by Tarah Scott
Wrenching herself free, Liselle faced him, haughty and proud.
“Yes!” she confessed boldly, raising a clenched fist. “Yes, I attacked the Saluzzo last night. But I did not kill him!” She’d been ill enough at injuring him. She couldn’t imagine what it would have felt like to have taken his life.
Pascal loomed over her, his handsome face rife with disapproval. And then to her utter astonishment, he shrugged and observed softly, “’Tis a pity that you did not kill him, bábia! Ridding the world of a Saluzzo would have atoned for the entirety of your follies. And, I feel compelled to remind you, your follies have been numerous!”
Picking the stiletto up, he held it aloft a moment. And then, taking up her hand and spreading her clenched fingers apart, he placed the hilt of the slim weapon into her palm and closed her fingers around it.
“Tell no one of what occurred last night,” he commanded with his arrogant eyes boring into hers. “No one! Not even Orazio!”
Liselle was shocked. “How can I not tell my Magno Duce?”
“He needn’t know,” Pascal answered with a superior smile.
“You have gone mad, Pascal!” Liselle accused. Bowing her head, she whispered the words that had kept her up all night. “They will find out. The Saluzzo survived. He will tell them, and they will know the treaty has been broken. I have rekindled the war betwixt our families! They will demand retribution! And—”
“I grow weary of quarreling with you!” Pascal interrupted sharply before adopting his trademark smirk. “The Saluzzi are nothing. I do not fear them. The Vindictam should not live in the shadow of fear, bábia, and especially if that shadow belongs to a Saluzzo!”
Liselle tilted her head suspiciously. “What game are you playing? Have you no loyalty to the Vindictam—to our families?” she asked, feeling more than a little trepidation.
Pascal sent her a black look. “Game? Perhaps I only seek to protect you! Why would you accuse me of playing a game?” But he couldn’t refrain from sarcasm for long. Shaking his head, he clucked, “Ah sì, what is ‘blood loyalty’ anyway, when the recipient of that loyalty isn’t—how shall we say it—loyal?”
She didn’t answer. She merely narrowed her eyes.
“Well then!” Pascal gave a graceful shrug. “We have an understanding. If you speak of this to anyone I shall send for Orazio and inform him that merely to save Lord Gray’s life, you became the first member of the Vindictam to spill Saluzzi blood since the treaty was forged. Won’t he be pleased that his own sorèlina cara was the one to start the war!”
Liselle swallowed. “Unthinkable!” she whispered. It was unthinkable precisely for the fact that it was horrid to think it was exactly what she’d done!
“Or,” Pascal continued with a black look and a gleam in his eyes. “Or remain silent and perhaps this Saluzzi fool will be permanently silenced as well.”
She could only stare at him, wondering how much she really knew her cousin, after all. Was he offering to protect her? Was he even capable of that? Or, as was more likely, was he using this incident as an excuse to rid the earth of the Saluzzi that he so desperately hated?
Suddenly weary, she sank against the table.
And then Pascal said in a soft voice, “Pack your things, bábia. We leave straightway for Alnwick.”
And without a backward glance, he quit the room.
Subdued, Liselle quickly packed her belongings, and a short time later, clad in a French riding gown and a tightly woven russet cloak, she picked her way across Fotheringhay’s courtyard.
Horses stamped and metal swords clanked. Men cursed as the rain poured upon them.
She glanced up at the dark sky. The storm showed no signs of retreating. It would be a miserable ride.
But, it matched her mood.
Spying Albany and Pascal astride their horses near the castle gate, Liselle drew her hood low over her face and hurried to join them.
Dressed in royal plaids and a dark green mantle, Albany waved a hand as she approached. “We’ll have ye cozy in Scotland soon enough, lass!” he promised, wiggling his brows.
A sudden clatter of hooves behind her made her glance back to see the fierce Duke of Gloucester bearing down upon her.
“Get you gone, woman!” he ordered brusquely. Sitting in the saddle, his curved spine was not as pronounced.
