by Tarah Scott
“’Tis better than Venice,” she retorted in annoyance and snatched the reins from his hands.
“I think not!” he grumbled and then abruptly walked away.
She watched him go with a scowl. Why was he lying to her?
And then as he leapt gracefully into his saddle and smoothed his black cloak, she suddenly recalled where she’d seen the farewell gesture before.
Several times, as a young girl, she had spied upon Orazio meeting secretly with the member of the Quattuor Gladiis that presided over their family. Just the title Quattuor Gladiis—the four swords—inspired fear. They were the four men who controlled the destiny of the Vindictam, and only they were allowed to know and speak with the Dominus Granditer, the Grand Master of them all—the one man who held the fate of everyone in the palm of his hand.
Her frown deepened.
Perhaps she was mistaken; it made little sense that Pascal should speak with one of the Quattuor Gladiis. Only the captains, the Magno Duce, such as Orazio, had that right. And although Pascal was a member of the powerful da Vilardino family, he was still her cousin. She would know if he were a Magno Duce.
She shook her head, perplexed, and then decided she must have misunderstood.
Pascal was far too young and arrogant for a member of the Quattuor Gladiis to speak with him and show him such respect as the gesture implied.
Deciding to brush the matter aside, she urged her horse forward, and then Archibald Douglas sounded his hunting horn and they left the abbey behind them.
For a time, they galloped along the river path, and then took a northerly road out of Southampton.
Albany and Douglas were both battle-hardened men with a purpose. Their pace was brisk, but Liselle found the ride exhilarating. And they rode hard each day, rarely stopping and speaking little as they headed north towards Fotheringhay as fast as their horses could carry them.
Far sooner than she’d expected, Liselle spied the high, thick walls and lofty towers of the formidable Fotheringhay Castle in the distance. And shortly after, they were clattering over the bridge spanning the River Nene and under the ancient stone gate to be met by a party of English nobles and a gray-haired grizzled man in a plaid that Liselle could only assume was the Black Douglas.
Maneuvering his gray gelding to her side, Pascal pointed with his chin. “The small one is the Duke of Gloucester,” he muttered disgustedly under his breath.
“And is that the Black Douglas?” she whispered the question.
“Then you do listen upon occasion, bábia,” he observed with a smirk.
Liselle scowled at him, but then strangely, the fleeting image of him greeting the mysterious black-cloaked figure at the abbey crossed her mind.
“Ah, but I spoke too soon!” Pascal’s grating tones interrupted her thoughts. His fine nostrils flared. “Pay heed to my words! Must I ever remind you of your duties? Look to the English king’s brother, the fool giving Albany an army!”
Gritting her teeth at him, Liselle turned her gaze to Gloucester.
The expression on the man’s face was proud and fierce, resembling anything but a fool. He was a delicate man with almost feminine features, long dark hair, an arched nose, and thin lips. He stood hunched to one side, and it took her a moment to see that his spine was dramatically curved, lifting one shoulder noticeably higher than the other.
He must have sensed her eyes upon him, for he looked her way, and for a brief moment, their eyes met.
The man’s expression soured at once.
A little surprised by his response, Liselle bowed her head, but when she glanced up again, Gloucester had disappeared into the castle along with Albany and both Douglases, the Red and the Black.
“Strange,” Pascal commented in a snide tone. “Gloucester seems impervious to your charms. How amusing.” He began to chuckle softly under his breath.
Scowling, she dismounted, and leaving Pascal to his own designs, followed a chubby, rosy-cheeked maid to a small chamber in the northwest tower.
“There’s no lady present, my lady,” the maid informed her, bobbing up and down. “This is a place of war.”
Liselle smiled. With no lady present, she wasn’t expected to waste time engaging in idle gossip. “Then I’ll have my cousin escort me to the feast,” she said, thinking aloud. “There’s no need to trouble you further.”
The rosy-cheeked maid seemed all too pleased at that and left quickly before Liselle could change her mind.
“I am fortunà,” she murmured to herself as she selected a green embroidered gown with a pearl-lined collar and a matching set of earrings to wear. Changing her hose, she paused a moment to stare at the viper upon her ankle.
She had a mission. She had to find Dolfin. Quickly donning her new hose, she changed her shoes and took a deep breath.
There were many nobles in the castle. Perhaps one of them had news of an elderly Venetian.
Cautiously, she slipped out of her chamber and down the tower steps to the great hall.
The great hall was a massive room with arched windows lining the western wall above a magnificent fireplace. The air was murky and filled with the smoke and scent of roasted meat as servants scurried about with platters for the evening meal. Men discussing battle plans sat around tables—or on top of them. And as the wine flowed freely, Liselle knew their tongues would quickly loosen.
