The Daring Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series)

by Carmen Caine

  Liselle lifted a brow at the red-haired earl still speaking with Albany. “Then is it not strange that this Red Douglas also now betrays the Scottish crown and a Stewart king by seeking Yorkist aid?”

  Pascal’s dark eyes glinted dangerously. “Men betray much for power,” he said softly and in an almost jaded tone. “Even their brothers.”

  Liselle shot him a puzzled look.

  “Be careful, bábia,” he warned, not bothering to explain himself. “Archibald Douglas may appear humble and pleasant, but do not underestimate him. He’s one of the craftiest noblemen of Scotland.”

  Liselle watched him a moment, wondering what secrets he harbored. “And how do you know of these Scottish clans?” she asked softly.

  He didn’t seem bothered by the question in the slightest. Leaning close, he retorted, “Unlike you, bábia, I seek knowledge. You would be wise to do the same.”

  And then with a blasé shrug of the shoulders, he moved off to join Albany and Douglas and proceeded to murmur something that was met by hearty bursts of laughter.

  As they suddenly turned to her as one, Liselle sent her cousin a disapproving look. He’d clearly made a jest at her expense. But she joined them all the same.

  “The Lady Liselle,” Albany introduced her to the red-haired earl. “Nicoletta has fallen ill with the ague. Liselle will be taking her place as a lady-in-waiting to the princess.”

  The Earl of Angus’ beard widened into a smile as he bowed and said politely enough, “’Twill be a pleasure to have ye in Edinburgh, Lady Liselle.”

  But she had scarcely curtsied in reply before he was waving them all to a group of horses waiting nearby.

  “We’ll stay for a wee night’s rest with the monks at Netley Abbey,” Douglas explained, catching his horse’s head and giving the great beast a fond pat. “But we’ll leave at dawn and ride hard for Fotheringhay. King Edward’s own brother, the Duke of Gloucester is waiting ye there, Albany, and his tidings will please ye greatly.”

  “The only tidings to please me would be those of an army,” Albany retorted, mounting his horse. “An army that will make me King of Scotland.”

  “Then be pleased.” Douglas laughed, urging his horse forward.

  As their conversation continued along the same lines, Liselle fell to the back of the party. There was nothing to be learned from them now; they were too busy congratulating each other on having won a war yet to be fought.

  They took a woodland path running along the river through clumps of birches and spreading ancient oaks. And the slight chill in the air made her shiver despite the sun filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead.

  Soon enough, she saw Netley Abbey with its tall tower and painted glass windows perched on a gentle slope rising from the banks of the Southampton waters. There were several buildings south of the abbey’s church, half obscured by ivy and surrounded by green trees and traces of a moat.

  They had scarcely dismounted before an austere, blunt-faced monk came out to greet them at the main gate. Once they were inside the courtyard, he motioned a fellow brother to escort the men to one side of the abbey, as he escorted Liselle to a small one-room guesthouse on the other. And after promising her sustenance, he shut the door and left her alone.

  Taking a deep breath, Liselle stretched and glanced around, grateful for the feel of solid earth beneath her feet. The room was a simple one, comprised only of a bed and a small wooden table with a single candlestick.

  Moving to the window, she let her thoughts wander until a knock on the door revealed another monk bearing a simple meal of mutton stew and brown bread. After placing the meal upon the table and lighting the candle from his own lamp, he nodded kindly and then exited the chamber, never having said a word.

  Liselle ate peacefully, lost in thought, listening to the cry of the gulls outside her small window for a time. She was relieved that she was no longer on a rolling ship or wasting away from boredom in Venice.

  Finally, exhaustion overcame her. And as the sun set, she crawled beneath her woolen cover and fell asleep in moments.

  The storms that had plagued their journey returned in the middle of the night, waking her on several occasions. But when she rose at dawn, the heavy drumming of the rain had subsided to gentle showers.

  In a short time, she was dressed and ready to leave, and it was only a little time later that another soft knock on her door heralded the return of the kindly nodding monk, and with him, a breakfast of bread, fish, and a few honey-spiced almonds.

  She ate quickly in silence, and then wrapping herself in a soft, hooded cloak and lacing up her sturdy boots, she slipped outside in search of the others.

  She had almost reached the abbey’s main gate when Albany’s laughter sounded from inside a nearby building. Peering through an open door, she caught sight of the prince and Douglas still at table, slapping one another on the back. She rolled her eyes contemptuously. Apparently, the prospect of starting a war was an occasion to be overjoyed. Finding no sight of Pascal, she resumed circling the abbey grounds.

  Stepping out from behind a long, low building near the stables, a flash of black caught the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she ducked back, and crouching low, leaned forward for a better look.

  A short distance away, Pascal stood with his head bowed, murmuring to a man clad from head to toe in black.

  Liselle frowned, watching as the two clasped forearms and pressed their cheeks in farewell. The gesture seemed strangely familiar, but she hadn’t recalled seeing the man before. Most likely, it was a new messenger. Curious, she rose to her feet, preparing to join them.

  But then a shrill whistle pierced the air, and as Pascal whirled with his stiletto appearing in his hand, she instinctively darted back.

  Pascal was behaving unusually. But then, she’d never bothered to observe her cousin much before. Perhaps he always acted in this manner.

  The whistle shrieked again, and the sound of Douglas’ booming voice quickly followed it.

  Reluctantly, Liselle gathered her skirts and withdrew. It was time to leave. She’d have to pry into her cousin’s affairs later.

  Picking her way a short distance through the wet grass, she arrived at the main gate just as Pascal stepped around the opposite side of the building. And as he caught the reins of her gray mare and moved to assist her to mount, she saw an unusually dark expression written upon his handsome face.

  “What is it?” she whispered curiously in his ear. “Have you received new orders?”

  He raised a scathing brow, but his voice was soft. “Orders? What madness is this, bábia? It’s time for you to wake from your dreams now!” He snapped his fingers in front of her face.

  Liselle scowled but nodded her chin towards where she’d just seen him. “Did you not receive tidings, behind yonder building?”

  His dark eyes flickered, and she could tell that he knew what she meant, but he denied it anyway. “I know not of what you speak!” he said in a belittling tone. “You would do well to remember that my business is no concern of yours. I am not yours to command.”

  “You’re lying,” she accused, irritated.

  But he was clearly done speaking of the matter. Stepping away, he complained loudly, “England is a miserable place.” He held out his hand and eyed the raindrops falling into his outstretched palm with disgust. “Do they ever see the sun in this accursed land?”

  “’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 fou
r 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 head 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.