Kathleen Harrington (13 page)

Her final bowl landed right alongside her previous two. She couldn’t have been more precise if she’d walked up and placed it there.

Three perfect shots.

“Good g-going, m-milady!” Colin shouted.

“Oh, Francie!” Diana cried. “That was wonderful!”

Francine took a deep breath and sighed in relief.

She’d done it!

But suspecting that Kinrath had purposefully lost the game to ingratiate himself with her, she could afford to be magnanimous.

“Marry, my lord,” she told the Highland laird, as he came to take his spot on the mat, “if you want to cry off from your wager, now’s your chance. I’m quite prepared to be generous in victory.”

He struck his chest with his fist, feigning surprise. “I’m astonished, milady, at the very suggestion that I’d attempt to weasel out of my bet. You assume I have no chance of besting you, then?”

She laughed at his histrionics, certain he was trying to distract them all from his inevitable, and possibly self-chosen, defeat. “I’d like to see you try!”

“Try, try, try!” Angelica called, bouncing around the green. “Try to best Mummy, Lord Kinrath, try to best her!”

“I won’t just try, angel,” he told the little girl with a broad wink. “I’ll best your mother and win the wager.”

Francine folded her arms and waited impatiently for the game to be over and herself to be declared the winner. She’d wait till that evening, however, to inform the overconfident earl that his scheming had been in vain.

She fully expected Kinrath to bowl backhanded once more, leaving her three bowls unscathed. Instead, he made a perfect forehand shot that whizzed left in a neat curve across the grass and smacked forcefully into her third wood. Like baby ducklings sitting in a row, first one, then the next, then the last of her bowls slid ignominiously over the edge of the bank and into the ditch.

Kinrath had won.

Francine stared at him in astonishment.

He’d purposely led her to think he was allowing her to win, when all along, his plan was to defeat her on his very last shot. She came to the stunned realization that he’d used her female vanity against her and played her for the fool. She’d thought he’d been purposely losing the game, while he’d been fully intent on being victorious.

But the amusement in his eyes held not a whit of mean-spiritedness. Just an honest enjoyment of the competition and the satisfaction of besting her.

Considering the brilliant success of his ploy and her own incredible folly, Francine felt her sense of humor bubbling up inside her. She tilted her head back and burst out laughing.

“Well, Lady Francine,” he said with a grin, “since I’m going to be sitting beside you at the banquet table tonight and every night thereafter, I’m happy to see you’re a good loser.”

“And you, sir, are a very adept winner. How did you manage to pull that off?”

He shrugged disarmingly. “’Twas just a little magic in the wrist.”

Magic?

“Yea, we won!” Angelica called as she tore across the grass to her mother. Throwing her arms around Francine’s waist, she hugged her tight. “We beat you, Mummy, we beat you, just as Lord Kinrath said we would!”

Francine bent and kissed the top of her daughter’s head. “Oh, indeed, my darling, you won, you won.”

When she glanced up, Kinrath stood watching the two of them, and the look of tender affection on his face sent an ache of longing coursing through her. It was a longing Francine knew she must never, ever act upon.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

“M
ay I have a word with you, Lady Walsingham?”

Tearing her gaze from the unspoken promise glowing in Kinrath’s eyes, Francine looked over to find Charles Burby standing a short distance away on the gravel path that led to the bowling green.

“Of course, Master Burby,” she said with a welcoming smile as she motioned for the Master of the Revels to approach.

Charles wasn’t given to overreacting or easily upset by the challenging twists and turns of producing one marvelous court spectacle after another. She could tell from the concern furrowing his brow that something important was wrong.

He clutched his round felt hat in his chubby fingers and bowed courteously. “’Tis about the archery contest we’d planned for tomorrow’s fair, my lady,” he explained. “This morning, the master bowman had an accident. He’s cut his hand. ’Tis a severe gash across his right palm. He won’t be able to be Robin Hood.”

Francine smoothed the white ruffled collar on her daughter’s dress as she frantically tried to think of a workable solution to their problem. “Isn’t there another archer who could take his place?” she asked, unable to keep the worry from her voice.

“Nay,” Charles replied soberly. He ran his fingers through his thinning brown hair in a quick, nervous gesture. “No one but John Hartley can hit a target at four hundred yards with reliable accuracy. I’m afraid we’ll have to move the target up nearer to the contestants. And considerably nearer at that.”

