“You have but to command me, my lord,” she teased him back.
Standing, he drew her up and led her back to their bed. Then his arms tightened about her, their lips met in a fiery kiss, and they fell back onto the soft, silken mattress, their limbs intertwined. “I love you,” he murmured against her mouth. “In the spring I will take you to Kashmir and build you a palace beside a blue lake. We will live forever in the shadows of the great mountains and raise our child in peace. Together you and I will hunt the ibex, the stag, the markhor, and the bear. You will like Kashmir, for its beauty is a perfect frame for your own. I will make you happy, Candra. By the great God who created us all, I swear it!”
“I am happy just being with you, my lord Akbar. How can you rule your kingdom if you exile yourself from its capital?
I cannot let you do that for me. It would be wrong. Keep me by your side, my dearest husband. It is all I ask of you.”
“I am growing older,” he answered her. “I have not been well in the last several years. Let Salim have it, for by God he longs for the power. Already he sows rebellion against me in order to claim his birthright. I will give it to him and depart. I will only take with me the wives whose company I actually enjoy. The others will remain here in Lahore. The fewer of my women I have with me, the less I will have to listen to their complaints. Now that I think on it I shall take only Rugaiya Begum and Jodh Bai with us.”
“No, my lord Akbar. If you attempt to do this thing you will endanger me. You are not old and feeble. You are a great leader, a great king. You are loved and respected by all who know you. Abdicate your throne for a rash boy and you will plunge your country once again into a civil war. Salim cannot hold together the princely states as you do. If you love me, you must promise me that you will not leave the throne. Build me a palace in Kashmir, and each year in the hot weather we will journey forth there to enjoy the mountains and the waters.”
“This is truly your wish, Candra? You are content to live in Lahore, to follow me across this land when I must go?”
“I am content, my husband, as long as I am with you.”
He kissed her once again, this time his mouth fiercely taking possession of her soft lips. His hard body bore down upon hers, and she opened herself to him, sighing as he slipped his hard shaft within her silken sheath.
“You are mine,” he whispered, raising his head to look down into her eyes. “Tell me you are mine, my beloved wife.”
“I am yours, my lord husband, I am yours for as long as God will give us life, and afterwards I will be yours into eternity.” Then taking his head between her hands she kissed him sweetly, kissed him until he could bear no longer the honeyed passion she aroused within him. With a ferocious cry he ground himself savagely into her, flooding her throbbing body with his essence, and together they created a child in that wonderful and blinding moment.
The coach that carried Michael O’Malley, the bishop of Mid-Connaught, from the French coast to Paris was a large and comfortable vehicle. Four strong horses guided by an expert coachman galloped along the snowy, midwinter roads that by virtue of the hard-packed snow were actually in much better condition than the rutted, potholed earth beneath. The landscape was mostly black and white, the leafless trees stretching their barren branches skyward, the smoke from occasional cottages and farms dark against the gray gloom.
Looking out through the coach’s very expensive glass windows, the bishop shivered. He himself was quite warm and comfortable amid the dark green velvet upholstery, covered by a thick gray fox coverlet, a brazier of hot coals at his feet. Gold, he thought with a soft smile, certainly had its uses. Leaning forward, he drew the back of the front seat down and removed a willow basket from the niche there. Opening it, he took out a leather decanter of dark red Burgundy and filled the silver cup that was also in the basket. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the heady fragrance of the wine with a connoisseur’s palate before taking his first blissful sip. Fitting the goblet between his knees, he recorked the decanter and, having replaced it in the basket, drew forth a little crock of goose-liver pâté and a small, crisp loaf of bread, which had been wrapped in a rough linen napkin and was yet warm. Breaking a piece of bread off, he used it to scoop up a dollop of the pâté and popped the entire thing into his mouth, chewing delightedly. The pâté was excellent, and the bread had a wonderful crust on it.
The inn at which he had spent the night had been a charming one, and since they were still a half-day’s travel from Paris, the innkeeper’s wife had packed him the basket to tide him over. He had done her the honor of hearing her confession and pronounced only a light penance for her few but troublesome sins. Finishing his meal with a crisp pear, he packed the basket away behind the seat again and gazed back out the window. A light snow was beginning to fall, and Michael O’Malley did not envy either the coachman or the men-at-arms who escorted his coach. In the distance, however, he could see the spires of Notre Dame poking through the grayness. It would not be too long now.
He would be staying at the Paris town house of Adam de Marisco’s mother and stepfather, the Comte and Comtesse de Cher, which was located in the rue Soeur Celestine on the Rive Gauche. It was a small house, having only six bedchambers, but the bishop would be quite comfortable and well taken care of by a staff of servants who had been sent up from the comte and comtesse’s estate at Archambault in the Loire.
