Darling Jasmine

by Bertrice Small

  “When we return to England I shall petition the king to change his mind,” Jasmine told him.

  “And I shall implore him not to change his mind. He won’t, you know. You will just irritate him if you try,” James Leslie said. “The king doesn’t like anyone, particularly a woman, impugning his divine right as the monarch. He has made a decision, and will not be denied. This is not about you, or about me, Jasmine. It is about the king’s firstborn grandchild, young Charles Frederick Stuart. The lad may have been born on the wrong side of the blanket, but the blanket is a royal one. Stuarts do not abandon their responsibilities.”

  “I do not need a husband to raise my children,” Jasmine snapped.

  “Nonetheless, the king has commanded that you have one,” the earl rejoined. “At least the king knows I am honest and will not use his grandson for my own ends, as others might.”

  “Supercilious cad!” she sneered at him.

  “Vicious vixen!” he snarled back.

  “Beast!”

  “Bitch!”

  “Cease!” Startled they both looked to Skye, whose face was stern. “You are bickering like two spoiled children,” she said. “You will stop it this instant!” Turning to Jasmine she continued. “The king has ordered you to marry this man. He is handsome, rich enough not to see you only for your fortune and as respectable as any widow might wish. And I approve of him. In this family that carries more weight than James Stuart’s majesty. Therefore, you will marry the earl of Glenkirk, my darling girl. I wish the choice could be yours, but alas, it cannot under the circumstances. As for you, James Leslie . . .” She fixed her gaze upon him. “You will treat my granddaughter with dignity and respect when she is your wife. I hope you will come to love each other, for that is the best kind of marriage to make, but if you cannot, at least you will honor each other, and the Leslie name.” She rose from her place at the highboard. “Now, I am an old woman, and I am exhausted with my travels. Adali!” Skye called to her granddaughter’s steward. “Take me to my bedchamber before I expire with weariness!” She took his arm and walked from the hall with not another word to them.

  James Leslie picked up his goblet and sipped the wine thoughtfully. “If you would like,” he said quietly, “we could stay in France until the spring, renewing our acquaintance, madame. The sea is chancy at this time of year. We were fortunate in our recent crossing from England.” His tone was almost conciliatory toward her.

  “It might be better,” Jasmine considered. “It would give the children a chance to know you, my lord; and I do not like the way my grandmother looks. Grandfather’s death must have been a terrible shock to her. Then to leave Queen’s Malvern to come to me at such a dreadful time of year for traveling. Perhaps in May?” she suggested.

  “I thought April the first,” he said softly.

  “You cannot be serious,” Jasmine said, remembering how she had tricked him almost two years back into leaving her alone until April first when, she had promised him, she would then set their wedding date. Instead, he had arrived at Queen’s Malvern on that date to find she had departed with her children, and he had no idea to where.

  “Be grateful, madame, that I do not fix our wedding date for that day,” he replied somberly.

  She was suddenly cold. “Do you hate me that much, my lord?” The sudden realization of his black mood assailed her. What had she done in running away from James Leslie? She had only wanted a little more time to herself. To mourn her sweet prince, and yet the king was so adamant that she marry the earl of Glenkirk. Still, had not he said he would give her more time? But how was she to understand that then?

  “I do not know what I feel for you, madame,” she heard him say to her. “Once I was overwhelmed by your beauty and your passion. I thought I loved you. Your arrogance, however, has made me see you in a new light. I am not certain if I can ever love you, but we must learn to get along for the sake of your children, and the children we will have together. Our home must be, I insist, a place of peace.”

  The words were out of her mouth before she could contain them. “We will have no children, James Leslie, except that they come from a love between us. I am not some finely bred mare to whom you have been brought to stud. I will wed you, and I will never bring shame to your name. I will manage your household, and stand by your side in all things, but I will have no child of yours unless it comes of our love.”

  “How very noble of you, madame,” he replied scornfully. “You bore Westleigh three children, and yet your family arranged the marriage to keep you from the consequences of your wanton behavior. Did you truly love Rowan Lindley?”

