The Spitfire (49 page)

Satisfied, he laughed and raised his head from her. “Do I please you yet,
ma Belle
?” he teased.

Arabella panted uncontrollably for a moment, and then she gasped, “You come near,
monseigneur
, but not quite yet!”

“Vixen!” he said, laughing again, and then pulling himself up, pushed himself slowly into her love grotto. “I shall make you cry with a greater passion than you have ever known,
ma Belle
,” he promised her fiercely.

Having regained a small measure of control over her emotions despite his invasion of her person, Arabella taunted him, “We shall see,
monseigneur
.”

He began to pump her, moving smoothly and rhythmically, as if to some unheard and primitive cadence, but Arabella knew enough about men to know that a man as madly aroused as was Adrian Morlaix was usually lacking in self-restraint. If she could but bring him to his own crisis, even if it meant sacrificing hers, he would be intrigued beyond all and eager to retain her company, if for no other reason than he desired a victory over her. His vows of love, she thought, were but a charming ruse to gain his way. She did not believe the Duc de Lambour loved anyone but himself.

She thrust herself up to meet him, but her very thoughts had cooled her own ardor enough, and he was finally unable to hold back his own passion. With a great cry he took his release, falling at last exhausted upon her and almost crushing her with his weight. Tenderly Arabella caressed him, even as she murmured sweetly, “Has it been so long then,
monseigneur
, since you have had a woman? Ah well, perhaps next time.”

With a groan he rolled away from her, and looking up at her with sorrow in his blue eyes, he said, “You have defeated me,
ma Belle
, and I, to my shame, have disappointed you. Give me but a few minutes to regain my strength and we shall try again. It has never happened before, and I vow it shall not happen again.”

“My lord,” she told him, “if I did not achieve perfection, I did at least enjoy myself very much. There is no shame in that, is there? You are a most tender and vigorous lover. I can only hope that I did not disappoint you.”

“Never!
You are perfection,
ma Belle
! Pure perfection! I shall never let you go from me! You must be mine for always and ever!” he told her passionately.

Arabella arose from the fur rug, and walking to a nearby table containing a carafe of wine and some goblets, poured the duc the sweet, refreshing beverage. She was a little amazed, and perhaps just a bit frightened, by her ability to detach herself from her feelings. It made her uncomfortable to realize she could be so calculatingly cold. Still in all, it must be done for Greyfaire’s sake.

“You must have some wine as well,” the duc said as she handed him his goblet.

“Wine makes me sleepy,” she said. “Unless, of course, you would prefer that I sleep, Adrian.”

“You will not sleep this night,
ma Belle
,” he said with total sincerity.

“I cannot possibly stay the night,” she protested. “What has passed between us, Adrian, should be a private thing between us alone.”

“I want you for my mistress, Arabella,” he said seriously. “I want you with me at all times, not scuttling back and forth between my hotel and that wretched little house you rent in that backwater village outside of the city.”

“It is all I can afford,” she said quietly and with dignity.

“I want you here,” he told her.

“I cannot live in your house, Adrian,” Arabella said, shocked. “What would people say? What would your wife say? And what of my own people who have followed me into exile? I will not desert them, for they did not desert me!”

“Then let me buy you a small house in a good neighborhood here in Paris at least,” he begged her. “A place where we may both meet and be private.”

“I do not know…” Arabella hesitated. She needed to talk with Tony about this. She did not know how far she might go before she would be considered
declasse
by the French court. She could not afford that, and so she put Adrian Morlaix off. “You must give me time to think, Adrian,” she replied. “I had hoped one day to remarry and to have other children. Oh, I am not such a fool to believe that a member of the court would marry me. After all, I have nothing, but perhaps some well-to-do merchant would be pleased to have me, despite my lack of a dowry, simply for my fine connections, which have a certain value. If I should give this all up to become a public scandal, what will happen to me when you grow tired of me,
monseigneur
? No, no! I must have time to carefully consider all of this.”

“I will never repudiate you,
ma Belle
,” he told her. “Have I not said that I love you?”

