The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

  “You must have some wine as well,” the duc said as she handed him his goblet.

  “Wine makes me sleepy,” she said. “Unless, of course, you would prefer that I sleep, Adrian.”

  “You will not sleep this night, ma Belle,” he said with total sincerity.

  “I cannot possibly stay the night,” she protested. “What has passed between us, Adrian, should be a private thing between us alone.”

  “I want you for my mistress, Arabella,” he said seriously. “I want you with me at all times, not scuttling back and forth between my hotel and that wretched little house you rent in that backwater village outside of the city.”

  “It is all I can afford,” she said quietly and with dignity.

  “I want you here,” he told her.

  “I cannot live in your house, Adrian,” Arabella said, shocked. “What would people say? What would your wife say? And what of my own people who have followed me into exile? I will not desert them, for they did not desert me!”

  “Then let me buy you a small house in a good neighborhood here in Paris at least,” he begged her. “A place where we may both meet and be private.”

  “I do not know…” Arabella hesitated. She needed to talk with Tony about this. She did not know how far she might go before she would be considered declasse by the French court. She could not afford that, and so she put Adrian Morlaix off. “You must give me time to think, Adrian,” she replied. “I had hoped one day to remarry and to have other children. Oh, I am not such a fool to believe that a member of the court would marry me. After all, I have nothing, but perhaps some well-to-do merchant would be pleased to have me, despite my lack of a dowry, simply for my fine connections, which have a certain value. If I should give this all up to become a public scandal, what will happen to me when you grow tired of me, monseigneur? No, no! I must have time to carefully consider all of this.”

  “I will never repudiate you, ma Belle,” he told her. “Have I not said that I love you?”

  “Oh, Adrian,” she answered him, “you do not really love me. How could you? You do not know me. I am flattered nonetheless that you would say it, and perhaps you even believe it, but I do not think it possible. Still, I might wish it so, and yet I dare not! Oh, kiss me once again, my darling! Let us forget such things as conventions and making decisions this night! I will stay as long as I can and take what sweetness from you that I dare, but as for the morrow, who can say, monseigneur?” Her lips brushed his provocatively. “Who amongst us can say?”

  He had not exaggerated when he had told her that she would not sleep that night. After their first encounter, he was eager to prove to her his superiority as a lover. Arabella, however, would not allow him a complete victory, and consequently he remained fascinated by this woman he could not seem to conquer. Never before had he met a woman he could not send into spasms of passion, but he seemed unable to lead the beautiful Englishwoman down the same path he had led so many others.

  Another man might have been angered by such developments, but Adrian Morlaix was not. Indeed, he was intrigued, for Arabella was certainly not a cold woman. She was vibrant and warm and now welcomed his advances enthusiastically. She had an aptitude for lovemaking few women he had ever known had. He simply could not bring her to a final surrender. He began to wonder if she were one of those rare women who enjoyed lovemaking but were unable to fully participate because they could not completely trust themselves to a lover’s care. He had never encountered such a woman before, and only time would tell.

  In the early hours of the cold January dawn, Arabella’s coach returned to her little house on the river Seine. Both FitzWalter and Anthony Varden were waiting for her.

  “Are you all right?” her captain-at-arms demanded bluntly.

  “Aye,” she answered calmly.

  “Then I’ll get some sleep,” he said, and departed.

  “Pour me some wine, Tony,” Arabella said, moving across the room to the little salon’s fireplace. She was chilled to the bone from her short journey, and held out her hands to the flames to warm them.

  “I must assume the lateness of your return means that you have yielded your person to our friend, the duc,” Lord Varden said, handing her a goblet of wine. “How may I put this delicately?” he mused a moment.

  “You needn’t.” She chuckled and took a deep draught of the wine as she turned to face him. “No, I learned nothing tonight that would be of any possible use to England; and aye, I believe he is yet interested in me. He wanted me to remain with him, but I refused him, of course. He next suggested that he purchase a house for me in a good neighborhood of Paris where we might be alone. I told him that I must think on his second suggestion. What am I to do, Tony? You must tell me how far I dare go, for I do not know.”

