“Lady Morton is very beautiful, my lord. Was she your mistress for very long?” Arabella said in a voice carefully modulated to show him that though she was interested, she was not particularly concerned.
“An extremely brief time, lovey,” he answered her calmly, although he was greatly startled by her query. That she was aware of Sorcha Morton’s past relationship with him he had no doubt, for her exquisitely timed performance in the king’s rooms was perfection.
“Why brief?” she asked, pursuing him, not quite yet satisfied.
“She bored me,” Tavis Stewart told his wife. “The worst thing that lovers can do is to bore one another, and Sorcha’s behavior lacks both spontaneity and originality.’’
“You obviously did not bore her, my lord,” Arabella said sharply.
He laughed, and she bit her lip, vexed that she should have shown him her irritation so easily. “Men, as a species, never bore Sorcha,” the earl replied. “‘Tis another of her faults, lassie. She lacks discrimination.”
“You are harsh, my lord, in your judgment.”
“Lovey, make up yer pretty little head. Are ye defending Lady Morton, or do ye wish to scratch her eyes out?” He was grinning with absolutely smug delight.
Arabella had a strong urge to lean over and box his ears, but she restrained herself admirably. “I was simply considering the possibility, my lord, that a man might bore a woman every bit as much as she might bore him,” Arabella told her husband tartly, and kicking her horse into a canter, she rode off ahead of him down the hill from Stirling Castle.
He pushed his own mount into a faster pace and hurried after her. Catching up with her, he shouted, “Madame, I demand ye nae ride ahead of me like some Gypsy wench. Yer the Countess ofDunmor, and I’ll thank ye to remember it! I’ll nae be left standing in the road again like some spurned fool!”
“And I will thank you, my lord, not to ever again embarrass me publicly by consorting openly at court with your whore!” she shouted back at him.
“She is nae my whore! What passed between us was over and done wi’ months ago! I didna even know ye existed at that point in time,” he gamely defended himself.
Arabella drove her horse into a headlong gallop as they reached a flat stretch of road below the castle hill. Her temper was rising as each moment passed, and she did not know why, except the thought of Tavis Stewart in the arms of Sorcha Morton, even before her husband knew her, rendered her helpless with rage. Why did she feel so strongly over this past history? It didn’t matter. She just wanted to get away from him and from her fury, and only a good gallop would help her ride off her anger. Behind her, her husband and his clansmen thundered on in their attempt to catch up with her.
And if the Countess of Dunmor was angry, her husband was equally so. Tavis Stewart did not immediately understand his wife’s irrational behavior. What he did comprehend, however, was that he had been made a fool of by Arabella, and in front of his own men. Furious, he galloped after her, the blood singing in his ears. When he caught up with her he was going to give her the beating that she deserved for all of her appalling behavior. He was going to take her home to Dunmor Castle and fill her belly with his child, and she would stay there while he came to court. She was not fit to be at court. He had been forced to wed her, and he had been a fool to think this marriage could be anything else but one of convenience.
His stallion drew abreast of her mare and the earl reached out to catch at the other horse’s bridle. With a shriek Arabella attacked him with her riding crop. She would not be defeated by this bullying lecher. She would not! Startled that she would accost him thusly, the earl changed his tactics. Quickly reaching out, he wrapped his arm tightly about his wife’s waist and lifted her from the back of her mare to his own saddle. As her horse galloped on, one of his men rode up to catch the beast.
Surprised to find herself in her husband’s arms, Arabella began to pummel him with her fists, and he had some slight difficulty in controlling his stallion. Pulling the annimal to a halt, Tavis Stewart leapt to the ground and placed his wife on her feet. Arabella swung on him with a fist, and he ducked the blow.
“I hate you!’’ she screamed at him. “I want to kill you!’’ Her pale features were bright with her fury.
“Why?’’ Her vehemence took him somewhat off guard. Why the hell should she hate him?
“The thought of you with that…that…bitch! The thought that you lay with her even as you have lain with me is unbearable!” Arabella said.
