This Heart of Mine (87 page)

Safe now, Velvet sought news of Scotland, not easy to come by in this rural and bucolic setting. Still, with the help of Matthieu,
Mignon and Guillaume’s fourteen-year-old grandson, they were able to establish a small line of information, but the news coming from Scotland was not good. Velvet heard of Maitland’s attempt to trap Bothwell and cursed Ian Grant for the bastard he was. It was obvious to her that they had tried to lure Bothwell into their hands by convincing the earl that they had her. She wished she could send a message to Alex telling him that they were safe. How he must be worrying! She missed him so very much, but she would not endanger him, or Bothwell, by revealing her whereabouts.

The news was slow in reaching her, so it was early November when she had learned about Maitland’s attempted trap. Although Pansy was now within a month of giving birth to her second child, Velvet, whose child was not due until the spring, did not yet show her condition. It was a warm, late-autumn day that found her in the small kitchen garden pulling leeks for Mignon’s ragout. Suddenly a magnificent, antlered stag leaped over the low garden wall and, dashing around the building, dove into the lake that surrounded
Belle Fleurs
on three sides, swam across it, and disappeared into the forest beyond.

Sitting back on her heels, Velvet laughed, but her mirth was cut short by the arrival of several huntsmen, one of whom demanded, “Have you seen a stag go by, wench?”

“It is
madame
,” she replied, “and who gave you the right to hunt on my lands?”

“All of France is the king’s land,” came the arrogant reply.

“But for Paris,” Velvet rejoined, “and a king without a capital is not much of a king. Besides, you don’t look like a king to me.”

“He isn’t,” said another voice, and a tall, lean man pushed his horse forward to the low garden wall. “He is the Marquis de la Victoire, but I, madame, am Henri de Navarre, at your service.”

Velvet rose and curtsied politely. “Forgive my hasty tongue, Your Majesty,” she said.

“I liked it better when you were scolding me,
ma belle,”
he replied with a smile. “You have the advantage of me,
chèrie.
I do not know who you are.” His eyes swept quite boldly over her.

“I am Velvet Gordon, sire,” said Velvet.

“English?”

“My father is both English and French. My mother is Irish, and I, sire, am married to a Scot.”

“You are too beautiful to be wed to a dour Scot,
chèrie.

You should be a Frenchman’s wife! Tell me, where is your husband?”

“In Scotland, sire.” She brushed the loose dirt from her velvet skirt. How embarrassing to be caught looking such a fright! Still, perhaps it was better that way, for Henri of Navarre was a notorious womanizer. Looking as dusty and unappealing as she did would encourage him to be on his way.

The king, however, was very adept at seeing the gold beneath the soil. “Return to the chateau,” he told his companions. “We have obviously lost our quarry.” Then with a small smile he lowered his voice and said, “I have other game in mind now,
mes amis!”

The gentlemen riding with the king departed without a protest. Though civil war still controlled France, keeping him from his throne in Paris, they knew he was safe here in the Loire Valley.

The king dismounted, asking as he did so, “What is this chateau called?”

“Belle Fleurs
, sire,” replied Velvet.

“And it is yours?”

“It belongs to my parents.”

“Ah,” said Henri. “You have come to visit with your parents.”

“My parents live in England, sire.”

“Your husband is in Scotland, your parents are in England, and you, madame, are in France. I do not understand.”

Velvet laughed at his perplexity. “Is it really necessary that you understand, sire? You do not even know me.”

“A lover!”
the king cried. “You have come to be with your lover!”

“I have no lover, sire. I am a respectable married woman, I promise you.” This was becoming very uncomfortable. Velvet did not want to explain to the French king, who was an ally of the Scots king, why she was here in France. Henri of Navarre was a most exasperating man! Why did he insist upon going on like this? She would have to tell him something for he obviously would not go away unless she did. “I have come to France for my health, sire,” she said. “The Scots winters are not easy, and as I was ill last year, my husband feared for my health and insisted that I spend this winter here at
Belle Fleurs.
He will join me when he is able.”

“Then you are alone,
chèrie?”

“I have my servants, sire, and my grandparents live nearby,” she answered him demurely. She hoped that the mention of family would send him on his way.

