The Spitfire (26 page)

“He was a poet and a musician as well as a soldier, my lord,’’ Arabella told the Earl of Angus.

“Perhaps, but he was a soldier first, madame, and this James who rules us now is nae. Why, the poor bairn can barely sit a horse,” Angus said scornfully.

“He does not need to in order to keep the peace between England and Scotland, sir!”

Archibald Douglas looked down from his great height into the blazing green eyes of the Countess of Dunmor, and he began to chuckle. She was a wee bit of a lass, but she was not in the least afraid of him, or even slightly intimidated by him. “Tavis Stewart,” he said, “are ye certain this wife of yers is English? She sounds more Scot to me, and she’s surely as brave as a Scot.”

“I was not aware, my lord, that the Scots had a priority on bravery,” Arabella snapped, and turning on her heel, stalked off back toward the queen.

The Earl of Angus broke into guffaws of laughter. “She’ll breed ye up a feisty quiverful of bairns, Tavis, but God bless me, she’s got the sting of a dozen wasps in that tongue of hers.’’

“Arrogant, pompous ass!” Arabella muttered to herself as she stamped across the room, not particularly watching where she was going until she bumped into another person. “Ohh, Sire,” she gasped, mortified, and her eyes focused themselves. “I do beg your pardon!” Blushing, she curtsied quickly.

“Nae fault, lassie,” the king said in kindly tones, “but yer pretty face tells me yer angered. What has distressed ye?”

“The Earl of Angus is a damned fool, Sire!’’ The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

The king nodded sagely. “There are times, madame, when I would agree wi’ yer astute judgment. What hae he said that hae distressed ye so?”

“Sire,” Arabella said, “I am only a woman, and I have not had the advantages of a great education, but common sense tells me that peace is better than war. War destroys lives and property. Progress cannot be made in times of strife. I know that there are times when men have no other alternatives than to fight, but it seems to me, Sire, that the Scots prefer to fight first and find the cause for their war after the fact.’’

James Stewart chuckled, vastly amused by his petite sister-in-law’s clever judgment of his race. “Why, lassie, ye hae lived but a short time amongst us, yet ye know us well,” he said.

“Sire, I have had the Scots at my back door my whole life. How could I not know them well?” Arabella said.

“Angus hae always been critical of me, lassie,’’ the king said. “He hae ever been a hothead. He does nae understand that a king must rule wi’ his head as well as his sword.’’

“He does not understand the arts, Sire,” Arabella said earnestly. “While all about us in Europe and England there has been a great flowering of music and poetry and painting, here in Scotland all that is encouraged is to grow cabbages and carrots!”

Now the king laughed openly. He had not enjoyed a conversation so very much in months. His half brother’s lovely bride was a delight. “Which of the arts di ye prefer, Arabella Stewart?” he asked her.

“Music, I think, Sire. Mind you, I am not a musician myself, but my mother and I loved to sing together in the hall at Greyfaire. My father always said ‘twas a waste to give shelter to a roving Irish minstrel, for we two sang the songs better. Mother and I, however, insisted that the minstrels be invited in, for how else could we have learned new songs? Ohh, Sire, there is so much to know, and I know so very little!” the young Countess of Dunmor declared passionately.

He was touched. Learning was not a virtue well appreciated by the Scots at this point in time, although Scotland possessed two fine universities, one at Edinburgh and another at Glasgow. There were no laws requiring education of even the gentry’s sons. It was not thought that a good Scotsman needed to learn how to read, or write, or do simple sums so that his bailiff would not cheat him. A good Scotsman needed to know how to fight well, die well, and futter a woman well enough that he might be reasonably certain that his sons were his own. As for Scotswomen, if a man did not need to know how to read or write, certainly a woman didn’t.

“What is it ye would learn, lassie?” the king asked her.

“Everything!” Arabella replied.

Again James laughed. “What would ye begin wi’?” he demanded.

She thought a moment and then said, “History, Sire. The history of Scotland. I do not know if I shall ever be considered a Scot by those about me, but my husband is a Scot, and my children will certainly be, but for one, and I would know the history of their native land that I may better understand it.”

The king was pleased by her desire, but he was also intrigued by part of her statement,
but for one.
“What do ye mean, my dear, that all yer bairns but for one will be Scots?”

Arabella suddenly realized what she had said and clapped her hand to her mouth. “I have spoken out of turn, Sire, for ‘tis a matter best discussed with you by Tavis. He would be angry, I fear, should I bring it to your majesty’s attention before he did.’’

