Kathleen Harrington (10 page)

“I would never be so foolish,” she assured him. “My first and last responsibility is to Angelica. I would never compromise my ability to guard and protect my daughter.”

“H
ere’s the fellow you wanted to see, Laird,” Colin MacRath called, as he strode into the stables with a tow-headed youth following in his wake.

Lachlan looked up from the task of checking a skittish mare’s hooves and nodded curtly to the newcomer. Returning to his chore, he ran his fingers down the bay’s hocks, patted her shoulder reassuringly as she tried to sidle away, then checked the cinch strap and bridle. The dainty barb was a fine horse, well-behaved, yet with plenty of spirit. He could see why the countess had chosen the mare for the first day’s ride.

“You may go,” Lachlan told his lanky, red-haired cousin, as he handed him the reins. “Take Lady Walsingham’s mount and her daughter’s pony in the next crib out to the courtyard. Place them beside my horse. The rest of her household should already be waiting under your father’s supervision. I’ll be there shortly.”

Colin nodded and left with the mare, whistling softly under his breath.

Lachlan turned to the musician waiting tense and silent beside him. They were alone in the stables for the moment.

“What’s your name, lad?” Lachlan asked.

Not yet in his twenties, the young man met Lachlan’s gaze with worried eyes. His Tudor green-and-white livery displayed a narrow chest and skinny legs. He tugged off his cap with long fingers, and a hank of straight hair fell across his high forehead. He brushed the hair back with a quick, nervous gesture.

“Ned Fraser, milord,” he answered solemnly.

“You know who I am, Ned?”

“Aye, Laird, I ken,” he replied with a polite bob of his head. “Ye be The MacRath of Kinrathcairn. Me mither’s people are from the Isle of Skye.”

“And you are the one who played the bagpipes last night.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Aye, I did, sir,” Fraser agreed with a frown, his gaze moving around the narrow stall. He was wondering, no doubt, why he’d been singled out for such a strange interrogation.

“A Scotsman playing the bagpipes for King Henry’s court,” Lachlan said with a lift of his brows. “Not something one would expect.”

“Oh, I don’t usually play the bagpipes,” Fraser explained in a rush. “Truthfully, I dinna ken, till the Romanies marched out dressed in the Campbell tartan, that they’d be portrayin’ Highlanders or actin’ the part o’ bloody fools. I meant no disrespect, Laird, to any of our countrymen. I only did what I was told.” He lifted his thin shoulders and added lamely, “Ordinarily, I play Sassenach airs on the sackbut or the recorder.”

“Who told you to play the pipes?” Lachlan questioned in a conversational tone.

“I believe the order came from the Master of the Revels,” the youth replied with a deliberative frown. “I don’t think . . .” He stopped short, unsure of himself in the presence of a Scottish peer.

“Go on, lad,” Lachlan encouraged. “What don’t you think?”

“A’weel, laird, the clashmaclaver ’mongst the gallery last night ’twas that a highborn lady was responsible for the entire spectacle. But o’ course,” he hastened to add, “no bloke in his right mind would believe that blather.”

“And what was the name of the lady who supposedly created the farce?”

“Och, I’ve nae idea,” Ned Fraser confessed. “None of the other musicians seemed to ken, either. Leastways, no one took the gammon seriously enough to even hazard a guess.”

Lachlan believed the boy to be telling the truth and nodded his dismissal. He handed him a crown. “You may go, lad.”

As Ned hurried away, Lachlan bent to retrieve his riding gauntlets from where he’d left them on a bale of straw. Straightening, he found the marquess of Lychester standing several feet from him in the stall. Behind him in the stable’s wide doorway hovered two burly cohorts, shielding their master from any untimely interruption.

Taking a belligerent step closer, the English nobleman propped his hands on his hips and glared at Lachlan. He was armed with broadsword and dagger, presently sheathed at each side. A black-velvet doublet encased his barrel chest, and long hose revealed his muscular legs.

“I’m here to give you fair warning, you bloody bastard,” the marquess said with a snarl. Though shorter than Lachlan, he had a sturdy, wide-shouldered build and the confidence of a knight who’d spent days and weeks training for combat on the field of battle. Smacking both gloves in his palm, Lachlan moved directly toward the surly man, closing the distance between them to mere inches.

