The Daring Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series) (14 page)

“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 catch 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.

Wrenching herself free, Liselle faced him, haughty and proud.

“Yes!” she confessed boldly, raising a clenched fist. “Yes, I attacked the Saluzzo last night. But I did not kill him!” She’d been ill enough at injuring him. She couldn’t imagine what it would have felt like to have taken his life.

Pascal loomed over her, his handsome face rife with disapproval. And then to her utter astonishment, he shrugged and observed softly, “’Tis a pity that you did not kill him,
bábia
! Ridding the world of a Saluzzo would have atoned for the entirety of your follies. And, I feel compelled to remind you, your follies have been
numerous!
”

Picking the stiletto up, he held it aloft a moment. And then, taking up her hand and spreading her clenched
fingers apart, he placed the hilt of the slim weapon into her palm and closed her fingers around it.

“Tell no one of what occurred last night,” he commanded with his arrogant eyes boring into hers. “No one! Not even Orazio!”

Liselle was shocked. “How can I not tell my Magno Duce?”

“He needn’t know,” Pascal answered with a superior smile.

“You have gone mad, Pascal!” Liselle accused. Bowing her head, she whispered the words that had kept her up all night. “They will find out. The Saluzzo survived. He will tell them, and they will know the treaty has been broken. I have rekindled the war betwixt our families! They will demand retribution! And—”

“I grow weary of quarreling with you!” Pascal interrupted sharply before adopting his trademark smirk. “The Saluzzi are nothing. I do not fear them. The Vindictam should not live in the shadow of fear,
bábia, and especially
if that shadow belongs to a Saluzzo!”

Liselle tilted her head suspiciously. “What game are you playing? Have you no loyalty to the Vindictam—to our families?” she asked, feeling more than a little trepidation.

Pascal sent her a black look. “
Game
? Perhaps I only seek to protect you! Why would you accuse me of playing a game?” But he couldn’t refrain from sarcasm for long. Shaking his head, he clucked, “
Ah sì
, what is ‘blood loyalty’ anyway, when the recipient of that loyalty isn’t—how shall we say it—
loyal?”

She didn’t answer. She merely narrowed her eyes.

“Well then!” Pascal gave a graceful shrug. “We have an understanding. If you speak of this to anyone I shall send for Orazio and inform him that merely to save Lord Gray’s life, you became the first member of the Vindictam to spill Saluzzi blood since the treaty was forged. Won’t he be pleased that his own
sorèlina
cara
was the one to start the war!”