by Carmen Caine
“I fear I frightened your lover away, Lady Gray,” he said without an ounce of remorse in his tone.
Liselle let her eyes twinkle. “And I thank you for saving me the effort of frightening him away myself, Lord Gray.”
“Aye, I imagine ye could frighten a man right well,” he replied with an appreciative wink.
The man’s self-assurance and easy confidence were captivating, and the way the muscles on his arms strained against his shirt caused her heart to quicken.
For the very first time, Liselle wondered if Nicoletta had been right. Had she let herself become dangerously infatuated with the man? Was that even possible after such a few brief encounters?
Concerned, she rose to her feet and dipped a curtsey. “I thank you for your services, but I shall retire now, Lord Gray.”
As expected, he didn’t follow her, but she felt his piercing gaze track her across the hall until she dodged behind a screened alcove. And then, mounting the stone steps worn smooth by countless feet before her, she quickly returned to her chamber to collect her wits.
It was unsettling to find Lord Gray in Fotheringhay. What was he doing there? Fotheringhay was not the place to indulge in wine, women, and wagering; it was a place now of war and strategy.
And his arrival had been most ill-timed.
She’d been on the verge of discovering vital information concerning Dolfino Dolfin’s whereabouts.
Feeling unusually hot, she threw her shutters open wide and stared into the night sky, her thoughts consumed with the possible reasons for Julian’s presence. It took some time, but gradually her mind calmed, and finally she was able to put all thoughts of him aside and return to her original purpose of finding Dolfin.
If Dolfin had travelled through Fotheringhay disguised as an ordinary Venetian merchant, the servants were more likely to know more about his current whereabouts than the English knights. Her best course of action would be to listen to the maids’ gossip about where to buy fine trinkets—trinkets needed to aid them in their quest to catch a knight’s eye.
But already the hour was growing late. She would have to hurry.
Her hand was on the latch before she paused. With a castle filled with men and very few women, it would be wise to take additional precautions. Searching through her belongings, she found a small velvet pouch and opened the drawstrings to shake out a small glass vial.
Indormia, a secret of the Vindictam. Something that Pippa, the mistress of poison, had devised before her ill-fated destiny led her to an untimely death. A few drops from the vial would cause even the strongest man to fall into a deep sleep. And a few more drops would cause him to never wake again.
Smiling in satisfaction, she tucked it into her sleeve next to her stilettos, and feeling confident of her success, once again slipped into the dark maze of passages outside her chamber door.
The feasting in the hall had ended, and the knights and their men were settling down for a night’s sleep. Skirting the hall, she headed for the kitchens, descending down the narrow steps winding into the darkness below.
But to her disappointment, the kitchens were already deserted, save for the pot-boy snoozing next to the banked fire. She stood for a moment, wondering where the maids might gather to gossip, when once again, a silken voice whispered into her ear.
"And why is a swan-necked beauty such as ye wandering in the castle kitchens at this late hour?"
Liselle froze.
For the second time that night, Lord Julian Gray had surprised her.
Chapter Five – A Wee Nip of Wine
Amused, Julian leaned against the kitchen wall and observed Liselle from under half-closed lids.
“I could ask the same of you, my lord!” Liselle’s throaty voice held a note of humor as she slowly turned to face him. “What business does a Scottish nobleman have in an Englishman’s castle?”
Julian stirred, whistling under his breath as his eyes traveled slowly from the river of her dark, honeyed tresses, over the sinfully decadent pout of her lips, and down to the curves that promised heaven. She was a torture of the most delicious kind.
“Ach, family ties know no borders, Lady Gray,” he lied with a shrug as his eyes continued to ravish her. He had no family here, but the truth mattered little. He knew right well that he was eyeing her far too long, but the wee lass didn't seem to mind. In fact, she was practically purring, and her eyes held a wicked glint in them.
And then she said, “You are overly bold, Lord Gray.”
