Is the lass a spy as well?”

Orazio laughed, and Julian found himself laughing silently along with him.

The concept was ludicrous. Nicoletta was anything but a spy. She was a mere lady-in-waiting. Aye, every time he’d ever been in her presence, she’d spoken only of court etiquette, and specifically his own great lack in observing it. Rumors and intrigue didn’t appear to interest her in the slightest.