“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 virtuouspetite rose d’Anglaiseto 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 achere 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 byanyman. 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.
