Highlander's Sweet Promises

by Tarah Scott

  As the monarch rose to his feet, Julian drew back at once, pulling Liselle with him.

  It was time to leave.

  Twisting free, Liselle caught Julian’s sleeve and tugged him across the chamber towards a brightly painted door.

  She paused to twist a key into the lock, and they stepped through, discovering yet another door opening to the outside passage.

  “Not yet, ye wee devil,” Julian growled, blocking her escape with his arm.

  She glanced up in surprise.

  Bracing his palms on either side of her shoulders, he caged her against the wall. And with a devilish grin, he asked, “What cause have ye to lurk in the shadows listening to the private words of a king?”

  “And what cause have you, Lord Gray?” she asked in turn, her voice adopting a subtle purr.

  “I was merely chasing ye, lass,” he lied easily enough. “I thought to find myself in your chamber.”

  Uncertainty entered her eyes as she searched his face, and then her lips parted to reply, “And I came when Albany summoned, my lord. I had no knowledge of his visitors.”

  “Albany?” Julian cocked a brow. A twinge of jealousy flared to life. “Have a care with the man, lass—” he began.

  “Basta!” she interrupted. Recoiling at the implication, she pinched her nose in disgust. “Have a care where your thoughts lead you, my lord! Albany has promised my brother that he would safely escort me to the Scottish court. That is all!”

  “Scottish court?” Julian repeated with narrowed eyes. So, Orazio wasn’t in Fotheringhay? That could be good news for Dolfin. “What business have ye in Scotland?”

  “And I will answer, though you have no right to pry into my concerns,” Liselle replied, her voice adopting a low, melodic pitch. “I journey to Edinburgh in my sister’s stead, Lord Gray. Nicoletta was struck with the ague.”

  “Then I wish Nicoletta well,” Julian replied courteously even as he eyed Liselle from head to toe. His distrust of her was growing by the moment, but the thought of seeing her often in the Scottish court was an exhilarating one.

  “But do not allow me to delay you, my lord,” the lass was saying. “Should you not be in the hall, drinking wine and trading kisses with any maiden that catches your eye?”

  Refocusing his attention upon her, Julian chuckled. “Is that an invitation, Lady Gray?” he asked in a suggestive tone.

  She lowered her eyes demurely, but he knew it was an act. Aye, but the wee beastie was wickedly enthralling. Sliding an arm about her waist, he pulled her close, locking her in a possessive grip.

  “I’ll nae be sharing wine with ye again, ye shameless lass. But I’m still right willing to taste your lips,” he said, his voice hard and low. Aye, he’d play upon her interest in him and find out why she had drugged him.

  Liselle shook her head. “Che bixùco pitóxo” she whispered, sliding her hands to rest on his chest.

  Shivering at her touch, he was careful to hide the fact that he knew quite well she’d just called him a piteous fool. Faking ignorance, he whispered, “Ye speak in such seductive words, lass. I’ll take ye up on the invitation!”

  He lowered his head.

  With a coy smile, she tapped him lightly on the nose with one finger and said firmly, “My kisses must be earned, Lord Gray.”

  Suppressing a grin, he pretended to be affronted. “Ach, ye’ll beg for my kisses soon enough, Lady Gray,” he murmured, running his thumb lightly over her bottom lip.

  She froze under his touch, but then clearing her throat, managed a small laugh. “Will I?”

  A strange mix of suspicion and desire flooded through him as he looked deeply into her hazel eyes and asked, “Aye then, mayhap ye’ll confess why ye poisoned the wine and left me naked?”

  Something he couldn’t interpret flashed across her face, but she masked it well, and scarce a moment later her eyes twinkled up at him mischievously. “Wine, my lord? Cà de dìa!” She rolled her eyes a little before explaining with a distinct note of humor, “It was the bread, my lord.”

  His lip lifted in mild surprise. Aye, the lass was a cunningly clever one. Leaning closer, he lowered his voice even more as he whispered into her hair, “And did ye find what ye were seeking, lass?”

  “Yes, my lord,” her voice hitched a little. “Your safety was all I sought.”

