Highlander's Sweet Promises

by Tarah Scott

  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 de
eper 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 where 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.

  The duke’s reply was lost as the hounds began to bark once again.

  Julian raised a thoughtful brow as he watched the English king dismount and then hurry inside the castle just as the rain began to fall in earnest.

  Rumors had run rife around the hall the evening before—rumors that Albany had promised half of Scotland’s land to Edward. In exchange, the monarch would lend an army to place the prince upon the Scottish throne. Apparently, Albany was more than ready to shed the blood of his own kinsman just for a crown.

  Grimly, Julian folded his arms.

  Cameron would need to know just how big an army Scotland faced in order to band the clans together, along with proof of Albany’s betrayal.

  A sudden gust of cold air blasted through the window, and Julian grimly stepped back.

  ‘Twas time to spy upon Edward.

  As he turned, a flash of green skirt from a nearby intersecting passage caught his eye.

  Instinctively, he crouched and flattened against the wall, and drawing his dirk, extended the blade at an angle to catch the passageway’s reflection on its well-polished surface.

  He couldn’t see any green.

  He waited patiently for some time, but when nothing moved, he sheathed his dirk.

  The moment he’d done so, he heard the soft click of a latch.

  Peering cautiously around the corner, he saw a woman scurrying away from him. Aye, he’d recognize that green-velvet gown and cascade of honey-colored tresses anywhere.

  It was Liselle.

  He eyed her retreating form with interest. Had she been spying on him? And if so, was it at her brother’s behest or out of her own curiosity?

  Rising to his feet, he stalked her through Fotheringhay’s twisting passages until she stopped before a heavy oak door guarded by two burly men. Bowing her head, she exchanged a few words with them, and after a moment, they moved aside and allowed her to pass.

  As the door shut behind her, Julian tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. The two sentinels by the door wore the garb of the king’s bodyguard. For certain that meant Edward was nearby.

  But Liselle’s presence was a curiosity. What had she to do with the king?

  He cast a sharp eye at his surroundings. He was quite familiar with Fotheringhay Castle, and he knew there was a chamber directly above the one Liselle had just entered. ‘Twould be a simple enough task to leap from that chamber’s balcony to the one below; aye, and most likely, that point of entry would be unguarded.

  Dashing up the nearest stair, he slid into the chamber he sought and found it to be empty. Thanking his luck, he threw the shutters wide open only to wince sourly at the driving rain that stung his face in greeting. He’d be swimming his way back to Scotland if it kept pouring with such fervor.

  As expected, the balcony below was unguarded. Apparently, they thought only a fool would try to jump from above.

  Ach, but they had not reckoned on Le Marin.

  As Le Marin, he’d scaled and jumped from many a castle wall in pursuit of elusive answers. He’d also done so many a time as Lord Julian Gray, but in pursuit of willing maidens.

  Balancing on the window ledge, he gauged the distance and angle, and then easily leapt to land lightly on the stone railing. Dropping onto the balcony floor, he listened at the window for a moment but could hear nothing. And then taking advantage of the wind rattling the shutters, he used it to mask the noise of his dagger lifting the latch.

  As the shutters cracked open, he cautiously peered inside.

  The room was dark, gloomy, and bare of furnishings. But to the right, a beam of light fell through a partially opened door, and in the shadows nearby, hovered Liselle.

  Julian’s eyes lit with interest.

  Plainly, the lass had no legitimate cause to be there lurking in the shadows. With a catlike grace, he slipped into the room.

  He was behind her in an instant, and before she could utter a word he had clamped one strong hand over her mouth and had slid the other about her waist.

  Liselle went rigid.

  “I must beg your forgiveness, Lady Gray. I’ve no excuse for falling asleep so unforgivably early last night,” he rumbled in a soft, low whisper.

  She relaxed at the sound of his voice, and he felt her lips curl into a smile beneath his palm. And then the scent of her hair filled his nostrils and his pulse quickened.

  “Wed Cecily?” Albany’s angry voice rang from the adjoining chamber. “How can I?”

  Upon hearing the man’s voice, Julian’s expression hardened.

  Tightening his grip on Liselle, he leaned forward to see Albany pacing in agitation, running his hands nervously through his red hair.

  A fire crackled on the far wall, and seated on a polished ornate oak chair was King Edward. A small writing table had been placed at his side, and he drummed his fingers on its shiny surface as his sharp blue eyes pierced the Scottish prince before him.

  “And has your heart grown feeble already?” the English king asked in a tone riddled with disdain. “Do you reject in taking our daughter to wife as your queen?”

  Albany drew up short. He swallowed several times, and then protested weakly, “But I’ve only just wed Anne! And Cecily has been betrothed to James’ son for nigh on several years!”

  Julian rolled his eyes at the man’s diplomatic clumsiness. Any refusal to divorce Anne de La Tour to wed Edward’s daughter, Cecily, meant that the Scottish prince still
hoped to retain ties with France. How could such a man beg for England’s army?

  Insulted, the king flared his nostrils as his strong voice pressed, “You still wish to curry favor with Louis, but has he lent a hand to your cause? Did we not agree that you would renounce your alliance with the French?”

  Albany mumbled something incoherent.

  “Answer us!” King Edward demanded.

  “I’ll sign your treaty, Edward,” the Scottish prince growled in frustration. “Aye, I’ll sign both agreements!”

  With a calculating but vastly pleased smile, Edward waved his hand.

  And then another man bearing a carved wooden coffer stepped into view, and Julian caught his breath, scarcely able to believe his eyes.

  It was Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, a man whose loyalty to Scotland no one doubted. Ach, the man was a Red Douglas, a staunch supporter of the Scottish Crown! If the powerful earl had betrayed Scotland, it could be a fatal blow.

  “God’s Wounds!” Julian whispered under his breath.

  Archibald Douglas placed the wooden box on the table and traced a stubby finger along the fine filigree lid several times before finally lifting it to remove several sheets of parchment.

  "Aye, I'll sign!" Albany snorted nervously, snatching the pages from Douglas’ hand. Grabbing a quill, he pressed it so hard against the paper that the nub broke, and he required several attempts before both agreements were finally signed.

  And then Gloucester appeared and Edward’s demeanor turned even colder. With a flick of a finger, he ordered his brother to take the documents from Albany.

  No one spoke as the duke seized the papers from Albany’s rigid fingers. Placing them on the table, he proceeded to drip red wax upon them and affix Edward’s royal seal.

  "Now, tell me of my army!” Albany demanded, pounding on the table even as his eyes fixed with horror on the red wax seals, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just done.

  “Gloucester’s army,” Edward corrected frostily. “But you may ride with him to the mustering place.”

  At that Albany lost his temper and began to shout. "Then I’ll see him leave at dawn! I"ll nae wait a moment longer for my crown!"

  “You will leave when Gloucester chooses,” Edward retorted in disgust.