Francine bit her lip in consternation. She’d worked closely with the Master of the Revels for the last two months, planning all the festivities to take place along their route to Scotland. Learning that the first elaborate diversion on the journey might be ruined was a bitter pill to swallow. The unfortunate turn of events could spoil their plans to entertain the English courtiers and their ladies with a romantic re-creation of one of the legendary outlaw’s storied escapades.

“How much closer?” she asked.

His pale blue eyes filled with regret, Master Burby compressed his lips and frowned. “Most likely nearer by a hundred paces, my lady. Otherwise, we’d risk Robin Hood missing the bulls-eye.”

“Oh, no!” Diana cried. “Everyone would be sure to notice! It would completely ruin the spectacle!” With a rustle of green silk, she moved closer to Francine and wrung her hands. “How can Princess Margaret award the silver arrow to Robin Hood if he doesn’t best all the other archers? How can Maid Marian reward him with a kiss?”

“Why, ’tis n-no problem there,” Colin offered cheerfully, as he joined the ladies beside Master Burby. He braced his hands on his hips, and a smile lit up his freckled features. “Let Lachlan play the p-part of Robin Hood. He can easily h-hit the center of the target at four h-hundred yards.”

Francine whirled to face the earl of Kinrath, who stood next to his uncle at the near end of the bowling green listening to their discussion with apparent interest. She left the gravel path to stand on the grass in front of them.

“Can you?” she questioned, the doubt in her voice transparent. “Can you hit the bull’s-eye at four hundred yards?”

“I can,” he replied.

“Every time?”

His folded his arms across his chest and nodded. His eyes twinkled with amusement at her open skepticism. “Every time.”

She turned to search Walter MacRath’s craggy visage, trying to find a hint of doubt about his nephew’s skill as an archer in the older man’s gaze.

Walter grinned at her, his chipped front tooth and broken nose giving him the roguish air of an affable corsair. Like his nephew and son, he wore his long hair in a braid, tied back with a leather thong.

And though the three Scots had left their swords in their quarters, each man had a dirk secured at his left side, even during the game of bowls. They made a fearsome trio.

“Dinna be afeered, milady, that the laird willna hit the mark,” Walter replied in his gravelly voice. “Forbye, The MacRath’s nae missed a single bull’s-eye he’s ever aimed at.”

Francine glanced over at Kinrath’s three red wooden bowls, still clustered round the white jack on the green, like chicks huddling close to their mama, and then back to the tall earl. “You’re absolutely and positively certain you can hit the dead center of a target at four hundred paces every time?”

Kinrath shrugged with complete sang-froid, clearly unruffled by her obvious distrust in his ability. “I’m absolutely, positively certain, Lady Walsingham.”

Francine hesitated, knowing how important the archery contest would be. Tomorrow, everyone in Princess Margaret’s party would attend the fair on Grantham’s village green, given by the city’s mayor and aldermen in honor of the future queen of Scotland. Sherwood Forest stood only a day’s ride to the east, and the young princess dearly loved the ancient tales of Robin Hood. As a fitting tribute to the countryside’s favorite legendary hero, Francine had planned a spectacle pitting the fabled outlaw and his merry men against the Sheriff of Nottingham and his soldiers.

“If you miss the bull’s-eye tomorrow,” she warned Kinrath, “the pageant will be a disaster. Princess Margaret is counting on awarding a silver arrow to Robin Hood. We wouldn’t want to disappoint her.”

“She won’t be disappointed,” he assured her.

“Oh, do let him!” Diana exclaimed, moving across the grassy rink to join them. “Why, Kinrath would make a perfect Robin Hood.”

“Yes, let him, Mummy, let him,” Angelica chimed in, tugging insistently on the folds of Francine’s gown. “Laird Kinrath will make a perfect, perfect Robin Hood!”

“I’m not too sure about that,” Francine replied. She looked over at the Master of the Revels and shook her head. “Even if Laird Kinrath can hit the bull’s-eye every time from such a great distance, should a Scot be chosen to portray one of our country’s greatest heroes and outwit the sheriff and his English soldiers?”

“’Twould be much better than bringing the targets up closer, my lady,” Charles Burby pointed out courteously. “The audience would be sure to notice such a drastic change from four hundred yards to three.”