“Oh, Adrian,” she answered him, “you do not really love me. How could you? You do not know me. I am flattered nonetheless that you would say it, and perhaps you even believe it, but I do not think it possible. Still, I might wish it so, and yet I dare not! Oh, kiss me once again, my darling! Let us forget such things as conventions and making decisions this night! I will stay as long as I can and take what sweetness from you that I dare, but as for the morrow, who can say,
monseigneur
?” Her lips brushed his provocatively. “Who amongst us can say?”

He had not exaggerated when he had told her that she would not sleep that night. After their first encounter, he was eager to prove to her his superiority as a lover. Arabella, however, would not allow him a complete victory, and consequently he remained fascinated by this woman he could not seem to conquer. Never before had he met a woman he could not send into spasms of passion, but he seemed unable to lead the beautiful Englishwoman down the same path he had led so many others.

Another man might have been angered by such developments, but Adrian Morlaix was not. Indeed, he was intrigued, for Arabella was certainly not a cold woman. She was vibrant and warm and now welcomed his advances enthusiastically. She had an aptitude for lovemaking few women he had ever known had. He simply could not bring her to a final surrender. He began to wonder if she were one of those rare women who enjoyed lovemaking but were unable to fully participate because they could not completely trust themselves to a lover’s care. He had never encountered such a woman before, and only time would tell.

In the early hours of the cold January dawn, Arabella’s coach returned to her little house on the river Seine. Both FitzWalter and Anthony Varden were waiting for her.

“Are you all right?” her captain-at-arms demanded bluntly.

“Aye,” she answered calmly.

“Then I’ll get some sleep,” he said, and departed.

“Pour me some wine, Tony,” Arabella said, moving across the room to the little salon’s fireplace. She was chilled to the bone from her short journey, and held out her hands to the flames to warm them.

“I must assume the lateness of your return means that you have yielded your person to our friend, the duc,” Lord Varden said, handing her a goblet of wine. “How may I put this delicately?” he mused a moment.

“You needn’t.” She chuckled and took a deep draught of the wine as she turned to face him. “No, I learned nothing tonight that would be of any possible use to England; and aye, I believe he is yet interested in me. He wanted me to remain with him, but I refused him, of course. He next suggested that he purchase a house for me in a good neighborhood of Paris where we might be alone. I told him that I must think on his second suggestion. What am I to do, Tony? You must tell me how far I dare go, for I do not know.”

Lord Varden considered the matter, and after some minutes he said, “You must tell him no, my dear. You would destroy your good reputation and your usefulness to us if you did otherwise. There is no scandal in your visiting the duc’s hotel here in Paris, even for a few days’ time, or joining him at his chateau in the Loire for a bit, as long as you possess your own home. A home that is totally unconnected with the Duc de Lambour. No one will think badly of you when the word gets about that you are the duc’s ‘
chere amie
’. It was expected that eventually Adrian Morlaix’s charm would prevail over your virtue. You cannot, however, flaunt your relationship. To live permanently with the duc, or even accept the gift of a house on such a short acquaintanceship, would also be totally unacceptable. The proprieties must be preserved, my dear Arabella.”

“I thought as much,” Arabella told him, “though a house in the city would have been nice. It is so dank here by the river.” She sighed, mocking herself slightly. “It is acceptable for the poor but virtuous
petite rose d’Anglaise
to accept the duc’s love, but nothing more, except mayhap some bejewel baubles, eh Tony?”

He chuckled. “Aye,” he said. “A king may keep a mistress in style, but with discretion, though most kings have no understanding of the word. A duc may simply have a
chere amie
, and a duc’s affair must be even more discreet lest the church involve itself and make an example of the noble sinner, which they dare not do with a king.”

“I shall keep myself from the duc for the next several days,” Arabella told him. “I would have his lust rebuild itself, and I know that he is most taken with me.”

“What a clever little wench you are,” Lord Varden said. “You are indeed learning to play the game. I can almost feel sorry for the duc. You will end by breaking his heart, I fear.”

“Better than he breaking mine,” Arabella said stonily, suddenly weary and unaccountably distressed. “You will forgive me, Tony, but I am tired. I would seek my bed.” She put down her goblet and, curtsying, left him.