A smile creased Julian's cheek even as he knew her presence in Fotheringhay signaled that Orazio was undoubtedly close by. Ach, the man apparently used Liselle as a lackey of some sort. But the covert air of deceit swirling around her intrigued him. And in spite of knowing that any reason she had to be there wouldn’t be a good one, or perhaps because of it, he caught her wrists and pulled her to his chest.
“Bold?” he repeated with a suggestive lift of his brow. “Ye dinna know what bold is, lass. Mayhap I should show ye.” He lowered his voice into an intimate rumble that never failed to affect any woman.
Except this one, he amended dryly as she deftly maneuvered out of his grasp.
“’Tis strangely hot,” she whispered, trailing her fingers evocatively down her throat and over the bodice of her emerald gown. “Perhaps wine would be in order, my lord. Would you care to drink with me?”
Julian’s eyes lit even as his suspicions kindled. The wee vixen was obviously toying with him. That only meant she had something to hide. Could she be a danger in her own right? The thought heightened his interest.
“Where is the harm in a wee nip of wine?” he asked, crossing his arms to lean against the wall again. Aye, he’d play the wee devil’s game. Perhaps he’d loosen her lips along the way as well. “But I expect ye to join me, lass,” he added.
Moving to a shelf littered with half-empty bottles, Liselle selected one, and finding a goblet, filled it to the brim with a deep burgundy wine. With her eyes locked on his, she slowly returned, swaying her hips as she walked. And then offering the goblet to him with both hands, she murmured, "Have a drink, my lord."
Clearly, she was plotting something; her movements were too refined and her tone too seductive. Aye, she had been well-trained. Giving no sign of his inward thoughts, he quirked his lip in a half-smile and rumbled, “And who could tell such a siren no?”
Her lashes fluttered as he took the cup. He glanced down, wondering if it had been poisoned. He swirled it several times, and lifting it to his nose, inhaled the aroma as if in enjoyment. He could smell nothing suspicious.
With his eyes riveted upon hers, he ran his tongue along the goblet edge and took a small sip as if to savor the sweet taste. Aye, he couldn’t taste any poison, either. And he had tasted many over the years.
And then he saw that her eyes had gone wide and her breath had quickened. He hid a smile, noting her reaction. So the lass was smitten with him, after all.
Suddenly, he found her game even more interesting.
“Do you not care for the wine, my lord?” she asked, knitting her eyebrows into a frown.
He didn’t answer as she tore a piece of bread from a loaf resting on a nearby table. Moving so close that he could feel the heat of her skin, she dipped the bread into the wine and trailed it over his lips before popping it into his mouth.
And then placing her lips on the edge of the cup, she whispered, “May I taste, my lord?”
He raised a brow. Tilting the cup forward, he watched her drink deeply and then lick her pouting lips.
The gesture was his undoing.
He drained the goblet in a single draught. And tossing it over his shoulder, he caught her hand fervently into his own. And bringing it to his lips, kissed each tapered finger slowly to at last suck her fingertip as he stared into her fiery eyes.
A flicker of delighted surprise suffused her features. And then her luscious lashes dropped again.
“You are arrogant and overconfident, my lord," she said, removing
her hand.
He laughed. “Am I, Lady Gray?”
But even as he laughed, a strange relaxation mixed with a vague sense of unease descended upon him.
Liselle was pressing closer. Her lips were almost upon his, and as he watched, they parted slightly to blow a seductive breath in his face.
With a groan, he caught her to his chest, and giving way to desire, he pressed his lips against the sweet, soft expanse of her long, slender neck. And as her hands slid up his chest to lock behind his head, he nuzzled her ear and nibbled one of her pearl earrings, removing it quickly with his teeth.
“Lord Gray!” she protested in mock outrage.
But her voice echoed eerily in his head.
In outright alarm, he reached behind his neck to pry her fingers away, but the effort cost him his balance. And as he lurched unexpectedly to one side, the answer raced through his mind.
The wicked minx had poisoned him!
"Sleep well, my lord," she whispered into his ear.
She said something else, but he couldn’t understand her words. And suddenly, it was too difficult to speak or even think.
And then he was falling, and his world went black.
