Highlander's Sweet Promises

by Tarah Scott

  Clearly, Pascal had a mission that neither she nor Orazio knew anything about.

  But who had given it to him and what was it? Orazio was his Magno Duce. And if Orazio had no knowledge of it, then only the Quattuor Gladiis could have given Pascal such a charter. But why would someone so powerful in the Vindictam stoop to deal directly with her arrogant cousin?

  Diàmbarne! But it was enough to make her head split.

  Annoyed to be thinking so much of her cousin, Liselle tucked the bone-handled stilettos back safely into her sleeves. And then freeing her hair from her net, she picked up a fine silver-handled comb and ran its teeth through her tresses, directing her thoughts once more to a far more pleasant subject.

  Lord Gray.

  The man certainly had a mysterious habit of showing up everywhere of late. A fact she found quite delightful. Absently combing her hair, she recalled his muscular, hard body and his piercing gray eyes.

  For one brief, glorious moment at the blacksmith’s, she thought she’d seen in those eyes a look of real hunger, hunger for her. She shivered, reliving the moment, and then her lashes flew open in outright alarm.

  Santo Ciélo, but Pascal was right! She spent far too much time thinking of the seductive Scot. And in all likelihood, Nicoletta was right as well. The man probably was a rogue and thought of nothing other than satisfying his own needs.

  Expelling a breath, Liselle leaned her head against the window and looked out. Dusk had fallen. The dark clouds rolling in from the north hid any sign of a sunset.

  The dogs were barking in the courtyard once again, and she saw that some new knight had just arrived riding a black charger as a score of soaked and muddied soldiers stumbled behind him on foot.

  “Fools,” Liselle whispered. It made little sense for them to die for the pompous Albany’s meaningless crown.

  It was then that she noticed a solitary man standing near the stables observing the new arrivals with interest.

  Her heart flopped.

  Even from this distance, she knew it was Julian.

  Biting her lip, she peered down at him for a time, wondering what he sought and, despite herself, admiring his sharply defined muscles and shoulder-length blond hair.

  It seemed he would stand there all night, a prospect she quite looked forward to, until she noticed a man swathed in a black cloak observing him from the battlements above.

  Her eyes widened in alarm.

  Was it Pascal? Had he broken his word?

  Without hesitation, she made for her chamber door.

  Her cousin’s nature had always been scheming and deceitful, but she had never known him to so deliberately cross her. Flying down the stairwell, she ordered her beating heart to slow, but it did not obey.

  Bursting out into the courtyard, she pushed her way through the men thronging about in the rain. Ignoring their calls for her attention, she finally broke free of the crowd just to see Julian stride into the stables.

  There was no sign of the dark figure on the battlements. Wiping the rain from her face, Liselle searched the surrounding area.

  Almost immediately, the dark shadowy form appeared behind the stables, and she caught her breath in a mixture of relief and concern. The man was much too short to be Pascal.

  But then, who could it be?

  One of his mysterious companions? Or, cà de dìa, a Saluzzo?

  As she watched, the figure darted into the stables through the back entrance.

  She was behind him in a flash.

  Instinctively unsheathing a stiletto, she stepped inside the building. The stench of foul straw met her nostrils. The interior was so dark she couldn’t see, but then at the far end, Julian’s blond hair gleamed in the sudden flash of a torch flaring to life.

  Squinting, Liselle saw only piles of straw, saddles, and ropes.

  There was no sign of the furtive stranger.

  Ahead, Julian dropped the torch into an iron sconce and entered one of the stalls.

  A horse whickered loudly in greeting.

  “Aye, ‘tis time to be leaving soon, lad,” Julian chuckled fondly in response.

  Cautiously, Liselle crept closer and dropped to a crouch, leaning forward for a better view. The stones dug roughly into her knees.

  “Easy, lad,” Julian was crooning as he led the beast out of the stall. “There’s a lad now.”

  And it was then that Liselle saw a glint of metal from above.

  It was the Saluzzo from the market pace. Immediately, she recognized the wiry man with dark stubby brows crouched in the rafters, a sharp blade glittering betwixt his teeth and a heavy coil of rope in his hands.

