The Spitfire

by Bertrice Small

“No, my wife has never been here,” Adrian answered her. “She rarely leaves Normandy. I prefer that she stays with the children, for they are her primary duty.” He dropped a kiss on her silk-clad shoulder. “I have never brought any woman here to reside in these apartments since I became duc. The rooms were especially refurbished for you,” he told her. “Do you like the crimson velvet? My vineyards grow a grape that makes wine that color. You shall have it tonight, ma Belle!”

  “We cannot,” she told him. “We have been invited to Amboise, for the king is giving a party for the Duc and Duchesse de St. Astier.”

  “He seems most taken with the bride and groom,” Adrian Morlaix remarked.

  “Perhaps he is considering his own marriage to Margaret of Austria,” Arabella said.

  “Charles will never marry the Hapsburg wench,” the duc told her.

  “They are betrothed,” Arabella said, sounding logical and most female.

  “Betrothals can be broken,” he said.

  “So you have told me before, but for whom would the king do such a thing, Adrian?” She turned about and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “If we were betrothed, would you cast me off?”

  “Vixen,” he laughed, and then he grew serious. “You must not repeat this, of course, ma chérie, but Louis of Orleans has been secretly proposing for some time now that the king marry Princess Anne, the heiress of the duchy of Brittany. It is most important that Brittany be made a part of France. Franche Comte’ and Artois are not even adjoining territories. Brittany is much more important to us.”

  “But the king imprisoned Louis in Lusignan over two years ago,” Arabella said, “and to my knowledge he is still there.”

  “But his wife, Jeanne de Valois, the king’s sister, is constantly intervening on behalf of her imprisoned husband,” the duc said. “Although the king still smarts over the Guerre Folle, he is near to forgiving his cousin Louis. Until Charles has children of his own, which means finally taking a wife, Louis remains his heir. The king has always been most fond of him, which accounts for the harshness of his sentence on Louis. He felt most betrayed by Louis’ conduct.”

  “But Anne of Brittany is to marry Maximilian of Hapsburg, Margaret’s father, now that his wife, Mary of Burgundy, has died,” Arabella said in a tone that implied that Adrian Morlaix must simply have his facts incorrect, or that perhaps she wasn’t intelligent enough to understand all of this.

  “Would you like to place a small wager on the chances of that ever happening, ma Belle?” he teased her. “France will not let Maximilian have Brittany, I promise you.” He tumbled her onto the bed and tickled her unmercifully.

  Arabella squealed and hit at him with her fists. “Men! You are all mad!” she said. “Stop, Adrian! Stop! We shall be late if you do not cease this instant!”

  Reluctantly he arose from her bed. “Very well, madame,” he said, “but prepare yourself to accept my vengeance for this slight tonight when we return.” Then, with a grin he left her, whistling.

  When she was certain that he had gone, Arabella called to Lona. “Go to Lord Varden and tell him I must speak with him privately as soon as possible. Go carefully, for I do not want it looking like I sent for Tony. Do you understand?”

  “Then it would be better if you waited until tonight and spoke with him at the king’s fete,” Lona counseled wisely. “Oh, I know you are anxious, ‘Bella, to get us home again to Greyfaire, but you must be careful. To misstep now would be a great tragedy.”

  Arabella nodded. “Aye,” she agreed. “‘Tis true that I’m impatient. Dear heaven, Lona! We’ve been gone over a year now, and Margaret has probably already forgotten me!”

  “Just a little bit longer, my lady. You’ve been most brave. Even me da says he’s proud of you. You’re a true Grey right enough!”

  A true Grey. Arabella almost laughed aloud at Lona’s kindly though innocent words. What would her parents, God assoil their good souls, and her illustrious ancestors think of this last descendant of theirs, who, using her body, sold herself in order to retain what they had so bravely earned with their loyalty and their swords? Well, she had done the best she could, and now that she had the information she had sought for all these months, she could actually think of going home to Greyfaire at last.

