Kathleen Harrington (26 page)

Lachlan snatched up the trident. Turning, he pivoted and met another assailant bearing down on him. He hooked the man’s leather belt with the trident’s sharp points. Using the man’s forward momentum, Lachlan lifted the bastard over his head and pitched him across the arena floor. He landed with the satisfying sound of his helmet striking a wooden post on the enclosure’s wall.

Lachlan caught Colin’s gaze and gave a brief salute. His cousin had just as quickly dispatched two more. They waited for the market cart to carry away four more unconscious men.

Together the MacRaths looked at the last gladiator, who backed slowly away, moving toward the far edge of the arena. He threw his sword and shield down and nimbly hopped over the wall.

Lachlan and Colin stood alone in the center of the sand. The audience went wild, cheering and screaming at the top of their lungs.

“I suppose we’d best make out bows to Princess Margaret,” Lachlan suggested. “You’ll have the ladies flocking around you at the dancing this evening.”

Colin glumly shook his head. “Not Lady Pembroke. I shouted at her just before coming into the arena. She’ll nae forgive me for that.”

Lachlan laughed. “After your display of strength and courage, there’ll be plenty of lassies ready to take her place.”

“I dinna want other lassies,” he grumbled.

Before they could turn and bow to the Tudor princess, however, Lady Francine yanked the small wooden gate open and raced across the sand. She threw herself at Lachlan. He obligingly dropped his sword and shield and caught her in his arms. He breathed in lavender and peaches.

“Oh dear God,” she sobbed against his shoulder. “Dear God, Lachlan! You . . . you could have been killed. You c-could have been killed. Those men meant to kill you!”

She framed his face in her hands and pressed ecstatic kisses on his cheeks, his chin, his nose.

Lachlan caught the back of her head in his palm. “Slow down and take better aim, love,” he encouraged with a delighted chuckle.

He covered her mouth with his in a long, lingering kiss. He thrust his tongue inside her mouth and passion erupted between them.

With an audience of over seven hundred of England’s nobility watching in astonishment, there wasn’t much else he could do besides kiss her. But damn, he intended to do a whole lot more once they were alone.

Breathless and gasping for air, Lady Francine drew back slightly. Just enough to meet his gaze.

“I . . . I thought you . . . you were going to die,” she complained in an aggravated tone, as though the potentially lethal conflict had been his fault. Her lower lip trembled and two tears ran down her cheeks.

Gradually, the roar of the crowd penetrated Francine’s awareness. Abashed at her open show of affection, she glanced around to find Diana locked in Colin’s sheltering embrace. The usually coquettish brunette, now weeping uncontrollably, clung to the tall, lanky Scot, who stood with his head bent, quietly reassuring her.

“You need to speak to your cousin, Kinrath,” Francine said in a undertone.

When Kinrath merely arched an eyebrow in apparent mystification, she clarified. “You have to warn Colin to guard his heart. Lady Pembroke never stays with the same lover longer than a fortnight. She’ll leave him in despair and wondering what he did wrong.”

Kinrath favored her with his slow sideways grin. “Ah, I see. You’re fearful lest she break his heart. Dinna worry, love. Colin is a Highlander. He’s well able to take care of himself.”

For some reason, Kinrath’s smug assurance that a Scot would be immune to heartbreak irritated Francine. “I didn’t realize that Scottish men were such cold fish,” she snapped. “I won’t waste my time worrying about any of you again.”

Kinrath’s green eyes sparkled with amusement. “Let’s make our salute to my future queen,” he suggested. “We can talk about this later.”

Francine looked up into the stands to find the princess had risen to her feet, along with all her subjects. Margaret was beaming at them. Francine had a good notion why the young royal appeared so happy at the sight of her two ladies in the embrace of her future subjects. Some of the English noblewomen were expected to marry Scots and remain in the new land with their queen.

But not Francine.

King Henry had been very specific about that. After the wedding, she was expected to return to London and Whitehall.

T
hat evening, following the gladiator spectacle, Lachlan watched Francine glide around the Great Hall on the Spanish ambassador’s arm. They were performing the precise steps of the basse dance to the pounding rhythm of the tabor, accompanied by flutes and violins. Don Pedro de Ayala leaned close to her ear, practically drooling on her yellow satin gown.