  And then he lunged forward to spring down upon Julian from above.

  7

  the protection of the vindictam

  Liselle didn’t hesitate. She let her stiletto loose. It wouldn’t be a serious strike, but it would be enough to prevent the man from harming Julian.

  The Saluzzo made a shocked, gargling sound as her blade struck home. Landing off balance, he dropped the rope and stumbled forward with the bone-handled stiletto protruding from his shoulder.

  Startled, Julian stepped back, unsheathing his dirk in a single movement.

  And then the Saluzzo straightened, and his blade appeared in his hand as he crouched as if ready to strike Julian.

  “Who are ye?” Julian thundered as he lunged forward.

  With a curse, the Saluzzo began to retreat.

  “Have a care, Lord Gray!” the man rasped in warning. “Your friends in the Vindictam will not protect you for long! We will find you!” For one brief moment, he glared into the darkness in Liselle’s direction, and then turning on his heel, fled the stables.

  Liselle closed her eyes and swallowed.

  What had she done?

  She felt ill.

  But not because she had just attacked a Saluzzo from Ferrara, an action that, should they hear of it, would surely shatter the fragile truce between the Vindictam and the Saluzzi family.

  No, it was the sight of blood that had made her nauseated, the first drops she had ever spilled.

  What kind of assassin was she?

  And then Julian’s Scottish burr commanded, “Reveal yourself!”

  * * *

  Silence was Julian’s only answer.

  He’d recognized his assailant as the Saluzzo in the marketplace. But what cause had the man to attack him? He prodded the coil of rope with his boot. Or had the man been trying to abduct him? For what reason?

  And who had averted the attack and perhaps just saved his life?

  God’s Wounds! He hadn’t the time for this mystery! He still had to procure proof of Albany’s betrayal. Chasing would-be abductors and assassins would be a distraction.

  When nothing moved, he sheathed his dirk, aggravated at the delay in his plans. And slapping his horse on the rump, he guided the beast back into the stall.

  “I’ll be back soon, lad,” he promised.

  Aye, he’d throttle some answers from the Saluzzo, and right quickly!

  Quenching the torch, Julian headed outside the stables to search for the man. It wasn’t hard to pick up his trail. Immediately, he found traces of blood, and judging by the size of the drops, the man’s wound wasn’t as trivial as it had first seemed.

  He hadn’t tracked the man far before screams resonated from the kitchens.

  His quarry had been discovered.

  Sprinting towards the commotion, he arrived to see a maid waving her hands frantically at the scullery door.

  “Lord Gray!” She seized his arm. “Signor Balbus has been sorely injured! Oh, please help him straightway!”

  Julian strode into the scullery and peered down at the unconscious man at his feet. Prodding him with a booted toe, he glanced up at the maid and asked, “And how do ye know this man’s name?”

  “Oh, he’s a rich merchant, my lord!” She gasped, and then stepping closer, she lowered her voice and hissed conspiratorially, “But he’s really an Italian prince in disguise!
He made me swear to tell no one!”

  Julian suppressed a snort.

  And then the place filled with more maids pleading, “Please help him, my lord!” and “Send for the herb-wife at once!”

  Julian stifled a growl of frustration. He’d never be able to wring answers from the man under such circumstances, even if he were to regain consciousness.

  As if on cue, the Saluzzo moaned.

  Kneeling by his side, Julian heaved the assassin onto his back, and under the guise of staunching the blood, swiftly searched the man.

  There was little on him, save for a small velvet pouch attached to a leather belt. But, it was an unusual belt. Upon closer inspection, Julian saw that it was quite intricate, a parchment-thin strip of leather wound loosely on top of a more serviceable belt of thick hide.

  Ordering a maid to press down on the stab wound in his stead, Julian swiftly unbuckled the looser belt and slid it and the pouch under his knee. As he did so, a bloodied bone-handled stiletto fell to the stone floor.

  He recognized it at once; the small knife had subverted the attack. Wondering at the identity of his savior, he wiped the blood off the blade and slipped it into his boot.