* * *
Lord Julian Gray became aware of the voices first and then the cramp in his leg.
With a groan, he lifted leaden eyelids to find himself surrounded by a bevy of tittering maids.
"My lord!" A pleasingly plump red-haired lass snorted with a giggle. "Would you care for your shirt now, my lord … or would you rather wait a while?" She snorted and giggled again.
Julian frowned and then glanced down. Both brows rose in startled surprise.
He was lying on the floor, stark naked, his shirt and plaid neatly folded on top of a nearby wooden barrel. Glancing around, he spied the sun streaming through a tiny window.
Sweet Mary, but his head ached!
He frowned, puzzled. And then with a rush, the events of the evening before returned to him.
The wicked minx had drugged him! Why would she do such a thing? What had she been looking for in the kitchens? A quick inspection of his flesh assured him that she hadn’t harmed him—beyond giving him a slight headache, he amended with a wince. It made little sense. What had been her purpose?
It had been quite some time since he’d fallen victim to such a ploy. And then strangely, his annoyance turned into admiration. Chuckling under his breath, he rose to his feet, muttering, “The wee canny vixen! What a lass!"
It was then that he realized he was still surrounded by giggling, ogling maids.
With a wink, he pointed to his shirt and plaid. "Aye, I'll need my clothing, lassies,” he replied, wiggling a brow, and then with a devilishly charming smile, added, “And were it not for a most pressing matter, I'd not ask for them mayhap the entire day."
The result was a chorus of giggles and snorts from the entire lot.
Amused, Julian fetched his shirt and plaid himself. But, as he dressed, his thoughts were fully occupied with Liselle.
The wee beastie surely had a wicked sense of humor. He’d do well to discover her purpose and just how she figured in Orazio’s schemes. ’Twould be done easily enough; he planned to stay on at Fotheringhay at least a day, mayhap two, in order to learn more of Gloucester’s army whilst mingling among the Black Douglas’ men. Taking a deep, invigorating breath, he smiled to himself. Aye, spying on Liselle would be a pleasure.
“Well met at last, caro vecio!” A familiar, crusty voice shattered his thoughts. “When I heard Albany was headed here, I knew I would find you not too far away!”
Buttoning his shirt, Julian cocked an eyebrow in the direction of the door, and then a wide grin spread upon his face.
Dolfino Dolfin stood at the scullery entrance, shooing the maids away by shaking his rich velvet mantle in much the same way one teased a Spanish bull. He was a spare, elderly man with white hair, slightly bulging eyes, and a friendly ever-present smile.
Taking in Julian’s state of undress, he shook his head in amusement and said, “Finish dressing yourself, caro. I see you have fallen prey to a woman once again.”
“Ach, but what a woman!” Julian chuckled. Diving into his shirt, he tossed his plaid over his shoulder and turned to face the man.
Dolfino Dolfin had been a master spy in his prime. Their paths had crossed in Italy, many years before, and the man had become Julian’s instructor, his Istruttore, helping to shape him into the man that was now Le Marin. And as the years had passed, he’d become a second father to him.
Stepping forward, Julian swallowed the old man in a warm hug. And then throwing an arm around the Venetian’s stooped shoulders, guided him out of the scullery, through the kitchens, and into the gardens outside.
“’Tis well to see ye once again, Istruttore!” Julian exclaimed, once he was certain they were alone. “‘Twas fair troubling to hear tidings of your trial in Venice. I should have ignored ye and ferreted ye out of there!”
Dolfin heaved a weary sigh. “I had hoped it wouldn’t end in my exile,” the old man admitted in soft regret. “I prayed they would remember my life of service on their behalf, especially my work ensuring the blessed Pope himself would continue to support Venice in the salt trade. But in the end, they were afraid. The Doge himself was convinced that I had … I had…truly betrayed secrets to Ferrara for …”
A shadow touched his face as his voice trailed into silence, and he looked away with a pained expression.
Julian waited for him to continue, but as time passed, he gently probed, “What happened, then?”
Dolfin jerked a little, as if in surprise. “Happened? With what?”
