by Nina Mason
The man he now strongly suspected was Argyle turned his gaze on Juliette. A smile curled his girlish lips as he looked her over. Then, he took her hand and pressed those lips to her knuckles. “ Enchanté, Madame—” Stopping mid-address, he lifted his eyes to Robert’s. “Pray, what is your name, sir?”
“Armstrong.”
Robert saw no reason to lie. His was a common enough surname along the borders of Scotland. He also saw no advantage in elaborating. The less he volunteered, the less he would have to speak falsely.
Turning back to Juliette, the Highland gentleman said, in perfect French, “Welcome aboard my ship, Mrs. Armstrong. Though I have no hope of making the accommodations aboard as agreeable as those to which a good lady such as yourself is undoubtedly accustomed, I shall endeavor to do my best. That said, if there is aught I might do to make you more comfortable whilst in my care, you need only ask.”
His speech made his identity clear, but Robert was far from satisfied. There was more than hospitality intoned in the offer. Argyle clearly wanted to bed Juliette. Robert should care not, but he did. He felt strangely protective of his fictitious wife—partly from his need to guard their covers, but also because he could not bear to be perceived as a cuckold by the other men on board.
He had risked everything once to avoid that insupportable label. King Charles II had wanted him to marry a lady-in-waiting he desired for his mistress. Instead (and in defiance) Robert had married Maggie, a ward to his family he’d long coveted. The Merry Monarch, enraged by his disobedience, had demanded a night with Maggie as penance. Fortunately, she had been saved by the timely news of her parentage. She was the long-lost illegitimate daughter of the Duke of York and one of his mistresses, making her King Charles’s niece.
Robert eyed the earl warily. Though Argyle’s dossier made no mention of extramarital affairs or illegitimate offspring, it was hard to believe a man as well-favored as he had remained faithful to a wife he’d been parted from these four years—especially when marital fidelity amongst the noble classes was as rare as the talent for turning water into wine. Even the famously pious Prince of Orange had recently taken a lover, much to his wife’s desolation.
Poor Mary. Not that he honestly pitied that backstabber. Quite the contrary, in fact. The princess would sell her father’s crown for a guilder—so long as the buyer was a Protestant (her own deceitful Dutchman, preferably).
When Argyle turned his attention to the other recruits, Robert leaned close to Juliette’s ear. “I hope you do not mean to share his bed.”
“I mean to do whatever I must for my king and country,” she whispered in reply.
Though her answer perturbed Robert, he made no reply. This was neither the time nor the place to argue the point. Not that arguing with a woman who’d made up her mind to do something of which he disapproved had ever done him any good.
Another man in a blue-gray coat and windblown auburn periwig appeared and said something quietly to Argyle. Turning back to Robert, the earl offered a bow and a gracious smile.
“Pray, do excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong. It seems I have urgent business with Sir Patrick. Mr. Cochran here will show you to your quarters.” Turning back to his shipmate (the referenced Mr. Cochran, presumably), he added, “I believe the first mate’s cabin will do well for them.”
Sir Patrick had to be Sir Patrick Hume, another conspirator in the Rye House Plot who’d fled to Holland to escape prosecution. Hume was a baronet who stridently defended the Covenanters whilst a member of the Scottish Parliament. He hailed from Polwarth, a border village no more than a stone’s throw from Dunwoody. Fortunately, he and Robert had never crossed paths, as Hume, being a fervent Presbyterian, would never deign to break bread with a Catholic, even one as elevated in rank as a duke.
Robert, still toting their cases, licked his lips. He was sweating and nauseous, but from guilt rather than seasickness. He had come to quash Lord Argyle’s efforts on behalf of Lord Monmouth—if indeed promoting the duke’s claim to the crown was the earl’s principal objective.
To Robert, revenge against the Stuarts seemed the more likely motive. Once the practical king of a large portion of western Scotland, Argyle had been sentenced to death and stripped of his property and hereditary jurisdictions through the joint efforts of Charles and James.