Francine met the Scottish earl’s amused gaze, wishing mightily she didn’t have to ask for his help, but unable to think of another remedy for their predicament.

“Will you do this for Master Burby, Laird Kinrath?” she asked.

She wasn’t completely convinced he actually
could
do it. There seemed, however, to be no other option.

“For Master Burby, no,” Kinrath replied with his slow sideways grin, and the corners of his eyes crinkled good-naturedly.

No doubt, he relished the twist of fate that had her begging him for a favor. Especially after she’d complained about his highhanded behavior on the road to Grantham.

He bowed far lower than necessary and added with an overly dramatic flourish of his arm, “But for my Lady Walsingham, I’ll be honored to oblige.”

“This isn’t supposed to be a farce,” she warned him. “If you miss the mark and people start laughing at you, I’m the one who’ll be mortified.”

Kinrath stepped closer and bent his head. “Why, my dear lady,” he replied, his words low and taunting, “it seemed perfectly fine with you when the audience howled at the Romany wearing a kilt and strutting around Collyweston’s Great Hall on stilts. I suspect I was the one meant to feel mortified that evening.”

“You don’t think I had anything to do with that!” she retorted. Unable to meet his perceptive gaze, she clasped Angelica’s hand and stared down at her daughter’s golden ringlets. Francine hated to lie in front of her child. But what else could she do? She couldn’t admit the truth.

Drat the man.

He was entirely too intelligent.

’Twas most inconvenient.

At her obvious discomfiture, the earl of Kinrath chuckled softly. “I certainly don’t think Master Burby came up with that wickedly clever idea.”

“Sir,” Charles interjected as he stepped closer, “I take full responsibility for the farce at Collyweston. But as her ladyship says, the archery contest tomorrow is not meant to be a foolish comedy, but a romantic retelling of an ancient ballad.”

“Thank you, Master Burby, for your support,” Francine said. She turned to Kinrath and quickly added, “For I’m certainly not in charge of tomorrow’s festivities other than the correct seating protocol in the viewing stands.”

“Of course.” Kinrath’s smile widened, the flash of his white teeth making it clear he didn’t believe her but was far too polite to say so out loud. “And will you be playing the role of Maid Marian?” he inquired sweetly, moving so close to Francine she had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

She hated when he did that.

It always made her feel so vulnerable.

His breath-robbing nearness reminded her of that scorching kiss in his bedchamber. Unable to stop herself, she stared at his mouth and swallowed back a sigh.

“Oh, no!” Diana exclaimed with a trill of feminine laughter. She crowded in between them, caught his large hand in both of hers, and brought it to her ample bosom. “That would be me! I’m going to be Maid Marian.”

Francine stepped back and smiled. She hoped Kinrath would show some hint of surprise. Even, perhaps, a tiny bit of disappointment.

The grin never left his face. Nor did he hesitate for the space of a moment before replying. “I should have known,” he murmured. He looked over the top of Diana’s ebony curls, his gaze never leaving Francine’s mouth.

The blasted man was impossible to predict and even harder to read. Well, heaven above, let them have their kiss. If ’twas Lady Pembroke he wanted to bed, no one would try to stop him.

Least of all, Francine.

He’d jolly well better hit that bull’s-eye tomorrow or he’d be in for a tongue-lashing he’d never forget.

“A
h, Lady Francine. Come in, my dear, come in.” Oliver Seymour left his desk and came across the colorful Turkistan rug to greet her. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

He took her fingers in his timeworn hands and squeezed reassuringly as he led her into the room.

Following the game of bowls with the three MacRaths the previous morning, Francine had enjoyed the midday meal in the center of a garden maze with Angelica and Lady Diana, both of whom prattled on incessantly about Kinrath’s clever strategy to best her.

When Francine and her daughter returned to their suite, Signora Grazioli had given her a message from the duke of Beddingfeld requesting her presence in the castle library as early as possible the next day.

Now absently nodding to her elderly friend in response to his warm welcome, Francine gazed in surprise at Gillescop Kerr, earl of Dunbarton, standing in the center of the rug, a scowl on his wrinkled forehead. The earl of Kinrath, who’d been looking out an open window, turned to acknowledge her. His brief smile lacked the usual air of mocking flirtation, and Francine smiled all the more brightly to hide her disappointment. She’d started to enjoy sparring with him over his outrageous behavior.