by Carmen Caine
With his eyes trained on the pair below, Julian strained forward to catch his words.
“… and we must not fail!” Orazio made a harsh chopping gesture with his palm. “Not again!”
“She is no longer a child, Orazio.” Lady Nicoletta heaved a great sigh, laying her hand on her brother’s arm. “We have held her back long enough.”
“And you know exactly why that’s so! She’s too passionate. She leaps and then looks to see where she’s falling!” Orazio growled. “And now she’s playing some ill-thought-out game with that fool!”
Julian grinned, and tilting his head to one side, took a cloth from his pocket and absently began to polish one of his blades.
“Indeed, I agree, of all men, why that one?” Lady Nicoletta waved a disgusted hand in Julian’s direction. “Macarón!” She began to pound her chest with her palm.
Julian’s grin widened. He and Lady Nicoletta had never seen eye-to-eye. She’d called him the demeaning term at every opportunity.
Lady Nicoletta’s wailing stopped abruptly as a man stepped out from the shadows to murmur something into Orazio’s ear.
The effect was immediate. “Then, to the market square with haste!” Orazio ordered, and all three whirled upon their heels, their cloaks billowing out behind them as they disappeared into a nearby alleyway.
Julian’s eyes lit with exhilaration. Finally, the game was afoot! Quickly, he inserted a blade into each boot and concealed a third within his sleeve. Grabbing his cloak, he slipped out of his chamber and went down the narrow, dark stairs of the French inn, Les Trois Couronnes.
At the bottom of the stairs he spied the flat-faced innkeeper huffing about the common room, poking several snoring men with the handle of a broom.
Julian chuckled under his breath. He’d never met a more righteous innkeeper; the man should have been a priest. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the room, lurching sideways in feigned drunkenness. After all, he had a reputation to uphold as the irresponsible, reckless Lord Gray.
“Did ye see a lass run through here a wee bit ago?” he asked the innkeeper, slurring his speech and bracing himself unsteadily against the doorpost. “A green gown, I think she wore!”
The innkeeper brushed back his gray hair which hung in straggly, limp strings, and his long face lengthened even more as he eyed Julian with rank disapproval. “No, my lord.”
“Well then!” Julian blinked as if in surprise and stepped back, weaving a little before adding with a grin, “I’ll take any lass then ... or two. Can ye send a few to my chamber and more of that fine Frankish wine of yours, aye?”
The frown on the man’s face deepened. “I run a respectable inn, my lord. I do not employ demoiselles of the kind you seek.”
Julian gave a loud groan, but judging he was on the verge of losing Orazio’s trail, he heaved a disappointed sigh and stumbled towards the front door. He paused on the threshold a moment and grinned at the innkeeper who huffed in disgust, and then Julian stepped out into the cobblestoned street.
Once out of the innkeeper’s sight, Julian dropped the act and set off in hot pursuit of Orazio and his companions.
Shafts of morning sunlight fell in crisscross patterns through the narrow, crooked lanes as he hurried to the market square in the center of the town. It was still early, and most of the stalls were closed, but for a thick-lipped man with a bulging belly arranging baskets of mushrooms, and a lad with a face more fit for a lass, driving a flock of geese into a pen.
At the edge of the market square, he caught sight of Orazio and the others striding determinedly towards a stone cottage with a walled courtyard and red-shuttered windows. Herbs grew in pots on the sills, and ivy covered the courtyard walls and half of the brown slate roof as well.
Pausing before the cottage’s gate, Orazio peered over his shoulders in both directions.
Quickly, Julian ducked into a nearby alleyway, inadvertently startling a flock of pigeons. He frowned as the birds fluttered to rest on the rooftop ridges of the narrow buildings flanking him. No doubt, Orazio would see and know he was being followed.
Cursing under his breath, Julian waited longer than he liked before peering cautiously around the corner, just in time to see Orazio disappear behind the gate.
Apparently, the man hadn’t suspected he’d been followed.
Julian expelled a breath of relief, stretched, and glanced around.