  It was indeed valuable knowledge she possessed. Charles VIII’s father, the old Spider King himself, had made the betrothal between Margaret of Hapsburg and his son. To not only break off the engagement between the young French king and that lady, but to steal Anne of Brittany from beneath the nose of Maximilian of Hapsburg was no mean feat, if it could be done. Maximilian was not going to take kindly to such a monstrous and double insult. Wars had been fought over less, Arabella knew. She also realized the danger of France possessing Brittany, which until now had been England’s loyal ally. Aye, ‘twas important information, and certainly more than paid for the return of Greyfaire. Her heart soared with joy.

  She was unable, however, to hide her happiness that night, and the duc remarked, “I can see that already the salubrious air here in the Loire is doing you some good, ma Belle. You have really been too pale all this winter.”

  “Perhaps it is something more,” the king said slyly. “Is it, madame?”

  “I do not know, Sire,” Arabella replied in honeyed tones, “but I can indeed say I have never been happier.”

  The king had arranged for a troupe of entertainers, and as the rope dancer began her turn, Arabella heard Tony Varden murmur in her ear, “Meet me in the rose garden, my dear. Your Lona has told my Will that you have information for me.” Lord Varden moved on, craning his neck as if most interested in the performance that was so entrancing everyone else.

  Certain that no one was looking at her, Arabella moved discreetly to the back of the crowd of nobles and walked unhurriedly toward the rose garden. Once there, she strolled casually amid the fragrant bushes, fanning herself with a peacock’s feather fan with a carved ivory handle set with silver, which the duc had given her. To any who bothered to look, she was simply bored with the entertainment, or perhaps too warm in the early evening heat.

  “Good evening, my dear.” Lord Varden joined her, kissing her hand. “What is it that you would tell me?”

  “The French intend breaking off the king’s betrothal to Margaret of Austria in favor of Anne of Brittany,” Arabella said low, and then proceeded to tell him everything that the duc had told her.

  “God’s blood!” Lord Varden said, whistling softly. “That is a piece of news, my dear! King Henry will be most pleased with you.”

  “I want to go home now,” Arabella said. “The king said no more than a year, Tony, and a year has passed. I have gotten the information that we sought, and I want to go home. I need to see my daughter, who has undoubtedly forgotten she has a mother by now. I long to be at Greyfaire which will surely be mine once again. I have more than earned it and expiated my debt to the king.”

  “I must send this news to England first, Arabella,” Lord Varden said.

  “Let me be your messenger,” Arabella pleaded softly.

  Lord Varden shook his head. “I cannot allow you to return to England without the king’s permission,” he told her.

  “I cannot continue to be Adrian Morlaix’s whore, Tony,” she replied. “No matter how hard I try and convince myself that what I have been doing is right, it is wrong! I have done what I must in order to save my home. I shall have to live with the memory of that for the rest of my life. I can continue no longer, however. Let me go home!”

  “You shall go nowhere, Arabella Grey, but to the Bastille!” a familiar and venomous voice hissed. Sorcha Morton, now Duchesse de St. Astier, appeared from behind a tall rosebush. “And you also, my lord! Neither of you will go anywhere but to the executioner.”

  Lord Varden paled momentarily. Arabella, however, but a moment ago near tears, suddenly became a tigress. “Indeed, Madame la Duchesse?” she snarled back. “And why do you think I should go to the Bastille?”

  “You are a sp
y,” the duchesse said low. “I shall inform on you, and not only endear myself to my husband, but to my new king as well. This is my revenge on you for all your insults at King James’ court. You will end your days unloved! A toothless old hag far from your beloved Greyfaire!”

  “Beware, Madame la Duchesse,” Arabella warned her. “You are far from home and think your past a secret thing, but if you dare to expose me, I shall expose you! How do you think the most noble and proud Duc de St. Astier will appreciate grafting on his ancient family tree a brand new bride who whored her way through the Scots court with shameless abandon? I know some rare tales of you, Sorcha Morton, including the incestuous relationship you had with not one, but several of your cousins. Say one word to anyone about what you have just overheard here this night, and you will find your marriage quickly annulled. As for you, my dear Sorcha, you will be sent home in disgrace to face an embarrassed king. There is nothing for you in Scotland now, and I doubt that Jamie Stewart would be happy to see you back under any circumstances. He has fallen in love, I hear, and indiscreet, cast-off old amours are certainly not welcome in his life. Betray me and you will end your days in the gutter from whence you surely sprang! I have not come so close to victory to have you snatch it from me. I will kill you first!” Arabella declared, her green eyes blazing dangerously, her hands clenching and unclenching themselves into fists.