There was also the matter of Argyle’s father, a major player in the Covenanter movement, who’d been beheaded by the newly restored Stuart king for colluding with the Commonwealth against him and his father, Charles I.
Not that the Argyles ever saw eye to eye on politics. Whilst Archibald the elder was plotting against the royalists, Archibald the younger was raising hell on their behalf throughout the Highlands.
Now, he’d allegedly come to support Monmouth’s claim to the throne—and Robert, ready or not, had been sent to ensure the effort failed. Unfortunately, how he might succeed in that aim still eluded him. His only plans at present were to stick with the rebels, maintain a daily log to send to the king whenever possible, and share his bed with another woman without breaking his vows to his wife.
When Mr. Cochran motioned for him to follow, he did—to the bow of the main deck. He threw a backward glance at Juliette, relieved to find her hard on his heels. He briefly considered tying her to the bed to keep her away from Argyle, but gave up the idea almost at once. How would he ever explain himself if one of the crewmen happened upon her bound and gagged?
Cochran led the way down a passageway to a cabin, which was small and simple, though comfortable enough, and vastly preferable to bunking below deck in a hammock with the other gents. The bed was narrower than Robert would have preferred under the circumstances—there was no way two people could sleep together without their bodies touching—but at least there were windows to let in light and fresh air. The larger one looked out to the sea whilst the smaller overlooked the passageway they’d just come down.
“It looks as though we willna be pulling up anchor before the sun sets,” Cochrane told them. “So ye may as well take yer ease.”
“Why the delay?” Robert wanted to milk as much information as he could from the man without arousing undue suspicion. “Is the earl not afraid of being boarded by the magistrate?”
“Aye, he is. But he seems more troubled at present about leaving his private secretary behind.”
Feigning ignorance, Robert furrowed his brow. “Is there some danger of that?”
“Aye. Two members of our party—Mr. Spence and Dr. Blackadder—were arrested a wee while ago. Lord Argyle wants to break them out whilst Sir Patrick insists we leave them behind.”
“Who do you think will win the stalemate?”
“It’s hard to say,” Cochrane replied with a twitching grin, “since both our leaders are as stubborn as mules. They’ve done little else but cross swords since we began this enterprise. If ye ask me, it’s a wonder we ever made it out of port.”
Robert was encouraged to hear of the dissention. After Cochrane left them, he took a seat in the cabin’s only chair and watched vacantly as Juliette unpacked their cases and tidied up. Owing to a double agent in the employ of Prince William in Holland, he was well-informed about the players in this little drama. Dr. Blackadder was a known Covenanter, but of little consequence in the scheme of things.
Robert would, of course, do his best to convince the earl to carry on without Spence. He just hoped his interference would not tip his hand.
In the meantime, he had bigger worries, starting with how he was going to survive the long night in the same bed as the enchanting Juliette? He could sleep on the floor, he supposed, and brave rats, seasickness, and a sore back. Or, he could just bite the bullet and fight his natural urges. He might be able to manage it with God’s help, provided she offered no encouragement.
Could he trust her to behave herself?
He knew not. He knew only that he was afraid. Afraid to undress before her. Afraid to lie awake at her side fighting his desire. Afraid to sleep, lest he dream of Maggi
e and turn to touch her twin unaware.
Suddenly, his chest felt tight and the cabin seemed to be closing in on him. He needed fresh air, time to think, and room to roam.
When he got to his feet to take his leave, Juliette looked his way. “I feel the need to stretch my legs,” he told her, avoiding the gaze that was so unbearably reminiscent of Maggie’s. “I may be a long while, so do not feel you must wait on me before turning in.”
“I shan’t,” she said as if she could not care less.
Bruised ego aside, he was pleased by her indifferent response as he beat a hasty exit.