Liselle blinked, unprepared for the vehemence in his voice. “My lord, I am to be escorted to Edinburgh—” she began, dipping a quick curtsey.
“But we ride to war, woman!” The duke peered down the length of his long nose at her disdainfully. “This company is no place for you.”
“My lord—” she began.
“Silence!” he cut in curtly and lifted his hand.
Liselle snapped her mouth shut and turned to Albany.
For a moment, she feared the Scottish prince would agree with the duke, but then Pascal chose that moment to urge his mount forward and to casually rest his hand upon the hilt of his sword.
Albany didn’t miss the gesture. Clearing his throat, he addressed the duke gruffly, “I’m sworn to deliver the Lady Liselle to the Princess Anabella in Edinburgh, Gloucester. When we reach the borderlands, I’ll send her on her way with a few of my men.”
Gloucester’s forehead creased with displeasure, but then with a grunt, he spurred his horse and was gone.
Sending him a dark look, Liselle mounted her gray mare. She’d scarcely done so before the horns sounded and the company of horsemen under Gloucester’s command unfurled his royal banner emblazoned with a white boar, and began to march out of Fotheringhay Castle with the duke and Albany at the head.
Sitting on her mare, Liselle watched the men file before her.
She’d spent the night fretting over Lord Julian Gray. Where was the man? She knew the Saluzzo lay ill under the care of the herb-wife, but could there be others? Had Julian escaped harm throughout the night?
She waited until the last possible moment, desperately seeking any sign of him before reluctantly nudging her mare to follow the other horses plodding over the drawbridge and through the village.
They had just reached the far side of the marketplace when she saw Julian near the churchyard astride a red roan.
She caught her breath in relief.
He wore no cloak, only his dark plaid and a white shirt, plastered to his muscular body by the rain. He’d unfastened the top button of his shirt, and as they passed by him, she couldn’t prevent her gaze from dropping to catch a glimpse of his bare chest.
She bit her tongue. Hard. And then she lifted her lashes and their eyes locked.
But her horse chose that moment to sidestep into another, and when she’d regained control of the animal, she looked back at the church.
But he was no longer there.
She didn't see him again in the days that followed.
Gloucester’s party had headed north through rolling hills, fragrant meadows, and vales clothed with ancient forests. Pascal had informed her that their destination was Alnwick, but the name meant little to her beyond the fact that it was a castle close to the Scottish border.
She lost track of the days.
And then finally one afternoon, they left a forest and rounded a bend in the road to arrive at the mighty Alnwick Castle sprawled over the hill guarding the northern borderlands.
It was a magnificent place, one that inspired awe.
As their horses clattered over the drawbridge straddling the River Aln and a deep ravine, Liselle could only stare in awe at the fortress rising before her, its battlements adorned with the figures of stone warriors. She passed through three sets of gates before finally reaching the center of the great citadel.
Men dressed for battle were everywhere, and the smell of horses filled the air. There was an army here. And a large one.
She turned a questioning gaze to Pascal riding beside her.
“Thousands,” he answered softly, reading her unspoken question. “There are thousands of men here. It does not bode wel
l for Scotland.”
Liselle followed in silence.
A short time later, she curtsied before the elderly lady of the castle, and begging weariness from the journey, retired at once to her assigned chamber.
Dusk was approaching. With so many men in such a place, Alnwick Castle was a treasure trove of information. And once darkness fell, she could slip unseen through the passages and learn much—perhaps even a secret or two to serve her well in the future.
Plaiting her hair to the side, she rummaged through her clothing and selected a simple dark gown and soft leather shoes, shoes the Vindictam fashioned for silence.
A servant appeared with a meal of roasted fowl, bread, and nuts. And after eating, Liselle sprawled comfortably in the window seat, waiting for the sun to set and allowing her thoughts to rove where they would.
As night approached, campfires dotted the hillside, accompanied by the sound of stamping horses and the low, gruff voices of men.
And then finally, it was dark enough.