  And then the herb-wife arrived to issue orders, and Julian seized the opportunity to pick up the pouch and belt and then to slip away.

  Threading his way through the maze of castle passages, he swiped a torch, and returning to his chamber, began his inspection.

  Fishing the stiletto out of his boot, he eyed it curiously. It was well made, aye, exquisitely made, even. Small, deadly, and bearing no identifying mark.

  The Saluzzo’s velvet pouch held nothing but coins and what looked like a small bottle of ink. Julian frowned, a little puzzled, before tucking it away into his sporran. Why would the man carry ink?

  And then he turned his gaze upon the belt.

  The top strip was of stretched leather, resembling parchment more than anything else. It had been folded lengthwise into thirds and unwrapping it revealed a series of dark letters written at different angles and of varying widths apart.

  Julian’s eyes lit.

  A message!

  He scanned the groups of letters with interest, recognizing only fragments of what appeared to be Latin. Peering closely at the slanted characters, he looped the leather around his hand, wondering if the matching angles would form full words.

  His first few attempts produced nothing.

  But then his eyes widened in surprise as two words formed: Giuliano Gray.

  Glancing about the chamber, he searched for something long and thin to loop the leather around. The only thing remotely suitable was the iron candelabra with its narrow tapers.

  It took several attempts at wrapping the belt in different patterns around bars and tapers of varying widths before he finally saw a coherent series of Latin words form.

  "Dolfin veniet si Dominus Giuliano Gray timetur.

  Electus eis invenire et occidere."

  Julian caught his breath in alarm, whispering the words aloud, “Dolfin will come if Lord Julian Gray is in peril. Find the Electus and slay them all.”

  Aye, even unconscious, the Saluzzo had given him the answer to why he’d been attacked. They sought to use him as a hostage to flush Dolfin out of his hiding place. But who was the Electus? And had they discovered that he was Le Marin?

  Closing his eyes, he tapped his fist lightly against his forehead.

  Matters had taken a dangerous twist. He couldn’t afford to ignore these strange doings any more.

  Nor could he delay much longer in gathering the information that Cameron would so desperately need!

  It was a long, aggravating night. Julian found no new answers, nor was he successful in finding the treaties signed by Albany’s hand.

  And when the sun finally rose, it found him sitting in the great hall, exhausted and ill-tempered.

  The day only worsened when Gloucester arrived, issuing orders to ride.

  Wincing at his overly loud voice, Julian watched the men leap from their seats around him and scurry out of the hall to saddle the horses and make ready to depart.

  Weary of the hall, Julian made his way to the courtyard and cast a critical eye at the gray and drizzly sky. He didn’t relish trailing after Gloucester in such miserable weather, but it had to be done. Leaning back, he stretched his arms with a loud yawn when his eye caught Albany’s red head bobbing across the ancient drawbridge spanning the roaring waters of the River Nene.

  Julian’s jaw clenched, and filled with a mixture of curiosity and anger, he slipped outside the castle walls in hot pursuit.

  The rainstorms of the night had caused the river to flood its banks, eradicating any sign of its usual graceful curves and forming lakes in the nearby fields. Those lakes had swallowed stands of birch and weeping willows, making for an eerie countryside.

  Albany was already out of sight, but he’d left a trail of fresh footprints already half-filled with water, and those led over the boggy ground to a nearby spreading oak.

  And it was there that Julian found the prince huddled in the company of a flock of rain-sodden sheep.

  Albany stood silent, on the edge of a muddy hillock overlooking the turbulent waters. His head was bowed and shoulders hunched in a manner most forlorn.

  Aye, the man had cause for a guilty conscience!

  “’Tis odd to find ye here in England,” Julian said by way of greeting. The sarcasm was rife in his tone.

  Albany jerked in surprise. “Aye, Julian. ‘Tis strange to see ye here in Fotheringhay.”

  “Strange?” Julian repeated, adopting a belligerent tone. “I but visit kinfolk. I come here oft enough, but I’ve never seen ye here afore.”

