She sat down heavily on the bed.
“My lady?” He cast a look at her.
Claudine blinked back weeping. “You did say you were leaving in a week,” she said softly.
“I know,” Francis said. He seemed as miserable as her. “I wish, now, that I wasn't going. But I have to. My family...”
Claudine sighed. “I know. I understand about familial obligations.But...I shall miss you.”
She managed to say it, though the words tore through her throat and her eyes really did fill with tears. She sniffed, feeling stupid. How could she feel this way? She'd known him a week. She'd known her father for eighteen years and she'd cried less when she realized he'd turned away. But compared to him , Francis has shown me more genuine care than he has in half a lifetime.
To her astonishment,Francis whispered her name, knelt down at the edge of the bed, taking her hands in his. He looked up at her imploringly. Then he kissed her fingertips, his lips moist and warm on the ends of her fingers.
Claudine felt a shiver of excitement go through her body. She bit her lip, trying to map out the complex and wonderful feelings inside her as his lips stroked over the very tip of her fingertips, warm and moist and clinging. She could feel her belly tingle and her toes were tingling too, as if her blood moved just fractionally faster through her body. Her face was flushed and her hands shivered a little as he reached up and then, to her total amazement, sat down beside her on the bed and kissed her.
Her heart stopped as his arms clasped round her. She felt herself drawn to his chest and at first she tried to struggle, feeling as if it was wrong, this indescribable intimacy. Then she gave up as the warmth suffused her body and his tongue pushed into her mouth and she gave herself up to his embrace.
He kissed her passionately and then withdrew. She could see he was red-faced and his breathing was labored – he looked as overcome as she felt. She leaned forward on her elbows, sighing. She felt drained as well as elated.
“Francis,” she whispered.
He smiled, a soft smile. His hand covered hers.
She tensed as she felt his finger brush against her thigh, the tip of it tickling and tracing against her leg through the thin silk of her gown. It felt warm and tickling and the sweet intensity of his touch flowed through her as he stroked her skin gently.
“Sorry,” he murmured. His voice was ragged. She realized she had been sitting with her eyes shut, reveling in the feelings coursing inside her.
She shook her head. “Don't be sorry,” she murmured.
He chuckled. “I should be. I take liberties.”
She blushed. “I should say sorry for not stopping you.”
That let him smile. A fleeting, sudden grin, the smile made her toes tingle and her heart race.
“Oh, Claudine,” he said.
Gently, hesitantly, she let her fingers reach up and squeeze his hand. She had never actually initiated something even so innocent as holding hands with a man. The delicious thrill it sent through her surprised her.
He smiled. His fingers looked through hers and he lifted her hand to his lips, gently kissing the back of it.
Claudine sighed. Every indentation of his fingers on her hand, every touch of his lips on her knuckle, made her whole body thump. She leaned closer and her shoulder brushed against his. He let go of her hand and she tensed, about to move away. He wrapped his arm around her.
Claudine closed her eyes. Gently, she rested her head on his shoulder like a kitten seeking care. He stroked her arm.
They sat like that a long while. She couldn't recall a time when she had felt more comforted, safer. His muscled shoulder against her made her feel protected, like he could fight anything to save her, even the malaise which plagued her days.
“Oh, Claudine,” he sighed.
She let her arm hold him close and looked up into his face. “I wish we didn't...that I wasn't...”
She knew she was going to cry and looked up at the ceiling. Her tears ran down onto her cheeks and she blinked rapidly, trying to stop them.
She felt his lips on her cheek and then his thumb, stroking down her face. She realized he was stopping her tears. Her heart melted. She opened her eyes. Looked into his.
“You have such beautiful coloring,” she murmured. It was a silly thing, she supposed, but the red of his hair and the pale color of his eyes, like the color of lakes under cloud – green and reflecting, gray-washed – was so appealing. She reached up and stroked his hair.
He smiled. His hand reached up and covered hers, then brought it to his lips.
Suddenly, Bernadette was in the room. “Right. Quick, you two! You have to move. Now. It's almost seven of the clock and we have to get you gone before he arrives.” She rolled her eyes.
Claudine would have giggled except the situation was suddenly deadly earnest. She stood and looked around. “Where will you go?”
“Out the back way,” Bernadette said, thinking quickly. “There's a door through from my bedchamber into the stairwell. Supposed to be used if I need to fetch anything from the kitchens.”
“Perfect!” Claudine said, feeling impressed. “Now, quickly.”
Francis looked at her, she looked at him, and suddenly, without thinking very much, she was opening her arms as he did and they embraced. His lips were fierce on hers and she parted her mouth to receive his probing tongue, hot, sweet, and passionate.
Then, almost as quickly, he was gone.
“Hide, hide!” Bernadette said.
Claudine caught her eye and ran to the outer door, quickly brushing her hair back from her face and gaining composure.
Bernadette and Francis disappeared out of the room.
Claudine closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she heard a footfall on the stone flooring, she was sitting on the bed, looking at her hands. Her heart was empty.
“He's safely away,” Bernadette murmured.
“Whew,” she said. She had loved having him here and mourned its brevity. All the same, it had been dangerous and it was good, she told herself sternly, it was so brief.
