“I’ll send my men wi’ him,” replied Alex. “They can help him through any rough spots once he’s over the border.”
Adam de Marisco said nothing. Rather, he slouched in his big chair, his large hand gripping his goblet tightly, his eyes smoldering with anger. He was regretting ever having given his precious daughter to this Scot, for her life had been one crisis after another since the day Alex Gordon had come into it. All Adam wanted was for her to be happy. Why was it, he thought, that parents having learned from their own mistakes, could not make life perfection for their children? The autumn was almost over. Winter was near. Was Velvet safe? Was she warm and decently clothed? Was she hungry or thirsty? A thousand unanswered questions plagued Adam, and for the time being it appeared that there were no answers.
* * *
Upon his return toChenonceaux, Henri de Navarre had smiled mysteriously at the jovial teasing of his hunting companions. Had he been successful in his hunt? they asked. Had he managed in one night to bring the pretty auburn doe to ground? Henri said nothing, but his gentlemen, many of whom had been close friends since his youth, knew that the king’s look of satisfaction meant that he had gotten precisely what he wanted. They genuinely admired his great capacity for loving women, and they equally envied his tremendous success with the fairer sex, which strangely had little to do with his rank. When he had been a carefree boy in Navarre running barefoot like a goat over the hillsides, there wasn’t a woman he couldn’t have. So they teased him good-naturedly, and though he said nothing, they knew his night had been a far pleasanter one than theirs.
Now the king called his close friend, Robert, the Marquis de la Victoire, to him and instructed him to engage the Scots ambassador in conversation and told him what to say to him. The matter was to be one held in the strictest secrecy. The ambassador was not to know why the king was interested in the Countess of BrocCairn, or even that it was the king who was interested. And it was important that the information be extracted as quickly as possible.
The marquis, an old friend of Navarre’s, asked no questions himself, but rather he did as he was bid, and, to the king’s surprise, the answers he sought were quickly forthcoming.
“The Earl of BrocCairn is a cousin of the king’s,” said the marquis. “He lives in a castle in the Highlands. He is a Gordon by blood, but a small lordling. His wife is said to be a young Englishwoman, but the ambassador does not know either of them.”
“That is all?” the king said.
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“And what of my old friend François Stewart-Hepburn, Robert?”
“Ah, now that is a different story. Although the king has outlawed him and taken everything from him, he remains at his Border stronghold with, it is rumored, his mistress, a beautiful Scots noblewoman. The king fumes but is helpless to march on Lord Bothwell, for none of his earls will support him in this matter, and the common people adore the man. There the affair stands. The Earl of Bothwell cannot be caught, and the king will not make his peace with him though even the Scots ambassador admits that the earl is a loyal servant of James Stewart, and is very anxious to settle their differences.”
“And nowhere in this situation is the Countess of BrocCairn mentioned?” demanded the king. “You are absolutely certain she is not involved in this tangle?”
“Monseigneur, I am as certain as I can be without asking the ambassador directly. He is a plain-spoken man, and we are friends. I helped him only recently with a rather delicate matter involving a lady of circumstance who had taken his fancy; but, alas, the ambassador’s French is not of the courting variety. I interceded for him, and when the lady saw that the language this diplomat spoke was a universal one, she agreed to tutor him herself.
“I did ask him if the BrocCairns were involved with Lord Bothwell, saying that I had heard they were cousins. The ambassador laughed and said that most of the nobility are cousins of one degree or another in Scotland, thanks to James V, but that to his knowledge BrocCairn is a king’s man even to the extent of taking an English wife so that he may one day follow James Stewart into England when he comes into his inheritance.”
Henri nodded, satisfied, and dismissed the marquis. The lovely Velvet’s fears were groundless. If at one point James Stewart had intended to use her as a pawn to bring Lord Bothwell down, that time was past and she was safe. He contemplated returning toBelle Fleursand bringing her the news himself, but he quickly cast that thought aside. He did not really have the time, and, besides, if he saw her again, he would want to make love to her again, for she had been a most delicious armful. Velvet had been gracious enough to admit to his skill as a lover, to admit that she had taken pleasure from their coupling; but he knew that with the pleasure she had felt guilt as well, though she had yielded to him without complaint. The king would keep his promise to her and send for her husband, though the Earl of BrocCairn should never know from whence his summons had come.
In the night, that heavenly night he had spent in the silken arms of the Countess of BrocCairn, she had told the king of her home, the place in which she had grown up, a manor calledQueen’s Malvern, near the town of Worcester. She had spoken also of her home in Scotland, a castle with the improbable name ofDun Broc.He would send agents with messages to both places. If the earl was at neither abode, then he would simply have to search for him. A royal promise was a royal promise. Then he smiled to himself. The promise was not royal. It was the promise of Henri de Navarre. Calling his secretary to him, he dictated his instructions, including a simple message that he believed the earl would understand, but if the Scots ambassador had played him false and the message fell into the wrong hands, it would not be easily deciphered by anyone else.
AtQueen’s MalvernChristmas was bleak despite the presence of Skye and Adam’s large family, who had descended upon them once more despite Skye’s wish to be alone.
“You must not fall into the doldrums over Velvet’s latest misadventure, Mama,” scolded Willow, the Countess of Alcester.
“What Willow means, Mama …” began gentle Deirdre in an attempt to soften her elder sister’s sharp tone.
“I am well aware of what Willow means!” exploded Skye. Then she rounded on her oldest daughter. “Do not talk down to me, madame! I have not reached my dotage yet. I have only just celebrated my fifty-first birthday. I have no need for wooden teeth, a wig, or a cane, and your stepfather and I yet make rather passionate love regularly!”
“Mama!”shrieked Willow, turning beet red.
Deirdre, however, could not help giggling at her mother’s outrage, and Angel, far bolder, laughed outright at Willow’s mortification. The men in the family were grinning openly, although Adam had only a hint of a smile about his lips.
“Please, Willow,” continued Skye, “don’t be the matriarch with me. That is my place now, though your time will come one day, I am certain. I requested privacy this holiday season because, my dear daughter, I am exhausted and worried sick over Velvet. As for Adam and Alex, neither has slept more than two or three hours a night in the last two months. Your motives are good, but your timing is deplorable. This is my house, Willow. Not yours. It is my place to invite guests, not yours.”
“I only meant to make you happy, Mama,” said Willow, very contrite.
“I know you did,” said her mother with a deep sigh, “but will you please go home tomorrow?”
Willow nodded. “I thought the children would please you.”
“They did,” said Skye, softening. Dear Heaven, what would this proper English born-and-bred countess think if she knew that her deceased father had been known as the “Great Whoremaster of Algiers,” thought Skye. She wanted to laugh, but she dared not, for she would have to explain her laughter, and Willow, overproud though good-hearted, would not like the explanation at all.
Robin put an arm about his mother. “Angel and I have to return to London anyway to oversee the preparations for the Twelfth Night masque. Come with us, Mama. You would enjoy seeing the queen, and she you. So many of her old friends have died lately. Walsingham last year, and Hatton this.”
“She will outlive them all,” said Skye. “Even that old spider, Cecil.”
“Probably,” agreed Robin, “but will you come?”