  Safety? He frowned at the unexpected answer. He stayed where he was a moment, inhaling the fragrance of her hair. He could hear her soft, rapid breathing, and his pulse quickened in response. Ach, that would never do. He couldn’t develop a real attraction to the lass; he only meant to find answers.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped back and repeated, “Safety? Safety from whom?”

  But she pushed him away. Placing her hand upon the door latch, she countered coolly, “And what of you, Lord Gray? What is the real reason you are here at Fotheringhay? I’m told you travel the lands indulging your whims, but from what I can see, your actions are more befitting of Le Marin than a scandalous drunkard.”

  He drew a sharp breath in astonishment as his gray eyes swept over her face.

  Le Marin. Most likely, she’d only referenced Le Marin coincidently, but she was the first to come so close to the truth. Even by accident.

  Mayhap the less seen of this particular wee devil, the better.

  Tossing his blond head back, he forced himself to roar with laughter. “And if I were to claim that I was Le Marin, lass, surely that would deem me worthy of a kiss now, aye?”

  She stared at him then, and his pulse leapt once again as he suddenly found himself drowning in her hazel eyes. The wee lass was complex and most likely dangerous. Why did he find that alluring?

  And then she pulled the door open. Pausing on the threshold, she said, “We must leave separately, Lord Gray. It would not do to let Pascal find us together. He is not as … understanding as Orazio.”

  “Pascal?” Julian inquired, careful to sound only mildly curious. Pascal. Yet another Venetian he must investigate.

  “My cousin,” she explained, dipping a curtsey. And then a gleam of wicked amusement entered her eye. Pointing to the shuttered window, she added, “Perhaps you should leave the way you arrived. It might be safer.”

  Julian chuckled. “Mayhap ’twould be, if your kinfolk are prowling about, ye wee beastie. But I’ve no mind to risk a broken limb. Ye can avail yourself of the window if ye desire. I’ll be leaving through the door.”

  “Then remember that I warned you, bixùco pitóxo mio,” she said, shaking her head in mock pity. “I wish you well.”

  “Until we meet again, Lady Gray,” he replied, bowing with a flourish.

  She did not reply, and then slipping through the door, she was gone.

  He did not hesitate.

  After all, he scarcely trusted the lass. She could very well be setting a trap.

  Exiting the chamber, he boldly strode down the passageway and past the two royal bodyguards still standing by the door. Surprised to see him, they glanced at each other nervously as if trying to assemble the courage to accost him. But he was long gone before they’d succeeded.

  He had much to do. Not only did he have to secure proof of Albany and the Red Douglas’ betrayal, but he had to get a firm count of the soldiers under Gloucester’s command.

  Exiting the stairwell, he paused for a moment to peer through the narrow window slit. The rain had ceased; the clouds were breaking. Perhaps the sun would be shining soon.

  With a deep yawn, he lifted his arms to stretch when he felt the cool steel of a blade suddenly pressed against his throat.

  “Leave the Lady Liselle alone if you wish to live, Lord Gray,” a grim voice warned.

  6

  the mysterious ring

  It had to be Pascal.

  Swatting the blade from his neck, Julian summoned a mask of arrogant astonishment and turned to face a slim, dark-haired aggressor. “And who dares to threaten Lord Julian Gray?” he demanded with the affected disdain of a slighted noble.

  �
��A man who would defend his cousin’s honor,” Pascal replied in a deadly soft tone.

  Affecting a clumsiness in keeping with his character, Julian fumbled with his dirk and waved it towards the youth.

  Pascal sidestepped him with an easy grace. Any man could have, but it was the way in which the lad had done it that caught Julian’s attention. He moved with the expertise of one highly trained.

  There was more to the lad than met the eye.

  “And who might ye be?” Julian asked, surveying him as if bewildered.

  Twirling his own blade, Pascal sheathed it in a single fluid motion. His gaze was shrewd, his handling of the dagger sure, and he stood with the poised stance of an accomplished swordsman.

  Ach, were all of Liselle’s kin assassins?

  Pascal’s eyes glittered dangerously through his dark lashes. “As we should never meet again, Lord Gray, you need not know my name,” he replied with a contemptuous tilt of his chin.