If it had been up to Lachlan, he would have kept Lady Walsingham on a short tether attached to his wrist. But court protocol demanded that they each partner other members of the nobility during the dancing. Were they to spend the entire evening in each other’s immediate company, they would give rise to speculation that something was gravely amiss.

Lachlan smiled absently at his own partner, the elderly countess of Surrey, who played the role of Princess Margaret’s duenna. Back at Collyweston, King Henry had placed his eldest daughter into the care of the earl and countess of Surrey. One of Henry’s most capable generals, Surrey was also the treasurer of England.

“You made an excellent gladiator this afternoon, sir,” the stout, gray-haired countess told him with a hearty laugh. “You and your kinsman made short work of those fools”

“I’m pleased you enjoyed the performance, my lady,” he replied, glancing distractedly around the hall.

Lachlan couldn’t always keep Francine within eyesight. It would be sheer idiocy for anyone to make an attempt on her life in a roomful of witnesses. And it would be impossible to cast the blame on Lachlan, should someone try.

The basse dance ended at last. The gentlemen escorted the ladies to the side of the room. Lachlan offered his arm to the chattering countess and escorted her to a cluster of ladies standing at the far end of the hall. He bowed in a polite révérence and kissed her time-worn hand.

Lachlan smiled inwardly, remembering Francine’s frantic kisses at the end of the gladiatorial contest that afternoon. They hadn’t had a moment alone since their very public embrace in front of the cheering audience. Everyone loved a happy ending.

He anticipated the coming night, when they would have privacy at last. He planned to take up where those delightful kisses left off.

Turning to search for Francine, Lachlan saw Lychester bow in front of her, apparently asking for the next dance.

Lachlan hadn’t told her of his suspicion that the marquess was behind his impromptu participation in the gladiator contest. He fought the urge to hurry over, shove Lychester out of the way, and dance with Francine himself. But picking a brawl with the surly coward in front of the Tudor princess and the English nobility would have reverberations all the way to Edinburgh. Lachlan had no wish to displease King Jamie right before his wedding.

Resigning himself to waiting until the dance was over, Lachlan rejoined Colin on the edge of the polished wood floor. His redheaded cousin gave Lachlan a preoccupied glance and then resumed his steadfast watch. He’d spent the entire evening staring at Lady Pembroke, while she flirted with a dozen different men.

“Go on, lad,” Lachlan urged. “Ask her. From the way she was crying hysterically in the arena, I’d say ’tis likely she’ll award you with a dance, at the very least.”

Colin shrugged. “Who’s to say what a beautiful lady is thinking? I’m not about to stick my neck out and have the entire English court watch her chop it off.”

Lachlan laughed. “Any man who claims to know what a beautiful lady is thinking is a goddamn fool.”

E
lliot Brome struggled to keep his rage under control. He led Francine around the floor in the branle, not even attempting to make polite conversation. Contrary to every hope and reasonable expectation, that bastard Scotsman remained alive. Elliot could feel the bloody wretch watching him even now. Watching and waiting for his chance at retribution.

“Did you enjoy the gladiator spectacle this afternoon?” he asked, feigning an attempt at polite conversation. He hoped she had no idea he’d tried to mastermind Kinrath’s death. He searched her eyes for some trace of suspicion.

As always when she was near him, Francine remained as aloof as an ice carving. How he longed to smash that unflagging reserve into a thousand shards. When they were married, she’d learn to behave like a proper wife, subservient to her husband’s wishes. And needs. By God, he wouldn’t take no for an answer then.

He watched her from the corner of his eye. The shadow of her deep cleavage hinted at the buxom teats that would soon be his to enjoy. How he’d hated the thought of Mathias touching her with his ugly, aged hands.

“I was relieved that no one was seriously injured,” she replied with a noncommittal lift of her brow. “It was intended to be a staged performance, purely for entertainment’s sake.”

“I’d have enjoyed seeing that wretched Scot hacked to pieces,” he snarled, no longer able conceal his hatred for the man.

Apparently shocked at the venom in his words, Francine turned her head to study him. “I believe that was exactly what those interlopers intended to do.”

