The Daring Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (26 page)

Albany faltered, and then his face turned bleak all at once. “Then ‘twas all a ploy to ensnare me? Do ye seek to try me for treason?” Still sitting on his horse, he began to nervously twirl his ring.

“While ye deserve no less, ‘tis not a matter we need to discuss here. Come,” Cameron ordered, and waving his hand towards the royal apartments, he waited for Albany to dismount before whisking him away.

Julian turned away in disgust.

He much preferred Albany to be accused, tried, and sentenced for betraying the crown. Never was a man more worthy of a hangman’s rope. But he knew well that such an action would plunge Scotland into a civil war. But mayhap there was no avoiding it.

Though in any case, he’d had more than he could stomach of the affair for now.

Thinking of his favored gray mare, he made his way to the stables and found her—as Liselle had promised—contentedly chewing hay.

“Aye, ye wee lassie,” he crooned, tossing her a handful of grain. “There’s not a beast more surefooted than ye! Not one!” He shook his head, slightly amused. Why had he fretted so? He should have known Liselle was safe in her care.

After dispatching a message to Cambuskenneth Abbey for news of Dolfin, Julian spoke with the MacLeans for a time until the wailing of the pipes announced the midday feast, but by the time he finally made his way to the Great Hall, the feast
was almost done.

There was no sign of Albany or Cameron, or many other nobles for that matter. He supposed that was a good thing. It meant that Cameron was negotiating, and that usually meant well for Scotland.

The tables were littered with dishes of mostly-eaten fruit and platters of fowl with their bones picked clean. A young minstrel sang to the accompaniment of a flute, as a line of servants, bearing large trays of savory roasted boar and venison, brought in the last course.

It took him a moment to find Liselle near the king’s empty dais. And as he threaded his way towards her through the servants, he couldn’t prevent his gaze from raking over her boldly.

Aye, she was a bonny lass. And a dangerous one. And he knew right well that it was the combination that caused a thrill to run down the back of his neck.

Sliding into the empty chair at her side, he wasn’t even certain himself on what he’d planned to do until he’d unsheathed a small dagger from his boot and lightly pressed the tip of the blade betwixt her ribs.

For the briefest moment, her long lashes fanned her cheeks in surprise and then s
he merely reached for a plum as if she’d been eating in his company the entire feast.

Leaning close, he deeply inhaled the intoxicating scent of her hair and warned in a low rumble, “I’ll not let ye or Pascal harm Dolfin, lass. ‘Tis time for Orazio to acknowledge his defeat.”

He felt her spine stiffen even as she looked up at him, and a soft smile spread over her lips.

Aye, but her mastery of emotion and deceit was just as impressive as her other skills! A searing jolt of desire—stronger than he’d known could exist—rocked through him.

Reaching for a goblet of wine, she laughed. It was a sinfully rich sound, and more than one curious eye turned their way.

She waited until the onlookers glanced away before saying in a low musical voice, “You should not seek my company, Lord Gray. I am caught in a web of conspiracies, betrayals, and masquerades. I am a creature of treachery. I know nothing else.”

Her voice was strong and filled with humor, but underlying it all, he couldn’t fail to hear a desperation in her tone that wrenched his heart even as his eyes lingered a moment upon her delicious curves.

Forcing himself to focus once again, he whispered a warning, “Ye should tell Orazio that I’ll not allow the Vindictam to practice their craft here, lass. Aye, and as much as I despise the man, I’d not even allow harm to befall the king.”

And then she was looking into his eyes again, eyes he could drown in.

He shuddered.

The lass held an unnatural sway over him.

“What ails me?” he murmured into her hair. “I should send ye away on the first ship that sets sail!”

Her laugh was low and bitter. “For the first time, Lord Gray, those words do not fill me with dread.”

And then reaching down, she grasped the handle of the dagger he still pressed against her. He didn’t resist as she plucked it free from his hand and used it to spear a haunch of venison.

“I’ll not idly stand by and watch my country serve as a playground for the Vindictam, lass,” he said, breathing upon her neck.