  “Bitch!” replied Sorcha, now near tears herself. “I hate you so much that I shall be unable to hold my tongue. I fear you will ruin me!”

  “Hold it but three days, madame,” Lord Varden said coaxingly in gentle tones, “and we will be gone from France. With the temptation removed, Madame la Duchesse, you may, in good conscience, remain silent forever.” Taking her hand, he smiled winningly into her eyes.

  “Why can I not expose you after you are gone?” the duchesse demanded petulantly.

  “It will look as if you were in collusion with us, my dear,” Lord Varden warned, still holding her hand and gazing into her amber eyes.

  “Can you not be content knowing that you have driven us from France before we have fully completed our mission?” Arabella lied, her tone sounding most aggrieved.

  The duchesse brightened. “I have stopped you, haven’t I?” she said, and she smiled happily.

  “Indeed you have, my dear,” Lord Varden told her, smiling back at her warmly. “Be content in having done that, and in your incredible good fortune at marrying your duc. The little knowledge we have been able to glean in these many months of trying is certainly not of any vital importance to France’s safety. No wars will be caused over it.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. “If you can keep our little secret, my dear duchesse, I shall send you a pretty bauble from Calais.”

  “A wedding gift, my lord?” Sorcha said coyly, moving against him provocatively.

  Anthony Varden smiled slowly down into her face. “Something for you alone, my dear,” he said softly, and then, “What an adorable mouth you have, duchesse. I do not believe I kissed the bride, did I?”

  To Arabella’s intense amusement, Sorcha giggled girlishly and presented her lips to Lord Varden for a kiss. He obliged the lady with a deliberately unhurried embrace that left her frankly breathless.

  The new duchesse, however, recovered quickly. “I am sorry you must leave France, my lord,” she said boldly.

  “I, as well, my dear duchesse,” Lord Varden told her sincerely.

  “We are going to be missed,” Arabella said practically.

  “I am afraid Lady Grey is correct,” Lord Varden said with a great show of reluctance. Releasing the duchesse’s hand, he then tucked it through his arm. “You will allow me to escort you back to the entertainment, of course, my dear.” Ignoring Arabella, he began to lead Sorcha Morton back up the gravel path from the rose garden.

  Alone, Arabella strolled once more through the fragrant bushes. It was unfortunate that the new Duchesse de St. Astier had overheard her conversation with Anthony Varden. Arabella was not comfortable with the idea that Sorcha Morton would keep their secret willingly. Hopefully, the threats of exposure regarding her past conduct, and Tony’s sensual charm, would keep the bitch in line, but Arabella did not want to trust either of their lives to chance. One good thing had come from all of this, however. She was going to get to go home immediately. When and how they would travel would, of course, be up to Lord Varden.

  “Here you are, ma Belle.” Adrian Morlaix was by her side. “Did the entertainment bore you, chérie?”

  “Aye,” she responded languidly. “And I am warm in this gown as well. I thought perhaps to cool myself amid the roses, but there is no breeze,” Arabella complained, fanning herself rapidly to punctuate the point.

  “Mayhap you will be cooler out of your gown,” he murmured, and kissed her mouth lightly. “I have a surprise for you, ma Belle.”

  “What is it?” she demanded. “Oh, Adrian, you are so generous! The jewelry and gowns you have lavished upon me are outrageous.”

  “‘Tis neither jewelry nor gowns, chérie,” he told her.”‘Tis something I believe you will like even better.”

  “You are not going to tell me, are you?” she pouted, and he felt his passion rising. He could never get enough of her, and his greatest sorrow was that although she enjoyed his lovemaking, never had he been able to rouse her to the fullest.