Two hours later, he returned to the cabin, wind-burned and chilled to the bone. Juliette was already in bed and, even from the doorway, he could smell the bewitching scent of French lavender rising from her person. As he studied the outline of her form in the gloom, the desire he’d been fighting all evening returned with gale force.
She had left one candle burning. In the dim light, he looked around the floor for a place to lie down, but there was no space long enough to accommodate his height. There were no extra blankets, either, meaning he would have to sleep on the cold, hard floor without covers. He was already shivering. By morning, he’d be frozen stiff.
He returned his gaze to the bed. Longing welled up inside him—for the comfort it promised, not its occupant. He’d spent the past two hours up on deck, conversing with the rebellion’s leaders, pretending to be a Protestant and a traitor. He was frigid and tired. He wanted so badly to be off his feet and the bed looked so warm and inviting.
Gritting his teeth against his yearnings, he slowly approached the berth. As long as he kept his breeches on, nothing unseemly could happen. Thus, he would sleep beside her in his clothes. But not yet. Not yet. First, he would flog himself to punish his body and purify his mind.
Afterward, he would say a rosary, meditating upon the Sorrowful Mysteries. By the time he was finished, he would be too uplifted to entertain concupiscent thoughts. He would also be too bloody beat to commit adultery, were he yet tempted to do so.
He began to undress, removing first his coat and then his waistcoat, which he laid over the back of the chair. He then sat and peeled off his boots and stockings. Finally, he stripped off his cravat and shirt and hung them on a peg on the wall.
Now in only his breeches, he located his case and removed the flogger—a cattail whip made of knotted cords—he employed for mortification purposes. His mother had given it to him for Christmas the year he turned ten.
“Through bodily pain, the true believer can achieve a state of spiritual ecstasy far superior to the pleasures of the flesh,” she said as he beheld the strange gift. “In order to control our desires we must humble ourselves. The way of perfection passes by way of the Cross. Only through severe self-discipline, suffering, and sacrifice can we attain the peace and joy of God’s grace and the blessings of the Beatitudes.”
The Beatitudes were the eight solemn blessings that marked the opening of the Sermon on the Mount.
—Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven
—Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land
—Blessed are they who mourn: for they shall be comforted
—Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill
—Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy
—Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God
—Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God
—Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice’s sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven
Oh, aye. He knew the Beatitudes as well as he knew the Pater Noster, which ended with this fitting line: Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
He knelt down before the single candle, the flogger in his hand. The knots were hard and stained with his blood. Eager for the atoning effects of his own suffering, he said a prayer to St. Ignatius. Then, gripping the well-worn handle, he closed his eyes and swung the tails over his right shoulder, reveling in the sharp sting of the knots tearing into his flesh. The feeling was freeing, but unexpectedly non-erotic.
Castigo corpus meum.
He slapped the whip over his left shoulder, again opening the flesh of his back.
Castigo corpus meum.
Again and again, he lashed, repeating the mantra each time. For the first time since childhood, he felt no flutters of arousal, only the sting of the lashes, the burning of his wounds, and the warm trickle of the blood running down his back.
He had been focusing on Maggie, but now her image faded. The Blessed Virgin, clothed in radiant white robes, took her place. A crown of golden stars encircled her dark hair. Cradled in her arms was the baby Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes.
Feelings of love, joy, and awe overwhelmed him.
Then, Mary spoke to him in words that chilled him to the marrow. “I sacrificed my beloved son for the sins of men, and so must you.”
Chapter Six
Maggie awoke to the sound of wee Jamie crying. Her breasts were painfully engorged and her stomach was queasy. From morning sickness, no doubt. Was it morning already? Groggily, she drew back the bed curtains and gazed toward the window. The bright beam of sunlight shining through the crack betwixt the draperies provided her answer.
It was definitely morning, and quite possibly later. The poor baby must be starving for milk. As she made to rise and go to him, her stomach did a flip. She retrieved the chamber pot from beneath the bed just in time to catch her purge.