  “Aye, I did!” Then Jasmine laughed bitterly. “My wanton behavior, as you call it, resulted from your lust to possess me, my lord. I remember that Twelfth Night quite well. ’Twas you who approached me, and aye, I agreed to allow you to seduce me, for bereft of our mates we were both in need of comforting. Had not my stepsister, Sybilla, discovered us, and raised such a fuss, none would have been the wiser. You and I might have forgotten the entire incident, and gone our separate ways, as we did anyhow.”

  Reaching over, he grabbed her wrist in a hard grasp. “I would never have forgotten that chance encounter, madame!” he told her fiercely. “You were the most beautiful and the most exciting woman I had ever known; but I shall also not forget that you held me up to ridicule before the entire court by running off two years ago. Do you think, madame, that because you were born a royal Mughal princess that your pride is greater or more sensitive than mine? What do you really know of me, Jasmine?”

  “Nothing,” she admitted, gently loosening his grip on her arm.

  “Well, I shall tell you,” he said. “Long ago in the reign of King Malcolm and his saintly Queen Margaret, my ancestor, Angus Leslie, the laird of Glenkirk, wed with the queen’s sister, Christina. The sisters were the daughters of the heir to England’s king; but he died before King Edward, and it was their brother who was then to be king but that Harold Godwinson usurped his right, and then William the Norman conquered the land. The mother of these sisters was Agatha, a princess of Hungary. My great-grandfather, Charles Leslie, was born Karim, a prince of the Ottoman Empire. His father was Sultan Selim, his brother, Sultan Suleiman. My great-great-grandmother, Janet Leslie, was Sultan Selim’s favorite wife. I have as much, if not more, royal blood in my veins, Jasmine Lindley, as you do.”

  She was astounded by his revelations, but she would not be moved. “Then we are indeed well matched even if none but us knows it, James Leslie,” said Jasmine, rising from her place at the highboard. “The hour grows late, my lord,” she said. “I will escort you to your chamber.”

  He followed her from the hall, noting the stiff line of her backbone as they went, wondering what further mischief she was plotting. Could he trust the old countess of Lundy now? Or was she merely lulling him into a false sense of security in order that Jasmine might escape him once again. Devious the old woman might be, he considered, but he had never heard it said that she was anything other than honest. He had to trust her. There was no option other than remaining awake all night watching, and for how long could he do that? Had he been a fool to allow Jasmine more time before their marriage? Was his desire for revenge overwhelming his common sense? Should he call the priest in on the morrow and marry her immediately, thereby putting an end to her headstrong foolishness? Then he shook his head at his own thoughts. Marriage, or no, if Jasmine de Marisco Lindley wanted to leave him again, she most certainly would. He had but two choices. Locking her away or winning back her friendship.

  “You will find your servant awaiting you,” Jasmine said as she stopped before an oak door. “Good night, my lord.”

  He took her hand up and kissed it. “Good night, madame,” the earl of Glenkirk replied, then, turning, he entered the chamber.

  Jasmine snatched her hand back and, whirling about, hurried off down the corridor. She could actually feel the imprint of his mouth upon her skin, and it was most discomfiting. This man she mus
t wed, this man with whom she had spent an incredible night of passion almost ten years ago, was in reality a stranger to her. They had met again briefly at King James’s court, but it was not an association she had encouraged. He was a dark-spirited man whom she did not in the least understand. She was even a little afraid of him, but she would never reveal that to anyone, least of all James Leslie. He was, she realized, a man she could not cajole or manipulate. He was as hard as flint.

  She had offended him. Embarrassed him. Defied him. Yet he would obey the king and marry her in spite of it all. Jasmine shivered. This was a dangerous man, and unless she could find a way to soften him, her life would not be pleasant. Jasmine entered her own bedchamber, where her servants were waiting for her. Her grandmother would know what to do. On the morrow she would speak with that dear old lady, and Skye would guide her actions so she might find James Leslie’s weakness, and touch his heart. If indeed he even had a heart.