She would never forget that – whatever happened.
A JOURNEY AND A PONDERING
The slow rise and fall of the horse's motion over the land lulled Francis half asleep. He was not surprised by that – he had slept badly that night and was woken early that morning to begin the ride back.
He looked around, forcing himself to stay awake. He could see the bright green of the hillsides and the way the grass waved in the breeze, dotted here and there with tiny yellow buttercups. He should have felt happy. Not so achingly sad. How could he feel anything else though?
I feel like I'm riding away without my heart.
He snorted. He knew it was silly. What would his father – practical and down-to-earth – think of the way he was behaving now? His parents had been betrothed since infancy. He would probably dismiss Francis' fancies as that – only fancies.
Well, they certainly hurt, for fancies.
He sighed. He recalled Gaspard's words to him a few nights ago, his encouragement. He didn't think it was stupid.
“It's not.” He surprised himself by saying it aloud, and looked round abruptly, to see if he'd disturbed his escort.
The palace had provided them with three guards, who'd taken them as far as the first milestone outside the city. However, here, in the countryside, his escort consisted of just one person: his man, Yves.
“Sir?” Yves called out, riding up.
Francis felt a little annoyed. He wanted time to be alone with his sorrows, not have Yves making a running commentary on how they'd be home in three days' time. All the same, he turned to face him. He was company, which was sorely needed out here. Too much thinking would drive him insane with worry for Claudine.
“Nothing, Yves,” he said sadly. “I was just looking back to see how far we'd gone.”
“Ah, yes. One has to take a last look, eh? Splendid place. Amazing.”
“It is,” Francis said softly. “I
wish we'd stayed longer in it.”
“So do I, sir,” Yves agreed. “Well, you never know. Mayhap your father will have another petition to take before the king before long, eh?”
Francis sighed a little sadly. “Sadly not, Yves, sadly not.”
The older man shrugged. “You never know, eh, sir...And perhaps we could stir up some minor mischief – let the cattle cross the border into Malviers' land – and then we'd need to get new boundary assignments.”
Francis tipped back his head and laughed. How did Yves even think of these things? “I think, Yves,” he said with a slow grin, “that is a wonderful plan. We could spend our lives at court. Though if Malviers had anything to do with it, probably in a dungeon.”
Yves chuckled. “He's not so bad, sir. My grandfather worked at the Malvier's estate, you know, and never had a bad thing to report...”
Francis grinned and let him carry on about his grandfather and the Malvier's family, feeling his spirits lift. It was good to have some company on the road.
They reached Annecy two and a half days later. They arrived in the afternoon, the wind ruffling the grasses, the scent of dry earth and heat in the air. Francis breathed in, relishing the scents of summer and home.
As they had throughout the journey, his thoughts strayed to Claudine. Is she safe? How is her health? Has her uncle caused her any unhappiness? The more he thought about that man, the less he trusted him. He put far too much of his efforts into convincing Claudine she was useless.
His thoughts were shattered by Yves, waving his hat in the air and calling. “Margerie! Hello! Hello!”
Francis grinned as Yves' daughter ran to join them, the first of the household to see them. He looked away as the older man slid down from the saddle and tenderly embraced her.
I am pleased to be back safely.
He also dismounted. He, Yves, and his daughter walked the last half mile to the house.
“Son!”
Francis saw his father and mother on the steps of the vast manor as he walked up. He took off his hat and ran up the stairs. He was met by Lady Leona, coming down.
“Son!” she said. “You're back.”
As always, he was surprised by the strength in her arms as she hugged him fiercely close.
“I'm so pleased you're safe,” she said.
Francis grinned and kissed her cheek. “Now if that isn't the best welcome, I don't know what is.”
He followed his mother and father up the steps into his home.
Inside, a lavish lunch had been laid out in the solar – one of the maids was just leaving as he arrived, smoothing her hands down her apron. The table inside the room was laden with dishes of cheeses, a platter of small loaves, hard-boiled eggs, and all manner of good things. Francis smiled at his mother gratefully.
“Maman! You know I am ready to eat my way through the whole of the supplies for Annecy.”
His mother chuckled, her sky-blue eyes soft. “I know how hungry traveling makes a body, son,” she said. “I've sent Yves straight to the kitchen to take repast there too. Not that his daughter would let anything else happen, mind. She's a good head on her shoulders, that girl. Not so, Conn?”
Francis saw his father smile and was moved by the way he tenderly patted her hand as he spoke. “You're right, of course – I'm glad to have you running the household. Your mother's a veritable tigress.”
Francis nodded. “I know.”
Lady Leona laughed at him. “Whist, Son. You make me feel like I must be so difficult to live with.”
He chuckled and reached for a slice of cheese and one of the fresh-baked loaves. “Never, Mother. You're a delight to live with.”
His mother chuckled. “I certainly know about feeding hungry people,” she commented. “Which is useful.”
They all laughed.
“Indeed, my dear,” Conn nodded appreciatively.
Leona dimpled. “Oh, Conn.”
