This Heart of Mine (93 page)

“But someone did know ye were here, lass. Someone sent a message to yer mother’s home telling us where to look for ye,” Alex said.

“ ’Twas I,” said the king, stepping forward. “Henri de Navarre, at your service.” He made an elegant bow. “I am relieved that you understood my somewhat cryptic message, for I did not wish to endanger your wife if my agent’s information about James Stewart’s lack of interest in her proved incorrect.”

Skye and Adam de Marisco stiffened with shock as they recognized a somewhat older but nonetheless familiar face.

Alex, who knew the French king’s reputation, said a trifle suspiciously, “How is it that ye know my wife, monseigneur?”

“She saved my life, monsieur. Several months back I was visiting Queen Louise at
Chenonceaux. Chenonceaux
is not what it once was, for Louise de Lorraine now lives to mourn my predecessor, even going so far as to drape the entire chateau in black crepe.” He shuddered delicately. “It is criminal what she has done! Nonetheless, it is my duty to visit her several times a year, a sacrifice on my part, monsieur, I assure you, for she serves meals that reek of penance. The woman’s life is a living Lenten season, but I digress. My gentlemen and I had gone hunting to escape the funereal atmosphere of the place, and as usual,” Navarre said somewhat smugly, “I out-rode them in the chase.
Mon Dieu!
That stag was magnificent! I only wish I had caught him!

“It grew dark suddenly, as it can do in autumn, and I could no longer hear my companions, the stag had disappeared, and I suddenly found myself lost. I fell into your lake in my wanderings. Your wife heard my cries for help and ordered lights to be brought. It was she who found me just as the storm broke and helped to pull me from the waters.

“The night was pitch black, and the storm wild in its intensity. Madame la comtesse graciously sheltered me, and Madame Mignon fed me a magnificent beef ragout. I was able to safely return to
Chenonceaux
in the morning, to the relief of all of France,” he concluded. “Would you not say that I owed your wife a great debt? Before I left I asked her how I might repay her hospitality, not to mention the fact that she had saved my life. Swearing me to secrecy, she told me of her predicament and asked if I could help her. I was not certain that I could, but I offered to try. You see, Comte de BrocCairn, your cousin, François Stewart-Hepburn, is a very old friend of mine, and although France has allied itself with Scotland, I hold no love for James Stewart.

“I knew from Velvet of both her home in Scotland and her parents’ home in England. I sent my agents with messages to both places. You saw my initial in the sealing wax, did you not?”

“N,” said Alex. “N for Navarre!”

“Mais oui!”
Henri grinned.

“How do I thank ye?” said Alex, and Velvet held her breath.

The king smiled charmingly. “By enjoying France’s bounteous hospitality until your child is born, Comte de BrocCairn. Your wife cannot travel in her condition.”

Alex turned back to kiss his wife as the king went politely to greet Velvet’s parents whom he had not really looked at yet. As his eyes met those of Skye’s, they widened.
“You!”
he said, stunned. “You are Velvet’s mother?” His mind swung back almost twenty years to a night when he had possessed this fabulous woman; a night of the most incredible passion he had ever known; a night cut short by equally incredible violence; the night of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day massacre.

“Velvet was born almost nine months after, monseigneur,” she said very softly as she divined his thoughts.

Henri de Navarre went white with shock. Holy Mother! Was it possible that Velvet was his daughter, that he had unknowingly committed incest with his own child? Loathing surged through his body, and he could taste the bile in the back of his throat.

Skye watched the play of emotions on the king’s face, and she knew precisely what he was thinking. She had never expected to be able to revenge herself upon Henri de Navarre for the rape of her person those many years ago, for the misery of the months that followed when she believed the child she carried was his. Now fate had played into her hands. She didn’t have to say one word. He already believed it!

Then Adam spoke softly in her ear. “Forgive him, little girl, if not for my honor, for your own. He already has many blots upon his soul. Do not put this one upon yours.”

She sighed, and then said, “Velvet is not your daughter, monseigneur.”

“You are sure?” He still looked shaken.

“I was not until she was born,” Skye said truthfully, “but she bears a birthmark that has been borne for centuries by the women in her father’s family.”

“The little black heart atop the left hip,” said the king softly, his relief evident.

“You bastard!”
hissed Skye, so low that only he heard it.

Henri de Navarre held his hands palms turned outward as he gave a little shrug of resignation.
“Chérie
, did you expect any less of me?” he said.

Skye shook her head and laughed ruefully. “No,” she answered him frankly, “I did not.”

“You have not changed,” he said. “You are still the most beautiful woman I have ever known.”

“And you, monseigneur, are still, despite the civilized veneer of kingship that you bear, a rude boy!”

The king laughed. “I must go,” he said, “before it gets dark, and I fall once more into your lake. It will be a cold ride to
Chenonceaux
, and last night I could hear the wolves.”

“I always promised myself that if we ever met again I should kill you, monseigneur,” said Adam de Marisco, “but it seems that having restored my only child to us I must count us even.”

The king nodded.
“Adieu
, Lord de Marisco, Comte de BrocCairn,” he said to the two gentlemen, and then he turned to Skye and Velvet. “It has been good to see you again,
chèrie,”
he said to Skye as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it slowly. Then he took Velvet’s hand and kissed it also. “Farewell,
chèrie
,” he said softly. “Be happy!” And, turning, he was swiftly gone from the hall.

Her eyes widening with surprise and sudden certainty, Velvet looked at her mother. “Mama?” she asked.

Skye’s mouth turned up in a mischievous smile that acknowledged her daughter’s unspoken question. “Yes,
chèrie,”
she said.