“Say what you’ve come to say, Lychester, and be quick about it. I’ve a full day’s ride ahead of me and no wish to start a minute later than necessary.”

Clearly infuriated at Lachlan’s aggressive stance, Elliot Brome’s hand moved to the basket hilt at his side.

“The countess of Walsingham is promised to me,” he declared with a sneer. “We are to be married when we return from Scotland. In the meantime, I’m telling you to keep your goddamn distance. She’s not for the likes of scum like you.”

Though Lychester had made the wrong assumption, Lachlan didn’t inform the spurned lover that Lady Walsingham had slept with another, more fortunate, gentleman last night. For one thing, it wasn’t in his nature to deflect a bully’s wrath toward an unsuspecting man. For another, Lachlan wasn’t about to deny his own attraction to the irresistible blonde.

“If the lady is betrothed to you,” Lachlan replied in a tone approaching boredom, “she can have no interest, whatsoever, in me. And I have never forced my attentions on any woman.”

Lachlan’s calm words seemed to act as a catalyst to Lychester’s temper. A vein throbbed in the marquess’s temple. His face grew scarlet beneath the black beard. “What are you implying?” he demanded, his voice choked with fury. “What are you saying, man? That I have?”

Lachlan pulled on his gloves. He searched the Englishman’s dark eyes, seething now with hatred. “When it comes to members of the weaker sex, Lychester, I’ve no clue what you have and haven’t done. But considering your performance on the dance floor last evening, I suspect you may be as clumsy in your courting as you are in the execution of the pavane. Now move out of my way.”

Though the marquess’s fingers tightened on his sword handle, he made no move to withdraw the blade from its scabbard. “Heed my warning,” he grated, “or you’ll be just one more dead Scotsman.” With a vile oath, he turned and left the stable, his henchmen following behind.

Lachlan had no respect for anyone who’d murder a wounded countryman on the battlefield. But he’d been sent to England to smooth Princess Margaret’s journey to Scotland, not antagonize members of the Tudor court. If the two Sassenachs really were betrothed, he would stay away from the dowager countess for diplomacy’s sake. After all, she’d made it clear that morning that another man had already caught her fancy.

F
orty minutes later, Lachlan waited impatiently for Lady Francine Walsingham to make her appearance in Collyweston’s outer court. She was tardy, just as he’d suspected she would be. Consequently, they’d be leaving a whole hour behind schedule. Once again his knowledge of females had proven flawless.

No doubt she’d arrive in her own time. With a casual shrug of her shoulders or a careless wave of her hand, she’d blame the final choice of her traveling costume, or something equally unimportant, as the cause of their delayed departure.

He looked around the crowded enclosure at the people restlessly waiting to start. Walter MacRath, his uncle and second in command, stood beside Lachlan at the front of the procession, holding their horses’ reins. Cuthbert Ross, another kinsman, waited by his large gray Percheron near the rear, where he’d be in charge of the extra horses and the wagons loaded with baggage. In the middle of the column, Colin stood ready to take responsibility for Lady Walsingham’s servants, who dallied about in a group, talking and laughing with one another. ’Twould seem they were used to biding their time until their mistress made her eventual appearance for an outing.

With a grimace of impatience, Lachlan glanced at his uncle. Their eyes met, and Walter flashed him a wide, good-natured grin. “Ye might as well lose yer tetchy mood, laddie,” he said with a knowing shake of his head. “We’ve a long, tedious journey in front of us, forbye, and we havena left the palace gate.”

Lachlan smiled in reluctant acknowledgment of his relative’s sound advice. “You’re right as hell on that score, Wally,” he agreed. “Escorting a noblewoman on a cross-country trek would try the forbearance of a saint. I knew the minute Dunbarton told me I’d be responsible for the progress of a dowager countess that I was in for a cartload of aggravation.”

Walter rubbed his gnarled forefinger alongside his big, broken nose. “Weel now, trainin’ a Sassenach lady to be punctual and considerate would be like teachin’ a wild boar to sing Gregorian chant in the cathedral choir. The pawky lessons would merely frustrate you and mightily irritate the boar.”

Lachlan laughed out loud. His uncle was right. There was no sense in trying to change the immutable fact that titled English gentlewomen were the most self-absorbed creatures on the face of God’s earth.

The sudden quiet that settled over the milling assembly heralded the arrival of that gorgeous, self-absorbed creature herself.

