The Daring Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (31 page)

Woodenly, she smoothed her skirt and tucked her stray curls beneath her bejeweled hairnet. There was no hope. She felt it like a fist in her belly. She would truly die this night.

With her hands involuntarily clenching, she moved to stare down at the gray birds in the cage.

Mayhap it was not too late to give the Saluzzo his chance at revenge.

The sun had not yet set.

Yes, she would die, but not at the hand of her brother. She would spare him that pain, at least. And she would do her best to protect his life should he refuse to slay her.

With a numb sense of resignation, she took a sheet of parchment from her writing desk, and tearing off a narrow strip, dipped her quill in the ink and wrote the words of defeat:

Saluzzo, I give you my blood for his. I await my fate at the feast.

Sprinkling sand over the wet ink, she read the message several times, feeling nothing. And then reaching into the cage, selected one of the birds and carefully tied the message to its leg.

Orazio had said the Saluzzi would be waiting with him for her pigeon at the salt merchants. It would not be the message they expected, but she knew it was her only choice.

Cradling the pigeon’s softness against her cheek, she moved to the window and opened her hands.

The bird bounded away, ascending to fly in lazy circles in the sky before suddenly turning east to swoop over the city and disappear amongst the rooftops.

She didn’t know how long she had stood there until she was shaken from her reverie by the church bells tolling in the distance. And then there were shouts at the castle gates, and Albany and James reappeared with great fanfare, apparently finished with their parade of unity.

The feast would start soon.

She did not know how quickly the Saluzzo would arrive, but the salt merchants were not far away.

With a heavy sigh, Liselle closed her eyes.

Her fate was sealed. By now, her message had been read.

It was done.

A ripple of anger washed over her. The Saluzzi were despicable. She could understand Pascal’s hatred of them now.

And Nicoletta. Tears threatened when she thought of her sister. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the tears away. Nicoletta had been so worried for her. And as usual, Nicoletta had been right.

Returning to her desk, she dipped her quill in the inkpot once more to write her sister a letter of farewell, but she had only succeeded in writing Nicoletta’s name upon a fresh sheet of parchment before tears blinded her eyes, and she could not write more.

Instead, she unsheathed her bone-handled stiletto and placed it on top of the page.

Her sister would understand.

Gathering her courage, she stood, preparing to leave for the feast when a hand caught her elbow and spun her around.

“’
Twas ye in Fotheringhay, lass,” Julian’s soft burr whispered, but his gray eyes were riveted upon the stiletto on the desk.

Strangely, she felt nothing upon seeing him. Not even surprise as she observed the irony. Yes, she had saved his life in Fotheringhay, but it had only brought about the current events which demanded that she take his life now.

“Santo Ciélo!
What curse
is
this?” she whispered.

Julian’s fingers gripped her shoulders hard to give her a little shake. “Tell me what this is about, lass! Sweet Mary! Dinna hide this from me! Let me help ye!”

But Liselle cold only stare at him, feeling nothing more than a cold detachment.

Through the window, she could hear the wailing of the pipes announcing the feast. She could not risk being late. This was her last chance to save Julian.

Slowly, she lifted her hand to cup his cheek and whispered, “Dream of me.” Yes, she could die this night if she knew she would live forever in his heart.

And then twisting free from his grasp, she picked up her skirts and ran, ignoring his calls for her to stay. She was no coward. She would face her fate with her chin held high.

Quickly, she made her way to the castle hall.

Pausing on the threshold, she searched for any sign of the Saluzzi, but the great hall was crowded, and the light was dim. The place was bedecked for a sumptuous feast, a feast to celebrate the renewed peace between James and his brother, Albany. Fine linen graced the tables, and the entici
ng fragrance of fresh bread mingled with the scent of
cloves and oranges. Musicians played their lutes.

But still, she saw no sign of the Saluzzi or the Vindictam.

And then trumpets sounded, announcing the arrival of the king and his royal brother, and Liselle quickly found a seat.

As if in a dream, she watched the Royal Stewarts parade in their regal trappings through the hall.

This was her last feast.