  Albany glanced away, and then replied, “Aren’t ye as angry as I? Do ye nae wish for vengeance on Mar’s behalf? ‘Tis not right that cur, Cochrane, succeeded his earldom!"

  Julian raised a brow, surprised Albany would be thinking of his murdered younger brother. "Aye," he agreed truthfully. "I'm angry for Mar.”

  But Albany wasn’t listening. "I loved my brother,” the Scottish prince admitted gruffly. “He was always seeing naught but good. He was a dreamer, that lad."

  “Aye, he was a dreamer,” Julian agreed as his gray eyes narrowed. “And he’d not want to be the martyr who ignited treason—caused brother to fight against brother, aye?”

  Albany went pale, and his hand began to shake. And then he whirled on Julian and shouted, “And what would ye know of it? I'll see justice done, Lord Gray! I’ll see myself King of Scotland even if I have to use a Yorkist bastard to get me there!”

  A curse left Julian's lips. "God’s Wounds, but ye’ve gone daft, Albany! Don’t ye see you’re giving the King of England our land for naught but an empty title? There’s no justice for Mar in that. Ye’ve only drafted a surrender of Scotland!"

  “Spare me your lofty speech, Julian! Why would ye care which king sits on the throne? The wine will flow for ye just the same!” Albany’s nostrils flared, and he gave an irksome bray of a laugh.

  Wiping his hand over his brow, he stumbled back a little.

  And then suddenly he was sliding down the riverbank and tumbling backward into the slow-moving current.

  He began to thrash then, flailing in the muddy river water and struggling for breath, and it took Julian a moment to recognize the wild desperation in the man’s eyes to be genuine panic.

  The fool couldn't swim.

  It was tempting to leave him there and let fate take its course. And he almost walked away.

  Almost.

  But then Albany gave a gargled sort of scream. And as he was swept downriver a bit, Julian grudgingly searched for something with which to fish him out.

  A short distance ahead he spied a coil of rope tied to a tree, the kind used to guide boats to the other side of the shore. ‘Twas cumbersome, but it would have to do.

  Sprinting past the flailing prince, he heaved the coil up and tossed it in an arc. Miraculously, Albany managed to catc
h hold.

  Julian eyed him a moment and then lounged against the tree to watch. Aye, he’d not be reeling the shameful prince in like a fish. The fool deserved to thrash about and fight for his life. After all, he was preparing to wage war on his own kinfolk.

  It took some time, but Albany finally struggled ashore, his lips trembling as he shivered uncontrollably.

  "I'll be your king soon, Julian!" The man seethed through chattering teeth. "Have a care!"

  "Then it behooves me to see that ye never be king.” Julian growled. The words were like a gauntlet, flung down at the prince’s feet.

  Albany’s mouth dropped open.

  But Julian didn’t give him a chance to respond. “Stop this madness, Albany! Dinna doom Scotland to servitude and dinna spill the blood of your own kinfolk!”

  Albany’s mouth snapped shut, and his shoulders sagged once more. And then, without a word, he pivoted on his heel and headed back to Fotheringhay.

  Julian watched him go, shaking his head in disbelief as the sudden raucous calling of crows caught his attention. And as they flapped off squawking in alarm, the rain suddenly began to fall in driving sheets.

  Squaring his shoulders, he set off after the prince.

  ‘Twas time to leave.

  * * *

  “Liselle! Do you know what you have done?”

  Liselle whirled to look straight into Pascal’s accusing, dark eyes.

  Glaring at him, she put her hand to her heart. “Are you trying to frighten me?” She gasped. She hadn’t heard him sneak into her chamber. Santo Ciélo, he was as silent as a cat!

  She sent him a scathing look.

  He matched it.

  “Show me your stilettos!” he ordered forcefully, “Both of them! Ale!”

  Liselle tensed.

  He didn’t miss it.

  In a flash, Pascal twisted her arms behind her back and snatched the stiletto from the hidden sheath within her sleeve.

  He was so astonishingly quick that she had no time to react. Òsti! Her cousin grew more surprising by the day! Where had he learned such speed?

  “Where is the other one?” he asked as he tossed the bone-handled stiletto onto the table.