  Chapter 3

  Jasmine awoke to hear the faint scratching of sleet upon the windows of her bedchamber. She could see the gray day beyond the slit in the half-drawn draperies. A cheerful fire burned in the fireplace, warming the room. She stretched herself beneath the fine lavender-scented linens and the down comforter that covered her. How lovely it was to lie here in the great oak bed her grandfather had long ago commissioned for this chamber. Jasmine loved this bed, with its eight-foot-high headboard of linenfold paneling and its four turned and carved posts. The hangings belonging to the bed were a natural-colored linen embroidered with a design of green silk. It was a wonderful refuge from the troubles of the world, but she had no troubles. Oh, yes she did.

  Jasmine sat up suddenly. She most assuredly had troubles. They had arrived late yesterday in the person of James Leslie, the earl of Glenkirk. James Leslie, the man King James had made guardian of her four children. James Leslie, the man the king had ordered her to marry and from whom she had fled. Her temples began to throb, and she fell back against her pillows. She had to think. She had to speak with Skye. It was not going to be an easy day.

  The door to her chamber opened, and her two maidservants entered. Rohana carried a small silver tray upon which sat a tea carafe, and a handleless round cup of blue-and-white porcelain. Bringing it to her mistress’s bedside, Rohana set the tray down, uncorking the carafe as she did so. The aroma of the pale golden Assam wafted up faintly spicy from the two cloves that floated in the tea. Rohana poured half a cup and handed it to Jasmine, who first breathed deeply of the hot liquid, then sipped it gratefully, murmuring her pleasure as it warmed her innards.

  Across the room Toramalli was choosing her mistress’s garments of the day. A black velvet skirt and a bodice of silver-and-white brocade. The appropriate undergarments were laid out along with silk stockings, simple black velvet slippers, and jewelry. Rohana, meanwhile, was seeing to her lady’s bath in the small inner chamber that Jasmine had designated as a bathing room when she came to Belle Fleurs. A pump had been installed in the room, and hot water was heated in a small fireplace to warm the water drawn from the pump.

  Finishing her tea, Jasmine arose from her bed. She could already smell the night-blooming jasmine oil that was being poured into the bathwater by her servant. “Are the children awake?” she asked.

  “They are already in the hall,” Rohana said, helping her mistress from her chamber robe and into her tub.

  “The nursemaids knew that Lord Leslie was here,” Toramalli volunteered. “The children are dressed in fairly proper fashion.”

  Jasmine nodded, but said nothing further on the subject. “I cannot dally,” she finally remarked. “I will seem a poor hostess if I am not downstairs shortly. Is my grandmother awake yet?”

  “Madame Skye has elected to remain abed this morning,” Toramalli said. “That ancient Daisy of hers came into the hall to tell Lord Leslie and to fetch something to eat for the old lady.”

  Jasmine bathed and dressed quickly. She could barely sit still while Rohana did her hair. Slipping a strand of fat pearls about her neck, she affixed large baroque pearls in her ears, and, jewels bobbing, she hurried from her chamber and down into the hall. Approaching the entry, she could hear her children’s excited voices. She stopped a moment in the entry to observe the scene before her.

  James Leslie, in black velvet, his short dark hair brushed straight back and just barely grazing his white linen neck ruff, sat in a high-backed chair by the fire. “Excellent, my young lord Henry,” he said to the little marquis of Westleigh. “Your bow improves with each try. You shall not shame your late father, your mother, or me when you are presented to the king, and pledge him your fealty for yourself and for Cadby. Remember, a gentleman is first judged by the reputation that precedes him, and secondly by his manners.”

  “What of his purse?” Lady India Lindley demanded boldly.

  James Leslie’s mouth twitched as he repressed a smile. Then he said seriously, “That, my lady India, should be no one’s business although there will be speculation a-plenty when a handsome and interesting man as your brother will undoubtedly become one day arrives at court.”

  “Will you teach us to curtsy, my lord, as you teach Henry to bow?” India asked him.

  “Your mother will see that your manners are polished before we return to England, my lady,” the earl answered the little girl. “I will speak with her myself on the matter.”