Jealous. She was jealous! Suddenly his anger dissolved, and grasping his wife by the shoulders, he looked down into her face. “Why?” he demanded.
“Because I love you! I love you, you arrogant bastard! I love you!’’ Arabella shouted at him, and then she slapped him across his face with every ounce of her strength, even as she burst into tears.
He shook his head at the vagaries of women, even as he rubbed his cheek. “I love ye too, Arabella Stewart,” he said softly. “Perhaps we should go home, lassie, so I may prove the depth of my devotion to ye.”
Had she actually uttered those fateful words? Why had she said them? Arabella allowed her husband to place her back upon his saddle, even as he mounted up behind her. She felt weak now that her wrath had drained away, and she leaned back, silently wondering just when it had gone and what had possessed her to utter those fateful words. She couldn’t possibly love him. Love was pure, and airy, and sweet! Wasn’t it? It couldn’t be this dreadful feeling that left her bereft at the thought of losing this man to another woman. It couldn’t be!
Tavis Stewart drew his horse to a halt before the door to his town house. Dismounting, he lifted his wife down, cradling her in his arms, carrying her inside past the startled servants and up the stairs to their bedchamber. Behind him he could actually feel the delighted amusement of his clansmen, and their approval as well. Arabella’s hot temper was but an indication to them that she would give Dunmor strong children.
Entering their bedchamber, he ordered Flora and Lona out with a silent nod of his head. They closed the doors behind them, even as he set Arabella upon her feet and began the process of disrobing her. She stood mutely, even meekly, as he removed her velvet bodice and her long skirts. Her body was too young, too perfect for a corset, and she wore none, so he removed her camisa, leaving her to stand nude in her stockings and her shoes. He quickly removed them, and taking her face between his two hands, he kissed her passionately.
For a moment her lips remained lifeless, but suddenly she was kissing him in return. Kissing him with a fervor that left him breathless with his own rising desire. Her slender fingers pulled his garments from him, his elegant doublet, his silken shirt. Her lips were leaving his and moving across his chest. He kicked his shoes off, standing first on one foot and then the other to draw his stockings off as she unfastened his kilt, which she let fall to the floor.
He slid to his knees before her, his mouth scorching a fiery path across her torso. She whimpered, holding his dark head in tender embrace even as he pressed his lips into the shadowed valley between her breasts. Beneath his lips he could feel the frantic beat of her heart, and he was consumed with passion for his wife as he had never before been consumed with passion for a woman. His manhood was hot and hard with his need for her. Leaning back upon his haunches, he lifted her up and then gently impaled her, sliding into her silken love cave, groaning as she wrapped her legs about him, gluing her lips to his once again.
Instinctively she rode him, arms tangled about his neck, pressing forward just slightly so that her firm, young breasts pushed against his chest. He slid his hands beneath the twin halves of her bottom, drawing her closer, reveling in the working of her muscles beneath the soft flesh.
“Tell me!” he gasped, pulling his head away from hers.
“Tell you what?’’ she whispered back at him, unable to meet his gaze, for he had certainly never taken her like this, in this way, upon the floor.
“Tell me that ye love me, Arabella Stew
art, as I love you!”
She shook her head wordlessly.
“Tell me! Ye said it out on the high road, lovey, for all to hear. Say it now but for me, my wee wife!”
“I was mistaken! It cannot be love that I feel, my lord. There is too much pain!” she cried softly.
“Aye! There is pain in love, Arabella Stewart, but there is sweetness too. Ye love me, lassie, and I love ye too. Tell me now,” he coaxed her gently, and taking her face in his hands, looked deep into her eyes.
“God help me,” she sobbed, “but I do love you, Tavis Stewart! I do!” and she began to cry.
“Nay, lassie, dinna greet,” he said, and covering her beautiful face with his kisses, he pressed her back upon the floor before the softly glowing fire and pushed deep into her. “I love ye,” he murmured into her hair, unfastening it now from its intricate arrangement of braids, letting his fingers comb through the silkiness of it. “I love ye, Arabella Stewart, and tonight we will make a bairn between us. A fine, strong bairn, and I dinna care, lassie, if it be a son or a daughter. It will be a bairn created from the love we hae for each other. The love and the passion!’’