“And yer of a mind to obey him?’’ the king teased her gently, still curious. “Why, lassie, ye must love him to be so biddable, for I suspect ye could hold Dunmor Castle by yerself if called upon to do so, yet in this secret matter yer all meek and mild.’’

Arabella blushed, unable to think of a single way in which she might defend herself.

James Stewart patted her shoulder. “Dinna fret, lassie, I’ll nae press the matter, for my brother’s hot Stewart temper is every bit as peppery as yer own. Yer well matched, and right glad I am for it!”

Tavis Stewart had managed to disengage himself from the Earl of Angus and moved across the room to join his wife and brother. A beautiful woman unexpectedly blocked his passage.

“Tavis Stewart, it is good to see ye once again. I hae missed ye, my lord,” she murmured into his face.

“Lady Morton,” he responded coolly.

“What, my lord? I hae never known ye to greet me in such cold fashion,” the beauty declared, her amber eyes growing dark with her annoyance. “Ye hae always been a most passionate lover,’’ she said softly.

Tavis Stewart, to his irritation, found himself leaning forward to hear her words. Lady Morton’s décolletage left little to the imagination. A whiff of her favorite perfume, heavy with musk, assailed his nostrils. It was a little trick of hers, the earl knew, to lower her voice so that a man found himself leaning forward to hear what she had to say. “Madame, I am a married man now,” he told her.

Sorcha Morton laughed, tossing back her bright red hair in another familiar gesture. “I am aware of it, my lord. ‘Twas the scandal of the court last summer. Did ye really tear the clothes from the poor wee creature’s back before ye wed her?’’ Lady Morton shivered. “Aye, I’m certain ye did! How absolutely delicious, Tavis. Yer poor little English bride must hae been terrified of such savagery.’’

Across the king’s chamber the Countess of Dunmor saw the beauty in animated conversation with her husband and said to the king, “Who is that woman, Sire, who makes so free with my husband?”

The king hid a smile. “‘Tis Lady Sorcha Morton, my dear. She is a widow several years, for old Lord Morton died leaving her little.”

“She dresses well for a lady with little,’’ Arabella noted tartly. Lady Morton’s dark green velvet gown was lavishly trimmed in rich brown marten. “How is it that she can afford to come to court?”

“‘Tis nothing ye should worry about, my dear,” the queen said as she joined them. She had observed her husband in conversation with Arabella and was frankly curious to learn what was making him smile so much, for the king was not a man who smiled easily under any circumstances. She slipped her arm through Arabella’s. “Lady Morton, my dear, is a woman who seems to attract wandering gentlemen. She lives, I suspect, off their foolish generosity. She is not the sort of woman ye should know, though she does frequent the court. Since she has broken no laws, I cannot forbid it in good conscience. It is best to ignore her.”

“Is my husband one of those ‘gentlemen’?” Arabella asked softly.

“Aye, lassie, in the past he was,” the king replied, and then said to his wife, “Now, Maggie, dinna look daggers at me. ‘Tis best the lassie know. She can hardly believe that Tavis was celibate until he set eyes upon her, and besides, ‘twas but a brief fling. Sorcha Morton is too predatory and obvious a female for my brother. Frankly, I think ‘twas curiosity on Tavis’ part.”

“Curiosity?” said the queen. “I have never seen anything interesting about that woman, Jemmie. Have ye?”

The king laughed. “I hae nae found any woman interesting but ye, my Maggie,” he answered smoothly.

Now it was the queen who laughed, shaking her head at him. “Ye are too clever by far, Sire,” she said, and then turning to Arabella, told her, “Go and fetch yer husband, my dear. Tavis looks extremely uncomfortable to me, and ‘tis yer duty as a good wife to rescue him from that female dragon.”

Arabella curtsied to their majesties and then made her way the rest of the distance separating her from her husband. Reaching him, she took a leaf from the queen’s book and slipped her arm through his. “My lord,’’ she pouted at him, “I have missed your company these past few minutes.’’ Her face was tipped up to his, her light green eyes wide with ingenuousness. She pointedly ignored Lady Morton.

The Earl of Dunmor grinned down at his beautiful wife. He could hear the faint edge behind her honeyed tones, and he was extremely amused by her pretense that he was alone. “Well, lovey, then I suspect I shall hae to take ye home and prove my devotion to ye.”