  There was a moment of strained silence, and then brushing imaginary lint from the sleeve of his black-velvet doublet, Pascal spun on his heel and set off down the passageway without a backwards glance.

  The corner of Julian’s lip lifted in a knowing smile. Such youthful conceit was prone to beget mistakes.

  He waited until Pascal had entered the stairwell before following.

  “Aye, ‘tis time to unearth secrets,” he muttered under his breath. The task of procuring Albany’s proof was better left to the darkness of night, anyway.

  Fotheringhay bustled with activity, and it was easy enough to lurk in the great hall unnoticed, keep an eye on Pascal whilst listening to the words of pompous English knights for secrets that might be used to Scotland’s benefit.

  Liselle’s cousin strolled aimlessly about for a time. Periodically, the young man would pause to squint through the narrow window slits at the foul weather outside and tap his fingers nervously on the stones.

  Finally, the rain stopped. And as a ray of sun broke through the dark clouds, the slim youth threw a cloak around his shoulders and slipped out of the hall.

  Julian was only a few steps behind, shadowing him out of the castle and into the village below. Once or twice along the way, Pascal had glanced back over his shoulder, but Julian kept a safe distance and remained undetected.

  The village of Fotheringhay was a bustling one in spite of the wet weather. Men and women slogged through the muddy streets, dogs barked, wet-feathered chickens scrabbled in the muck, and the occasional cart rolled through the mire headed to or from the castle.

  Bowing his head, Pascal strode with a purpose towards the towering Church of St. Mary and All Saints when a short man with thick stubby eyebrows fell into place behind him. But the stranger had taken no more than three paces before the slim dark-haired youth whirled and lunged for him.

  The scuffle was short-lived, but it was long enough to let Julian close the distance between them and find cover behind a stack of oaken barrels nearby.

  “Diàmbarne!” Pascal spat a series of vehement curses. Gripping the short man by the throat, he hissed, “Ale! Get you gone, Saluzzo!”

  With an adept maneuver, the man twisted and broke free. “You have no power over me, you fool!” He stayed his ground, sizing Pascal up and down before continuing with a sneer, “I would know why Pascal da Vilardino walks so far from La Serenìsima!”

  Julian raised a curious brow; but then, from the corner of his eye, he spied a brilliant flash of green scuttle across the castle drawbridge.

  It was Liselle.

  The lass certainly had a knack for interrupting him. And judging by the speed of her gait, he had less than a minute before she’d see him crouched behind the barrels, eavesdropping on her cousin.

  A quick search of potential escape routes settled upon the rotund jolly-eyed friar headed his way, driving an ancient cart pulled by an even older donkey. It would be easy enough to take advantage of its cover to switch hiding places.

  Casting a gauging eye at Liselle, he still had seconds to spare. She couldn’t see him yet. Leaning forward, he turned his attention once more upon Pascal.

  “I owe you no explanation, Saluzzo,” the youth was saying in an arrogant tone. Impaling the thick-browed man with a chilling gaze, he continued, “Get you gone from my sight! I care not for this mistake of a truce between our families, and I will not vouch for your safety should you tarry a moment longer in my company!”

  The man sniffed in disgust. “You are but a pup still suckling milk! I will see that Orazio hears of your words.”

  “I do not fear Orazio,” Pascal replied with a careless laugh and a proud toss of his head. “Be gone! For I swear if my eyes fall upon you once more, I will right gladly send you back to Ferrara colder than stone!”

  The Saluzzo faltered back a step, clearly shocked. And then his voice dropped in warning, “The Saluzzi will not be the first to shed blood. But if blood is spilled, I will devote my life to see that not a single trace of the Vindictam is left!” His eyes lit eagerly at the very thought. And then he spat in the mud at Pascal’s feet.

  A blade suddenly appeared in Pascal’s hand.

  And it was at that moment that the friar’s cart rolled between them, blocking Julian’s view.

  “Ach, what timing!” Julian swore under his breath. Rising to his feet, he sauntered alongside the rickety contraption, ducking down a little just as Liselle passed on the other side.

  She didn’t see him, her hazel eyes were focused straight ahead.

