Page 56 of This Heart of Mine (O’Malley Saga #4)
I an Grant had gotten no farther than a nearby tavern, however, where he proceeded to get himself roaring drunk. Ranald Torc’s men, returning with the evening meal, found both him and their two captives gone. Obedient to their leader, they waited until Ranald Torc and his wife had returned. Although Ranald had no idea where the two women were, he was fairly certain of where to find Ian and sent his men to the tavern to fetch his cousin back. Before he slid into a drunken stupor, Ian managed to disclaim any knowledge of what had happened.
“They’ve escaped, damn the sot!”
said Ranald Torc to Alanna, “though how I dinna know.”
“Could BrocCairn have found them?”
said Alanna.
“Nay, Ian would be dead if he had.”
“What are we going to do, Ranald?”
For the first time since he had known her, Alanna sounded afraid. “If anything has happened to her ladyship, Alex is going to hold us all responsible.”
“The only person who can possibly know anything about this is my drunken sot of a cousin,”
muttered Ranald Torc. “I’ll nae wait around for Alex Gordon to wreak his vengeance upon us, my lass. I’ll admit to stealing his cattle, but nae else.”
“Then what are we to do?”
Alanna repeated.
“I’ve kept my word to Ian, but our survival is at stake now,”
came her husband’s reply. “Ian will sleep until sometime tomorrow, I’m certain. We’ll take him to Edinburgh and leave him at Huntley’s house with a message saying that he’s the man BrocCairn is looking for, and that, my lass, will take care of everything. Then we’re off for home. I’ll nae be caught so far from my lands again, Alanna. We’ve gold enough to last us a goodly time. We’ll go home and spend a long winter together fucking and eating, and fucking and drinking! Would ye like that?”
Alanna smiled up at him. “Aye,”
she said, “I would.”
Fortunately, both Francis Stewart-Hepburn and Alex Gordon had kept their heads. Surrounded by Alex’s men, they had made their way south, finding the place where Alex’s cattle had been sold and moving on to Edinburgh where the trail had gone cold. Then Ian Grant was deposited on the Earl of Huntley’s front steps by several brawny Highlanders wearing the kilt of Clan Shaw. All the note pinned to him said was that he was wanted by the Gordon of BrocCairn. Both Bothwell and Alex realized that Ian Grant had probably not gotten to Maitland.
On October eighteenth, Maitland attempted to lure Lord Bothwell into a trap of his own at the Gold Anchor in Leith, without any mention of Lady Gordon, and Alex and Francis knew for certain that Ian had never reached the chancellor. Bothwell, however, escaped and made his way back to Hermitage. His rendezvous in the Highlands had come to naught, for the various factions could not agree on a way to stand against the king without committing treason. Ian Grant had been very close to being a rich man.
Ian Grant, however, was by this time quite dead. It had been an ignominious death. Awakening from his drunken spree, he had stretched lazily, then suddenly realized that he was not in that disgusting apartment they had rented in Leith. His mouth tasted terrible, and he had an absolutely awful headache. Slowly he turned over onto his back, and his eyes met those of Alexander Gordon, the Earl of BrocCairn. Ian Grant’s mouth dropped open in shock, and he drew but one gasping breath before his heart gave out from total terror at the dreadful look in the earl’s eyes.
If he hadn’t died then and there, Alex would have killed him, but only after he had found out what had happened to his wife. Ian’s death robbed him of that knowledge. He had only one other direction in which to go, and that was north into the Highlands from whence he’d come; north to find Ranald Torc. The outlaw had to know what had happened to his wife, to Pansy, to the unborn bairns that they both carried. Alex didn’t believe for one minute that his wife was dead. He would have known if she was dead, but he felt nothing, just an emptiness. Velvet lived! Of that he was convinced.
Ranald Torc’s house was impervious to attack by virtue of the thick forest that surrounded it. Remembering Ian’s sudden and unexpected death, Alex did not want to lose the only chance he had of finding out what had happened to Velvet by fighting his way in. Under a flag of truce, he met with Ranald Torc at his house in the forest.
“Ian is dead,”
Alex said bluntly to open the conversation, and then he went on to explain how the event had occurred. “I was unable to question the damned coward, and I dinna know where my wife and her tiring woman are. Ye can tell me.”
“Nay,”
replied Ranald Torc, “I canna. The plot to kidnap yer wife was all Ian’s. I only stole yer cattle, Alex. Ian insisted we go to Leith so that he might make his escape quickly when the exchange was made.”
“Did he ever contact Maitland?”
demanded Alex, too concerned about his wife to demand compensation for his cattle.