  Lord Varden considered the matter, and after some minutes he said, “You must tell him no, my dear. You would destroy your good reputation and your usefulness to us if you did otherwise. There is no scandal in your visiting the duc’s hotel here in Paris, even for a few days’ time, or joining him at his chateau in the Loire for a bit, as long as you possess your own home. A home that is totally unconnected with the Duc de Lambour. No one will think badly of you when the word gets about that you are the duc’s ‘chere amie’. It was expected that eventually Adrian Morlaix’s charm would prevail over your virtue. You cannot, however, flaunt your relationship. To live permanently with the duc, or even accept the gift of a house on such a short acquaintanceship, would also be totally unacceptable. The proprieties must be preserved, my dear Arabella.”

  “I thought as much,” Arabella told him, “though a house in the city would have been nice. It is so dank here by the river.” She sighed, mocking herself slightly. “It is acceptable for the poor but virtuous petite rose d’Anglaise to accept the duc’s love, but nothing more, except mayhap some bejewel baubles, eh Tony?”

  He chuckled. “Aye,” he said. “A king may keep a mistress in style, but with discretion, though most kings have no understanding of the word. A duc may simply have a chere amie, and a duc’s affair must be even more discreet lest the church involve itself and make an example of the noble sinner, which they dare not do with a king.”

  “I shall keep myself from the duc for the next several days,” Arabella told him. “I would have his lust rebuild itself, and I know that he is most taken with me.”

  “What a clever little wench you are,” Lord Varden said. “You are indeed learning to play the game. I can almost feel sorry for the duc. You will end by breaking his heart, I fear.”

  “Better than he breaking mine,” Arabella said stonily, suddenly weary and unaccountably distressed. “You will forgive me, Tony, but I am tired. I would seek my bed.” She put down her goblet and, curtsying, left him.

  Lona lay snoring on the settle by the fire in her mistress’s bedchamber. Arabella crept past her, leaving her servant to her dreams. She did not choose to explain to Lona the missing silk camisia. With chilled fingers she undid her clothes, leaving them where they fell, and quietly lifting the lid of the storage chest, took out a fresh camisia to sleep in. She needed a bath, but that would have to wait for the morning, when she awoke. Arabella crawled into her cold bed. The sheets were icy, and she shivered for some minutes.

  As she began to grow warmer she could smell the scent of their lovemaking on her body, and she shuddered distastefully. If she had learned one thing this night, it was that though there could be passion without love between a man and a woman, that passion was rendered totally meaningless without the love. Arabella felt the tears slipping down her cheeks. She hated what she was doing. She despised herself, and she despised Henry Tudor for having brought her to this. Still, the choice had been hers. She could have told him no, yet she had not. She must share equal blame in this matter, whatever happened.

  Men! Holy Mother, how she hated men! The only men she had ever known who had not hurt her in some way were her own father—God assoil his good soul—and dear Father Anselm. As for the othe
rs! King Richard had, in attempting to do her a kindness, betrothed her to Sir Jasper Keane. Jasper Keane had betrayed her with her own mother while trying to steal her property, and then allowed her to be carried off by the Scots. By Tavis Stewart. Tavis, in the main, had not been a bad man, but he had refused to keep faith with her, thereby leaving her at the mercy of Jamie Stewart, who had seduced her in return for his help, and Henry Tudor, who had made her a whore in return for his aid. Men! They knew nothing but how to make war and their women unhappy!

  Well, Arabella thought, rubbing her cheeks with a clenched fist, she would use them even as they had used her. She would regain Greyfaire, whatever the cost, and when she did, she would take Margaret and go home. She would never again be beholden to anyone, particularly a man. When she returned to England, she would run her own life as she saw fit, answering to no one. As for the Percy family, should King Henry betroth Margaret into it, she would make the king send the boy to her that she might raise him properly to respect Margaret. She would not allow to happen to her daughter what had happened to her. She would protect Margaret from any who would do her hurt. She would no longer be victimized as her own mother had been victimized, nor would she allow her daughter to be taken advantage of by any man. Margaret Stewart would learn to stand on her own two feet.