“Mama!”
Velvet repeated, and then the delighted laughter of mother and daughter filled the hall at
Belle Fleurs
as they shared their newfound kinship.

His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight,
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart:
For as from me, on him his hurt did light,
So still methought in me his hurt did smart.
Both, equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:
My true Love hath my heart, and I have his.

—Sir Philip Sidney

“N
ame this child,” said Père Jean-Paul to the assembled company.

“James Francis Henry Alexander,” said Scotland’s king as he gingerly cradled his godson.

Velvet smiled proudly up at her husband, squeezing his hand in silent love. They stood quietly together amid her entire family in the chapel at
Dun Broc
as their firstborn son was baptized on this third day of June in the year of our Lord 1593. The child had been born at
Belle Fleurs
on the first day of April.

Velvet and Alex had lived in France with Skye and Adam from the time of their second reunion until just three weeks ago when they had returned to
Dun Broc.
The entire village of Broc Ailien had turned out to greet their returning lord and lady who brought with them their newborn son and heir, the next earl. It had been an incredibly joyous occasion for them all. At the castle Jean Lawrie awaited, holding little Sybilla by the hand. The child had been shy of her father and stepmother at first, but had quickly warmed when Velvet had drawn from the luggage cart a beautiful French doll dressed in silks and laces. Even if Sibby, who was almost three, remembered Alanna, which both Velvet and Alex doubted, it was Velvet who from that moment on became “Mama” to the little girl.

Jean was delighted with the new baby and took him proudly to the nursery, Sibby dogging her heels. Sybilla very much enjoyed being a big sister, and from the first was most adoring of her tiny infant brother. Seeing them together, Velvet sent a silent prayer of thanks to the God who, though he had taken Yasaman from her, had given her another daughter in return to raise.

Yasaman.
Velvet’s heart contracted at the thought of her first child. What did she look like now? Did she speak? Was she happy? She had been such a beautiful, contented baby. Velvet knew that Rugaiya Begum would love Yasaman as if she were indeed her own. What would they tell her daughter about her real mother? She sighed. There were already two pearls on the chain Akbar had given her; Skye had shown it to her in France. Velvet only needed to know that her daughter continued to thrive. Now her thoughts and energies must be with little Sybilla and Sandy, as the baby had already been nicknamed.

It had been decided immediately that the king of Scotland would be the baby’s godfather and Velvet’s sister-in-law, Angel, the godmother.

“I want the christening at
Dun Broc,”
Velvet had said. “He should have been born there, and but for our misfortune he would have been. He shall, however, be baptized there, and,” she had said, looking at Skye, “we shall use the occasion to have a family reunion! Padriac and Murrough are already back from their voyage. Ewan can come with Gwyneth and their children from Ireland. Surely he can leave his estates long enough to come for little James’s baptism.”

“I will send one of your O’Malley uncles to oversee Ewan’s estates while he is gone. There will be no trouble. Do you really mean to have the entire family to
Dun Broc
, Velvet?” Skye asked.

“Yes, Mama! Everyone! Willow, Murrough, Ewan, Deirdre, Padraic, and Robin! All their families! Uncle Conn and Aunt Aiden and my cousins! Annabella and her sons! Daisy and Bran Kelly! Uncle Robbie and Dame Cecily! Everyone!”

The invitations had been sent even before they had left France, and, delighted at the prospect of their all being together again, the entire family had come, fifty-four of them in all.
Dun Broc
bulged with relatives, and there were children underfoot everywhere one turned.

“Are you aware that we have thirty grandchildren here?” said Adam de Marisco to his wife, somewhat overawed.

“I try not to think of it,” said Skye. “If I did, my hair would go white!”

When the king had arrived, they had had to somehow make room for him and his entourage, though how they had done so Velvet didn’t know. She only thanked God that the queen was breeding again, and therefore was unable to come. How she would have housed her retainers she shuddered to imagine.

When the king had heard his godson’s name, he had frowned. “Francis,” he said. “I dinna like the name Francis,” and he glowered at Velvet.

“It is fortunate then, Your Majesty, that it is not your own son who is called Francis.” She looked back at the king, her soft mouth set in a firm line.

“Must he be called Francis?” the king persisted.

“Francis is but his second name as Henry is his third and Alexander his fourth. He will be called by none of these other names, however. We shall call him James after Your Majesty.” She smiled up at him, her mouth relaxing now as she sought to placate him.

“But why Francis?” the king asked again.

“Because he was always our good and true friend even as he has been yours,” said Velvet boldly. “Because we first celebrated our marriage in his home at
Hermitage, and
because I am the baby’s mother and I wish it!”

The king sighed, defeated. “There is nae arguing wi’ a stubborn woman,” he said in a somewhat aggrieved tone, but the matter was closed.

Now at last the baby was christened, and the assembled guests, having been blest by Père Jean-Paul, trooped to the Great Hall to celebrate the event, waiting until the king had changed his doublet to raise the toasts of long life to the infant. The future Earl of BrocCairn had not yet learned to respect his royal master and had wet him most thoroughly.

Pansy and Dugald had been invited to sit at the high board with the immediate family. After all their adventures together, the two young women had a closeness not unlike that of many sisters. Looking at her faithful tiring woman across the chapel that morning, Velvet had smiled to herself remembering what had happened after Henri de Navarre had bid them farewell.

As the king had left, Dugald, having stabled the horses with the coachman, had entered the little hall
at Belle Fleurs.
Pansy had stood up immediately and, reaching down to a cradle by her chair, had lifted her baby, born December third, up in her
arms. Then she had walked over to her husband, saying, “His name is Bran.”