Elliot immediately regretted his outburst. He didn’t want her to guess that he’d manipulated the entire fiasco. At least not yet. Not until after she was securely tied to him in wedlock.

“Whoever drugged the wine of those Romany acrobats and replaced them with that bunch of fools should be punished,” he added, the words sticking like gall in his throat.

“What do you know about those men, Elliot?” Francine’s tone was conversational, but he could feel her fingers tighten on his arm.

“Nothing,” he snapped. “I know nothing of those felons, except that they were inept cowards.”

Her brown eyes, framed by long, thick lashes, seemed to look right through him. Francine’s inscrutable behavior had always baffled Elliot. She was far too intelligent for a female. He sometimes had the uncomfortable feeling that she considered herself above him.

Even after he’d raped Cecilia, Francine had given no hint that she knew he was the perpetrator. Or even that she was aware of the attack. He’d waited in suspense, while no one in the family said a word. Not even her powerful husband, Walsingham.

He’d expected Mathias Granville to come to Warwick Castle with the sheriff to accuse him. Elliot hoped for a chance to challenge the old fool to a combat of honor. He longed for the opportunity to make Francine a widow only months after becoming a bride.

Elliot had realized later that Cecilia must have kept her shameful secret from everyone, including her beloved sister, right up to the grave and beyond.

When the three of them had left for Naples a fortnight after Elliot’s assault, he’d been wild with fury. The elderly man’s poor health had caused the family to seek a milder climate. Elliot had been afraid he’d never see Francine again.

In the years that followed, Elliot had regretted taking his spite out on Cecilia. Hell, he’d never lusted after the girl. She was a pale, spineless imitation of her older sister. He’d wanted to punish Francine for marrying Walsingham. Dammit, he hadn’t planned to rape Cecilia. Francine should have never made him so angry he lost control.

When the branle ended, Elliot forcibly held Francine beside him. He knew she’d be reluctant to make a scene in the middle of Brodsworth Manor’s Great Hall.

Gossip was rife amongst the English courtiers about Lady Walsingham’s affair with that damnable Scot. Everyone whispered that the man boldly slept in her private rooms night after night. At the thought of the couple lying together, Elliot felt his control slipping again.

“I can tell you a thing or two about your Scots lover, Francie,” he said, leaning closer.

“Humph,” she sniffed in disbelief. “What would you know about Laird Kinrath?”

“I have it on the highest authority that your paramour fought at the battle of Cheviot Hills,” Elliot stated with cold assurance. He was lying through his teeth. He had no such knowledge. But he knew just where to strike to cause the most pain.

Blinking back tears, Francine seemed to struggle to hide her anguish. “What English officer told you that?” she scoffed. “Someone you paid to lie?”

“Nay, not an Englishman at all, my dear,” he replied with a sneer, “but a member of the Scottish peerage whose ranking is higher than your beloved earl’s.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Believe it or not, as you wish.” Elliot spoke quietly into her ear. “But it could very well have been Kinrath who murdered Will Jeffries that day on the battlefield.”

Before Francine could protest, Elliot steered her off the dance floor, through a nearby alcove, and into a small antechamber.

He grabbed her face and pinched her mouth shut as he pinned her against the wall with his greater strength. He rubbed his cock against her. She tried in vain to shove him away. He fumbled at the ribbons closing her bodice as he smashed his mouth against hers.

Furious at Elliot’s groping, Francine struggled frantically. She tried to jerk her face away, but he held her chin tight in his punishing grip. She pushed against his solid bulk. “Stop it, Elliot,” she said. “Stop it! You’re hurting me!”

“You’ll soon be my wife, Francie,” he rasped, his breath hot against her cheek. “I’ll school you then in how to please me. A little pain only adds to the excitement.”

“I will never marry you!” she cried.

She grabbed his hair and jerked as hard as she could. Her anger only seemed to excite him further. His black eyes glittering with lust, he laughed in a mounting frenzy.

Elliot ripped at the front of her gown until he succeeded in baring her breasts. He bent his head, rooting greedily for her nipples.

Tears blurring her vision, Francine sobbed in horror. “Stop it, Elliot!” she screamed.

In that instant, he was lifted up and hurled against the far wall. The back of his head struck the paneled wood with a sickening thud, and he slid slowly to the floor.