“Your trial?” Julian pressed, frowning a little. “Ye said they thought ye had sold secrets.”
“Ah, yes!” Dolfin closed his eyes for a moment, and his mouth twisted down. “Gold! They refused to see the lie. They … believed that I … I … would betray La Serenìsima for gold!” He sniffed in disgust at the word and repeated it several times.
Julian eyed his mentor curiously. Dolfin was an elegant man of courtly articulation. His halting speech was a bit unusual, but then perhaps it was to be expected. The man was aged and had suffered greatly of late.
“Gold!” Dolfin whispered once again, his eyes taking a far-off look.
“By the Virgin! How could they think ye’d betray Venice … ever?” Julian mused. Such a man would never betray his land for anything.
Dolfin’s shoulders sagged, and the eyes that met Julian’s were sharp and shrewd.
“The truth is … I know too much, caro vecio,” he said. “But they could not reach me in La Serenìsima. They had to flush me out.”
Julian speculatively tilted his head to one side. Perhaps Orazio was after the old man.
“Then ‘tis best ye leave at once, methinks,” he muttered as if to himself before clasping his mentor firmly by the shoulder. “Hie ye off to Scotland, Istruttore. There is more than one Venetian hereabouts. But, ere ye go, tell me, have ye had dealings with one Orazio di Franco?”
Dolfin paled, and stepping out of Julian’s grasp, quickly drew his hood and covered his face.
Julian couldn’t help but notice the old man’s trembling hands. “What is it?” he asked grimly. “What are ye not telling me?”
“It is nothing,” Dolfin replied, but his voice had become guarded all at once, and his tone signaled that no other information would be forthcoming.
“Are ye sure ‘tis better left unsaid?” Julian pressed anyway.
“I am simply a weary old man,” his Istruttore answered, drawing deeper into his hood. “I should not have come here.”
“Nonsense!” Julian protested and gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Many a time I’ve dragged myself bleeding to your door, do ye not recall?”
Dolfin didn’t reply, but his eyes twinkled in response.
With a nod of satisfaction, Julian continued, “Then hie ye off to Channelkirk forthwith and wait for me at the inn there. I’ll see ye sent w
here no others can find ye, I swear it!”
The aged man hesitated a moment, but then gripping Julian’s forearm in agreement, he spun on his heel and disappeared into the kitchens.
Julian watched him go.
Dolfin was in danger, that much was certain. But was Orazio plotting to see the old man who’d been so faithful to Venice for so long, killed—over a few secrets of the salt trade? And what did Liselle know of it? The whole matter was odd, but most importantly a distraction from his most pressing concern—that of Albany and the fate of Scotland.
As a rare clap of thunder resounded across the sky, Julian grimaced at the dark clouds rolling in from the north; they heralded nothing but more rain. Already, the river was breaching its banks. He didn’t relish the thought of riding back to Scotland in the mud.
Adjusting his plaid, he ducked under the low door leading back to the castle’s kitchens; it was the shortest way back to his chamber. Spying a bowl of fruit on a nearby table, he deftly snagged a strawberry and popped it into his mouth.
The cooks were suitably shocked.
“’Tis dangerous to eat that raw, my lord,” one of the men warned as he left.
Julian grinned, certain he was far more likely to die by a sword than a strawberry.
He’d scarcely stepped into the hall when a sudden fanfare of trumpets sounded from the castle courtyard. And as the barking of a dozen scent hounds joined the fray, Julian curiously pushed his way through a group of jugglers and sprinted up a nearby stairwell to peer through a narrow window slit.
The Yorkist King Edward IV of England had arrived.
Julian frowned.
Edward’s presence meant that Albany’s army had likely already mustered, and that meant that matters had taken a perilous turn for Scotland.
Dressed in a dark crimson mantle and with a great sword belted about his waist, the war-weathered king sat astride a white charger. Raising his hand, he signaled the large retinue of royal attendants following him to halt, as his brother, the Duke of Gloucester, came forward to greet him.
"Your Sovereign King hails you!" Edward’s powerful voice carried up to the window.
