by Tarah Scott
Julian caught his breath. Was the wee, malevolent beastie spilling his blood drop-by-drop, the sister of the deadliest and most-famed Venetian assassin? As was Lady Nicoletta?
He really had no choice but to go along with the vixen’s farce.
The man glowering above him, weapon drawn, was intent only upon securing his sister's honor. He could read it in the assassin’s eyes.
"Aye!" Julian growled with a flash of annoyance.
The blade beneath the covers bit him deeper.
He clenched his jaw.
Ach, but he was going to discipline this wee terror the moment they were alone. Clearing his throat, he confirmed in a strong tone, "Aye, I wed ... Lady Liselle ... last night."
But Orazio's eyes had narrowed suspiciously. "I would see both of your hands first, Liselle—and then hear the man speak."
With a smirk, Liselle arched her back and slowly lifted her hands out from under the covers. Dropping one hand to thread her fingers through Julian's fair hair, she lightly skimmed the palm of the other over his naked chest. "We've been properly wed, haven't we now?" she asked Julian in a low, provocative voice.
Beneath the covers, a new blade needled his flesh.
Had the lass found his dirk as well? And was she using her knees?
By the Virgin, but her skills were impressive!
At that, Julian paused, and for the first time in his life, experienced a ripple of genuine interest. He subjected the mischievous lass to a second, deeper look. She had the most unusual eyes he had ever seen; they were green, flecked, and ringed with gold.
And the expression in them was charmingly malicious.
He stared at her in wonder.
How had she slipped into his tightly locked chamber, avoiding the snares he had set just the night before at each door and window? And how had she slid into his bed and used his own dagger against him?
But most importantly, in just what exactly had the wicked sprite embroiled him?
"Then it appears I must welcome you into our family, Lord Julian Gray." Orazio laughed, but there was little humor in his tone and no sign of mirth in his eyes.
"This simply cannot be!" Lady Nicoletta wailed.
And then suddenly Orazio escorted Nicoletta out of the chamber, and closing the door, left Julian alone with Liselle.
The latch had scarcely fallen into place before Liselle sprang from the bed, sweeping up her gown from the nearby chest to shrug into its soft, vibrant green velvet. As the material fell in loose folds over her shoulders, she began to laugh.
It was a husky, throaty sound, one that Julian found strangely appealing.
"There's no need to hurry, lass. I wouldna mind if ye tarried a wee spell," he invited with a cheeky grin, patting the bed.
"Orazio will have your blood when he learns we’ve not been truly wed," she said sweetly, quickly capturing her shimmering waterfall of hair with a jeweled net. “You had best leave Sarlat, and right quickly!”
He knew that was sound advice. Orazio was a dangerous man, but at the moment, Julian found himself immensely distracted by the wee lass smiling down at him, her hazel eyes hinting of dangerous pleasures.
“Then let’s not tell the man we’re not, aye?” he suggested, eyeing her curves appreciatively.
Liselle leaned down to walk her fingers up his arm. “Alas, but I’ve no further use for you, Lord Gray.” She shared the same pouting lips and sultry smile as her sister, the Lady Nicoletta, but she was clearly younger and certainly more mischievous. And then she added in a whisper, “You are far too aged for me.”
Recalling she had just claimed to be twenty, Julian laughed. He was only a decade older. “Ach, just take a wee look at me, lass! I’m as brawny and virile as any man! Mayhap even more!”
She did take a look. A long, slow one, and then her lip crooked and a devious expression crossed her face. “Would you rather hear that you are simply not man enough to interest me, Lord Gray?”
Julian raised both brows. “No lass has ever said so of me afore!” He laughed outright, his curiosity growing even deeper in the trickster fluttering her lashes at him. Folding his arms behind his head, he settled back and asked, “Would ye care to enlighten me as to why ye’ve made your brother my enemy, then?”
“I haven’t the time,” she said, shrugging nonchalantly as she fastened the laces of her dress and stepped into a pair of finely embroidered slippers. Pointing a delicate toe at a coil of rope on the floor, she raised an eyebrow up at Julian.
He distinctly remembered tying the very same rope into a snare around the window the night before, in order to catch unwary intruders.
She had evidently read the confusion in his expression. With a smug but irresistible smile, she said, “You should really protect yourself better, Lord Gray. The incensed husbands and brothers of France are not as … gòfi as the Scottish! Ah, how shall I say it so you may understand?” She paused and tapped her lip, and then her eyes lit with a devilish glint. “Ah, you are like a lumbering ox … a bumbling jester, as well as a scandalous fool.”
Julian’s lips parted in surprise. While he readily embraced scandal—nay, he relished scandal—he was anything but a lumbering ox!