With a removed interest, she noted the king’s satin doublet was trimmed with a lace collar in the fashion of the French, and that the man appeared pale and sad.

From the corner of her eye, she thought she spied a black-cloaked figure, but when she whirled there was no one there.

Frowning, she turned back as the king passed by her less than an arm’s length away. She could smell the distinct odor of whiskey.

Spirits.

Her eyes strayed over the table and lit upon a bottle of wine.

She didn’t hesitate.

Grabbing the bottle, she filled her goblet and drained the contents in a single draught as Cameron and a number of Scottish lords arrived to take their places at the king’s high table.

Pouring more wine, Liselle sipped slowly as she scanned the faces in the hall.

And then King James rose from his canopied chair and called for Albany.

The announcement was almost too garbled to understand. Apparently, Albany had received the titles of both Mar and Garioch. But the king had scarcely said the words before he succumbed to a bout of hysterical weeping, clutching his chest and calling out the name of Thomas.

And then as Cameron drew the king away to escort him back to his apartments, Albany gladly stepped up to command that the feast should begin.

She had swallowed the last of her second goblet of wine when a man clothed in a black cloak appeared by one of the arched windows. Liselle’s stomach lurched, but he only proved to be some Scottish lord with bright red hair and his arm in a sling.

Taking a deep breath, she poured another goblet of wine.

Òsti!
Why did they make her wait? Was it for the enjoyment of the Saluzzo who sought her blood?

She closed her eyes and for a moment, let her heart ache for the simplicity of her life before, of gliding in gondolas through the narrow canals of Venice and drowsing in the sun to the lull of the gentle waters. She had watched the latest plays, dined on fresh figs, and perched on the clay-tiled rooftops at night with her feet bare, dreaming of the day she would venture forth as an assassin.

Her future had seemed so romantic then. Before she understood what it really meant to
be
an assassin.

But it was too late now.

Reaching for wine, she had half swallowed it when Julian’s light-hearted laugh rang a short distance away.

The sound was like a knife through her heart.

She couldn’t bear to look at him, yet she could not stop from glancing over her shoulder to watch him approach, impeccably clad in the white shirt and plaid that he seemed to favor.

She loved him.

She had for quite some time. There was no point in denying it now.

Seizing her goblet, she drained the rest of the sweet, heady wine only to desperately refill it yet again. Wine would numb the pain. Already, she felt its warmth coursing through her veins. She had just touched the goblet to her lips when Julian slid into the seat by her side.

“Mayhap ye should eat a little with all that wine, aye?” he asked with a playful grin as he tossed her an orange.

She watched it bounce and roll off the table.

Julian’s brows knit in concern as his gaze grew hard. “Is your honor in need of avenging, lass?” His voice was soft and gentle but held a dangerous
undertone.

The thought was preposterous. She was hardly helpless. She opened her mouth to retort, but hiccupped instead.

“Santo Ciélo!”
she finally managed to say. “I would gut the man that tried! Yes! I would welcome it!” Especially this night. She slammed her fist on the table in emphasis even as she frowned a little at herself for her unusual response.

Mayhap it was the effects of the wine.

At her side, Julian chuckled and his cheek creased into a grin.

But then, a group of musicians arrived, followed by jugglers and jesters, and it was simply too much effort to shout over the noise.

And then more pipes began to play, and she winced at the sudden pain ringing in her head.

What was taking Orazio and the Saluzzo so long? Surely, they had gotten the message? Had the Saluzzo refused her bargain?

The wine bottle was empty, she reached for another, but Julian caught her wrist.

“Ho, lass!” He looked outright worried. “Ye’ve had a wee bit too much, aye?”

“No,” she snapped with a glare, and slapping his hand aside, reached for the bottle anyway. At the moment, becoming drunken out of her wits was far more preferable to anything else she could think to do. It would make the entire thing easier for everyone involved.

It was difficult to refill her goblet, most of the wine splashed out, but she swallowed what remained in one huge gulp.

Julian waited until she had finished and then offered her a bit of roasted fowl on the tip of his dagger.

She scowled at him and turned her head away, feeling dizzy.