Keeping to the shadows, she slowly circled the room, searching for a talkative man to suit her purposes and listening to scattered fragments of conversation. She was surprised to see a number of Scottish men in plaids mingling with the English, but she could only assume they had been exiled with the old Black Douglas from years before.
And then she heard a loud, overbearing laugh and moved closer.
“The men are mustering at Alnwick,” a particularly pompous young English knight was saying. Draining his goblet, the lanky youth wagged his head and continued self-importantly, “Albany is a fool, I say! If I’d a moment alone with the man, I could persuade him merely with the promise of two warhorses to grant me twenty Scottish castles! But of course, before I’d accept them, the smell of rotting peat would have to be purged from them first!”
“But he’s already promised Edward half of Scotland, Baldric!” one of his companions observed.
“Then why not the rest of it?” the portentous Baldric asked.
The men around him laughed.
Liselle paused. This Baldric was perfect for her purposes. Such men loved to talk; in fact, it was difficult to get them to stop.
Making her mind up all at once, she stepped forward and, lowering her lashes, pretended to stumble, nearly landing straight into his lengthy arms.
“My lady!” Baldric dropped his goblet in his haste to catch her. “Are you well?”
As his strong hand lifted her up, she hid a pleased smile. She had netted her prey.
“Gramersè, many thanks, my lord!” she gasped in an exaggerated Venetian accent. Clutching his arm tightly, she gave a helpless shrug and pretended to search for words. “My lord … your bravàso, your strong… strong arm has saved me from a … an injury most grève!” She gave her best, simpering smile.
“’Tis my pleasure, my lady!” Baldric beamed. Patting her hand, he focused his entire attention upon her, already forgetting his companions.
In minutes, he was telling her the history of his family name and all about his vast estate in the south. And after allowing him to guide her to a private table, she sat by his side and permitted him to pick the choicest morsels for her to eat as the evening progressed.
As expected, he never stopped talking. He kept speaking even as the announcements were made, giving his opinion on a notice of a public execution and then on a fellow knight’s betrothal. He even rendered his judgment upon a minstrel, just awarded a fine woolen cape for having composed a wondrous new song; it had seemed a mediocre piece of the most common kind to Baldric.
As time passed, it became increasingly difficult to tolerate his company. Her h
ead began to pound from his endless spouting. She was almost ready to leave when his conversation took an abrupt and interesting turn.
“And your native tongue, your accent, my lady, ‘tis so lovely. It sounds the same as the merchant who arrived here a fortnight ago. Now, whence did he come? Venice! Ah yes, Venice, the city of Saint Mark, it was!”
“Mercànte?” she asked in her huskiest voice, taking care not to appear too interested. “Venècia is famous for its traveling merchants.”
“But clearly, even more so for its beauteous ladies!” Baldric smiled widely, unaware of the piece of chicken stuck betwixt his teeth.
He leaned close. Too close.
Wanting nothing more than to slap him across the face, she forced her lashes to lower and her lips to smile. “You flatter me, bòn cavalièr! But mayhap your merchant has news from my homeland. Is he still here, so I may ask?”
But Baldric was clearly more interested in the possibilities of a kiss than any more speaking. His lips wiggled mere inches away from her own.
All of a sudden, a booted foot planted itself on the bench between them.
And then Liselle heard a rich, deep voice with a familiar smooth Scottish burr interrupt. “My bonny wee wife, ‘tis a wondrous miracle to find ye here.”
Liselle’s heart lurched, and her eyes widened in genuine surprise. She would recognize his voice anywhere.
Turning, she glanced up directly into the searching gray eyes of Lord Julian Gray.
Clad in a crisp white shirt and a dark green plaid, he merely stood there, looking down at her with his broad shoulders shaking in silent laughter.
“Lord Gray!” Liselle quickly composed herself to dip her head in greeting. “I am pleased to see you this fine evening.”
Slanting forward to rest his arm upon his knee, Julian’s hot gaze licked her from head to toe. “As I recall, Lady Gray, when we last parted ways, ye warned me that no man looks at another lass whilst in your presence, aye?”
Liselle smiled a superior, secretive smile. So, the man remembered that, did he?
And then he added with a challenging gleam in his eye, “So what is your husband to say about ye kissing another man whilst in his company, then?”
At that, Baldric jumped to his feet, upending his wine goblet. And with a hastily mumbled apology, he fled from the table before either of them could scarcely utter a word.
Julian laughed. It was a pleasant, deep sound. And with his cheek creasing in humor, he helped himself to the seat vacated by the English knight.
“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.
5
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.