“Nay, not to my knowledge. Alanna and I were married outside of Edinburgh wi’ yer wife for a witness. We were seeing the sights in Leith, that’s all. We came back one day to find yer wife and her woman gone, and Ian off drunk. She must have escaped, and so we brought Ian to Huntley’s house and left him for ye. I canna tell ye anything else or I would. Having found a woman of my own, I can sympathize wi’ ye in yer double loss, especially since my own wife has only today told me that I’m to be a father.”
Alex was stunned. Ranald Torc had been his only hope. What could have happened to Velvet? If she had escaped, why had she not returned home to Dun Broc? Perhaps she had been so frightened that she had fled south instead to her parents in England. He could understand that now, but why had the de Mariscos not gotten in touch with him? He returned to Dun Broc only long enough to settle an allowance on his widowed sister and orphaned nephews before heading south to England with Dugald and a troop of his men.
In the Loire Valley of France it had been a long and leisurely autumn. Velvet and Pansy arrived at Belle Fleurs safely to find her parents’ little chateau still carefully and lovingly attended by Mignon and Guillaume, retainers from the great estate of Archambault , which belonged to Velvet’s grandparents, the Comte and Comtesse de Cher. Mignon and her spouse, Guillaume, had attended Skye and Adam de Marisco, Velvet’s parents, in the years that they had lived in France. The chateau had been left in their keeping. They were elderly now, and Velvet’s simple story that wicked men sought to use her and her unborn child against her wonderful husband so no one, not even her cher grandmère and grandpère, must know that she was at Belle Fleurs , brought their immediate support and promise that Velvet’s visit would remain a secret.
Safe now, Velvet sought news of Scotland, not easy to come by in this rural and bucolic setting. Still, with the help of Matthieu, Mignon and Guillaume’s fourteen-year-old grandson, they were able to establish a small line of information, but the news coming from Scotland was not good. Velvet heard of Maitland’s attempt to trap Bothwell and cursed Ian Grant for the bastard he was. It was obvious to her that they had tried to lure Bothwell into their hands by convincing the earl that they had her. She wished she could send a message to Alex telling him that they were safe. How he must be worrying! She missed him so very much, but she would not endanger him, or Bothwell, by revealing her whereabouts.
The news was slow in reaching her, so it was early November when she had learned about Maitland’s attempted trap. Although Pansy was now within a month of giving birth to her second child, Velvet, whose child was not due until the spring, did not yet show her condition. It was a warm, late-autumn day that found her in the small kitchen garden pulling leeks for Mignon’s ragout. Suddenly a magnificent, antlered stag leaped over the low garden wall and, dashing around the building, dove into the lake that surrounded Belle Fleurs on three sides, swam across it, and disappeared into the forest beyond.
Sitting back on her heels, Velvet laughed, but her mirth was cut short by the arrival of several huntsmen, one of whom demanded, “Have you seen a stag go by, wench?”
“It is madame ,”
she replied, “and who gave you the right to hunt on my lands?”
“All of France is the king’s land,”
came the arrogant reply.
“But for Paris,”
Velvet rejoined, “and a king without a capital is not much of a king. Besides, you don’t look like a king to me.”
“He isn’t,”
said another voice, and a tall, lean man pushed his horse forward to the low garden wall. “He is the Marquis de la Victoire, but I, madame, am Henri de Navarre, at your service.”
Velvet rose and curtsied politely. “Forgive my hasty tongue, Your Majesty,” she said.
“I liked it better when you were scolding me, ma belle,”
he replied with a smile. “You have the advantage of me, chèrie. I do not know who you are.”
His eyes swept quite boldly over her.
“I am Velvet Gordon, sire,”
said Velvet.
“English?”
“My father is both English and French. My mother is Irish, and I, sire, am married to a Scot.”
“You are too beautiful to be wed to a dour Scot, chèrie.
You should be a Frenchman’s wife! Tell me, where is your husband?”
“In Scotland, sire.”
She brushed the loose dirt from her velvet skirt. How embarrassing to be caught looking such a fright! Still, perhaps it was better that way, for Henri of Navarre was a notorious womanizer. Looking as dusty and unappealing as she did would encourage him to be on his way.
The king, however, was very adept at seeing the gold beneath the soil. “Return to the chateau,”
he told his companions. “We have obviously lost our quarry.”
Then with a small smile he lowered his voice and said, “I have other game in mind now, mes amis!”
The gentlemen riding with the king departed without a protest. Though civil war still controlled France, keeping him from his throne in Paris, they knew he was safe here in the Loire Valley.