  “Are you still to marry Mama?” Henry wondered.

  “Aye,” the earl said. “The king has commanded it.”

  “Do you love our mother?” India queried. “Our father loved our mother very much, and she he. I wish that Irisher had not killed our father, my lord. I miss him very much.”

  “I am surprised that you remember him, my lady India. You were very small when he died,” the earl remarked.

  “I remember a big golden man taking me up, kissing me, and tickling me,” India said. “Henry does not remember him at all, being so new when our father was killed. Mama tells us stories of our father.”

  Suddenly Feathers, the family spaniel, barked sharply and scampered to the entry of the hall, leaping upon Jasmine’s skirts until she picked the small dog up.

  “Hush, you little brute,” she gently scolded, and greeted them. “Good morrow, my darlings. I see you have already greeted our guest. Good morning, my lord.” She moved into the hall to join them.

  James Leslie rose, and, kissing her hand, said, “Good morning, madame. I trust that you slept well.” He escorted her to the highboard, where the servants were beginning to lay out the morning meal. “Come, children. You may join your mother and me this morning.”

  Lady Fortune Lindley, who was four and a half years of age, tugged upon her mother’s skirts, and when Jasmine looked down the child said, “Is this my father, Mama?”

  Before Jasmine might answer, James Leslie said, “Nay, child. You have the same father as your brother and sister, but I would be a father to you if you will permit me. To all of you.”

  “Do you have any little boys and girls of your own?” India questioned him.

  “I did once,” James Leslie said, and his face grew sad.

  “India!” Her mother admonished her, but India spoke again.

  “Where are they, my lord? Where are your little boys and girls? Will they come to play with us when you are our father, too?”

  “My children, ma petite, are in heaven with their mother, and your papa,” James Leslie told the little girl. “They have been gone a long time now. So long I cannot even remember their faces,” he concluded sadly. Drawing out a chair, he seated Jasmine first, then her two little daughters. “In future, Henry, when you are allowed to take your meals at the highboard, you will seat your mother thusly,” the earl told the boy, deftly changing the subject.

  “Yes, sir,” the lad replied.

  Jasmine was astounded. It had dawned upon her almost immediately that her children were speaking English again not just to the earl of Glenkirk, but to each other as well. They were dressed respec
tably and had shoes upon their feet. They were, in fact, being very polite. She hadn’t seen them like this in months.

  “Their table manners will need improvement,” the earl said to her in an aside, then he turned to admonish them gently to pass the bread to each other when they desired some and not to tear off a chunk and toss it down the table.

  Jasmine had a strong desire to giggle at this, but she managed to refrain from it. In a sense it disturbed her that her children had taken so readily to James Leslie. She felt almost jealous. Yet on another level she knew it was better they like their stepfather, and he they, than have an antagonistic relationship. The little ones did not have to know how she and the earl felt about one another. James Leslie was obviously a good influence upon Henry, India, and Fortune, judging by what she had seen this morning. She had to admit, although she did so silently and reluctantly, that an authoritative male figure in her household was possibly not a bad thing for her children. Absently she fed the small dog in her lap a bit of ham, patting Feathers as he licked her fingers.

  “He is quite spoiled, I see,” the earl remarked.

  “Rowan gave him to me when he was only a puppy. He was a birthday gift when I was eighteen,” Jasmine replied. “Actually, my real gift that year was Maguire’s Ford and its lands. I remember how angry my Uncle Padraic was that Rowan had obtained the grant for me. At the time I thought nothing of it. Now I, too, wish he hadn’t gifted me with anything other than my precious Feathers.” She scratched the dog’s silky head, her beautiful face both thoughtful and somber.

  “You have not been back to Ireland since?” he asked.

  Jasmine shook her head. “Nay. The former lord’s son, Rory Maguire, is my agent. There is both a Roman and Anglican church on my lands, and the people seem to manage to coexist peacefully. I raise horses there, or rather Rory does for me. I shall probably give the estate to Fortune one day, as she was born there. It would make a fine dower for her, don’t you think?”