Authors: Heartstorm
"What
news, man?" Francis asked, breaking in abruptly upon the startled
messenger. "I've been waiting for you a damnably long time."
The
man's grizzled face split into a wide grin at sight of his chief. "We was
in daily expectation of news from England, sir. I was bid to wait."
Francis
felt his stomach lurch sickeningly. His heart pounded rapidly, sending the
blood surging in his head. News from England could mean only one
thing—Glenkennon had heard from the king. "Well?" he asked, his world
hanging in the balance.
"Randall
got his news from King Jamie on the last ship what came into Leith." The
man raised his eyes to Francis, his face wreathed in a smile. "You've not
been put to the horn this time, sir. Jamie Stuart denied the bastard's
petition, so all his cursed scheming went fer naught!"
Francis
closed his eyes, releasing his long-held breath in one quick sigh. He felt
Conall's hand, warm and sympathetic, on his shoulder. Of all men, Conall best
knew what he was feeling now.
"Let's
sit down," Francis said quietly. "Conall, pour us an ale from that
pitcher yonder. It's good to feel a free man again."
Francis
and Conall listened quietly while the courier recounted the remainder of his
news. They laughed delightedly at Glenkennon's frustration over having no
identity to lay to the raiders terrorizing his supporters' estates. But
Francis's amusement faded when he heard of Percy Campbell's frequent visits.
"The
earl's entertaining now," the man continued. "'Tis rumored he hopes
to snag a rich husband for his girl. As a matter of fact, there's a week-long
round of entertainment planned for all his fancy lords and ladies in honor of
her nineteenth birthday."
Francis
frowned darkly. "That whoreson would sell her to the devil if he thought
he could wrangle an additional piece of gold." He rose and paced the
floor. "I've heard Glenkennon's not paid his troops in months, and they're
growing more discontented by the day."
"Aye,
the king's sent no payment since the first of the year. 'Tis said he's angered
his English nobles using the treasury to redecorate the clutch-fisted
Elizabeth's state apartments." The man snickered. "The earl will have
to marry the girl in haste... and to someone who can afford to pay through the
nose."
"When's
this celebration to take place?" Conall asked thoughtfully.
"In
another week," the man replied.
Francis
took another hasty turn about the floor. "I've a sudden urge to attend a
party," he mused. "What think you, Conall? Could you behave yourself
in polite company if we paid a visit to Glenkennon?"
"I'd
not miss it for the world," Conall replied.
Dinner
was long over and the dancing far advanced when Francis and Conall bluffed
their way through Ranleigh's gates and strode confidently up the stone stairs
into the castle. Well-trained servants sprang forward at their approach, taking
their cloaks and leading them down the oak-paneled corridor toward the great
hall.
Following
the lackeys, Francis took careful note of the number of branching hallways and
the dearth of windows. It would be difficult to escape should the earl choose
to take them. If he had miscalculated Glenkennon's reaction, he and Conall
would soon be cooling their heels in the dungeon below.
The
sounds of music and laughter eddied through the open doorway ahead. Francis
pushed past the liveried servant, his gaze sweeping the crowded room for any
sign of Anne. A sea of dancers swept by in a kaleidoscope of shifting colors:
ladies in shimmering silks and satins, men in rich velvet and the snowiest of
linen, all bedecked in jewels of every description, which winked in the light
of a hundred candles set in sconces of polished silver. Anne was somewhere amid
this glittering throng, and he'd find her—if he lived the night.
His
searching eyes came to rest on a tall, well-proportioned figure attired in a
doublet of black velvet and fashionably padded velvet breeches. Even from the
back, Francis recognized that arrogant stance. His heart quickened its pace and
a thrill raced along his sword arm. Robert Randall—he'd know the devil
anywhere.
As
though drawn by the intensity of Francis's gaze, Glenkennon stiffened and swung
toward the door. Gray eyes dueled with blue across the space, and a look of
black hatred registered fleetingly on the earl's face. Quickly schooling his
features into a politely smiling mask, he moved forward to meet his unexpected
guests.
