The Daring Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (3 page)

“My sister Nicoletta is naught but a
trusted
companion to the princess, my lord,” Orazio replied in a derisive tone. “And you would do well to remember that our mother is the Lady Catelin le Brun, a long-time favorite in the French court and a personal friend to Princess Anabella of Scotland. My sister knows nothing of my more
adventurous
activities.”

Albany cleared his throat. “Aye, now, I meant nothing by it. Indeed ‘tis a fair barter. I’ll see to her safe passage for ye,” he said, sounding distinctly embarrassed.

Suddenly, the clap of a closing door startled Julian.

Someone was approaching.

With nowhere to hide, he had no choice but to abandon his eavesdropping. Leaping lightly onto the top of the wall, he dangled one leg over the side and hesitated just long enough to catch a glimpse of a vibrant green gown before jumping to the other side.

Was it Liselle?

He was half-tempted to leap back over and see. But the news that Albany was traveling to Fotheringhay in England was beyond alarming. If he were to gain the support of the English in his quest for the throne, Scotland would be doomed. Cameron had to know. Scotland had to prepare. They could very well be headed for the war that they’d been working for years to prevent.

For a moment, he pondered what Orazio’s scheme might be and if the man he was sending with Albany was also an assassin. But even if he were, it appeared they were traveling to Fotheringhay and that meant his intended victim would most likely be English. Julian smiled to himself a little. One less Englishman conspiring to wage war against Scotland wasn’t particularly troubling news.

Striding through the marketplace, Julian headed back down the walled streets of Sarlat. He chuckled once or twice at the mere thought of Nicoletta being a spy, but Albany’s treachery was enough to turn any man’s mood ultimately somber.

He had to leave for Scotland at once, but not before he left a parting message for the treacherous Scottish prince. Aye, the man was a cur. And he should remain in France, where deception was the way of life. That a Scottish prince would scheme with the English was beyond repulsive.

Julian blew a breath in disgust.

Heading for the inn where he knew Albany to be staying, he fished a length of fine silver cord from his pocket.

God’s Wounds! He’d leave the man a message—a message that would strike fear in his very soul.

Anger boiled in Julian as his nimble fingers began to weave a Turk’s head knot, the well-known trademark of
Le Marin
. Years ago, he’d taken to leaving the knot behind whenever he wanted to alarm his adversaries. He’d leave it as a warning but also as a brazen clue to his actual identity. His family had been in the shipping trade for centuries, and the ornate silken knot was an outright declaration of his seafaring heritage. But no one had yet pieced together the clues. They had simply taken to calling him
Le Marin,
assuming that only a sailor-turned-dangerous-spy would leave a Turk’s head knot behind as a token.

Finishing the knot with a flourish, Julian slipped it into his pocket. Aye, he’d leave his token on Albany’s pillow, knowing the man would quail in his boots upon seeing it.

Turning up a narrow street, he arrived at Albany’s inn. And with a confident step, Julian strode through the kitchens, past a man with a face that reminded him of a rat, and up the creaky stairs leading to the Scottish prince’s rooms.

He nodded at every gent and winked at every lass he met along the busy passageway, grinning as the maidens blushed and giggled. One bright-eyed girl caught his attention in particular. Aye, she might have proved worthy of a diversion if he wasn’t in such a hurry.

Soon enough, Julian spied the entrance to the prince’s rooms, seemingly left unguarded. He made short work of picking a few locks and was soon placing the Turk’s head knot on Albany’s silken pillow. His deed accomplished, Julian swiftly left the chamber and made his way back to the kitchens, snagging a carrot from the bowl of an unwary cook. Stepping out into Sarlat’s narrow cobbled streets, Julian took in his surroundings. A short distance away, a group of traveling jongleurs were performing in front of a church. They balanced wooden staves upon their heads as a thin and wiry young man held out his cap to collect coins from the clapping bystanders.

Julian paused to watch them for a moment, leaning against a rough sandstone wall.

“You mend right swiftly, my Lord Gray,” Liselle’s alto tones whispered by his side. “When you left your inn not long ago, I was concerned for you. You could scarcely stand.”