The king dismounted, asking as he did so, “What is this chateau called?”
“Belle Fleurs , sire,”
replied Velvet.
“And it is yours?”
“It belongs to my parents.”
“Ah,”
said Henri. “You have come to visit with your parents.”
“My parents live in England, sire.”
“Your husband is in Scotland, your parents are in England, and you, madame, are in France. I do not understand.”
Velvet laughed at his perplexity. “Is it really necessary that you understand, sire? You do not even know me.”
“A lover!”
the king cried. “You have come to be with your lover!”
“I have no lover, sire. I am a respectable married woman, I promise you.”
This was becoming very uncomfortable. Velvet did not want to explain to the French king, who was an ally of the Scots king, why she was here in France. Henri of Navarre was a most exasperating man! Why did he insist upon going on like this? She would have to tell him something for he obviously would not go away unless she did. “I have come to France for my health, sire,”
she said. “The Scots winters are not easy, and as I was ill last year, my husband feared for my health and insisted that I spend this winter here at Belle Fleurs. He will join me when he is able.”
“Then you are alone, chèrie?”
“I have my servants, sire, and my grandparents live nearby,”
she answered him demurely. She hoped that the mention of family would send him on his way.
“Did you know that your eyes are the color of the ferns one finds only in the deepest part of the forest?”
the king asked.
Velvet flushed.
“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 to Belle Fleurs to 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 at Chenonceaux , and I should like us to be friends. It is very dull at Chenonceaux,”
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 at Chenonceaux?”
she asked, curious and thinking that the word of a king was not often good. “I had heard that Chenonceaux is 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.
“Monseigneur!”
Velvet pretended outrage, but the king was not fooled, and they both laughed.
“Does this Mignon prepare a beef ragout, chèrie? A beef ragout with tender green leeks? I adore beef ragout with leeks!”
“Is Your Majesty seeking an invitation?”
Velvet teased him.
“Yes, I most certainly do seek an invitation,”
he said, looking almost boyish. “The dowager queen Louise will serve up carp and plain boiled vegetables for dinner tonight as she does almost every night. She has made her mourning a fine art, and even her guests must suffer!”
“Then why do you visit her?”
demanded the practical Velvet.
“Because it is my duty; because Chenonceaux is so incredibly beautiful and peaceful; and because the hunting is good,”
he answered her.
“I cannot feed your friends,”
she said. “It is not that I would be ungracious; it is simply that I have neither the food nor the staff for entertaining.”
“I do not ask you to feed my men. What I hope for is a dinner à deux.”
“Dinner, monseigneur, is all that I am serving,”
said Velvet severely to Henri of Navarre. “You must promise me that you understand that before I will tender you an invitation. I am not a woman to play the coy flirt. I love my husband and will not compromise either his honor or mine.”
“Lovers,”
said the king, “should always begin as friends. It was unforgivable of me to behave as I did earlier. I can only excuse myself by saying that your beauty blinded me to reason. I promise to behave myself, chèrie , if you will invite me to supper.”
“We are not going to be lovers!”
said Velvet, somewhat crossly.
The king smiled sweetly at her. “I shall bring a fine red wine for us to drink with the ragout,”
he said as he mounted his horse.
“I have not said you could come!”
Velvet protested.
“Do you think your Mignon would make me a pear tartlet for the last course, chèrie?”
he asked her.
Velvet couldn’t help but laugh. What a charming and impossible man he was. “I’ll ask her,”
she said, “and now, sire, I bid you adieu, for if I do not bring these leeks in to Mignon immediately, there will be no supper for you.”
The king kissed his fingers at her and, turning his horse, rode off.
“So that’s what a king looks like,”
said Pansy matter-of-factly. “He’s a bit big and gawky, ain’t he? What was all that chattering you was doing?”
“He’s invited himself to supper,”
said Velvet, still chuckling.
“He looks to me like he’s got more than supper on his mind,”
said Pansy disapprovingly.
“He does,”
replied her mistress, “but I have been most truthful with the king. He understands me, though he will not yet admit that a lady could refuse his suit. There is no danger, Pansy, from Henri of Navarre. Besides, he is only visiting at Chenonceaux , and must be on his way in a day or so. France is still at war with itself, and he will not really be safe as its king until the country is once again united.”
“You’re going to throw old Mignon into quite a tizzy, m’lady. I don’t expect that she’s ever cooked for a king before.”
Velvet’s laughter renewed itself at that thought. “Wait until I tell her that he has requested a pear tartlet for the last course!”