Lachlan turned to find Lady Francine Walsingham standing beside the English king’s elderly chancellor at the top of the wide palace steps. From the looks on their faces when they glared at him, Lachlan realized his previous assumption had been dead wrong. It hadn’t been the choice of her attire that had caused the lady’s belated appearance. Gauging by the somber expressions directed at him, it appeared that the duke of Beddingfeld and the dowager countess had been discussing the fact that Lachlan would be escorting her hundreds of miles northward.

And neither were very pleased about it.

Lachlan’s own irritation faded, however, at the captivating sight before him. A little girl, about five years old, held tightly to Lady Walsingham’s hand. The two were dressed in scarlet riding attire, trimmed in black velvet. Small black-velvet hats, each decorated with a pair of raven’s feathers, were tilted askew on their golden-blond hair. Black kid gloves and boots completed the matching outfits.

There was no question the child was the countess’s daughter. She was a perfect miniature of her mother. But unlike her solemn-eyed parent, the dainty youngster smiled at Lachlan with a merry, welcoming smile. The wee lassie was clearly ready to begin her great adventure.

On the other side of the child, a nursemaid, standing no more than four foot six, glared at Lachlan. Her dark eyes glinted from beneath thick black brows that met over the narrow bridge of her long, hooked nose. The hostile servant had to be Signora Grazioli.

Until that morning, no one, not even the earl of Dunbarton, had bothered to inform Lachlan that, in addition to a strong-willed and pampered widow, he’d be responsible for the welfare of her young daughter and the child’s ill-tempered Italian nurse.

Hell and damnation.

Not one, but three females to escort all the bloody way to Scotland. And two of the trio seemed to consider his very existence a blight on their otherwise perfect world.

Lachlan strode to the foot of the shallow stairs, where he met the foursome. “We’re late in departing,” he said. He made no attempt to hide his irritation. “I suggest we waste no more time.”

Beddingfeld nodded. “Yes, it’s best that you leave immediately.” He paused and frowned as he met Lachlan’s eyes. “I trust you realize, Kinrath, the great favor bestowed upon you by His Majesty, when he asked you to accompany Lady Walsingham on her journey north. Her well-being will be your responsibility, and yours alone. Should the countess have cause to complain of your conduct as a Scottish representative, such unhappy reports will be forwarded to your king.”

Lachlan swung his gaze to Francine. “And has the lady complained of my conduct thus far?”

Her cheeks grew rosy, as she scowled in open defiance. “I trust you will put my welfare and that of my child’s before all other considerations.”

“On that, I give you my word,” he said. He looked down at the little girl and smiled. “And who have we here?” he asked in a tone of quiet reassurance.

“My name is Lady Angelica,” she answered with a pert little curtsy, “and you are Lord Kinrath. My mummy told me you are going to lead us all the way to Scotland, and you won’t get lost because you know the way there because that’s where your home is.”

The child gazed up at him with round, trusting eyes, the exact nut-brown of her mother’s. Lachlan experienced an undeniable tug at his heart.

“Aye, lassie,” he said gently. “We willna get lost. I know the way home like the robin returning in the spring. Now let’s get you on your pony, shall we?”

With a radiant smile, Angelica clasped the gloved hand he offered. “You will have to lift me up,” she informed him, “and then help Mummy, too, for even though she’s much taller than me, she can’t get up into the saddle without help, and you are supposed to help us, because that is what the king said, even if Mummy doesn’t really want to go all the way to Scotland with you.”

“I’ll be honored to help you both,” he assured the child.

Hand in hand, Lachlan and Angelica walked across the cobblestones, followed by Lady Walsingham and the cross-tempered nurse. He swung the child up on the small Welsh pony that stood waiting beside the countess’s barb.

“I got to sleep with Mummy last night,” Angelica confided with a joyful giggle.

Lachlan ignored the astonished gasp from the little girl’s mother behind him. He met the child’s guileless brown eyes in delight. He handed her the reins, unable to suppress a grin at the telling information she’d offered so artlessly.

“Oh, did you, now, lass?”

“Yes, I had a bad dream there was a witch in the cupboard, and Mummy let me climb into her big bed with her when she came in after the dancing, and she always smells so nice, and she let me have breakfast with her before she went to church.”

“And did you look for the witch in the morning?” he asked.