And then
her lashes fluttered, and her eyes darkened seductively. “And are you asking me to defy him, my lord,” she asked low in her throat.

Ach, but he was losing the battle of concentration. Her expression was
whetting his appetite for more than food. “Aye, but ye have beguiling and deceitful ways, ye wee minx!” he accused hoarsely, letting his hand slide up her back and tangle itself in her hair. “Are ye trying to bewitch me?”

“Can you be bewitched, my lord?” she asked, curving closer.

Sweet Mary, but she clearly sought to distract him with her feminine wiles. And it was working right well! It was fair impossible to think of anything other than her bewitching eyes, alluring curves, and soft skin.

“I should send ye straight back to Venice this very night,” he said, breathing hard. He knew he should leave. The lass was dangerous and untrustworthy, he supposed, but why did his heart not care? Clenching his jaw, he hissed, “Sweet Mary, what ails me? I’m a mead-drunk fool to look for food that I canna eat!”

Dipping his eyes over the curve of her neck, he wanted nothing more than to claim those lips, to make her his own with a tantalizing slowness until he had caressed every inch of her skin.

Their gazes locked and held as in a voice scarcely above a whisper, she asked, “And why can you not eat, my lord?”

It was too much. With a low moan, his hand dropped slowly around her waist and over her hips. And pulling her half out of her chair, he lightly traced her lips with his tongue a moment before breathing heavily into her hair to moan, “I need to know how I feel about ye, lass.”

And then with a lazy, sensuous mastery, his
tongue swept past her lips to ravish her mouth in a searing kiss.

She responded at once, permitting her tongue to tangle with his for a deliciously wicked moment even as her hand caressed his cheek. For a timeless moment, there was
nothing but the warmth of his mouth melting into hers and the touch of his hands softly skimming her curves.

And then, he shivered and pulled away with a groan. “Aye, but I dinna know what I should think of ye, ye wee beastie! What power do ye hold? I’ve no doubt ye could bewitch me with a kiss even whilst slitting my throat!”

Liselle recoiled in a reaction so violent, that he drew back in surprise.

And then to his outright astonishment, she pushed back from the table, and fled the hall without a backward glance in his direction.

Julian blinked.

Rising to his feet with thoughts of pursuit, he’d taken only one step when a shout sounded outside the hall and a group of royal guards entered, escorting a man dressed in fine clothing.

It was the English duke, Gloucester.

The hall fell silent. All eyes watched the man approach, his twisted spine causing his shoulders to dip dramatically with each step.

And then Cameron and several other nobles appeared to greet him, and Julian turned away in disgust. He didn’t have the temperament to deal with such matters. They were better left to Cameron’s skills.

Choosing to clear his thoughts and escape the political intrigue for a time, he headed out of the castle and into the cobblestoned streets of Edinburgh in search of a distraction.

Chapter Fourteen – Retribution

Liselle stood in the center of her assigned chamber in Edinburgh Castle and bitterly turned in a slow circle. She was no true lady-in-waiting. The canopied bed, writing desk, and a carved wooden chest belonged to an assassin.

Again, she heard Julian’s words play through her mind, words that had whispered in her thoughts often of late. It was becoming painful to even think of him. Every time she did so, she could only hear:
What cause could ye possibly have to harm an old man? Have ye no heart?

She had a heart. An aching heart. If only he knew how heavy her heart
was
.

And how much it hurt to hear him even jest about slitting his throat.

Moving to the window, she peered out. Her chamber was on the second floor, facing the chapel not far from the gates. In the distance she could see the rooftops of Edinburgh spreading out below her.

And then shaking the pall that had settled over her, she donned her finest green satin gown with a bodice gleaming with pearls, and taking up a small woven basket, left her chamber to run the Countess of Lennox’s errands.

The afternoon was quite warm, and she fanned her cheeks as she made her way to the market square. The countess had wished for several skeins of silken yarns along with several new quills and a pot of ink.

Liselle had just purchased them all and had stopped to tuck the packages safely in her basket
when she heard several women’s voices coming from around the corner of a nearby shop.

“
Aye, 'tis a sad day when ye cannae buy tallow candles nor salt for the table!" one said.