"Sir
Francis MacLean. What a pleasure! It's been far too long since we've seen
you," Glenkennon said smoothly. He raised an arched brow. "Of course
we do hear of you occasionally in the North."
Francis
swept an elegant bow. "I agree, my Lord Glenkennon. It's been too long
since we've met." A polite smile curved his lips but his frozen gaze
didn't thaw. "I've been pleased to entertain several of your family, of
course. By the way, how is your son?"
"Ah,
Charles... I'm afraid the lad's a disappointment to me. But then, I've learned
a valuable lesson—a boy shouldn't be sent to do a man's job."
"I'd
say it would depend rather on the boy... and the job," Francis responded
curtly. He nodded toward Conall. "Allow me to introduce my kinsman, Conall
MacLean, to your notice."
Conall
sketched a half bow. "Your servant, m'lord."
Glenkennon
scarcely acknowledged Conall's salutation. His shrewd gray eyes remained fixed
on MacLean.
Francis
glanced pointedly at the guests thronging the large room. "I can see we've
come at an inopportune time, my lord. We'd hoped to discuss a bit of business,
but we've no wish to trouble you now. Perhaps you could suggest a date we might
return."
Glenkennon
feigned surprise. "Come, come my friends, I'll not hear of your leaving!
You must remain... as my honored guests of course. We're celebrating a great occasion—my
daughter Anne's nineteenth birthday." He smiled thinly. "You'll
remember Anne, I'm sure."
"No
man could forget such a charming young lady. I wish her joy of the day."
"My
thanks." A slow smile curled Glenkennon's hard mouth, and a flicker of
anticipation glittered in his eyes. "I really can't allow you to leave,
MacLean—not until we've enjoyed a pleasant week together." His voice
dropped. "I'm certain we can find entertainment of an appropriate
sort—even for such enterprising gentlemen as yourselves. We can discuss your
business at a later date, if you're still inclined."
"Your
kindness is gratifying, but you needn't trouble yourself to contrive amusements
for us," Francis replied politely. "Conall and I can entertain
ourselves easily enough."
"Oh,
but it's my pleasure," Glenkennon protested. "My daughter and I shall
spare no pains to make your stay at Ranleigh one you'll remember... for as long
as you live."
Francis
ignored the double-edged words. "We'll take advantage of your hospitality
then, but pray excuse me now." He grinned and lifted one dark brow
mockingly. "I've just caught sight of your daughter, m'lord. I'd best pay
my respects, or the lass will think I've forgotten her. You know how women
are."
Without
bothering to observe the earl's reaction, Francis pushed past him into the
crowd, sending a ripple of excitement spreading across the room as his tall,
powerful figure was recognized.
He
strode purposefully across the floor. Anne was standing with her back to the
doorway and probably had not even seen him come in. He paused just behind her,
his heartbeat quickening at the thought of seeing her again— of ending this
misunderstanding between them. "I hope this day is, indeed, a happy
occasion for you, Mistress Randall," he murmured.
Anne
froze. In the sudden stillness following his words, it seemed even her heart
had ceased to beat. She recognized Francis's low, husky voice with its lilting
Highland burr: she would have known it though she had not heard it for a score
of years or more. As if in a dream she turned to see his hard, handsome face,
the tiny flames leaping to life in the depths of his blue eyes.
Unable
to find her voice, she stared at him foolishly, drinking in the sight she had
longed to see for so many weeks: the thick, black hair above his strong
forehead, the eyes so intensely blue against the deep tan of his face, the
sensual lips smiling now in that tender way she had used to think meant so
much.
The
room began to whirl sickeningly and Anne's heart, which she was sure had
stopped a moment earlier, leaped and pounded frantically in her throat. The
blood drained from her face, and even her knees felt like jelly.
"Don't
faint, lass," Francis said low.
