Kathleen Harrington (27 page)

Dazed, Francine watched Kinrath cross the room after him.

Lachlan dragged Lychester up against the wall, furious at what he’d just witnessed. He caught the black-haired bastard by the throat and jammed his thumb against the man’s windpipe, slowly shutting off his air.

“You miserable worm,” Lachlan grated. “I should have known a craven who’d hire others to do his killing wouldn’t hesitate to manhandle a defenseless woman.”

Under the thick beard, Lychester’s face turned purple. He gagged and made a gurgling sound deep in his throat.

“Kinrath,” Francine wailed. “Stop! Stop!”

The desperation in her voice penetrated Lachlan’s haze of rage. He banged Lychester’s head against the wood behind him and simultaneously kneed him viciously in the crotch. Then let the Sassenach fall, unconscious, to the floor.

Lachlan turned to find Francine had dropped to her knees. Hunched over, she was sobbing uncontrollably, her face buried in her hands, her disheveled hair falling loose from the diamond combs.

Lachlan lifted her up and held her close.

“He . . . he . . . he tried to . . . to . . .” she sobbed, her words muffled against his chest. “I . . . I could . . . couldn’t . . .”

“You’re safe now, love,” he soothed. “I’ve got you.”

People had gathered in the hallway, trying to see what was happening. Francine frantically pulled the torn material of her gown together to cover her exposed breasts. Her hands shook and she wobbled unsteadily.

Lachlan scooped her up in his arms, cradling her against his chest and strode in icy silence through the crowd.

W
ith Colin and Cuthbert on either side, Lachlan rode the short distance from Brodsworth Manor to the Abbey of St. Mary Magdalene. Francine sat in front of him. She curled against his chest and didn’t say a word.

Once within the safety of the priory’s guest chamber, Lachlan sat Francine on her bed and crouched down in front of her. He reached out to cup her cheek in a comforting gesture, and she jerked her head away.

“No, don’t touch me,” she pleaded. “Oh, dear God, please don’t touch me!” Her brown eyes wide with terror, she slapped at his hand with both of hers.

“’Tis me, Francie,” he reassured her in a calm, steadying tone. “I willna do anything without your permission, love.”

She pressed her fingertips against her mouth, as though trying to still the sobs that continued to wrack her. Her golden brown hair spilled about her. She kept trying to cover her breasts with the tatters of her bodice, unaware that he’d placed a tartan he’d pulled from his saddlebag over her shoulders before they’d left the manor.

“Francie, look at me,” Lachlan coaxed, trying to break through the shock and hysteria. He’d seen men react like this after a battle.

When she met his gaze, she shuddered visibly. Tears continued to stream down her cheeks. The anguish that surrounded her was palpable.

“Did Lychester violate you in the past,
a ghaolaich
?” Lachlan asked gently. “If he has, I’ll kill him.”

“No!” she gasped. “You mustn’t try to murder Lychester. You don’t know him. You don’t know what that fiend is capable of doing.”

Lachlan continued to speak in a soothing manner. “I won’t merely try, Francie. If he has ever taken you by force, he’s a dead man.”

“He’s never taken me,” she choked out, “by force or any other means. Now please, Kinrath, just leave me be.”

Lachlan touched her chin with the tip of his forefinger. “What can I do for you, darling? Shall I wake Signora Grazioli? She can help you prepare for sleep.”

Francine shook her head. “No, don’t wake Lucia. That might disturb Angelica. I don’t want my little girl to see me this way. Please just help me with my lacings, and then I can undress myself.”

Lachlan nodded, grateful that she was willing to trust him that far. He sensed that the wrong move on his part could send her back into her previous distress. He deftly undid her tight lacings, releasing her bodice.

She crossed her hands in front of her, holding the loosened gown in place over her bosom. Her head drooped. Her shoulders slumped. She seemed so fragile. His heart ached for her.

Lachlan wondered if, despite her denial, Lychester had attacked her previously. Had the sonofabitch frightened her so badly she was afraid to confide in anyone? Could that explain her wariness about engaging in sex?

He’d seen the alarm in her eyes that first evening here at the abbey, when he’d stood before her, naked and fully aroused. She’d looked almost terrified at the idea of lying with him.