“Did you know that your eyes are the color of the ferns one finds only in the deepest part of the forest?” the king asked.

Velvet flushed.

“And I can see strands of molten gold caught amid the auburn of your hair, which has the sheen of poured silk.” He reached out to finger a strand. “It’s as soft as silk, too,
chèrie.”

Velvet found herself suddenly and totally mesmerized by Henri of Navarre’s intense, lush tones, and his rich, deep brown-gold eyes held her completely captive. It was with a great effort that she fought free of his hold to say, “Your Majesty must remember me to Queen Margot, who is my godmother.”

The king was indeed stopped in his intent for the moment. “My wife is your godmother?” he said.

“Yes, sire. Queen Margot and my own liege, good Queen Bess.”

“I do not often see my wife,” the king said. Then he smiled at her. “You have a mouth that was made for kisses, Madame Gordon,” and so saying, he reached out to capture her in his grasp.

“Sire!” Velvet’s palms pressed flat against the king’s leather doublet. “I am a loyal wife to my lord.”

“Loyalty,” the king said, “is a valuable quality in a woman,” and then kissed her, his lips pressing most expertly upon her own.

For a very long minute Velvet didn’t know whether to be offended, flattered, or simply outraged. There wasn’t a woman in Europe who didn’t know the reputation for lechery held by the French king. He was a man for whom women held a supreme fascination. She didn’t find his embrace unpleasant, but she was Alex Gordon’s wife, and she loved her husband. Still, it was interesting being kissed by another man.

Taking her complacency for compliance, Henry gently forced Velvet’s lips open and found her tongue with his own, meanwhile managing to pull her blouse down to fondle her full and firm breasts. It was that bold liberty that galvanized Velvet into action. Using all her strength, she wrenched free of the king’s embrace, and, putting all her force behind the blow, she slapped Henri of Navarre.

“Sire! I am mortally offended by your conduct!” she raged. “I have said I am a loyal wife to my husband, and you then kiss me and fondle me in a most lascivious manner! For shame, Your Majesty! For shame! Surely your reputation for loving
the ladies was not gained by means of force? I am with child, sire! I came to
Belle Fleurs
to seek peace during my confinement. Must I flee my home to return to a harsh Scots winter, thereby endangering my husband’s heir, because you will not believe me when I refuse your attentions?”

The king was totally astounded. He had never in his life been rebuffed by a woman. Well, once he had been, but only once. For some reason this beautiful young woman reminded him of that time so long ago. It was a time best forgot, the night of the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre when his late but not lamented mother-in-law, Catherine de Medici, had arranged that he be detained by a woman he had fancied in order to keep him safe, or so she had said. Henri had always believed that his mother-in-law had arranged for that little divertissement in order to keep him from leading his soldiers into the fray.

He had just been married to his wife, Marguerite de Valois, the princess of France. It was a marriage meant to unite the ruling house of Valois with the house of Bourbon of which he was the heir. During the marriage celebrations, he had seen a magnificent Irishwoman with eyes the incredible blue-green of Ceylon sapphire and masses of black, black hair that tumbled against her fabulous white skin. He had wanted to possess her with all his soul, and as his bride had been far too busy with her own lover to notice, he had ardently pursued the woman whose name he now could not even remember. He had been most firmly rebuffed, but Catherine de Medici had seen his lust; and by fraud she had tricked the woman into an assignation with him. He had entered the room to find the object of his desire bound and helpless, and he had taken her without a moment’s hesitation despite her furious protests, even as that wily old woman, his mother-in-law, had known he would.

And while he had dallied so delightfully, the Catholic League had butchered as many of the Huguenots assembled in Paris for his wedding as they could find. It had not sat well with the Huguenots that he had not been there to lead and protect them.

He shook the thought away. That religious division had caused France years of civil war—a war that, despite his conversion to Catholicism, still raged in sections of France.

How odd that he had been suddenly reminded of all that unhappiness by this beautiful woman who looked angrily up at him, attempting to somehow maintain her dignity while covering
her lovely breasts. For some reason he felt guilty, although guilt was not a feeling that often touched him.