Lona lay snoring on the settle by the fire in her mistress’s bedchamber. Arabella crept past her, leaving her servant to her dreams. She did not choose to explain to Lona the missing silk camisia. With chilled fingers she undid her clothes, leaving them where they fell, and quietly lifting the lid of the storage chest, took out a fresh camisia to sleep in. She needed a bath, but that would have to wait for the morning, when she awoke. Arabella crawled into her cold bed. The sheets were icy, and she shivered for some minutes.

As she began to grow warmer she could smell the scent of their lovemaking on her body, and she shuddered distastefully. If she had learned one thing this night, it was that though there could be passion without love between a man and a woman, that passion was rendered totally meaningless without the love. Arabella felt the tears slipping down her cheeks. She hated what she was doing. She despised herself, and she despised Henry Tudor for having brought her to this. Still, the choice had been hers. She could have told him no, yet she had not. She must share equal blame in this matter, whatever happened.

Men!
Holy Mother, how she hated men! The only men she had ever known who had not hurt her in some way were her own father—God assoil his good soul—and dear Father Anselm. As for the others! King Richard had, in attempting to do her a kindness, betrothed her to Sir Jasper Keane. Jasper Keane had betrayed her with her own mother while trying to steal her property, and then allowed her to be carried off by the Scots.
By Tavis Stewart.
Tavis, in the main, had not been a bad man, but he had refused to keep faith with her, thereby leaving her at the mercy of Jamie Stewart, who had seduced her in return for his help, and Henry Tudor, who had made her a whore in return for his aid.
Men!
They knew nothing but how to make war and their women unhappy!

Well, Arabella thought, rubbing her cheeks with a clenched fist, she would use them even as they had used her. She would regain Greyfaire, whatever the cost, and when she did, she would take Margaret and go home. She would never again be beholden to anyone, particularly a man. When she returned to England, she would run her own life as she saw fit, answering to no one. As for the Percy family, should King Henry betroth Margaret into it, she would make the king send the boy to her that she might raise him properly to respect Margaret. She would not allow to happen to her daughter what had happened to her. She would protect Margaret from any who would do her hurt. She would no longer be victimized as her own mother had been victimized, nor would she allow her daughter to be taken advantage of by
any
man. Margaret Stewart would learn to stand on her own two feet.

Arabella shifted herself, trying to find a more comfortable position in her bed. It had been many months since she had known a man’s loving, and she was sore with the duc’s attentions. He was a most vigorous lover, and he had been determined to bring her to total fulfillment. Arabella smiled to herself, past her tearful stage now. She was not so foolish that she did not realize she might take her pleasure while still maintaining her own independence, but not yet. Let him work for his victory.
Let him really fall in love with her.
Let him be as helpless before her as women usually were before men. It was a strangely comforting thought.

She must finally come to terms with what she was doing, Arabella considered. She was not at ease with any of it, but there could be no guilt or shame on her part. She was a warrior doing battle for Greyfaire. She was in the service of her country and her king. She must win her battle, and she would. Whatever it took to attain her goal, she would be a lady victorious when this was finally over. She could return to England content in her own mind. Nay, she would not be helpless.
Not ever again.
It gave her aching heart solace to know that. She slept.

Chapter Twenty

“I promised ye that ye could go to France, Uncle, when ye won Glenkirk for me, and ye have done it,” Jamie Stewart said, his eyes dancing merrily.

“Ye did nae say I was to wet-nurse some damned bride ye were sending for some damned French duke,” his uncle grumbled.

The king stretched out his long legs and toasted his stockinged feet before the fire. “The regent, Anne de Beaujeu, hae requested that in the name of the Old Alliance between France and Scotland, I send her a suitable bride for Jean-Claude Billancourt, the Duc de St. Astier. The duc, the last of his unfortunate line, is twenty-seven and comes from an ancient house. Unfortunately, over the last two hundred or so years male members of the Billancourt family are born suffering from a peculiar nervous disorder which leads them to believe that they are hounds. Not constantly, mind ye, but enough that when the disorder does appear in a particular generation, it is difficult to find a wife for the gentleman in question. As a consequence the family hae become most ingrown, for the bridal market amongst the French nobility is narrow for them.

“The duc suffers wi’ it more frequency than hae past members of his family. ‘Tis an interesting disorder, Uncle, for it does nae, mind ye, inflict the women of the family, just the men. Nor hae the madness been passed by brides of this family onto their own bairns when they wed outside their immediate family. The Billancourt family hae been weakened, however, over the years, for who would want to send the best of their lasses to such a family? The regent did nae gie me this information, for she, of course, would hae me believe that France was honoring Scotland wi’ this request.”