“Ach, and the goats have gone dry,” another one grumbled.

“Those goats of yers are ancient crones, Maggie!” The first one snorted. “Ye’d have more luck getting milk from a buck! Just butcher the auld things and have done!”

Shaking her head, Liselle moved forward when the second woman’s response made her pause.

“Did ye hear of the Venetian prince at the butcher’s near the city gates? ‘Tis a secret, ’tis!”

“Ach, Maggie!” the first woman chortled. “If ‘twas a secret, then why would ye know of it? Yer as gullible as a wee lassie!”

“I heard him myself!” Maggie’s voice took on a wounded tone. “I’ve a wee bit of skill with the herbs, I do. And the butcher fetched me to care for the man. Even his purse is made of velvet. And he spoke of the prince—”

“Aye,
spoke
of a prince,” the other woman interrupted with a scoff. “Yer such a dreamer, and those goats of yers are proof of it! They’ll never give ye milk, ye daft woman! They’re too auld!”

As they began to quibble about the goats, Liselle hesitated.

What Venetian was this?

Glancing at the sky, she knew she could spare time to investigate, and patting the stiletto in her sleeve, she hurried down the Cannongate towards the city gates.

The butcher’s place was easy to find; she could smell it from some distance away. The faded sign hung by a single nail, and a pig wallowed in the mud at the entrance. The water in the wooden trough was
green and murky.

Pursing her lips in disgust, she craned her head around the side of the building to see the butcher himself passed out in a drunken stupor near a pig’s carcass. Several heaps of animal entrails and decomposing heads were tossed about the yard, giving off an overwhelming stench that made Liselle gag. Flies buzzed and crawled everywhere.

Covering her nose with one hand, she pushed the door open enough to peek through the crack.

The walls of the small room were blackened with smoke and grime. A hutch holding a collection of earthenware bowls along with several knives stood behind a trestle table, which was piled high with various animal parts. They were crawling with even more insects than could be found in the cloud of flies outside the door.

Sliding her bone-handled stiletto from its hidden pocket, she stepped inside.

The place was empty.

Frowning, she spied a curtain in the corner, and with a cautious step, pushed it aside to reveal a narrow flight of stairs. She eyed them suspiciously and almost turned away, when she heard the sound of singing coming from above.

She would have left, had she not recognized the gondolier tune, a Venetian
barcarola
.

Overcome with curiosity, she tiptoed up the creaking steps to hesitate at the top where three doors stood before her.

With a pounding heart, she opened the first one.

The room proved empty.

She had just moved towards the second door when the sound of a man’s hacking cough came from behind the third.

Gripping her stiletto tightly in her hand, she squinted through the cracks to see a man lying forlornly on a straw pallet.

Santo Ciélo!
It was Dolfin. And he was clearly ill.

Masking her surprise, she slipped into the room, and kneeling by the old man’s side, placed a light hand upon his fevered forehead. Her brows knit with concern; his flesh was burning.

Dolfin’s eyes opened then, and his dry lips twitched into a smile. “Am I at death’s door?” he asked in a weakened voice. “I see an
àngiolìna
at my side.”

“An angel?” Liselle laughed a little taken aback. An angel of death, mayhap. Wrinkling her nose, she eyed the squalid room and shuddered before turning back to him. “Why do you stay in such a place?”

“Then have you been sent by
Le Marin
?” A look of confusion crossed his face.

Liselle drew back sharply. “You know …
Le Marin
?” she asked even as it suddenly fell into place. Of course! Julian had been aiding the old man all along!

“You must tell him of the prince,
àngiolìna
!” Dolfin whispered. Gripping her arm with a shaking hand, he repeated in a stronger voice, “The prince!”

Arrested by the earnestness in his face, Liselle gave his hand a comforting pat and leaned closer. “The
Doge
?” she asked curiously.

“The prince!” he said again, and then caught in some strange delirium, he began to sing again until a series of wracking coughs seized him. But when he was finally done and had caught his breath, he pointed a feeble finger to a leather pouch at the foot of his pallet. “I would never betray them.
Inposìbile
!”