The Virgin's Daughter (17 page)

“A wise man,” Julien said.

“A dangerous man.” Finally she let the dagger drop, her hand feeling suddenly too heavy to hold up. “And don’t worry about the tavern, those men didn’t know me, they thought I was…” She hesitated over the description.

He smiled grimly. “You think you can disguise your nature with a little paint and none-too-clean skirts? Not in a thousand lifetimes could you ever pass for a…” It was his turn to hesitate, unsure how to proceed, which Lucette found amusing considering his Paris reputation.

“A whore.” She said it for him. “Men will say things around a whore that they won’t around a lady.”

“Damn right they will, and not a word of it do you want to hear. If my father finds out where you were—”

“He’d be angry.”

“He’d be furious! But if
your
father knew? Your extremely dangerous father who makes his daughters carry daggers? If Dominic Courtenay hears of this, he will hunt me the length and breadth of Europe and string me up like a dog!”

“This is nothing to do with you.”
But isn’t it?
For the most useful thing she’d learned all night was that Julien was meeting unlikely men in out-of-the-way places. Suggestive, at the least.

“Fine. If you’re so determined to play the whore, then allow me to give you some advice.”

Julien stepped into her space and Lucette refused to back away, though she was very conscious of his nearness. And even more conscious of the bristle of beard on his chin, the sharp plane of his collarbone, the solidity of his arms and chest. He extended a hand and laid it on her cheek. It took all her control not to flinch.

“Whores are cold creatures, Lucette. They’re in business, and though they may play the wanton, the only emotion that is ever truly
roused is greed. You have no pretense in you. You are too warm and too honest and too…”

Her cheeks burned with the words and with the way he looked at her. He leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Whores do not blush.” His hand stroked down her cheek to her throat, which fluttered with each catch of her breath. “Their breathing is always even…” His hand dipped farther, resting on the swell of her breast above her neckline. “…and their hearts do not beat faster with desire.”

Why was she so dizzy? Certainly not because of Julien. Not at all. She stepped away from his hand, so much more intimate than the strangers who had touched her tonight, and tried to think of something dignified to say. But the dizziness was growing worse, her ears were ringing and her head would not stay up and…

Down she went.

There followed a terribly long time of alternating dizziness and blackness and, most humiliating of all, vomiting. Or she would have been humiliated if she hadn’t been consumed by how awful she felt. She didn’t really become aware of her surroundings until she felt Julien going up steps, with her in his arms, and realized they were back at Blanclair.

Instinctively she squirmed to break free, but Julien said, “Don’t be stupid, Lucie. I’m taking you to bed.”

“But I’m too sick for that.” Only dimly did she realize what she’d said when she heard Julien choke back a laugh.

“I may not be gentleman enough not to take advantage of a beautiful woman, but I do like my women to be conscious. You’re safe with me.”

Yes, she thought, as the blackness slithered back for her, Julien will keep me safe.

TEN

“S
o, Philip and the Spanish are in Portsmouth,” Mary Stuart mused to her confessor, who had brought the news from the south. “And by the time they sail away, my dear cousin will no longer have a husband.”

She felt an exultation she worked hard to conceal. It would not do to let slip her excitement at what the coming weeks would bring. By summer’s end, there would be more changes in Europe’s royal landscape than simply the Queen of England’s divorce. As long as everyone kept their word and their heads, the game would be shaken into a completely new form. Mary could hardly wait.

Her confessor said, “It will be useful to hear other perspectives on the Spanish visit than our own. No doubt the young Lord Somerset will receive letters from his family. His younger siblings are exceptionally close to Princess Anne, and his parents have a long history with Elizabeth.”

Mary gave a small, secret smile. “I am perfectly aware of Stephen Courtenay’s connections. And I shall be spending plenty of time with him in the weeks to come.” And not simply because he
could provide useful information. No, Mary had to admit that Stephen was extremely engaging for a young man so thoughtful and reserved. When younger, she had preferred more outgoing, almost flamboyant men. But she was forced to admit there was something attractive about a man—even one so very young—who did not make himself the center of attention.

“I also have a letter for you, Your Majesty,” her confessor said, handing her a letter whose seal had undoubtedly been lifted so Walsingham and his ilk could read it first. It was addressed to her in her son’s not quite wholly formed hand.

“Thank you,” she said, dismissing her confessor. “Send my women to me. And tell Lord Somerset that I should like his company this afternoon.”

When she was alone, Mary opened the letter and read.

15 June 1580

Edinburgh Castle

My Lady Mother
,

I am quite well and pray you are the same. The winter was exceptionally cold, but the summer bids fair to be pleasant. I travel north next week, to Stirling
.

I have lately begun a correspondence with Her Royal Highness, Princess Anne. Her first letter was all that could be gracious and kind. Morton warns me against setting too much store by her words, for no doubt she is directed by her mother the queen, and matchmaking is a business for councils. He need hardly have issued such a warning, for I have learned from my earliest hours the danger of love matches. That is one lesson you imparted extremely well, Mother
.

With the Spanish in England this summer, I hope that due thought is given to your comfort and care. I have never wished you other than well
.

HRH James VI
      

Hardly the stuff of filial affection, Mary thought. If there was real pain, long acceptance of their positions moderated it. What could she expect when her son had been taken from her when he was an infant and into the care of the most radical Protestants? Her half brother, Moray, had had the earliest raising of James, followed by the Earl of Mar when Moray was assassinated. Mar had formed James into a child king willing to do whatever his council directed. Her son had never expressed anything less than dutiful respect for her, but also nothing more. There had been no demands for her release, and Mary could not ignore the fact that James did not want her out of England. What king, though only thirteen, would wish to hand over his own crown?