She heard him, heard his words even as her own desires began to soar with his expert loving. She wanted his child! Aye, she did, and she remembered that Meg had said wanting a man’s child was an indication that you really loved him. A son for Dunmor, or a daughter for Greyfaire? Dunmor was a certainty. Greyfaire was not. Arabella shuddered with her passion, but even as she did, the insidious thought that her destiny was once again being planned for her without her consent crept into her consciousness.
“I cannot be content without Greyfaire!” she cried.
“I will get ye yer damned keep back, madame,’’ he promised her, “but first I will get ye wi’ my bairn!”
The intensity of his voice excited her. “Fill me full of your seed, Tavis Stewart,” she said to him fiercely. “Fill me full! I would have a daughter for Greyfaire!”
“A son for Dunmor!” he countered, and laughed when she sank her teeth into his hard shoulder in her heated desire.
Chapter Ten
The Earl of Dunmor’s passion for his young wife was a scandal that delighted a court seldom amused by anything. No man but the king might speak with Arabella Stewart, that he was not in danger of being challenged to a duel—even Prince James, who it seemed took great pleasure in teasing his uncle with regard to his wife. Jamie Stewart had all the qualities of a perfect Renaissance prince. He was intelligent, even as his father was, and well-educated, but where the king was solemn and thoughtful in his manner, the prince was charming, spirited, warm-hearted, and gay. The king was standoffish except with those who took his fancy, the prince was far easier to know. If he had one fault, it was his appetite for the ladies, particularly in view of his youth. Women twice his age sought his bed, and the prince disappointed few of them. The Countess of Dunmor, however, continued to elude Jamie Stewart, a fact that made her appear even more desirable in the prince’s eyes.
The Scottish nobility, always restless, rarely content with their lot, were openly favorable of the heir over their king, even as they had once favored James III’s younger brothers over the king. The resulting chaos that had followed their previous meddling was still fortunately bright within their collective memories, and so the earls, the highland lords, and the bonney lairds on the borders held their peace for the time being. Besides, Jamie was young despite his vigorous wenching, which was approved of and encouraged by his father’s enemies. His brothers were younger yet, and no one wanted another minority king controlled as James III had been controlled in his youth by the Boyds, or as James II in his minority had been controlled by Sir Alexander Livingstone and Sir William Crichton. Scotland wanted a strong king, and James III, despite his deep love for the arts and his ability to keep the peace, simply did not fill the bill.
Arabella liked the king. He was kind and soft-spoken, even if he did find it difficult to make decisions. One decision he did make was to teach his young sister-in-law the history of his land. Each day before the dinner hour the Countess of Dunmor came to her brother-in-law’s private rooms in Stirling Castle, beautiful rooms designed by the king’s late favorite, Robert Cochrane, where she sat at the king’s knee and listened as he spoke of Scotland’s history. She was soon familiar with the savage and fierce Malcolm Canmore and his queen, Margaret, who had attained sainthood. It was this gentle Margaret of England, a princess of Alfred’s line, who brought Scotland its first taste of civilized living, and in the process, lessened Celtic power and influence. That had been four centuries back.
Two centuries ago William Wallace of Elderslie had leapt into prominence following King Edward I of England’s brutal subjugation of Scotland. Wallace, a young man of great height who was renowned for his strength and his courage, led Scotland in its War of Independence against the English. Eventually captured and viciously executed by the English, Wallace’s legend of bravery encouraged the Scots to choose another leader, one Robert Bruce. It was Bruce’s daughter, Margery, who married Walter, the High Steward of Scotland, and from whom the Royal Stewarts were descended.
Arabella was fascinated by it all, for she had not really known how closely intertwined the two countries really were, or fully understood the reasons for the deep and often painful bitterness engendered between England and Scotland. She now comprehended better the king’s desire for peace with his southern neighbor. It was not weakness on James’ part. It was survival. The English, united as a nation for centuries, had been able to grow and prosper. The Scots, divided by petty rivalries, had not. They were two hundred years behind their neighbors to both the south and upon the European continent itself.