His
fingers closed around her wrist, warm and strong, and the tilting, lurching
room steadied beneath her feet. She blinked and his hard, dark face came into
clear focus.
The
sudden memory of their last, painful meeting swam before her. "Take your
hand off me," she gasped, jerking her arm from his with a force which
surprised her. Her hatred surged like an engulfing flame, and her cheeks burned
with an angry heat. "How dare you... how
dare
you come here!"
she bit out.
"Why,
I've come to bring you best wishes," he said softly. "Did you think
I'd forget?"
Only
Francis MacLean could have stood within the stronghold of his bitterest enemy
and asked such a question. "You're not wanted here. Go away!" Anne
demanded, her voice perilously unsteady.
"Ah,
but you're wrong there, lass. Your father has kindly invited me to stay the
week."
Her
eyes widened in astonishment. "My father knows you're here?"
A
mocking grin suffused his face. "Surely you'd not have me backward in any
attentions to the earl? Conall and I paid our respects as soon as we
arrived."
"Is
this man annoying you, Mistress Randall?"
The
tense words shattered the spell which held her. Anne turned to Nigel Douglas,
struggling for composure. "No... no, Nigel. I'm just surprised he has the
audacity to come here."
Nigel's
eyes slid suspiciously from Anne's flushed face to MacLean's impassive
countenance. One hand hovering near the polished dirk at his belt, he appraised
the Highlander.
Francis
gave him a contemptuous smile. "I'm merely giving the lass my best wishes,
Douglas. I've no intention of staging a kidnapping from this gathering. That
might be a bit difficult even for me."
He
turned to Anne. "By your leave, mistress." With an elegant bow, he
strode away, leaving Nigel feeling vaguely foolish and Anne shaken and angry.
The
evening was ruined for her, and all her pleasure in the dancing was gone. She
could scarcely keep her attention on the movements of the dance or follow the
conversation of her partners. She was left instead with a sick urge to seek
Francis out whenever he left her sight and an even more painful ache as she
reviewed every humiliating detail of her shameful conduct at Camereigh the past
spring.
Over
the shoulder of her partner, she watched Francis making his way among the
guests—her guests—renewing old acquaintances and flirting shamelessly with all
the loveliest ladies as if he hadn't a care in the world.
He
looked incredibly handsome that night, she admitted grimly. The rich, crimson
velvet of his doublet fit becomingly across his broad shoulders, and a riotous
cascade of Belgian lace fell away down the front of his shirt contrasting
markedly with the dark bronze of his throat. A richly jeweled dirk flashed at
his hip, but it could not match the sparkle of his smile.
A
false smile, Anne reminded herself quickly, as false as the sweet lies that
tripped so easily from his tongue. Damn him, damn him, damn him, she raged. Why
had he come? He had some dark purpose, of that she was certain.
Smiling
and nodding, she forced her attention back to her partner, though she had no
inkling what the man had said. She would ignore Francis MacLean, she vowed.
She'd not voice even the slightest curiosity as to why he was there. That would
be the best way to counter his arrogance. She would show him that he was nothing
to her— that she had recovered from his betrayal quickly enough.
For
his part, Francis was pleased with the assembled company. There were plenty of
Glenkennon's henchmen to be sure, but there were enough good men to raise an
outcry should the earl proceed against him without cause. It was just as he had
anticipated. Glenkennon could do nothing at present, at least not openly.
"Sir
Francis, my boy! What in God's good name are you doing here?" a deep voice
boomed.
"I
could ask the same of you, MacCue," Francis replied, smiling at the short,
rotund figure of a man who had been a long-time friend of Francis's father.
"God's
body, I'd no choice in the matter," MacCue grumbled. "Every lord
south of Stirling was commanded to attend. Things have come to a pretty pass
indeed, when a man fears to be branded a traitor unless he obeys the commands
of a thief!"
"Not
so loud, MacCue," Francis whispered. "At least not while you're with
me—guilt by association, you know."