Mignon, however, was not one bit nonplussed by the news that Henri of Navarre was coming to supper. When Velvet passed on the gossip about Chenonceaux to her, the old woman said, “Poor man! He grew up in the wholesome atmosphere of Navarre far from the French court. He is used to good country food and he misses it, I have not a doubt. I shall be pleased to cook for the king! I am only sorry that I shall not be able to tell everyone at Archambault about it. That fat Celine who cooks for your grandmother would be so jealous! After she cooked for Queen Catherine and Princess Margot at your christening, there was simply no living with her! Oh, how I would like to tell her!”
“In time, Mignon,”
Velvet soothed the old woman. “When I am with my husband, and King James no longer seeks me, then I can tell my grandparents that I was here, and you can brag to your heart’s delight to Celine and the rest of the staff at Archambault.”
“Celine will be so jealous,”
cackled Mignon as she threw the leeks, now peeled, into the steaming pot of ragout. “I think I shall put currants in with the pears,”
she mused. “It makes a tastier tartlet.”
Velvet smiled and then, taking Pansy with her, went to prepare the table in the lovely hall where once her family used to gather when she was a tiny child. Belle Fleurs was not a large chateau. Built in the early fifteenth century, it sat in the midst of a garden, surrounded on three sides by a lakelike moat. Beyond it lay the forest, and four miles to the north, the great chateau of her grandparents, Archambault , which, like its neighbor, Chenonceaux , sat on the banks of the river Cher.
Belle Fleurs was a chateau out of a fairy tale. It was built of dark, reddish gray schist stone, and its four polygonal towers had slate roofs that were shaped like witches’ hats. Since access to the chateau could be gained only through the cour d’honneur , it was easily defensible. It was the gardens, however, that had given Belle Fleurs its name. During the growing season, from spring until the late, late autumn, the gardens of Belle Fleurs were filled to overflowing with varied and colorful blooms of every known variety and hue. They were old Guillaume’s pride, and he spent all of his waking hours amid the flowers, keeping Belle Fleurs’ gardens thriving and orderly.
The chateau itself had a fine hall and kitchens, six bedchambers including the lord’s apartment, and room for a dozen house servants. The outbuildings consisted of a stable for the horses, though there were only three, two that had been brought by Velvet and Pansy and an old mare that pulled a cart kept by Mignon and Guillaume. Velvet had hired a coach to bring them from Nantes to Belle Fleurs , but she had also purchased the two riding horses which had been tied behind the carriage. Transportation was vital in this isolated location. There was a dog kennel, but right now the only dogs at Belle Fleurs were an elderly spaniel and an even older hound. The falconry was empty now though the dovecote still housed a large family of gentle birds.
Velvet’s father, Adam de Marisco, had bought the chateau furnished by its former owners, and the rooms were filled with attractive furniture and beautiful hangings. Though there would be but two of them at supper, Velvet knew that she must set the high board for the king. Carefully, she and Pansy laid the convent-made linen cloth upon the long table. There was but one pair of gold candelabra in the chateau, and Velvet cleaned them, placing them upon the table with the beeswax tapers. Pansy brought a bowl of flowers in autumn colors of yellow, brown, tawny orange, and gold, which was also placed on the table. Two place settings of silver knives and Florentine forks with matching silver plates and goblets studded with green jasper were set upon the table. The fires were laid in the two fireplaces on either side of the hall, and crystal decanters of wine, a pale gold liquid from Archambault and a crimson one the king had already sent ahead with one of the footmen from Chenonceaux , were placed upon the sideboard.
The hall ready, Velvet departed to her chamber to bathe in gillyflower-scented water and to dress in a dark green velvet gown that had once been her mother’s. She thought it fortunate that Skye had left so many clothes at Archambault , else both she and Pansy would have been quite at a loss. They had worn the same clothing from the time of their kidnapping until they arrived at Belle Fleurs; clothing that Velvet immediately burned, for it was filthy beyond repair. Had they not had their cloaks to cover their stained and torn garments, Velvet did not know what they would have done.
It had taken almost two weeks for them to reach Nantes from Leith. Using Pansy’s obvious condition as an excuse, they had kept very much to their cabin, coming out only once a day toward evening when the light was dim, and no one about, to walk about the deck.
Captain Michael Small did not usually take passengers, but an expected cargo had not been delivered in Leith on time, and since he had the room, he had decided to accept several passengers. They had been very lucky, for there had just been one small cabin left and only the intercession of the landlord of the Golden Anchor had gained it for them.
“They’re respectable women, Captain,”
he had said. “There isn’t another ship I would dare trust to transport them safely, and they can pay in gold.”