As she lay back on the pillow, waiting for the nausea to pass, she remembered what she had done the night before. Guilt stripped the flesh from her bones, though why she should feel so flayed by her actions she could not say. She had committed no sin and broken no vow.
She turned to Gemma, who lay, still sleeping, her brows drawn together in a frown. Her mouth was open and her lips looked swollen and dry. Maggie touched her own. They, too, were puffy and parched. The tang of cunny on her fingers made her insides quiver—an echo of the shiver that had seized her as Gemma hammered her to raptures with Monsieur Verre.
Being occupied, the ladies of the court called it. The men, being cruder, called it swiving. Was the vernacular the same if one used a false phallus in place of a real one?
She shuddered again, remembering. Should she tell Robert what she’d done with Gemma? Should she allow it to happen again?
The apothecary shifted beside her. Maggie got up, unable to look at her. She went to see to the baby, feeling sick again. She picked up wee Jamie, who was red-faced from crying and had soaked his napkin with urine.
Guilt stabbed once more. She had neglected her son in favor of her own wicked pleasure. She was horrid and selfish and deserved to burn for eternity in the fiery pit of Hell.
She washed and changed her son before nursing him on her own bed. He still looked to be in perfect health. Not that she’d expected the spots to appear so soon.
When he was content, she dressed him in an infant’s gown and left him on the bed whilst she washed her face and put on her favorite dressing gown—the blue silk one that matched her eyes.
From the other room, she heard Gemma moving about. Picking up wee Jamie, Maggie went to the door and watched as the apothecary, still naked, poured the water from Robert’s ewer into the bowl. As she washed between her legs, Maggie’s insides quivered again.
She decided then that she would tell Robert, and ask him what it was called when two women made love. He would know. He had books about such things. She had looked through some of them before they were married.
When Gemma turned to find her watching, Maggie smiled, “How did you sleep?”
“Like the dead.” She retrieved her smock from the pile of garments on the floor and pulled it on over her head. “How does the little one do this morning?”
The shadow of Gemma’s nipples and maidenhair showed through the thin fabric. Maggie tr
ied not to remember the savory flavors of her skin and cunny.
“He’s as good as gold, now that he’s been changed and fed.”
“No fever yet?”
“Not a bit. He seems perfectly healthy.”
As Maggie moved into the room, Gemma came over to look at the baby. Her scent, a pleasing combination of herbs and musk, teased her nostrils.
The apothecary felt wee Jamie’s forehead and touched his baby-soft hair. “He’s going to be a handsome devil when he grows up. A real heartbreaker—just like his father.”
“Robert’s a good man,” Maggie said in her husband’s defense. “Or tries to be, leastwise. Which is all we can really ask of anybody.”
Gemma met her gaze with tenderness in her eyes. “If he was not a good man, I would not love him as much as I do.”
Maggie’s stomach tightened. She did not want to talk about Gemma’s feelings for Robert. She felt possessive of both of them and could not bear for them to share with each other what they had shared with her.
“He will never return your love,” Maggie said with tears in her eyes. “In fact, he might never return at all.”
She had said it in spite and regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth—for her own sake as well as Gemma’s. The reminder that Robert might never come back cut her to the quick.
Gemma, seemingly unaffected by her vengeful barb, touched Maggie’s cheek and brushed back her curls. “Do you fear he will not come back to you?”
“Every minute of every day.” The tears she’d been holding back began to roll down her cheeks.
With her thumb, Gemma brushed the tears away. “You poor, dear soul. Is there anything I can do to ease your mind?”
“Yes,” Maggie said, her throat tight. “You can stay with me until he comes back.”
She had not planned to say it, but now that she had, she could see the advantages of her suggestion. Last night, when she was with Gemma, she was able to set her dread aside for a time. Maybe, if her friend was here all the time, she would not be so afraid. Moreover, Gemma could help her look after wee Jamie when the smallpox set in and act as a buffer against Lord Mulgrave’s annoying attempts to seduce her.