Prince James frequently joined them in their lessons. His love for his father was evident, even if his respect was not. Jamie did not understand the king’s need for friends who were of a humbler rank than he, and yet the prince was no snob. Still, he was uncomfortable in the presence of the king’s physician, William Scheves, and William Elphinstone, a wise and kind jurist whom his father had raised from a lowly church office to the important bishopric of Aberdeen. These were men with no power or wealth or rank behind them. Nonetheless, the prince came often, if only to flirt with Arabella Stewart, who, in spite of herself, had begun to succumb to the charming side of his personality, even if she did not approve of his licentiousness.
One afternoon the prince escorted her to the Great Hall of Stirling Castle after her lesson with the king. “Why,’’ he asked her bluntly, “will ye nae lay wi’ me, Arabella Stewart? Am I nae fair to look upon, and surely ye hae heard that I am an excellent lover.”
As startled as she was by his directness, Arabella could not help but reply in kind, despite his rank. “My lord,” she said, “I know that the women of this court are loose in their behavior, but I am not. I love my husband, and I honor his name, even as he honors mine. I do not approve of infidelity, though it may flourish about me. I would be your friend, my lord, but if you persist in this foolish and reckless pursuit of my person, I shall be forced to speak to my husband and to your lady mother regarding your behavior.’’
“Madame, you are hard,” Jamie Stewart replied, his hands placed over his heart for effect.
Arabella laughed. “My lord, do not think to weasel me with your charm, for I am determined not to be taken in by you.’’
The prince stopped, and taking her hand, drew her about to face him. “This is nae coyness, madame? Ye mean what ye say? There is nae hope for me?” he demanded, searching her face for a sign, however small, of some encouragement.
“I am resolved to be faithful to my lord husband, highness,” Arabella said quietly.
“He is a fortunate man,” the prince replied.
“I am a fortunate woman, my lord,” Arabella said softly.
“If I could but find a love like yers, madame…” Jamie Stewart said.
“In time, my lord, you will. You are young yet, despite your great height and your w
icked ways,” she teased, and he chuckled.
“But I may count upon yer friendship, Arabella Stewart?”
“Aye, my lord, you have it,” she told him.
They arrived in the Great Hall of Stirling Castle to learn that King Henry VII had finally, on the eighteenth day of January, married Princess Elizabeth of York at Westminster.
“He didna dare wait any longer,” the Earl of Angus said. “The commons petitioned him at Christmas to stop dragging his feet and marry the wench. Henry Tudor’s claim to his throne is nebulous at best. His wife’s claim could be said to be stronger, and if the truth be known, young Edward, the boy Earl of Warwick, has the strongest claim of all, being the last surviving, legitimate male Plantagenet. His late father, the Duke of Clarence, was older than King Richard.”
“Henry Tudor,” the king said, taking up the tale, “and his wife are both great-great-grandchildren of John of Gaunt and his third wife, Katherine Swynford. They had four bairns, three lads and a lassie, but the bairns were born illegitimate, for after the death of his first wife, Blanche of Lancaster, the Duke of Lancaster was forced by political necessity to wed Constanza of Portugal despite the fact he hae already fallen in love wi’ Lady Swynford. After his second wife died, John of Gaunt wed wi’ his true love and legitimized their bairns, who had taken the family name of Beaufort. The Tudor’s mam is Lady Margaret Beaufort, the great-granddaughter of the duke and his last wife, descended through the line of their eldest son, John Beaufort, the Duke of Somerset. Elizabeth of York, however, descends through the line of Joan Beaufort, the only daughter of John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford. She was wed to Ralph Neville, the Earl of Westmorland. She was his second wife. His first had borne him nine children. Joan Beaufort bore him fourteen more. It was the youngest daughter of that match, Cecily, who wed Richard, Duke of York, and together they fathered King Edward IV and King Richard III, among others.”
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