“‘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.
“What is it?” Lord Varden murmured softly to her, seeing her look of consternation.
“The gentleman escorting the bride is my…is Tavis Stewart,” Arabella said low.
Tony nodded understandingly.
Arabella heard neither the choir nor the droning sermon of the Bishop of Paris, who was performing the ceremony. She had thought that she had come to terms with herself regarding her position as Adrian Morlaix’s mistress. It was hardly a secret, but both she and Adrian were well-liked. It had been expected from the moment he had seen her and evinced his desire to have her that she would eventually be his. Their behavior was discreet and their relationship accepted. When she returned home to England, it was unlikely anyone would learn of her French involvement, as she had come to think of it. Now, here was Tavis Stewart come amongst them, and she already felt the censure in the stiff set of his neck.
Sorcha Morton was once again a married woman. Here in France she would not be known by her Celtic name, Muire Sorcha. Her name would be Frenchified, and she would be Marie-Claire, Duchesse de St. Astier. It quite suited the woman who now swept proudly down from the altar on the arm of her bridegroom. At the great doors to the cathedral the newly married couple greeted their guests. The duchesse’s amber eyes narrowed as Arabella was presented to her, and she might have made some scathing comment, but Arabella curtsied prettily and, wishing the bride and groom good fortune, passed quickly by. Behind her, however, Adrian was caught by poor Jean-Claude Billancourt, who was pitifully eager to show off his beautiful wife. The crowds closed about Arabella, cutting her off from her escorts.
“So, madame,” a familiar voice hissed in her ear, “I come to France to find ye playing the whore. Is there nothing ye will nae do in order to regain possession of that wretched scrap of borderland known as Greyfaire?” He could have bitten off his tongue even as the words spilled angrily from his mouth. This was not what he wanted to say to her. This was not the way he had meant to begin, but when he had seen her with the Duc de Lambour, he had known that all Jamie had told him was true.
“How dare you accost me?” she hissed back, shaking off his hand on her elbow.
His fingers closed cruelly about her arm, halting her flight. “Ye owe me an explanation, madame!”
Arabella looked angrily up at him. “I owe you nothing, my lord,” she said fiercely. “You forfeited your rights over me when you failed to honor your promise to me to retrieve my property. It was not even for me, Tavis. It was for our child.”
“And where is our daughter?” he demanded.
“Safe, and where you will not find her!” Arabella snapped.
“In Henry Tudor’s nurseries, ye mean,” he said.
Suddenly Arabella’s face crumbled and she looked eagerly to him. “You’ve seen our Margaret? Is she well? Is she happy? Did she remember you?”
In that moment all his anger dissolved. “Nay,” he said. “Yer English king would nae let me see her. It was last autumn. Ye’d already left for France.”
“My dear.” Anthony Varden was by her side. “Before the duc sees you and wonders with whom you are speaking so heatedly, we had best go.”
Arabella nodded, but Tavis Stewart said fiercely, “I’ve come to take my wife home, sir, and who the hell are ye in the first place?”
“I am Anthony Varden, my lord earl, and your behavior, however well-meaning, is placing Arabella in a most difficult position. You would not want her sacrifice of these past months to be in vain, now would you? Find your way to Adrian, my dear, while I give Lord Stewart your excuses,” Lord Varden said quietly, placing his small frame directly in the path of the Earl of Dunmor.