  Arabella shifted herself, trying to find a more comfortable position in her bed. It had been many months since she had known a man’s loving, and she was sore with the duc’s attentions. He was a most vigorous lover, and he had been determined to bring her to total fulfillment. Arabella smiled to herself, past her tearful stage now. She was not so foolish that she did not realize she might take her pleasure while still maintaining her own independence, but not yet. Let him work for his victory. Let him really fall in love with her. Let him be as helpless before her as women usually were before men. It was a strangely comforting thought.

  She must finally come to terms with what she was doing, Arabella considered. She was not at ease with any of it, but there could be no guilt or shame on her part. She was a warrior doing battle for Greyfaire. She was in the service of her country and her king. She must win her battle, and she would. Whatever it took to attain her goal, she would be a lady victorious when this was finally over. She could return to England content in her own mind. Nay, she would not be helpless. Not ever again. It gave her aching heart solace to know that. She slept.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I promised ye that ye could go to France, Uncle, when ye won Glenkirk for me, and ye have done it,” Jamie Stewart said, his eyes dancing merrily.

  “Ye did nae say I was to wet-nurse some damned bride ye were sending for some damned French duke,” his uncle grumbled.

  The king stretched out his long legs and toasted his stockinged feet before the fire. “The regent, Anne de Beaujeu, hae requested that in the name of the Old Alliance between France and Scotland, I send her a suitable bride for Jean-Claude Billancourt, the Duc de St. Astier. The duc, the last of his unfortunate line, is twenty-seven and comes from an ancient house. Unfortunately, over the last two hundred or so years male members of the Billancourt family are born suffering from a peculiar nervous disorder which leads them to believe that they are hounds. Not constantly, mind ye, but enough that when the disorder does appear in a particular generation, it is difficult to find a wife for the gentleman in question. As a consequence the family hae become most ingrown, for the bridal market amongst the French nobility is narrow for them.

  “The duc suffers wi’ it more frequency than hae past members of his family. ‘Tis an interesting disorder, Uncle, for it does nae, mind ye, inflict the women of the family, just the men. Nor hae the madness been passed by brides of this family onto their own bairns when they wed outside their immediate family. The Billancourt family hae been weakened, however, over the years, for who would want to send the best of their lasses to such a family? The regent did nae gie me this information, for she, of course, would hae me believe that France was honoring Scotland wi’ this request.”

  “But ye hae yer sources at the French court, don’t ye, Jamie,” his uncle said, amused.

  “Aye, I do,” came the bland reply as the king wiggled his toes.

  “And knowing the kind of man this duc is, ye would send one of our fine lasses to him for the sake of the Old Alliance? I canna believe it of ye, Jamie,” Tavis Stewart said sternly.

  “Dinna fret yerself, Uncle, dinna fret, but hear me out. I hae, as ye are undoubtedly aware, been lately taken by Mistress Meg Drummond, and I would pursue her wi’ vigor, but for one thing. There is a lady, known to me in the past, who would force herself back into my life. She will nae accept that we are quit, and indeed, Uncle, we hae been quit for several years now, but my kingly rank seems to encourage the lady onward.

  “She is of good family, mind ye, but a thorn in my side. The French regent requests a wife for her half-mad duke. I need a far-distant husband for this troublesome jade. The solution is obvious, Uncle. My lady subject dare nae refuse my wishes. ‘Tis providential, is it nae?”

  The Earl of Dunmor arose from his own chair by the fire, and going to the sideboard, poured them both drams of the king’s own whiskey. Returning to his place, he handed his nephew one of the goblets. “And just who is the ‘lady’ ye would unburden yerself of, Jamie?” he demanded, and then swallowed his whiskey.

  “Sorcha Morton,” the king said, bursting into laughter as his uncle choked on the potent liquid that had but slid halfway down his throat.

  The earl’s face grew red with his effort to force the whiskey back down, and when he had finally succeeded, he said, gasping, his eyes watering with his efforts, “Sorcha Morton! God’s bones, Jamie! Ye’ll nae make her go, and even if ye did, she’d nae be anything but trouble. She’ll destroy the Old Alliance in a month! Are ye a madman?”