“But ye hae yer sources at the French court, don’t ye, Jamie,” his uncle said, amused.

“Aye, I do,” came the bland reply as the king wiggled his toes.

“And knowing the kind of man this duc is, ye would send one of our fine lasses to him for the sake of the Old Alliance? I canna believe it of ye, Jamie,” Tavis Stewart said sternly.

“Dinna fret yerself, Uncle, dinna fret, but hear me out. I hae, as ye are undoubtedly aware, been lately taken by Mistress Meg Drummond, and I would pursue her wi’ vigor, but for one thing. There is a lady, known to me in the past, who would force herself back into my life. She will nae accept that we are quit, and indeed, Uncle, we hae been quit for several years now, but my kingly rank seems to encourage the lady onward.

“She is of good family, mind ye, but a thorn in my side. The French regent requests a wife for her half-mad duke. I need a far-distant husband for this troublesome jade. The solution is obvious, Uncle. My lady subject dare nae refuse my wishes. ‘Tis providential, is it nae?”

The Earl of Dunmor arose from his own chair by the fire, and going to the sideboard, poured them both drams of the king’s own whiskey. Returning to his place, he handed his nephew one of the goblets. “And just who is the ‘lady’ ye would unburden yerself of, Jamie?” he demanded, and then swallowed his whiskey.

“Sorcha Morton,”
the king said, bursting into laughter as his uncle choked on the potent liquid that had but slid halfway down his throat.

The earl’s face grew red with his effort to force the whiskey back down, and when he had finally succeeded, he said, gasping, his eyes watering with his efforts,
“Sorcha Morton!
God’s bones, Jamie! Ye’ll nae make her go, and even if ye did, she’d nae be anything but trouble. She’ll destroy the Old Alliance in a month! Are ye a madman?”

James Stewart restrained his laughter, for he could see that his uncle was truly concerned. “Dinna fret, Uncle,” he repeated. “‘Tis all right. Lady Morton is eager to go. The thought of a rich French duke has proven irresistible to her. Her prospects here in Scotland are dismal. Sorcha, ye see, hae no funds, nor any hope of funds. Angus is quit of her, for she is too difficult for him to stomach any longer. She hae slept her way through my court, and there are none who would retain her services, for she is an unpleasant woman at best. She canna bring herself to enter the marriage market of the merchant class because she is too proud of her lineage. What is left for her? That is why she attempted to insinuate herself back into my favor, but I certainly dinna want her either. I was contemplating what in the name of God I could do wi’ her when I received the regent’s message.

“I immediately wrote Madame Anne that I had the perfect candidate, a beautiful widow of the Douglas family, childless, for her husband was elderly, but of fertile stock. The regent expressed her approval as well as her delight. They were formally betrothed over a month ago. I am supplying Sorcha wi’ a small trousseau and an honor guard which ye will be in charge of, Tavis. Ye sail from Leeds in two days’ time. Yer to escort Lady Morton to her bridegroom, and ye will witness the marriage before ye are free to pursue yer own interests. I want to be certain she is firmly wed.”

“And does the blushing bride know of her bridegroom’s wee infirmity, Jamie?” the earl asked his nephew.

“Aye,” came the surprising reply, “she does. As much as I would hae liked to send Sorcha away to face that little surprise alone, I feared her reaction. So I told her, but it doesna matter to her. She says if she can get wi’ child, the bairn is likely to be sound as this difficulty dinna strike consecutive generations. ‘Tis really all she cares about now. Having a home and a family. She’ll rule her poor duc wi’ an iron hand.”

“That she would sell herself for such a thing shames me as a Scot,” the earl said coldly.

“Dinna be so harsh in yer judgments, Uncle,” the king counseled him. “Sorcha Morton does what she must to survive. So do we all.”

“‘Tis different for us,” the earl said.

“Nay,” the king told him, “‘tis no different, Uncle.”