After some time, the performers went away, and the servants arrived with another course.

“Are ye feeling better now?” Julian’s soft burr rumbled in her ear.

Liselle winced. His voice seemed unnaturally loud. Reaching for her goblet, she stretched her hand for the bottle of wine, but it danced away from her grasp.

“Hold still!” she snapped at it peevishly.

“Ach, ‘tis enough wine, ye wee minx,” Julian announced, reaching for the bottle himself.

“Leave me be!” Liselle bellowed.

He chuckled a little, but in a worried way. “If ye insist then!” he muttered under his breath.

Ignoring the weight of his steady gaze, Liselle tipped the bottle, mesmerized by the light of the candles playing in the stream of red wine pouring into her cup. It was a thing of beauty. She watched with numb appreciation as the deep red wine spilled over the edge and onto the white tablecloth to form a crimson pool.

“Ach, lass. ‘Tis clear that ye are done.” Julian’s hand closed over hers.

“No!” she disagreed, shoving him back but knocking her goblet over in the process.

Stupefied, she watched as the goblet rolled off the table, and then she reached for the bottle to drink from it instead.

“No more. I insist,” Julian said, firmly plucking the bottle from her fingers.

Liselle heaved a sigh, suddenly too tired to even be annoyed. “It will be over shoon,” she said. Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, and it took some effort to enunciate the word again. “Soon.”

“And what will be over, Lady Gray?” came his soft query.

Liselle closed her eyes. Already, she was weary. How had Nicoletta lived with the weight of her viper’s tongue for so long?

“What are ye saying, Liselle?” Julian’s deep voice asked.

Liselle. She smiled sadly. “I would that … I had heard my name more upon your lipsh.” She frowned and then corrected with a hiccup, “Lips.”

“Had?
” Seizing the word, he gripped her by the shoulders and twisted her around, forcing her to face him as he rested
his arm protectively on the back of the chair.

“So bold and dangerous,” she said wistfully, trailing a finger along his bottom lip. “I couldn’t kill you. Pascal knew it. He knew I would fail.”

And then realizing what she had said, she quickly covered her mouth with her hands to stem the tide of words. She was still a di Franco. She had failed as an assassin, but she could not betray the Vindictam.

Julian went still. “Pascal?”

Her hand dropped and she answered anyway. She couldn’t stop. “He told me to run,” she said, slurring the words, but she kept speaking. For some reason, it was simply a relief. “But the Salus … the Saluss …” She paused, frowning. When had her tongue become so difficult to control?

“The Saluzzi?” Julian supplied softly.

“Ah, yes. They forced Orazzzio …” She almost giggled. Why hadn’t she noticed before that her brother’s name was so amusing to say?

“Forced your brother to …?” Julian probed gently.

“Make me kill you. As retri … retribu …” She frowned and then chose easier words. “Because I saved you in Fothin … Fothinhay. I spilled Slaushee blood, so I have to spill yours to stop the war.” She blew her hair out of her face, relieved the difficult words were over. But then feeling nauseated, she leaned her head upon the table, closed her eyes, and added, “They said before the sun sets. Run! You should run. Be shafe and run.”

But he didn’t run.

Instead, Julian dropped his cheek next to hers. “
Bonds between men and women dinna end that easily!” He growled in her ear. “Your kiss tells me that I’ve naught to fear from ye.”

“
Bábio!”
she replied in a tormented whisper. She didn’t want to think of his kiss. It just might wake her from her stupor, and she didn’t want to wake up. The end would be easier to face if she were asleep. Desperately, she reached for another bottle of wine.

“There’s no need to make yourself ill, Lady Gray.” Julian chuckled as he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her into a close, protective embrace.

Wearily, she laid her head upon his shoulder.

“Aye, ‘tis been a strange road with ye, lass,” he said, his voice rumbling deep in his chest. “How
can I love ye?”

Love?

A shiver rippled down her spine, followed quickly by nausea and a pain ringing through her head.
Santo
Ciélo!
Why had she drunk so much wine? And then clamping her palm on her forehead, she answered in a wounded tone, “Love? It is too late for love.”