As they ate, Francis found himself feeling wistful as he noted the small signs of tenderness between his mother and father. Always close, he noticed their affection more now. Probably because, he thought, chewing slowly, he'd just met someone for whom he felt something similar. At least, it felt like it was similar.
“Now,” his mother said as they moved on to stewed summer fruits, “I want to hear about Paris! Was it very beautiful?”
Francis closed his eyes, thinking of the whitewashed houses, the vast extent of tiled roofs as seen from the turrets of the castle, the glitter of river water. “Paris is...indescribable.”
Leona laughed. “I know! I saw it once, years ago...a delight beyond words.”
There was nothing to add to that, so they all sat quietly a while.
“Your journey was safe?” His father asked, interrupting his ruminations. He has been thinking about Claudine, wondering if she was enjoying the summer sunshine on the terrace, or if she was still taking luncheon in the solar.
“Uh...yes, Father. Very safe.”
He saw his father and his mother exchange glances. He realized he must have been acting a bit strangely – it was the third time during their talking that he'd been wandering in his thoughts, thinking of Claudine and not paying attention. He supposed they must be wondering what was on his mind.
If only they knew.
He couldn't help but smile a little at that thought – if they could read his thoughts they would likely be more concerned about him than they were now. He had been thinking of Claudine, in her bedchamber. Yes, he had also been imagining the whole scenario with her unclad, them on the bed together without a stitch of clothes between them, her pale, soft body pressing back beneath him...
“Son?”
He looked up at his mother. He sighed.
“Sorry, Maman?”
He still spoke in French, something that would take a while to flow out of him since returning from Paris where he spoke it of necessity all the time. In their household, they spoke Gaelic sometimes and the servants had even picked up a word or two. It was useful when one wanted to convey a message in secret, but mostly they kept to French.
“I was just asking if you met anyone pleasant there? At the court, I mean?”
Francis sighed. This was the difficult part. He wasn't sure what to say. He wanted to tell them all about Claudine, but he had his own misgivings – he was not quite up to her social standing and his parents would be quick to see it. In addition, he had his doubts they would consider his love for her as a serious suggestion. He had only been there a week!
“I did,” he said, deciding to just go ahead and tell them. Let them think what they would. Sooner rather than later to make the suggestion. “I saw Gaspard there, of course. And...” he paused, looking at his hands, “Lady Claudine.”
When he looked up, he was surprised that his mother's expression had softened.
“What is she like, Son?”
He cleared his throat. His father was smiling and he felt as if maybe they would support him in this after all.
“She's a little younger than me,” he began hesitantly. “She's blonde and blue-eyed...like you, Mother,” he added. “And...beautiful.”
He saw his father smile fondly. His mother laughed. “Well! She sounds like a good sort. Tell me more, Son?”
He cleared his throat. “Well, she's the daughter of the duke of Pavot, and she's...a bit frail.”
“Frail?” his mother wanted to know at once. As daughter of the Seer of Dunkeld, his mother was always quick to take interest in the health of others, though she herself was not a healer.
“Well,” he paused, thinking about how to describe Claudine's malady. “She...she tires very quickly. And she can't walk, not far.”
“Oh.” Leona nodded slowly. “Perhaps a stay in the country would be of benefit to her. It's something I've noted. The air in town is tired air – too many people breathing it, too many fires and middens and things to taint it.”
Conn chuckled. “I think you should mention that one to your mother,” he commented
. “All the physicians I know say too much fresh air is dangerous for you. But if you've observed something else, I'll take your word on it.”
Leona nodded, smiling with contentment. “I'm glad you will.” She turned to Francis. “Do you think she would be allowed to visit us here? In the countryside?”
Francis frowned. “I don't know.”
“Why not?” his mother asked.
Conn laughed. “You do read the poor young man the rule book. I'm sure he'll tell us slowly. In his own time.”
Leona rolled her eyes at her husband, though she was still smiling fondly at him. “Conn, you stubborn...oh!” She grinned impishly. Then she turned back to her son. “Now, Son. Why ever not?”
Francis sighed. Their interchange had given him a moment or two to think about it, but he still had no ready answer.
“I think her family would not approve of me,” he said slowly. “I mean...Lady Claudine is the only daughter of the duke, and I rather think they want a duke's son for her.”
Conn pursed his lips. “You're probably right, son,” he said softly. “But then, we cannot know that. You met her father?” He frowned.
Francis shook his head slowly. Now that he thought about it, that was odd in itself. He had not so much as heard of the Duc du Pavot, the entire week. Whenever she went about the palace, she was with her maid, or uncle. Or both – but never her father. That seemed strange.
“I wonder that the duke has not passed on,” he said carefully. “For I never saw him there.”
He let a serving man refill his empty dish of stewed plums gratefully, and then turned to his mother.
“I don't know, Son,” she said mildly. “Conn? Do you?”
He shook his head. “I don't know. I do seem to recall something about du Pavot, mind. I can't think what it is now. But when I think of it, I'll be sure to tell you.” He smiled at Francis.
“Thank you, Father,” he said.
“Right. Now. If nobody minds, I think I'll ask Margerie to bring us some of that marzipan from the kitchens. I still feel as if I haven't had my fill.” Conn grinned.
Adventures of a Highlander Page 50