With a beating heart, Liselle slipped silently from her room. She stood still, staring wide-eyed into the inky darkness, waiting for her eyes to adjust. And then with a wary step, she crept down the passageway to the grand staircase expanding below her like a fan.
The main hall of Alnwick Castle was still a hive of activity. Tables ran down the center of the room, loomed above by braided-iron chandeliers. Tall windows in arched alcoves lined one wall and a massive fireplace graced the opposite. It was framed on either side by richly woven tapestries, and before them stood ancient suits of armor on display. Men clustered in groups, their heads bowed together as they used various table items to model battle strategies. Women bustled about, filling cups of ale and bringing out great baskets of bread and cheese, while scullery maids hurried about gathering wooden trenchers and abandoned cutlery.
At the head table, Gloucester sat alone, hunched in his chair and drinking what looked like whiskey from a large glass bottle.
Liselle snorted.
She found it nigh impossible the man could ever imbibe enough spirits to render him in a more agreeable mood. Never had she met so cantankerous a man!
Slowly, she crept down the stairs, staying in the shadows when shouts sounded abruptly from behind her.
“Le Marin! My lord, Le Marin!” a man cried, flying past her down the stairs.
Gloucester leapt to his feet, nearly knocking the whiskey over as the new arrival thrust a gray Turk’s head knot into his hands.
“He seized the contract, my lord!” The man gasped, trying to catch his breath.
“Contract?” Gloucester repeated, still stunned.
“Albany’s betrothal contract!” The man gulped. “I could not stop him!”
Gloucester stared at him a moment, and then roared.
Men scrambled up from the tables, drawing their swords. And as a dozen bolted past her, Liselle saw a tall man—masked from head to toe in dark clothing—calmly enter the hall from the opposite side.
Excitement thrilled through her, though she did not know quite why.
Perhaps it was the sheer bravado of the man.
As she watched, the masked man leapt onto Gloucester’s table, and then calmly proceeded to walk down the length of it, as if he were strolling down a road. Once he had reached Gloucester’s place at the head, he paused as every eye in the room riveted upon him.
Reaching into his dark mantle, he withdrew a parchment bearing a red-wax seal. And then, dangling it in front of Gloucester’s astonished face, he hailed him in a heavy French accent, “Your undertaking is doomed to fail, Gloucester!”
The vein on Gloucester’s forehead bulged. Lunging for him, he cried, “Le Marin!”
But Le Marin sidestepped him easily enough.
Bending down, Le Marin swiped the bottle of whiskey and swiftly stopped it with a rag. And then catching hold of an iron chandelier, he swung over Gloucester’s head, lighting the rag with a candle before letting go to land lightly on his feet in front of the window alcove.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
And then with a blow, Le Marin dashed the whiskey bottle to the stones.
A sheet of flames rose to engulf the window alcove.
Falling back before the intense heat, no one could pursue him or even see past the glow. And by the time they had doused the fire, the only trace of him was the open window in the arched alcove.
Liselle smiled in appreciation.
Le Marin was a man to be admired, and Orazio would be sore disappointed to discover that he’d missed a chance in snaring the man.
Taking a seat, Liselle watched with great interest as men rushed about the smoky interior of the hall, cursing and stomping their feet.
The entire place was in an uproar.
Gloucester’s face was purple with fury as he screamed orders to his men. Albany and Douglas arrived, looking confused at first, and then even more angry than Gloucester upon discovering just exactly what Le Marin had taken.
And then amidst the chaos, Liselle heard a deep Scottish burr whisper in her ear, “How pleasant to see ye again, Lady Gray!”
Liselle jerked and half rose to her feet in astonishment. “Lord Gray! What brings you here?”
“I but journey home, Lady Gray.” He laughed. And then catching her hand to press her palm against his chest, he added in a low rumble, “And if I may say it, ye seemed right pleased to see me!”
Liselle’s heart lurched in response. He was a devastatingly handsome and charming man, and while she’d always thought there was a hint of something rough and wild about him, it was oddly more pronounced now.
He didn’t appear to notice her distraction. Raising a curious brow, he eyed the commotion around them. “What has happened here?”