Tavis Stewart stared gloomily into the fireplace. Whatever his nephew said, Lady Morton had sold herself to the highest bidder.
And what of Arabella?
a voice inside his head asked. What has she had to do in order to survive? In order to regain Greyfaire?
And ‘tis all yer fault, whatever it might be
, the voice in his head concluded.

“This is the last thing I’ll do for ye, Jamie,” the earl said grimly. “I’ve gotten Glenkirk for ye, and helped ye to calm yer wild highland lords, but after I escort this noble bawd to France, we are quit! I would win my wife back, and a fine impression I will make arriving in France wi’ Sorcha Morton in tow. Knowing that wench, she will spend the entire journey attempting to compromise me!”

The king laughed, but then grew sober as his uncle said, “What does yer source at the French court say of Arabella, Jamie, and dinna tell me ye dinna know because I’ll call ye a liar if ye do. Ye asked. Of that I’m certain.”

James Stewart wrestled with his conscience. He didn’t want to hurt his uncle, but Tavis was going to learn the truth sooner or later. Perhaps it would be best if he knew and could spend his journey growing used to the idea, possibly even deciding upon a suitable course of action to follow, if indeed there was one. “The rumor, Uncle, is that Arabella is the Duc de Lambour’s mistress,” he finally said. “It is a recent thing, I am informed, although he has pursued her most relentlessly.”

The earl nodded stonily but said nothing.

“I thought to see that she win at cards whenever she played, in order that she hae enough monies, Uncle,” the king said in a clumsy effort to soften the blow, “but she rarely plays, for she canna afford it. She is careful wi’ her funds, and obviously has none to waste. She lives, I am told, in a wee house that she rents in a little village outside of Paris. She hae her maidservant and some men-at-arms wi’ her from her home. She lives simply. Though it is said the duc would buy her a hotel of her own, she will nae accept it. She insists upon her independence. A novel idea, is it nae?”

Tavis Stewart was forced to smile. “Aye, ‘tis novel,” he agreed, “but nae for Arabella.”

“I know ye love her, Uncle, but she’s a strong woman,” the king said. “Ye think because she is small of stature that she canna survive wi’ out ye, but yer wrong.”

“I know she can survive wi’ out me, Jamie,” the earl told his nephew. “She is a strong, independent woman, and has already proved her capability, but I dinna want her to hae to survive wi’ out me, Jamie. Can ye understand that? I dinna think so, laddie, for ye’ve never loved a woman. Oh, ye’ve made love to them, but hae ye really loved one?”

“Had ye asked me that question a month ago, Uncle, I should hae had to tell ye nay, but now that I know my sweet Meg, ‘tis different than before,” the king admitted. “The thought of being wi’ out her is nae to be borne. I canna imagine how I could hae been happy before I met her.”

The earl nodded.”Then perhaps ye do know how I feel about my wee spitfire, Jamie.” Tavis Stewart grinned wryly at the king. “Very well, laddie, I will escort the ‘blushing bride’ to France for ye,” he said, “but warn Lady Morton that I’ll nae be irritated by her bad behavior. She’s to conduct herself properly, or the French duc over the water will be a widower before he’s a bridegroom, I swear it!”

The king laughed, saying, “I will tell Sorcha that she must be good, but I can nae guarantee she will, Uncle.”

Strangely, however, Lady Sorcha Morton was a model of propriety during the whole of the journey. She was more subdued than at any time since Tavis had known her. Frankly curious, he joined her in her coach just before they reached Paris. Lady Morton rode alone, for she preferred it that way. Her female servants had their own vehicle.

“Jamie must hae lectured you sternly,” he teased her, and Sorcha Morton smiled.

“He did nae hae to, Tavis. I dare nae jeopardize this marriage. It is, I think, the last chance I shall ever have, and who knows, I may even be happy.”

“Hae ye fallen so low then, Sorcha, that ye would wed a man who sometimes thinks he’s a hound?” he asked her, regretting the unkind words even as he spoke them, remembering his conversation with the king, and Arabella’s own difficult position.

“‘Tis an honorable offer,” Sorcha Morton replied with dignity, “and I need a husband, my lord. The late Lord Morton left me quite penniless, as ye well know, and my fine Douglas relations hae given nothing but their scorn. I whored to earn my daily bread, Tavis, but I no longer hae the freshness of my first bloom, and I wish to settle down now that I hae had my fill of adventuring. I am twenty-four years old. Who could I wed wi’ at home? This French husband I am to hae will know nothing of me but that I am a suitable match, and I hae been sent by the king of Scotland to be his bride. My naughty past will be my own business, and I assure ye that I shall be a model wife to the duc.