Michael O’Malley turned his thoughts to the task ahead of him. It would not be an easy one, and even though he would be dealing with an old friend, the utmost diplomacy would be required. The truth of the matter was that he understood the logic behind Father Ourique’s actions. God help the man! Exiled from Europe and expected to work miracles of conversion for the holy mother church without, Michael wagered with himself, any monies sent him. Desperate to do well, to be brought to the attention of his superiors in Portugal, in Paris, and in Rome—and desperate, Michael suspected, to be brought home—the Jesuit had undoubtedly seen his future disappearing over the horizon in the same direction as Lord and Lady de Marisco. He had done the only thing he felt he could in taking Velvet hostage in exchange for delivery of the ransom. Michael believed, however, that Father Ourique had been unaware of the Portuguese governor’s brooding desire for revenge. The whole matter was an unfortunate combination of bad timing and worse luck, with his niece the innocent victim. Poor little Velvet! The bishop’s face darkened with his concern. What tortures was she enduring in what must be for so sheltered a lass a terrifying captivity? He sincerely prayed that she would survive to be released from her bondage.
The coach came to an abrupt stop, and, focusing his eyes on the outside world, Michael saw that they were already in Paris and, in fact, were awaiting the gatekeeper ofChez Cherto open the gates so that they might enter the mansion’s courtyard. The snow was falling heavily now, and the bishop could just make out the shambling figure of the porter as he pulled open the entry. The coachman, eager to see the end of his journey, and doubtless thinking of a warm fire and a good pint, almost toppled the gatekeeper over as he hurried his horses into the courtyard and pulled up before the house’s double doors, which swung wide magically. Two liveried footmen ran down the three steps and, opening the carriage door, pulled down the steps and helped Michael O’Malley descend.
“Merci, merci!”the bishop said, signing them with the cross in thanks, and then he moved hastily into the building.
A thin, spare man came quickly forward.“Bienvenue, Monsieur le évêque.I am Alard, the majordomo.” He drew a tiny, plump woman forward. “My wife, Jeannine, who is the housekeeper and cook. We have been sent by Madame la comtesse to see to your needs, and we will try to make your stay a pleasant one. Is it possible that you can tell us how long you plan to be in Paris?”
“Not for more than a week or two at the most,” Michael replied.
“Thank you, my lord bishop. Let me show you to your rooms now, and you must tell me if there is anything that we can do for you at this moment.”
“I’ll need someone to take a message to a friend of mine, Father O’Dowd, a Jesuit.”
Alard bowed. “Of course, my lord bishop. As soon as you’re settled, I’ll send a footman to you.”
The messenger was dispatched and returned within another hour. He had found Father O’Dowd, who sent back word that he would be delighted to see his old friend, and would the evening meal be too soon? When Michael passed this query on to Jeannine, the plump little woman smiled mischievously and, bobbing him a curtsy, promised an excellent dinner.
When Bearach O’Dowd arrived, Michael O’Malley could not help but think how little his friend had changed. Of medium height and plump of figure, Bearach O’Dowd had the round, innocent face of a choirboy. He was fair of skin with fat, pink Irish cheeks and deceptively bland light blue eyes with long sandy-colored lashes that matched his close-cropped sandy hair. He was dressed as a Jesuit, but, Michael noted, his robes were of the best materials and well cut.
“You’ve brought a bit of peat whiskey, Michaeleen?” was his greeting. “I’ve not been able to think of anything else since your messenger brought me word you were in Paris.”
The bishop laughed. “Aye, I’ve got it. How else would two old friends toast each other, Bearach?” Walking to the library table, he poured them both a dram of the smoky whiskey and, handing his friend one, raised his own goblet. “Ireland!” he said.
“Ireland, God help her!” came the Jesuit’s reply.
When the whiskey had been downed by both men, Michael led the way into a small dining room, and they sat down to the dinner table. True to her word, Jeannine had prepared a wonderful supper for the two clerics. Bowls of mussels, braised in white wine and garlic, with individual bowls of Dijon sauce de moutarde began the meal, which was served family style as there were only two diners. The broth surrounding the mussels was as delicious as were the delicately flavored shellfish themselves.
When the bowls containing the thoroughly pillaged shells had been removed, Alard directed the footmen to pass various platters and bowls. There was a lovely, fat duck, its skin burned black, its flesh rare, stuffed with apricots and prunes, and served with wild plum sauce. There was a fine savory ragout of beef, fragrant with red wine and fine herbs, and served with fluffy little dumplings; a bowl of tiny potatoes, another of onions, and one of celery and carrots. The last dish presented in this course was a small ham baked in a flaky pastry that had been glazed with egg.