  James Stewart restrained his laughter, for he could see that his uncle was truly concerned. “Dinna fret, Uncle,” he repeated. “‘Tis all right. Lady Morton is eager to go. The thought of a rich French duke has proven irresistible to her. Her prospects here in Scotland are dismal. Sorcha, ye see, hae no funds, nor any hope of funds. Angus is quit of her, for she is too difficult for him to stomach any longer. She hae slept her way through my court, and there are none who would retain her services, for she is an unpleasant woman at best. She canna bring herself to enter the marriage market of the merchant class because she is too proud of her lineage. What is left for her? That is why she attempted to insinuate herself back into my favor, but I certainly dinna want her either. I was contemplating what in the name of God I could do wi’ her when I received the regent’s message.

  “I immediately wrote Madame Anne that I had the perfect candidate, a beautiful widow of the Douglas family, childless, for her husband was elderly, but of fertile stock. The regent expressed her approval as well as her delight. They were formally betrothed over a month ago. I am supplying Sorcha wi’ a small trousseau and an honor guard which ye will be in charge of, Tavis. Ye sail from Leeds in two days’ time. Yer to escort Lady Morton to her bridegroom, and ye will witness the marriage before ye are free to pursue yer own interests. I want to be certain she is firmly wed.”

  “And does the blushing bride know of her bridegroom’s wee infirmity, Jamie?” the earl asked his nephew.

  “Aye,” came the surprising reply, “she does. As much as I would hae liked to send Sorcha away to face that little surprise alone, I feared her reaction. So I told her, but it doesna matter to her. She says if she can get wi’ child, the bairn is likely to be sound as this difficulty dinna strike consecutive generations. ‘Tis really all she cares about now. Having a home and a family. She’ll rule her poor duc wi’ an iron hand.”

  “That she would sell herself for such a thing shames me as a Scot,” the earl said coldly.

  “Dinna be so harsh in yer judgments, Uncle,” the king counseled him. “Sorcha Morton does what she must to survive. So do we all.”

  “‘Tis different for us,” the earl
said.

  “Nay,” the king told him, “‘tis no different, Uncle.”

  Tavis Stewart stared gloomily into the fireplace. Whatever his nephew said, Lady Morton had sold herself to the highest bidder. And what of Arabella? a voice inside his head asked. What has she had to do in order to survive? In order to regain Greyfaire? And ‘tis all yer fault, whatever it might be, the voice in his head concluded.

  “This is the last thing I’ll do for ye, Jamie,” the earl said grimly. “I’ve gotten Glenkirk for ye, and helped ye to calm yer wild highland lords, but after I escort this noble bawd to France, we are quit! I would win my wife back, and a fine impression I will make arriving in France wi’ Sorcha Morton in tow. Knowing that wench, she will spend the entire journey attempting to compromise me!”

  The king laughed, but then grew sober as his uncle said, “What does yer source at the French court say of Arabella, Jamie, and dinna tell me ye dinna know because I’ll call ye a liar if ye do. Ye asked. Of that I’m certain.”

  James Stewart wrestled with his conscience. He didn’t want to hurt his uncle, but Tavis was going to learn the truth sooner or later. Perhaps it would be best if he knew and could spend his journey growing used to the idea, possibly even deciding upon a suitable course of action to follow, if indeed there was one. “The rumor, Uncle, is that Arabella is the Duc de Lambour’s mistress,” he finally said. “It is a recent thing, I am informed, although he has pursued her most relentlessly.”

  The earl nodded stonily but said nothing.

  “I thought to see that she win at cards whenever she played, in order that she hae enough monies, Uncle,” the king said in a clumsy effort to soften the blow, “but she rarely plays, for she canna afford it. She is careful wi’ her funds, and obviously has none to waste. She lives, I am told, in a wee house that she rents in a little village outside of Paris. She hae her maidservant and some men-at-arms wi’ her from her home. She lives simply. Though it is said the duc would buy her a hotel of her own, she will nae accept it. She insists upon her independence. A novel idea, is it nae?”