Already, there were more people on the street, and they were growing more numerous by the moment. As a cart rumbled by, Julian stepped out of the alleyway to casually weave through the square, approaching the stone cottage from the back. It was easy enough to scale the courtyard wall and peer inside the enclosure.
There was a garden, and it was small, barely room enough for its single raised herb bed and several large clay pots. A tree grew near the smoke-stained sandstone wall of what appeared to be the cottage’s kitchen. Swinging his legs over the wall, he dropped lightly on his feet and swiftly darted to the nearest window.
The soft murmur of voices met his ear, but he couldn’t make out any words. He was ready to move on when a loud laugh caught him by surprise.
He would recognize that laugh anywhere.
It was Albany.
“… and I’ve been assured that ye are the finest spy in Christendom,” the Scottish prince was saying gruffly.
Julian rolled his eyes in scorn. The fool had been misled. Orazio was an assassin, not a spy. And even if he were a spy, he was nothing akin to Le Marin.
“Aye, the reason I’ve need for your particular kind of service is that I’m on my way to England and will need my own man to watch my back and to uncover what those treacherous English rats will undoubtedly try to hide from me!” Albany continued, clearing his throat. “I’ll expect ye to journey with me the whole way to Fotheringhay, where ‘tas been arranged I should be a fortnight hence.”
Sweet Mary! Julian’s gray eyes widened. Fotheringhay? England? If Albany were to gain the support of Edward, King of England, then Scotland was in serious danger.
“I will send a man of mine to accompany you—” Orazio’s unmistakable tones began.
“Nay, not so!” Albany interrupted angrily. “’Twas ye I was told to hire, not another!”
“My man will suffice! As I have said, my lord, you will be pleased with my services—services, may I remind you, that you’ve yet to pay for.” Orazio’s voice hardened.
Julian frowned. Orazio was not a gatherer of information; the man was an assassin. There could only be one reason for the deception. His true target must be a man of Albany’s acquaintance.
“Aye, aye,” Albany mumbled. There was the sound of a wooden chair scraping against a stone floor, and then the prince’s voice floated through the window from different angles as he began to pace. “Then, I’ve nae choice but to trust ye. Ach, ‘tis a princely sum that ye’ve asked of me! I dinna have such a sum of gold at hand! I can only pay ye half now.”
At that, Julian raised a brow in admiration. Aye, Orazio was a wily one to collect the prince’s gold while at the same time using him as a tool to gain access to his true target! ‘Twas no wonder the man was infamous. Such deviousness could only be admired.
“I see,” Orazio replied. His tone was cool. “Then perhaps our services are not really what you need.”
“Nay!” Albany quickly inserted. “I’ll see ye paid the rest soon, I swear it! But give me time!”
“No, my lord,” came Orazio’s reply. “I require the entire sum first, as I have said. When you have it, send word and—“
“God’s Wounds!” Albany swore loudly and there was a crash, as if he’d kicked over a chair. “Surely, the word of the future King of Scotland means something to ye?”
There was a long pause.
And then Orazio’s deep voice dropped. “Mayhap … mayhap there is a way, my lord.”
“A way?” Albany seized the words eagerly.
“Mayhap…” Orazio murmured. There was a drumming sound, as if he wer
e drumming his fingers thoughtfully upon a table. “On this one occasion, my lord, I could wait on the full payment in return for a favor.”
Albany’s voice turned suspicious at once. “A favor? What favor is this?”
“A simple request. ‘Tis my sister, the Lady Nicoletta. I must see her returned to the Scottish court to the care of Princess Anabella, and I cannot accompany her myself,” the man answered calmly.
Julian raised a brow, wondering what kind of threat Orazio might pose to the Scottish court if he were using his relationship to Nicoletta as part of his scheme. It was something that he should delve into, and forthwith.
“Nicoletta?” Albany cleared his throat and paused a moment. “Is the lass a spy as well?”
Orazio laughed, and Julian found himself laughing silently along with him.
The concept was ludicrous. Nicoletta was anything but a spy. She was a mere lady-in-waiting. Aye, every time he’d ever been in her presence, she’d spoken only of court etiquette, and specifically his own great lack in observing it. Rumors and intrigue didn’t appear to interest her in the slightest.
