“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 toBelle Fleursto 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 atChenonceaux, and I should like us to be friends. It is very dull atChenonceaux,”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 atChenonceaux?”she asked, curious and thinking that the word of a king was not often good. “I had heard thatChenonceauxis 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.
