Chapter Twenty-Six
Langston Leed Monteith wasn’t just a liar.
He was a cheat, and evil, and a devil, and everything they’d ever called him, and Lisle didn’t need the eighteen ships that had joined them the very same evening he was loving her and telling her he’d stopped his ships just for her, to convince her of it.
She toyed with asking him if he was planning on invading France now, since he appeared to have an armada of more than twenty ships.
It was impressive, and it created quite a stir all the way up the French coast until they anchored just off the port of Calais.
She assumed word would get back to England about the armada of caravels, all flying a dark green flag with a golden lion passant at the center, and anyone who didn’t have a clue who Clan Monteith was would certainly know now.
She was treated to the sight of hundreds of troops atop hundreds of horses, all in green and gold, and all in kilts, and all waiting, to escort them to Paris.
Lisle was given herself for company in the carriage, and that was all right with her.
If Monteith had shown her his face, she’d have been scratching it.
If he gave her sight of an ear, she’d have been screeching in it, and if he so much as gave her a glimpse of his back, she’d have been stabbing something into him and finishing the job started with his left shoulder.
That’s how much he, and his lying tongue, meant to her!
The tears started before they’d gone a league, and then she was very grateful she had the carriage all to herself.
Betsy, Cassie, and Bess had their own carriage, and there were eleven more of them trailing behind, with the baggage and all the arms and food that men needed to make such a spectacle.
She was grateful they didn’t stop until they reached Paris.
Even if she had to bed down in her quiet carriage, and cry herself to sleep.
That was better than looking across at Monteith and knowing she’d given her heart to a man who could lie to her in the throes of his own ecstasy, and not even worry over it.
She hadn’t told him of the baby, either.
He was just going to have to ferret that one out for himself.
She wasn’t going to give him anything more to bind her to him than he already had.
King Louis was expecting them. He’d given them a portion of the Louvre Palace in which to stay, but that was probably more due to having all these troops in his capital.
Apparently he already knew that it was better to know where the devil was, than to have to guess at it.
That much of what he’d told her, Langston hadn’t lied about.
It took them four days to reach Paris, in which time Langston hadn’t done a thing toward purchasing her a larger wardrobe that she could see.
The most he’d done was send off a contingency of men with orders to purchase goods that he was going to transport home, and even that she questioned.
They were probably doing something else.
Sneaking about, creating customers for his commodities, with calabash pipes full of opiate, or whatever they smoked in them.
She didn’t trust anything Monteith said. She never would again, either.
She was given a parchment with her own marching orders, and they weren’t open for discussion.
The Monteith had apparently finished with one of his false truths, which was the excuse that he was here to honeymoon with her, although he’d been shopping all right.
He’d been to a jeweler. He’d had a dress made and sent to her.
He had Betsy, Cassie, and Bess there to assist, although they mostly stood about with their mouths open at the lavish rooms the Louvre Palace boasted.
Monteith wanted her to report at seven, sharp, dressed head to toe in dark Monteith green, and wearing as much gold as a woman could possibly wear and not be bowed down with the weight of it.
It was positively Medieval looking, and Lisle looked at her reflection with distaste.
It was effective, though. She moved sideways and then back, and felt the large, voluminous velvet of her skirt sway with it.
There was golden embroidery, sewn with real gold in the threads, all through her green skirt, making vines that trailed from the bodice to the bottom, and then turned into leaves of almost solid gold all about the hem and the train that swept the floor behind her.
There was a golden girdle about her hips, and it was so heavy it had taken both Cassie and Bess to hold it in place while Betsy hooked it into the dress at the back, where at least the material had to assist with holding it up.
The sleeves had been sewn with golden leaves at the tops, and it was probably more for strength than visual impact, although it had that.
About the only thing that wasn’t gold was the crisp white puff of lace above a bodice that peeked out from the neckline, which was intentionally cut low, barely covering what it needed to cover.
That way the emeralds he’d sent hadn’t a chance of being overlooked, either.
They had even threaded gold-ribbed ribbons all through her hair, which was loose and rippled to her waist, disguising the layers of strapping that went from her shoulders to her belt and back up, to also assist with the weight of her belt.