She creased the letter and laid it aside, wondering what her son would do when Mary took matters into her own hands.

—

If anyone had ever told Julien he would one day cherish an experience that involved him being thrown up on more than once without himself being very drunk, he would have thought them mad.

Getting Lucette home from the village had taken three times as long as walking there had. He carried her much of the way, but had to keep putting her down to vomit, and then she would insist on trying to walk, stubborn even through her undeniable distress. Getting her into the chateau itself posed little problem, for Julien had plenty of experience getting in and out without being seen. But then there was the problem of getting her out of her peasant clothes and into a nightgown before calling her maid. He didn’t want there to be questions about her attire.

Julien stripped her to her shift, careful with his hands and keeping his eyes averted as much as possible. She curled up on the bed and he pulled the linen sheet over her and smoothed her tangled hair away from her face. She was clammy and her skin had a greenish tint to it in the candlelight. On second thought, he got her the basin from her washing stand to keep near.

“I’ll send your maid,” he whispered, not sure what story he would tell the girl.

“Don’t,” she said, weak but plain. “She’s the one who lent me the clothes. I told her to check on me every hour until I was back. Just in case.”

“You thought of everything.”

“I didn’t think of this.”

The blue of her eyes gleamed with flame and fever, and something Julien was afraid to name in case he was wrong. Impulsively, he dropped a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well, Lucie mine.”

He sat up, his door cracked open, until he heard footsteps and checked that the maid had indeed gone to Lucette’s chamber. Then he lay down and tried to sleep. He wasn’t successful until the first streaks of daylight appeared to the east.

When he rose just a few hours later, it didn’t take long for reports of Lucette’s illness to be provided. The first came from Felix, who shot out of the schoolroom when he heard his uncle pass.

“She is sick, Uncle,” he announced, sure that Julien would rightly read the pronoun. And why shouldn’t he? Lucette was the only female in residence other than servants. “We are all to keep away from her! I wanted to see her but they won’t let me.”

“Good,” Julien said. “You must let the lady rest, Felix. Write her a note, perhaps? I’m sure that would cheer her.” Catching sight of the tutor Laurent’s sour disapproval, Julien added, “Write to her in English. It will be good practice. And surely your tutor cannot mind that.”

Laurent looked as though he minded every suggestion not made by himself, but Felix could be stubborn, and Julien left certain that the boy would write the most beautifully awkward English note ever.

If only he could do the same without risking comment.

The next one to waylay him was Nicolas—though
waylay
was a strong term. His brother was in the library when Julien went restlessly looking for a book to complete his pose of nonchalance. Charlotte
was expected the next day, and once she descended with Andry and their girls, the chateau would be a noisier, busier place, easier for Julien to go unremarked.

Nicolas remarked him quick enough. “When you didn’t appear for breakfast, we thought maybe you’d been stricken with the same illness as Lucette.”

“Not at all. I merely stayed up late reading. I suppose it was the maid who reported?”

“Yes,” Nicolas said slowly. “She woke Father at first light—Lucette wouldn’t let her bother anyone else or any earlier. She’s sleeping now.”

“Best thing for her,” Julien replied. Why did he feel like his brother was searching him for signs of lying? Surely if he knew Julien had been up to something last night, he’d have tasked him with it straight off.

And for certain he could not suspect Lucette of having sneaked out. Nicolas might once have played fast and loose with many different women, but a woman like Lucette was different, and he would never suspect a lady like her of anything underhanded.

“Charlotte will be disappointed,” Nicolas observed. “To find her friend confined to her chamber with illness, locked away from both of us? How is she supposed to effect a match under those conditions?”

When Nicolas teased, there was always an underlying sting to it. “I imagine Charlotte will subsume her disappointment in caring for Lucette,” Julien said. “You know how our sister likes to mother everyone. A girl who cannot leave her bed is a perfect target.”

“True. But Charlotte needs her on her feet again as quick as possible. Her masked ball is just two weeks away.” Nicolas cast a look around the library, unchanged in their lifetime, solitary and proud. “I think Father’s already regretting giving permission, but you know how hard it is to say no to Charlotte.”

“I think she’s incapable of actually hearing that word.”

Locking his eyes on Julien, Nicolas said slowly, “All the more reason to act with care toward Lucette. Charlotte might read more into your behavior than you mean—and so might Lucette. You wouldn’t want to actually break her heart, would you?”

“I have no reason to suppose her heart is in any danger at all. Have you?”

Nicolas merely considered him, then picked up a sealed letter from the table. “This was left with one of the grooms this morning.”

Retreating as rapidly as possible, for more reasons than one, Julien didn’t open the slightly grimy letter until he was alone in the gardens. It was from Ribault’s emissary.
You left in a hurry last night
, it ran.
Why was the English girl there? Were you followed? This raises concerns. Will stay in village until reassured
.

Julien swore long and inventively. Why couldn’t he have a simple life, one that involved nothing more than fretting about Lucette’s illness and wishing that her heart was as much in danger from him as his was already lost to her?

Let the man rot at the Nightingale Inn. He had no intention of going there or even writing. He’d send straight to Ribault instead, with as careful a lie as he could construct.