Deep lines of laughter creased his cheeks. So the wee imp had been watching him? Turning, he leaned down, and brushing the top of her ear with his lips, he whispered in reply, “French wine is water to a Scotsman, lass.”

Her hazel eyes flashed with amusement, and gathering her green gown, she moved as if to step past him, but he caught her about the waist and pulled her back, effectively caging her against the rough stone wall.

“There’s no need to leave, lass,” he said with a chuckle. “We are wed, are we not?”

Smiling demurely, she reached up and let her finger trail down his cheek in a manner he found most seductive. “You really should be leaving Sarlat while you still yet live, my lord.”

He would have thought of a witty reply had not a particularly captivating and voluptuous brunette chosen that particular moment to pass by. And then Liselle’s slender fingers slid up the side of his neck to catch his chin, drawing it back towards her.

Dragging his gaze away from the brunette, he peered down into a pair of dangerous green eyes flecked with amber.

With a smile, Liselle pulled his head down with an unusually strong grip. "No man looks at another woman whilst in my company, Lord Gray,” she warned, breathing softly into his ear before nipping it with her teeth.

His pulse quickened, and his lips slowly stretched into a predatory smile. Aye, the wicked lass had his full attention now. Scotland could wait a wee bit. After all, Albany’s riding skills were nothing compared to his own. His hot breath brushed her cheek as he lowered his lips to hers, but at the last moment, she twisted away, easily slipping out of his arms.

“I’m afraid we shall not meet again, my lord.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “And for your safety, I certainly hope not.”

Julian’s eyes slid over her appreciatively as she pivoted on her heel, and without a backward glance, the lass strode down a cobblestoned lane bordered with fruit trees.

He frowned.

Alas, but he had not the time to pursue her further. ‘Twas time to ride to the coast as fast as a horse could carry him.

Aye, but ’twould do him good to ride.

With a pronounced sigh of regret, he straightened his shirt and headed for
Les Trois Couronnes
for his horse.

Chapter Two – Love is an Illness

The sun was high over Sarlat’s rooftops before Julian finally galloped across the bridge over the Dordogne River and onto a steep road leading up the nearby hill.

With his thoughts now firmly on Scotland’s safety, he urged his horse through narrow valleys, over hills covered with numerous flocks, and under the wind-rustling leaves of chestnut trees. The roads were difficult, and by the time he finally stopped to tend to his horse and a tankard of ale, he was fair exhausted.

The village was a small one, boasting only a single inn with two rooms, and the best his coin could buy was the least crowded bed. But he was tired enough to sleep through the snores of his bedmate, a stolid-looking man with wide cheekbones and a broad nose.

Morning saw him refreshed, and after giving the bosomy serving lass a healthy pinch, he was madly galloping once again.

Images of Liselle strayed across his mind the next few days, but when he finally reached the port of Bordeaux, she had faded into a distant, amusing memory.

Pausing in the shadow of Langoiran Castle perched on the hills overlooking the Garonne River, he eyed the banners hanging from the tower windows with a rueful grin.

In three days’ time, the scandalous Lord Gray was expected to appear there for a week of hunting, feasting, and wagering. Alas, but he would not be arriving as anticipated. And while he longed for a goblet in his hand and a lass on his knee, he had to reach Scotland, and right quickly.

A short time later, he was dismounting at the docks with a gleam in his eye upon catching sight of
The Yellow Carvel
moored in the harbor. Fortune was favoring him to find the Scottish king’s own ship at a French port.

He had to listen only a moment to identify which tavern along the docks housed the Scottish ship’s captain and his crew; it was the only one filled with Gaelic drinking songs, Gaelic curses, and the sound of men actively brawling.

The sand was gray and springy beneath his feet as he made his way to the rickety structure, and a woman with a wrinkled face and sagging skin met him at the door. In response to his query, she waved him to the back to where the Scottish captain sat drinking with his men.

“Lord Gray!” the captain recognized him instantly.

With an easy grin, Julian bought the man another tankard, and in moments had secured his passage to Edinburgh.

"But I've nae mind for the king's black money, lad,” the captain insisted gruffly, spitting a little as he talked. He was a middle-aged portly man with a stubborn air but a sincere face. “Ye must pay in good honest silver. I'll nae accept the Cochrane Plack, no matter how many laws the king passes!"