It was ridiculous. It was incredibly heavy. It was extremely impressive.
As was Langston Monteith, when he arrived for her, in his Highland Chieftain ensemble, with the retinue of Monteith men at his heels; all moving with such a perfection of stride that it sounded like one set of footsteps rather than twenty-some-odd.
Lisle eyed him as he came toward her. Then he went to his knee, lifted her hand to his lips, and moved his eyes to hers.
It was for show, it had to be, and Betsy, Cassie, and Bess gave him what he expected with their sighs behind her.
Lisle ignored them and looked down at him with as cold an expression as she could manage.
He rose to stand beside her, tucked her hand in his, and acted like she really was a loved wife that spent every night with him rather than one that had been sentenced and kept in solitary confinement for almost a week now.
“You look exactly as I imagined you would, Lisle.” He whispered it as they started their procession, passing hall after hall filled with the nobility of King Louis’s court, and looking at bowed head after bowed head as they went.
“We’re being treated as royalty,” Lisle whispered back.
“Of course. We are. Or close to it.”
“Langston?”
“Quiet, love. We’re going to be introduced.”
“I’ve met King Louis. I was na’ impressed. He wears more powder than half the ladies in court must own. All at once. On his face. ’Tis unmanly, and ugly. Makes me wonder what pocks he hides.”
“Na’ him. Our prince. Charles. Charles Stuart. My patron. My liege. My only true liege.”
“Our—?” Her voice was failing her, as were her knees, and Langston must have known or guessed, because he had an arm snaked about her, and it was holding her up by her golden belt, and forcing her to remain standing at his side, whether her legs helped with it or not.
“Hold steady, Lisle love. You’ll see very soon what this has all been about. What it’s always been about. I need you now. I need to put you on your own stallion, and I need to show all the people of France what kind of backing Prince Charlie has now…has always had.”
“Prince…Charles?” she whispered, her eyes still wide.
“Aye.”
“You know where he is?”
“Of course. ’Tis my gold that supports him.”
Her legs did lose her with that one, and she stumbled, but Langston had that hand looped into the back of her belt and had her against him, so it barely showed.
The steps outside were teeming with horses, Highland men all wearing the Monteith colors, and people, everywhere she looked there were people, some clapping, some talking, all looking. It didn’t appear that a stray dog could get through, and he expected to get an entire column of men through them?
“Langston?” Lisle’s hand shook on his arm, and that wasn’t a far cry from how her voice was acting.
“You’ll be fine, Lisle. You’ll ride at my side. See? Torment and Blizzom. I felt it appropriate.”
“You brought over your own horses?”
“Of course. There are very few Arabian stallions in France. King Louis has na’ given an order for mine, as of yet. This should convince him otherwise, I think.”
“You doona’ let an opportunity pass you, do you?”
He grinned. “Very good. Come. I’ll mount you.”
Lisle caught her breath and scanned him from beneath her lashes. Then, she smiled. Softly. Sweetly. “I believe I shall allow you to do so,” she replied.
“Lisle, I have a prince to sway, negotiations to make, and I need to be sharp, focused. I canna’ have you turning my lust on me. Not now.”
“I am na’,” she replied.
“Why do you ken I stayed away from you?”
“You knew I was planning on flaying you alive?” she replied.
He grinned wider. “I have to be focused. Sharp. I had to set this up. I had to put my gold in the right palms. I had to do a thousand things that the sight, smell, and touch of you and your body just seem to interfere with. Will you cease that?”
“What?” she asked innocently, although she had been running her hand along his arm, in a suggestive manner.
“I’ll pay that back later. When I have the prince safely aboard.”
“Oh dear God. You’re planning on ransoming Cumberland. You’re going to use him to make them accept Prince Charles and Scotland.”
“Smart. I’ll say it again. You’re quick.”
“’Tis too dangerous. Nae. Doona’ do this, Langston. Nae. You canna’ do it. I beg it of you.”
His smile died. His eyes went black. “Doona’ ask for what you canna’ get. Such a thing is na’ open for negotiation.”
“Please?”
“I’ve still a prince to sway with my plans, Lisle. I canna’ afford dissent in my own bed.”
“Please, Langston?”