  And then for one gloriously suspended moment, he saw nothing but her flawless skin, her impossibly long dark lashes, the soft curve of her neck, and her pouting lips clamped tightly shut with determination.

  And then she was gone, and he shook his head as if to wake from a dream.

  Straightening a little, he maintained his pace with the cart.

  What ailed his reasoning? He knew better than to allow himself to become enamored with such a devious lass. Aye, he was fair worn. ‘Twas time to return to Scotland, deliver the news to Cameron and then rest a wee spell and spend his days with a lass on his knee and drowning his thoughts in wine as befitted the scandalous Lord Gray.

  Shaking his head to clear it, he leaned over the cart’s edge to inspect its cargo with a keen eye. It was filled with a variety of items, from wine caskets to crates of vegetables, but a monk’s robe thrown over a bundle of hemp gave him a sudden idea.

  Sprinting forward, he caught the donkey’s head and pulled the cart to a halt.

  “Good day, my son.” The jolly-eyed friar dipped his double chin in greeting.

  “And a good day to ye, father,” Julian replied with a grin. Fishing a silver coin from his sporran, he tossed it onto the wooden seat next to the man. “Stay and take refreshment ere ye swim home.”

  “Bless you, my child,” the friar replied with a hearty laugh as he pocketed the coin. “’Tis more than enough to buy a keg!” And then with an encouraging cluck, he urged his donkey forward.

  Nodding a farewell, Julian waited until the cart had almost passed him by before reaching in to pluck the robe free. It only took a moment to slip it on and draw the cowled hood low over his face.

  Cautiously, making his way back to the stack of barrels, he saw no sign of the Saluzzo or of Liselle, but Pascal was crossing the market square and had nearly reached the threshold of the churchyard.

  Adopting a stooped shuffle, Julian kept his eye trained on the youth from under his monk’s hood as he threaded his way through the crowd. Villagers lugging mud-spattered baskets of fish and vegetables dipped their heads in respect, and he faithfully responded to each one with a benediction and the sign of the cross.

  Pascal stopped in front of the church’s massive doors a moment and then swiveled on his heel to cross the street and lean against the stone wall of a simple thatch-roofed cottage. Folding his arms, he immediately began to tap his fingers in impatience.

  Shifting his course, Julian ambled towards the church’s entrance, picking his way thr
ough the mud.

  Several times he felt Pascal’s eyes upon him. But the dark-haired youth lost interest the moment Julian placed his hand on the latch of the church’s heavy oak door.

  Entering, he dipped his finger in the basin of holy water before him and made the sign of the cross. The church was quite empty save for several craftsmen busily at work on a pulpit which had newly been gifted by King Edward. So focused on carving and painting the hexagonal structure, the men never even lifted their heads to acknowledge Julian as he made his way down the wide nave and towards the western aisle of church. He slipped behind a tall screen and exited the church through a small doorway that was meant only for clerks.

  Crossing to the nearby cloister, he heaved himself up onto its lower roof, and racing over the sloping tiles, crouched down near the ridgepole to peer down at the street below.

  Pascal was still slumped against the cottage wall, idly inspecting his hands.

  Expelling a long breath, Julian settled back on the lead tiles to wait for Pascal’s next move. His rooftop perch afforded him a good view of the bustling marketplace. And as time passed, he found himself searching time and time again for any sign of Liselle amongst the ever-changing crowd, but he never saw her.

  Pascal fidgeted continually, at times tapping his foot, pacing up and down before the cottage wall, or stretching and yawning out of pure boredom.

  And then the church bells began to ring, and Julian winced, covering his ears.

  But, as the last strains died away, two lean, black-cloaked men approached the thatched-roofed cottage. Upon catching sight of Pascal, they threw back their hoods to reveal dark angular features and grim faces.

  Pascal straightened at once and stepped out into the street to greet them by clasping his forearms with theirs and kissing them upon the cheek.

  But then, to Julian’s surprise, Liselle’s cousin extended his hand and both men sank immediately to their knees.

  First one man, and then the other, seized Pascal’s hand to reverently kiss a golden ring upon his finger.

  And then Pascal murmured something, motioning for them to rise. Huddling close, the three men bowed their heads to speak in low whispers.