"Aye," Julian agreed without hesitation, pressing a silver coin into the man's palm.

The captain eyed the coin and then punched Julian on the shoulder, a smile hiding in his unruly beard. “Then dinna be late, lad. We sail with the dawn!”

Julian smiled, downing a tankard himself as he listened to the men complain about Thomas Cochrane's latest scheme to debase the king’s coin by mixing good silver with copper. “Black Money”, most called it, and some called it “Cochrane Plack”. And few, if any, would accept the coinage in payment for goods, in spite of the numerous laws the king had issued to make them do so.

Growing weary of hearing Cochrane’s name, Julian left to sell his horse, and then wandered aimlessly along the docks for a time, watching the bank of clouds roll in with the tide.

The night passed quickly, and soon enough he was leaning against the deck railing of
The Yellow Carvel
watching France dwindle into the distance. Next to him stood a somber woman holding a bairn whose wee face contorted into tears the moment Julian looked at him.

Quickly, Julian moved away.

Ach, he would never understand bairns nor why anyone would want one of the complicated little beasties.

As the ship plowed through the sea, wave by wave, he let his mind wander over Albany’s latest treachery and the very real threat of war. And by the time the afternoon sun finally pierced the pearly haze that shrouded the sea, his head was aching. Aye, he hadn’t thought it possible, but he now detested Albany even more.

Days passed, and at last they were sailing up Scotland’s black, jagged coast.

Opening his arms wide, Julian breathed deeply of the fresh chill air, eyeing the sea cliffs sprinkled with tufts of grass. Standing on the deck with a cool breeze at his back and the sun warm on his face, he questioned, as he had upon occasion, if he were finally growing tired of
Le Marin’s
escapades. There were times he wondered if he should abide by his mother’s advice to stay in Scotland and preside over Castle Huntly.

Fortunately, the feeling never lasted very long.

Soon,
The Yellow Carvel
made its way up the Forth, lined with thatched cottages on either side, and finally to the docks. Once disembarked, Julian lost no time in securing a horse, and then proceeded to gallop madly to Edinburgh.

Before him, the dark and mighty Edinburgh Castle grew steadily closer, rising high upon the rocky cliffs surrounding the town and the Forth Valley. And soon enough he had entered the city gates, guiding his horse up the cobblestoned streets leading straight to the castle’s main entrance.

The guardsmen let him in at once, and taking the steps two at a time, he arrived at Cameron’s private apartments quite out of breath.

Pounding on the door, he rested his head momentarily against his arm.

He was unprepared for the door to be yanked open immediately, and that by Cameron Stewart, the Earl of Lennox himself.

“
Come in, lad! They told me ye’d arrived with haste!” Cameron pulled him inside at once. “Ach, ye look haggard, Julian!”

The Earl of Lennox was a tall man, dark haired, broad-shouldered and imposing, but the smile in his penetrating eyes was mirrored upon his chiseled lips. “’Tis good to see ye again!”

“Aye,” Julian agreed in a heavy tone.

Cameron’s eyes darkened and his lips thinned. “It canna be good tidings, then.”

Julian grimaced in answer.

The earl expelled a breath. “Then let it wait a moment. Drink first.”

Wearily, Julian followed him across the chamber to a small table laden with goblets and a platter of sweetmeats.

“Take a seat, lad,” Cameron ordered, pushing him towards the nearest cushioned chair. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen ye. What has it been? A year almost?”

“Aye,” Julian grinned tiredly, accepting the proffered goblet and draining it in a single draught. He had last seen Cameron upon the birth of his second daughter. Sizing the earl up and down, he added, "Matrimony and fatherhood becomes ye, lad, though ye'd best be wary of going as soft as a monk.”

Nothing could have been further from the truth. The earl was as fit as he’d ever been.

"'Tis time ye found a lass yourself, Julian.” Cameron’s lip crooked upwards in his version of a laugh.

"Love is an illness, a wretched disease!" Julian tossed his head back with a wide disparaging grin. “Love is a malady
I’ll
never suffer from."

There was a scuffling at the door as the latch lifted, and a group of little girls poured into the room to descend upon Cameron. As they began to squeal, Julian flinched.