Arabella smiled brilliantly. “Ohh, my lord, how wicked you are! Come along now, naughty man! You have made me most eager to depart.” Then pulling at his arm in a most playful fashion, the Countess of Dunmor drew her husband away from where he had been standing with Lady Morton.

Sorcha Morton was mortified to find herself both so blatantly ignored and so obviously deserted. Tavis Stewart had made no attempt to even introduce her to his wife, and worse, had not bid her farewell. “Ye’ll pay for that slight, my lord!” she murmured softly after them. “And ye also, ye simpering bitch!”

“Madame, madame, dinna look so openly angered. It does nae become ye,” the prince said softly as he joined her. He slipped his arm about her waist and dropped a kiss upon her shoulder.

“He hae insulted me, yer highness,” she replied in as soft a tone. “I will nae forgie him!”

“Is he a good lover, my uncle?” the prince demanded.

“Aye,” she replied, her eyes going smoky with the memory.

“I am better,” Jamie said quietly.

Sorcha Morton turned and looked into the prince’s eye. “Are ye, my wee princeling? Are ye indeed?”

“Aye,” he drawled, “I am. I can easily make ye forget my uncle, madame.”

“His passion, perhaps,” she said, “but the insult he and his milk-faced wife hae done me, never!”

“Where do ye lodge, madame?” Prince James inquired.

“At my cousin Angus’ house,” she said.

“Yer a Douglas, madame? I was nae aware of it.”

“I was born a Douglas, yer highness,” Lady Morton replied.

“Albeit an unimportant one,’’ the Earl of Angus said, joining them.

“So ye wish to futter Sorcha, do ye, Jamie? She’s a hot piece, I can assure ye, for I broke her in myself many years ago,’’ the earl said.

“Nae
that
many years ago!” the lady snapped at him.

“I dinna say ye were too old for him, Sorcha,” Angus replied. “Indeed, I think yer just right, for he’s a lusty young fellow. Are ye nae that, Prince Jamie? I’ve wenched wi’ the royal laddie myself on several occasions, eh my lord?”

The prince laughed heartily even as his eyes strayed across the room to where his uncle and beautiful new aunt were now bidding his parents a good evening. Arabella Stewart was the loveliest woman he had ever encountered, and he was frank in admitting to himself that he wanted her, but for now he would assuage his passions on Sorcha Morton, who was, if her legend was even half true, a born and extremely skilled whore. Who knew what she could teach him?

The Earl and Countess of Dunmor departed Stirling Castle for their own house outside the town. They were escorted by their own men-at-arms, for no one of any consequence traveled without protection. It was late afternoon, and although Arabella was hungry, for they had not eaten since morning, she was equally curious about her husband’s old paramour.

“Lady Morton is very beautiful, my lord. Was she your mistress for very long?” Arabella said in a voice carefully modulated to show him that though she was interested, she was not particularly concerned.

“An extremely brief time, lovey,” he answered her calmly, although he was greatly startled by her query. That she was aware of Sorcha Morton’s past relationship with him he had no doubt, for her exquisitely timed performance in the king’s rooms was perfection.

“Why brief?” she asked, pursuing him, not quite yet satisfied.

“She bored me,” Tavis Stewart told his wife. “The worst thing that lovers can do is to bore one another, and Sorcha’s behavior lacks both spontaneity and originality.’’

“You obviously did not bore her, my lord,” Arabella said sharply.

He laughed, and she bit her lip, vexed that she should have shown him her irritation so easily. “Men, as a species, never bore Sorcha,” the earl replied. “‘Tis another of her faults, lassie. She lacks discrimination.”

“You are harsh, my lord, in your judgment.”

“Lovey, make up yer pretty little head. Are ye defending Lady Morton, or do ye wish to scratch her eyes out?” He was grinning with absolutely smug delight.

Arabella had a strong urge to lean over and box his ears, but she restrained herself admirably. “I was simply considering the possibility, my lord, that a man might bore a woman every bit as much as she might bore him,” Arabella told her husband tartly, and kicking her horse into a canter, she rode off ahead of him down the hill from Stirling Castle.

He pushed his own mount into a faster pace and hurried after her. Catching up with her, he shouted, “Madame, I demand ye nae ride ahead of me like some Gypsy wench. Yer the Countess ofDunmor, and I’ll thank ye to remember it! I’ll nae be left standing in the road again like some spurned fool!”