“Madame,” he said solemnly, “I do beg your pardon.” A small smile touched his lips. “You are very beautiful, and I am rather used to taking what I want. I can only remember being rebuffed by a woman once before in my entire life. Will you forgive me? I am staying nearby at
Chenonceaux
, and I should like us to be friends. It is very dull at
Chenonceaux,”
he finished, and his face took on a mournful expression.

“Of course I shall forgive you, sire, providing that you promise me such a thing will not happen again.”

“I give you the word of a king,” he said.

“Why is it dull at
Chenonceaux?”
she asked, curious and thinking that the word of a king was not often good. “I had heard that
Chenonceaux
is the most beautiful chateau in France.”

“It is,” he answered, “both inside and out. The chateau spans the entire river Cher, and there was a time when guests were greeted by the sight of beautiful young women garbed as water nymphs swimming in the river around the chateau. Now, alas, it is in the possession of Louise de Lorraine, widow of my predecessor, Henri III. She has draped the suites in black, and has painted many of the ceilings with skulls and crossbones and gravediggers’ tools.” He shuddered expressively. “It is a sacrilege to so defile such beauty.”

A small giggle escaped Velvet. “You are teasing me,” she said. “Louise de Lorraine did not really paint her ceilings with skulls and crossbones, did she?”

“She did.” He nodded solemnly.

Suddenly Pansy, great with child, waddled out into the garden, calling, “M’lady! Have you got those leeks? Old Mignon says she cannot begin the ragout for supper without them. Oh, excuse me, m’lady. I didn’t know we had a guest.”

“This is my tiring woman,” said Velvet to the king. “She does not speak French, being a good Englishwoman. Pansy, make your curtsy. This is King Henri.”

Pansy gasped and, with some difficulty, curtsied to the king.

“She is enceinte, your tiring woman?”

“Yes, monseigneur. Her husband is my husband’s servant. It is their second child.”

“A mistress who is enceinte, a servant who is enceinte. I have obviously misjudged the Scots, who would seem to be a passionate race.” The king chuckled.

“I had not heard, sire,” replied Velvet quickly, “that the French had a monopoly on passion.”

“You will never know the true comparison,
chèrie
, unless you allow me to demonstrate,” he said mischievously.

“Monseigneur!” Velvet pretended outrage, but the king was not fooled, and they both laughed.

“Does this Mignon prepare a beef ragout,
chèrie?
A beef ragout with tender green leeks? I adore beef ragout with leeks!”

“Is Your Majesty seeking an invitation?” Velvet teased him.

“Yes, I most certainly do seek an invitation,” he said, looking almost boyish. “The dowager queen Louise will serve up carp and plain boiled vegetables for dinner tonight as she does almost every night. She has made her mourning a fine art, and even her guests must suffer!”

“Then why do you visit her?” demanded the practical Velvet.

“Because it is my duty; because
Chenonceaux
is so incredibly beautiful and peaceful; and because the hunting is good,” he answered her.

“I cannot feed your friends,” she said. “It is not that I would be ungracious; it is simply that I have neither the food nor the staff for entertaining.”

“I do not ask you to feed my men. What I hope for is a dinner
à deux.”

“Dinner, monseigneur, is all that I am serving,” said Velvet severely to Henri of Navarre. “You must promise me that you understand that before I will tender you an invitation. I am not a woman to play the coy flirt. I love my husband and will not compromise either his honor or mine.”

“Lovers,” said the king, “should always begin as friends. It was unforgivable of me to behave as I did earlier. I can only excuse myself by saying that your beauty blinded me to reason. I promise to behave myself,
chèrie
, if you will invite me to supper.”

“We are
not
going to be lovers!” said Velvet, somewhat crossly.

The king smiled sweetly at her. “I shall bring a fine red wine for us to drink with the ragout,” he said as he mounted his horse.

“I have not said you could come!” Velvet protested.

“Do you think your Mignon would make me a pear tartlet for the last course,
chèrie?”
he asked her.

Velvet couldn’t help but laugh. What a charming and impossible man he was. “I’ll ask her,” she said, “and now, sire,
I bid you adieu, for if I do not bring these leeks in to Mignon immediately, there will be no supper for you.”