“My sister Nicoletta is naught but a trusted companion to the princess, my lord,” Orazio replied in a derisive tone. “And you would do well to remember that our mother is the Lady Catelin le Brun, a long-time favorite in the French court and a personal friend to Princess Anabella of Scotland. My sister knows nothing of my more adventurous activities.”
Albany cleared his throat. “Aye, now, I meant nothing by it. Indeed ‘tis a fair barter. I’ll see to her safe passage for ye,” he said, sounding distinctly embarrassed.
Suddenly, the clap of a closing door startled Julian.
Someone was approaching.
With nowhere to hide, he had no choice but to abandon his eavesdropping. Leaping lightly onto the top of the wall, he dangled one leg over the side and hesitated just long enough to catch a glimpse of a vibrant green gown before jumping to the other side.
Was it Liselle?
He was half-tempted to leap back over and see. But the news that Albany was traveling to Fotheringhay in England was beyond alarming. If he were to gain the support of the English in his quest for the throne, Scotland would be doomed. Cameron had to know. Scotland had to prepare. They could very well be headed for the war that they’d been working for years to prevent.
For a moment, he pondered what Orazio’s scheme might be and if the man he was sending with Albany was also an assassin. But even if he were, it appeared they were traveling to Fotheringhay and that meant his intended victim would most likely be English. Julian smiled to himself a little. One less Englishman conspiring to wage war against Scotland wasn’t particularly troubling news.
Striding through the marketplace, Julian headed back down the walled streets of Sarlat. He chuckled once or twice at the mere thought of Nicoletta being a spy, but Albany’s treachery was enough to turn any man’s mood ultimately somber.
He had to leave for Scotland at once, but not before he left a parting message for the treacherous Scottish prince. Aye, the man was a cur. And he should remain in France, where deception was the way of life. That a Scottish prince would scheme with the English was beyond repulsive.
Julian blew a breath in disgust.
Heading for the inn where he knew Albany to be staying, he fished a length of fine silver cord from his pocket.
God’s Wounds! He’d leave the man a message—a message that would strike fear in his very soul.
Anger boiled in Julian as his nimble fingers began to weave a Turk’s head knot, the well-known trademark of Le Marin. Years ago, he’d taken to leaving the knot behind whenever he wanted to alarm his adversaries. He’d leave it as a warning but also as a brazen clue to his actual identity. His family had been in the shipping trade for centuries, and the ornate silken knot was an outright declaration of his seafaring heritage. But no one had yet pieced together the clues. They had simply taken to calling him Le Marin, assuming that only a sailor-turned-dangerous-spy would leave a Turk’s head knot behind as a token.
Finishing the knot with a flourish, Julian slipped it into his pocket. Aye, he’d leave his token on Albany’s pillow, knowing the man would quail in his boots upon seeing it.
Turning up a narrow street, he arrived at Albany’s inn. And with a confident step, Julian strode through the kitchens, past a man with a face that reminded him of a rat, and up the creaky stairs leading to the Scottish prince’s rooms.
He nodded at every gent and winked at every lass he met along the busy passageway, grinning as the maidens blushed and giggled. One bright-eyed girl caught his attention in particular. Aye, she might have proved worthy of a diversion if he wasn’t in such a hurry.
Soon enough, Julian spied the entrance to the prince’s rooms, seemingly left unguarded. He made short work of picking a few locks and was soon placing the Turk’s head knot on Albany’s silken pillow. His deed accomplished, Julian swiftly left the chamber and made his way back to the kitchens, snagging a carrot from the bowl of an unwary cook. Stepping out into Sarlat’s narrow cobbled streets, Julian took in his surroundings. A short distance away, a group of traveling jongleurs were performing in front of a church. They balanced wooden staves upon their heads as a thin and wiry young man held out his cap to collect coins from the clapping bystanders.
Julian paused to watch them for a moment, leaning against a rough sandstone wall.