Lachlan rose from his crouch and stepped back, allowing Francine enough space to turn around and step out of her gown. She lifted a robe from the bed and slid her arms into the sleeves. Tying the ribbons, she turned to face him.

“Was your husband ever rough with you, Francie?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, no!” she answered in a shocked tone, the truth of her words reflected in her enormous brown eyes. “Mathias was a gentle man. He treated me with the utmost kindness. He loved me very much.”

“And did you love him?”

“Indeed! How could I not? I’d known him all my life. His lands bordered my father’s. They were close friends. Mathias was everything good and wise.”

“And so your father arranged for you to marry his old friend?”

She smiled sadly, wiping away the tearstains on her cheeks. “If my father had been alive, I wouldn’t have had to marry Mathias.”

Lachlan fought to keep his words conversational. “You had to marry Walsingham?”

At the soft-spoken question, Francine straightened with a start, as though suddenly aware of how much she’d revealed. She pushed past Lachlan, moving to a cabinet on the far wall. Looking at her own reflection in a mirror, she ran her fingers through her disheveled hair.

He waited in silence for her answer.

“I wasn’t with child, if that’s what you mean,” she replied with a stilted laugh.

“What did you mean?”

“Why all this sudden interest in my deceased husband?” she protested. She picked up a brush and began plying it through her tangled curls.

“Mere curiosity,” he replied, studying her anxious features in the glass.

But Lachlan could tell from the way she avoided his gaze, as she doggedly yanked the brush through her hair again and again, the subject was closed. For now.

T
he next morning, Angelica bounced into her mother’s bedchamber, dressed for the day’s journey in crimson riding attire and stockinged feet.

“Mummy, Mummy,” she called cheerfully to her sleepy parent. “Wake up, wake up, Mummy!”

Francine turned her head on the pillow to see her daughter’s smiling face close to her own. “Is it morning already?” she mumbled.

And then she remembered what had happened the night before. Lychester’s vicious attack and Kinrath’s gallant rescue. She looked over to see him fully dressed in doublet, breeches, hose, and boots. He was leaning against the closed outer door, watching them.

“What time is it?” she asked. “You should have wakened me.”

He smiled, his green eyes filled with concern. “You needed your sleep,
a ghràidh
. It won’t hurt to start a little later today. We’ll still reach Pontefract well before dark, if we set a steady pace.”

Signora Grazioli, who’d hurriedly entered the room behind Angelica, clucked her tongue. Her black eyes shone with sympathy. “You should have called me last night to help you undress, mistress. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“There was no need to disturb the two of you,” Francine explained. She avoided Kinrath’s gaze as she sat up and pushed aside the covers.

Lucia bent over the trunk that stood below the narrow, barred window and pulled out Francine’s riding dress for the day’s journey ahead. She set out two pairs of kid boots: one big, one small.

While the nursemaid was attending to the clothing, Angelica crawled into bed and cuddled up next to Francine. “I know a riddle,” she confided, beaming up at her mother.

“A riddle?” Francine drew her daughter even closer and nuzzled her plump, rosy cheek. “Who taught you a riddle?” she asked with a teasing smile.

“Laird Kinrath told me one,” Angelica answered with a giggle of pure delight. “While we were all waiting for you to wake up.”

Francine met Kinrath’s amused gaze. “Oh, he did!”

Angelica rubbed her face against her mother’s sleeve. “You’ll never guess the answer!” she warned. “Never in a million years, never, never, never.”

“Pray, tell me then,” Francine encouraged, trying to keep her excitement well hidden. Now, at last, she had a chance to discover a key to unlock the counterspell.

Angelica sat up straight and began to recite in a rhythmic cadence, “There was a man of Adam’s race . . .” She paused to allow her mother time to think.

“Go on,” Francine encouraged with a nod.

“He had a certain dwelling place,” her daughter continued. “It was neither in heaven, nor on earth, nor . . .” she stopped and pointed downward. “You know,” she whispered, “down there,” holding her hand beside her mouth as though telling a secret.

Francine laughed. “Yes, dear, I know where you mean. What is the last line of the riddle?”

“Tell me where this man did dwell!”

Francine raised her brow, truly baffled. “Not in heaven,” she repeated. “Nor here on earth. Nor down there.” Like Angelica she pointed to the floor.