She didn’t answer. He was still holding her hand, and her every sense tingled with excitement.
And then his searching gray eyes fell upon her once more as he repeated, “What has them vexed so?”
“Le Marin!” she answered a little breathlessly, but more because of his hard chest and beating heart beneath her fingertips than any doings of a French spy.
Julian gave her an amused wink. “And does the man affect ye so?”
“Affect me, my lord?” she asked in turn, studying him from under her lashes. The way his shirt strained across the well-defined muscles of his chest made her suddenly hot. Santo Ciélo, but the man radiated a strength that she found irresistible.
Swallowing, she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth.
Instantly, a sudden hardness entered Julian’s gaze and tension appeared in his jaw. But then it passed, and a wicked gleam of mirth entered his eyes. “If I recall, did ye not say ye’d right willingly kiss the man?”
Liselle frowned a moment before realizing he was still speaking of Le Marin. And then tossing her head, she gave a long, low laugh. “Even the mighty Le Marin must earn my kisses, my lord.”
A deep dimple creased one cheek as he asked, “Truly? Tell me, lass, what must a man do to prove worthy of your lips?”
The question was a hard one. Any man she might wish to love must first be approved by the Vindictam, but she could hardly tell him that. “Why speak of such things?” she asked with a frown.
And then the expression in his eyes altered, sending her heart racing. And leaning close, so close that she could feel the heat of his skin, he whispered, “Few can resist the lure of such beauty, Lady Gray.”
She had to clear her throat several times before she could reply, “And few can resist falling prey to sweet honeyed words, Lord Gray.”
He had yet to let go of her hand. His touch was like fire, but his gaze was even hotter as his eyes dropped meaningfully to her lips.
Suddenly, she filled with fear. Fear that he really might kiss her.
As if in a dream, she forced the words from her throat to say, “I am, however, one who can resist, my lord.” She should be one of them! She had to be!
“Are ye now?” He breathed a
soft reply.
And then somehow, his lips were close, almost upon hers. She was mesmerized, unable to move.
“I admit, I’m intrigued,” he murmured, slipping a strong hand around her waist. “I find ye fair—”
“Dare ye show your face here, Gray?” Albany’s loud, questioning voice interrupted.
Liselle jerked back as Julian smoothly turned on his heel to face the Scottish prince.
Albany stood before them, his hands splayed upon his hips, and his dark brows drawn in an angry line.
Behind him, Archibald Douglas gaped as if in surprise to see Julian before he suddenly averted his eyes and took a quick step back.
“My lord!” Julian swept an elegant bow, and then leaning sideways, added deliberately, “And a good evening to ye, Douglas. What brings ye to Alnwick?”
“Aye, good evening, lad,” Douglas grunted in reply, and then looking as if he’d much rather be anywhere else, fell victim to a fit of coughing.
Stepping close to the table, Albany pounded his fist upon its surface and raised his voice, “Dare ye show your face to me, Gray? After nearly drowning me in Fotheringhay?”
Julian blinked in surprise and repeated in shock, “Drowning, my lord? Surely ye are mistaken!” And then with a rueful grin, he added, “I admit, I was fair drunk there, my lord. If I caused ye—”
“What is this?” a new, commanding tone inserted itself into the conversation.
They all turned to find Gloucester standing behind them, eyeing Julian with rank suspicion.
“Who are you? What brings you here?” The duke shot the questions out in an irate, rough manner.
Julian appeared almost embarrassed. “’Tis only a small misfortune, my lord,” he answered in a low tone and waved his fingers in a pleading motion.
“Misfortune?” Gloucester repeated tersely and with more than a little distrust in his voice.
“A lost wager,” Julian answered with a slow, self-conscious grin. “And I heard Douglas was here. I came to borrow a wee bit of coin afore they find me and … well, there is a lady present.” He nodded his chin at Liselle.
Liselle watched him in amazement. He was plainly playing Gloucester for a fool. Surely, the man could see it! Surely, Albany and Douglas could as well!