“I am told that his delicate health keeps him at his chateau in the Loire Valley most of the year. ‘Twill suit me fine. I will hae my bairns, and after I hae given the duc a houseful of heirs, perhaps I will come to court. I will be a respectable matron then, and whatever may hae happened in my past will be long forgotten by any in France who might know of my reputation. Ye mock me because I would wed a man who suffers from fits, but tell me, Tavis Stewart, what man, if any, is perfect? Ye surely are nae. Did yer own wife nae divorce ye?”

“Touché, madame,” he admitted. “Forgive me, Sorcha, that I spoke roughly to ye, but I fear for ye so far from home and wed to a madman.”

“Not so much that ye would make me an offer yerself, Tavis Stewart,” she mocked him.

“I hae a wife,” he said.

“Who left ye, my lord,” she reminded him again, and then she laughed. “Besides, yer nae good enough for me now! I’ll hae the duc for all his madness, and my bairns will walk wi’ kings.” She drew a miniature from her satin drawstring bag and showed it to him. “This is my duc,” she said. “He dinna look as if he is dangerous.”

The earl took the little painting and gazed at it. The Duc de St. Astier had a narrow, esthetic face with a long nose and a full, sensuous mouth. His eyes were a watery blue, and his hair a dull brown, into which the artist had attempted to instill some life by painting in golden highlights. If his look was vacant and without expression, at least he did not look cruel, Tavis Stewart thought. Perhaps Sorcha Morton had not made such a bad bargain after all. “He looks a gentle laddie, Sorcha,” the earl told her. “Be kind to him.”

“He is rich, Tavis,” she replied, her amber eyes glittering in anticipation, and in that moment he saw a glimpse of the old Sorcha Morton. “I shall hae any and everything I ever wanted,” she told him excitedly.

Because the wedding had been arranged between the regent, Madame Anne, and King James, it would be celebrated at Notre Dame, the great cathedral on the Ile de la Cité near the royal palace. King Charles rarely stayed in the royal palace, preferring his Hotel de Valois on the occasions when he was forced to come up to Paris from his beloved Amboise. Immediately after the nuptials the entire court would leave for the Loire Valley. It was already late spring, and with the warm weather, there was always the threat of plague.

As the representative of the King of Scotland, it was Tavis Stewart’s duty to escort Sorcha Morton to the altar where her bridegroom awaited her. She was magnificently gowned in rich cream-colored satin, heavily embroidered in pearls, which quite suited her red hair, caught up in a gold caul. Her long train was of cloth of gold and fell from bejeweled bands on her shoulders. It was embroidered with both the Douglas and the St. Astier coats of arms.

The Earl of Dunmor almost stumbled over his own feet when his eyes found Arabella Grey, and if he was startled when he saw her, her look was one of far greater surprise. She seemed to be escorted by two gentlemen, a small fellow with a merry smile, who was dressed in green and gold satin, and a tall, handsome man garbed in deep rose silks who seemed almost proprietary of Arabella’s person. She was fetchingly gowned in pale pink silk and cloth of silver.

“She’s his whore, I’m told,” Sorcha murmured softly, also noting Arabella. Within minutes of becoming the Duchesse de St. Astier, Lady Morton was quickly recovering her previously lost spirit, as well as her vitriolic tongue.

Arabella was finding it hard to breathe. The press of unwashed bodies in the cathedral had been bad enough, but to suddenly see Tavis was, she was certain, more than she was quite up to this day. She had been glad when Adrian had told her that they had finally found a bride for poor Jean-Claude Billancourt. He was a kind man for all his infirmity. An infusion of fresh blood, Adrian had said, that would hopefully eradicate the madness in the next several generations of the Ducs de St. Astier. Learning the bride’s identity, Arabella had wisely held her tongue. She was hardly in a position to criticize. Sorcha Morton might have the morals of an alley cat, but if James Stewart had sent her to France, there was a good reason for it. Tavis Stewart, however, was a different matter.