Her daughter fell back on the pillow, laughing ecstatically. “No, no, no!”

Scowling in puzzlement, Francine looked over at Kinrath, hoping he’d offer a clue.

He grinned and shook his head.

“Who’s the man, Mummy, and where did he live?” Angelica insisted. She rose to her stocking feet on the mattress and bounced up and down. “You have to guess, you have to guess, you have to guess!”

Francine threw up her hands in surrender. “I give up! Tell me!”

“It was Jonah in the belly of the whale!” Angelica announced triumphantly, plopping down on the mattress with a bounce.

Francine struck her own forehead in dramatic defeat. “Of course! Jonah in the whale!”

“Isn’t Laird Kinrath a marvelous tutor?” her daughter asked gleefully. “He knows lots of riddles!”

Francine gathered Angelica in her arms and bussed her cheek. “He certainly is a wonderful teacher,” she agreed. She leaned closer to whisper in her daughter’s ear. “You must ask him to tell you more. Ask him if he knows any faery riddles.”

“I will!” she whispered back, then resumed her giggling.

Francine turned her head to see if Lachlan had overhead them conspiring.

Kinrath’s gaze was filled with such unalloyed tenderness, Francine felt her breath catch in her throat. It reminded her of the day they’d played at lawn bowling at Beddingfeld Castle. He’d looked at the two of them playing together with such intense longing. If he yearned for a family, why hadn’t he already married and fathered children? He was certainly handsome enough and wealthy enough to woo any lady of his choosing.

Francine reminded herself that he’d lived the life of a sea raider, one of her country’s fiercest enemies. Last night, Lychester had accused him of fighting at the battle of Cheviot Hills.

Not that she believed the selfish, self-serving marquess. Francine knew, full well, that Elliot Broome was quite capable of lying to attain his goals. And one of his goals was to drag her, kicking and screaming, to the altar.

Kinrath interrupted her unhappy musing. “Walter is waiting for Angelica and Signora Grazioli in the corridor,” he said. “He’ll take them down to the dining hall for breakfast, while I talk with you a bit, Lady Walsingham.”

“Very well,” she agreed.

“Get Laird Kinrath to teach you a riddle,” Angelica called, just before skipping out the door, holding onto her nursemaid’s hand.

Francine turned to Kinrath, fearing he wanted to question her further about her relationship with Mathias. Or Lychester. Her voice revealed her wariness. “What is it you wish to say?”

“Now don’t go throwing your head up like an unbroken filly,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve no intention of trying to lead you around by a halter.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Best not to try,” she agreed.

He stepped closer and offered her a sheathed dagger. His tone turned somber. “I want you to wear this dirk on your girdle from now on, Francie. After what happened last night, you need some means of self protection.”

Francine took the weapon and turned it over, studying the ornate carvings on the leather sheath. It was covered with mysterious designs. She started to pull the blade free.

“Careful,” he cautioned. “I sharpened it this morning.”

When she slowly withdrew the dagger from its sheath, she discovered the blade carried even more mystical writing.

“What does it say?”

He smiled wryly. “Sorcerer of the Seas.”

“Is it magic?” she asked, before she’d stop to think.

“I only wish it were,” he replied. “Did anyone ever show you how to use a dirk?”

She frowned and shook her head. “Never. Who would have thought I’d ever need to know?”

“Then it’s time you learned, sweetheart.” He took the weapon, sheathed it and handed it back to her. “If you’re out of your assailant’s reach, Francie, dinna try to close the distance between you in an attempt to stab him. And dinna try to throw it at him, either. You haven’t the skill. Better to scream like a banshee and run as fast as you can.”

“What’s a banshee?”

“A phantom haunting a castle.”

She nodded her understanding.

He grabbed her round the waist with one arm and pulled her closer. She could feel the strength of him muscular frame, though he held her lightly in the crook of his arm. “But if your assailant has you in his grasp, you’re not without a chance to save yourself.”

He covered her hand holding the weapon with his own and proceeded to demonstrate. “If he’s facing you, try to strike him below the ribcage. You’re not strong enough to force the blade between the bones. If you try, the knife might just glance off a rib. But a strong, determined thrust straight to his gut will do nicely.”

Kinrath guided the sheathed dagger she held toward his own belly. “Like this. Now you try it,” he directed, releasing her hand.