In reality, he was Le Marin, arguably the most famous and daring spy in Scotland, England, and France. And no one, not even his closest friend, Cameron Stewart, Earl of Lennox, knew that Lord Julian Gray and Le Marin were one and the same. Cameron thought Julian was an exceptional spy, but he little knew just how exceptional. The feats of Le Marin were legendary, and numerous were the theories of just whom Le Marin might truly be, theories that Julian found terribly amusing, especially in how far they fell from the truth.
Amusing … until now.
But there was little he could do about the matter. No, it was better the lass continued to think of him simply as the scandalous Lord Gray, the shockingly disgraceful young Scottish lord intent on gambling away his family fortune and bedding every maiden he encountered.
Brushing his momentary touchiness aside, he rose from the bed and peered down at her with an easy grin. Clad in his close-fitting breeches, his chest was bare, exposing hard muscles that never failed to elicit sighs of admiration from any lass that beheld them.
“Tarry a wee spell, my lady,” he murmured in a suggestive tone. “And ye’ll soon see how mistaken ye are.”
But the wicked beastie was clearly unaffected by his physical prowess. Lifting a mocking brow, she scooped up his white shirt from the foot of the bed and tossed it over his broad expanse of naked chest.
“Impressive, mayhap, for a Scotsman. Bondagnénte smoroxéto,” she replied with a coy smile. “But in my land, men like you are of the most common kind!”
Common kind? He highly doubted that. Would an ordinary man know that she’d just called him a good-for-nothing gallant in Venetian? Aye, but how could she know he’d been mentored by a Venetian master spy and was fluent in their language. His grin broadened as his interest ignited even more.
“I must be gone, Lord Gray.” Liselle gave a laugh as a wicked smile curved her full lips. “This has been a pleasant diversion, but the sun is rising.”
Blowing him a kiss, she turned lightly on her heel and headed for the door.
He watched her go with a twinge of disappointment and a full measure of admiration. But, as the door closed behind her, he quickly donned his shirt and collected his weapons, shaking his head all the while.
Now there was a lass worth kissing. And the fact that such an act might be rewarded with a knife in his gut made him all the more interested in attempting the deed. What a delightful challenge she would be!
But alas, he had not the time for such pleasantries. He was on a mission. Alexander Stewart, Duke of Albany, and the last surviving brother of King James III of Scotland, appeared to have embarked, yet again, on another foolish attempt to wrest the throne from his brother.
Just a few years prior, the king’s lowborn favorite and latest lover, Thomas Cochrane, had accused Scotland’s y
oungest prince, John Stewart, the Earl of Mar, of witchcraft, and had murdered and buried him. Albany, afraid for his own life, had then fled to France with Julian’s help.
Julian sighed, pushing back his shoulder-length blond hair and pulling on his black leather boots. He despised Albany. He’d only aided the man as a favor to his friend, Cameron.
The instant Albany had set foot in the French court of King Louis XI he had embroiled himself in one treacherous plot after another.
Aye, the prince was angry over Mar’s unjust death; it was an anger that most in Scotland shared. But Albany was no better than James; the king was a fool, but Albany was unscrupulous.
In the bid to gain the French king’s favor and support, Albany had unceremoniously dissolved his marriage to Lady Katherine—disinheriting his three grown sons and daughter in the process—and had then married Anne de la Tour. After which, he redoubled his pestering of Louis to put him on the Scottish throne.
But the French king would have none of it.
Now banned from court, Albany was skulking in Sarlat, a town nestled in a hollow between the hills and the Dordogne River in Aquitaine, in southwestern France.
Julian had been almost relieved last week to discover a man shadowing Albany, a man who proved to be the Venetian assassin, Orazio di Franco.
But as Albany continued to walk in the light of day, Julian had become intrigued, knowing that if Orazio had truly wanted the treacherous prince dead, he would be. And then Julian would even now be standing on Scottish soil with Albany buried six feet beneath him.
No, Orazio clearly had other designs in pursuing Albany. And those designs were fair interesting to Julian as Le Marin. And mayhap this Liselle was even part of that plan, a thought Julian found even more enthralling.
Aye, something was brewing, and he more than ached for a game of wits with worthy opponents.
He knew little of his sister, but from what he knew of Orazio, the man would be the worthiest of opponents.
Crossing the chamber, Julian cracked a shutter open.
His room was on the top floor of the inn, affording him a stunning view of the sun which was now rising on the sleepy town of Sarlat and bathing its shale roof tiles in a warm red glow.
Voices drifted up from the cobblestoned street below, and he glanced down to see Orazio standing almost directly beneath him.
The man was pacing, appearing genuinely agitated as he waved his hands at Lady Nicoletta who was standing nearby.
Liselle was nowhere to be seen.
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 ak
in 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?”