“You mend right swiftly, my Lord Gray,” Liselle’s alto tones whispered by his side. “When you left your inn not long ago, I was concerned for you. You could scarcely stand.”
Deep lines of laughter creased his cheeks. So the wee imp had been watching him? Turning, he leaned down, and brushing the top of her ear with his lips, he whispered in reply, “French wine is water to a Scotsman, lass.”
Her hazel eyes flashed with amusement, and gathering her green gown, she moved as if to step past him, but he caught her about the waist and pulled her back, effectively caging her against the rough stone wall.
“There’s no need to leave, lass,” he said with a chuckle. “We are wed, are we not?”
Smiling demurely, she reached up and let her finger trail down his cheek in a manner he found most seductive. “You really should be leaving Sarlat while you still yet live, my lord.”
He would have thought of a witty reply had not a particularly captivating and voluptuous brunette chosen that particular moment to pass by. And then Liselle’s slender fingers slid up the side of his neck to catch his chin, drawing it back towards her.
Dragging his gaze away from the brunette, he peered down into a pair of dangerous green eyes flecked with amber.
With a smile, Liselle pulled his head down with an unusually strong grip. "No man looks at another woman whilst in my company, Lord Gray,” she warned, breathing softly into his ear before nipping it with her teeth.
His pulse quickened, and his lips slowly stretched into a predatory smile. Aye, the wicked lass had his full attention now. Scotland could wait a wee bit. After all, Albany’s riding skills were nothing compared to his own. His hot breath brushed her cheek as he lowered his lips to hers, but at the last moment, she twisted away, easily slipping out of his arms.
“I’m afraid we shall not meet again, my lord.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “And for your safety, I certainly hope not.”
Julian’s eyes slid over her appreciatively as she pivoted on her heel, and without a backward glance, the lass strode down a cobblestoned lane bordered with fruit trees.
He frowned.
Alas, but he had not the time to pursue her further. ‘Twas time to ride to the coast as fast as a horse could carry him.
Aye, but ’twould do him good to ride.
With a pronounced sigh of regret, he straightened his shirt and headed for Les Trois Couronnes for his horse.
Chapter Two – Love is an Illness
The sun was high over Sarlat’s rooftops before Julian finally galloped across the bridge over the Dordogne River and onto
a steep road leading up the nearby hill.
With his thoughts now firmly on Scotland’s safety, he urged his horse through narrow valleys, over hills covered with numerous flocks, and under the wind-rustling leaves of chestnut trees. The roads were difficult, and by the time he finally stopped to tend to his horse and a tankard of ale, he was fair exhausted.
The village was a small one, boasting only a single inn with two rooms, and the best his coin could buy was the least crowded bed. But he was tired enough to sleep through the snores of his bedmate, a stolid-looking man with wide cheekbones and a broad nose.
Morning saw him refreshed, and after giving the bosomy serving lass a healthy pinch, he was madly galloping once again.
Images of Liselle strayed across his mind the next few days, but when he finally reached the port of Bordeaux, she had faded into a distant, amusing memory.
Pausing in the shadow of Langoiran Castle perched on the hills overlooking the Garonne River, he eyed the banners hanging from the tower windows with a rueful grin.
In three days’ time, the scandalous Lord Gray was expected to appear there for a week of hunting, feasting, and wagering. Alas, but he would not be arriving as anticipated. And while he longed for a goblet in his hand and a lass on his knee, he had to reach Scotland, and right quickly.
A short time later, he was dismounting at the docks with a gleam in his eye upon catching sight of The Yellow Carvel moored in the harbor. Fortune was favoring him to find the Scottish king’s own ship at a French port.
He had to listen only a moment to identify which tavern along the docks housed the Scottish ship’s captain and his crew; it was the only one filled with Gaelic drinking songs, Gaelic curses, and the sound of men actively brawling.
The sand was gray and springy beneath his feet as he made his way to the rickety structure, and a woman with a wrinkled face and sagging skin met him at the door. In response to his query, she waved him to the back to where the Scottish captain sat drinking with his men.
“Lord Gray!” the captain recognized him instantly.