  “We will take our leave of the king as soon as we dare,” he promised, and kissed her again. It was two hours, however, before they were able to ride back across the countryside to Rossignol. The summer night was warm and still, the air sweet with newly mown hay. A large moon, pale and creamy in color, cast a bright golden light over them as they rode. When they neared the chateau they could hear the song of the nightingales for which the estate was named, singing in the trees. For a brief moment Arabella could not help but consider how perfect it all was.

  As they descended from their mounts, the duc said to her, “When may I come to you, ma Belle?”

  “I must bathe,” she told him. “I shall not be cool until I do, monseigneur. Lona will knock upon your door when I am ready to receive you.”

  “Then I will bathe too,” he told her, leaving her at the door to her apartments.

  Arabella attended to herself in a leisurely manner. This might be the last night that she was forced to yield herself to Adrian Morlaix. In a strange way, she felt sad, for the duc was not an unkind man, and had always treated her gently and with respect. He did not know that she had become his mistress merely in an effort to gain information for England. He accepted her for what he thought she was. An impoverished English noblewoman, driven from her country by an unjust king. Lest she feel too sorry for him, however, Arabella forced herself to remember that he had made her his mistress for precisely that reason. Because she was helpless and undefended. He had used her unfortunate circumstances to lure her from the path of virtue, except that a woman who used her body in the way she had could hardly be considered virtuous, Arabella concluded. Well, it was almost over and done with. In time she hoped the memory would be not be so painful. She would, however, never forget this time in her life.

  “Well, you’re washed again, though I can’t see that you was dirty to begin with,” Lona said. Then lowering her voice she continued, “Did you speak with Lord Varden?”

  Arabella nodded. “I will tell you when there is less danger of being overheard,” she whispered back.

  Lona undid her mistress’s long hair from atop her head, where it had been pinned, and brushed it free of tangles. Arabella’s hair fell in waves almost to the floor. “Will you want a camisia?” Lona asked.

  “Nay,” Arabella told her. “It is too warm. Open the windows that I may get whatever breeze comes in the night.” She walked across the bedchamber to the great carved oak bedstead, which was draped in rich crimson velvet brocade hangings heavily embroidered with gold thread bumblebees, hummingbirds, and wildflowers. The bed’s mattress was topped with a featherbed and covered in rose-scented l
inen sheets and a down coverlet which had been drawn down. Arabella reclined seductively upon one elbow atop the bed. “I believe I am ready to receive my lord now,” she said drolly.

  Lona grinned wryly at her mistress and bustled about the chamber tidying it up. When she had finished, she snuffed all the candles but the ones on the bedside table and the mantel, checked the wine carafe to make certain that it was full, and curtsying to her mistress, said, “I bid you a good night, my lady.”

  “Knock on the duc’s door to let him know I am ready for him now, Lona,” Arabella said.

  Lona curtsied again and rapped sharply on the door connecting the duc’s bedchamber with that of her mistress. Then she hurried out.

  The door had barely closed behind her when the other door opened and the duc stepped across the room. Like Arabella, he was nude. Walking to the bed, he bent and kissed her. Something was wrong! Arabella started nervously and drew back, wondering what the problem was. Then she heard a familiar laugh and gasped in shock as a second Adrian Morlaix, equally au naturelle, came through the connecting door.

  “You could not fool her, Alain,” he said in pleased tones. “You may be my mirror image, but you do not kiss women as I do.”

  “I have never had any complaints about my kisses, Adrian,” the first man said in slightly annoyed tones.

  Was she going mad? Arabella’s head swiveled between the two men. “Adrian?” she finally managed to gasp to neither man in particular, for she could honestly not tell them apart. “Who is this man, and why have you allowed him to enter my bedchamber?” Instinctively she reached for the coverlet to shield her body from the bold stare of the man who appeared to be the duc’s identical twin.

  “Get into bed, Alain,” the duc commanded his companion as he himself lay on one side of his mistress. He kissed her quickly and continued, “Do not be angry, ma Belle. This is the surprise I have promised you. This gentleman is my half brother, Alain de Morlaix.”

  “Your half brother!” Why on earth was she repeating his words?

  “Allow me to explain, chérie.”