Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03]

by Something Wicked

  “Milady! Why don’t you want to dress for your bed?”

  “Don’t question me, Chantal. I have my reasons.”

  Not the amber again. She didn’t want waspish.

  The cream with black-and-gold design?

  The dusky red print?

  The clear blue just edged with embroidered flowers?

  In the end she settled on the green-and-cream stripe. It was cut in a rather plain form with closed bodice but skirt open over a leaf-green quilted petticoat that took the place of hoops. It was the sort of thing she’d wear for an ordinary day, and green, they said, was the color of hope.

  Once into it, she sent Chantal off to bed and sat on a chaise in front of the window, praying for an early dawn.

  But the earth and sun cannot be hurried, and in late December, the sun will not rise before eight, not even at the command of a Malloren.

  In the end, she slept until the glow of sun on her eyes awoke her.

  She blinked gritty lids, then saw Fort lounging on the padded window seat in front of her. He was dressed casually in buff breeches, long fawn waistcoat, and dark brown coat—what he’d wear for a casual day on one of his estates.

  “It’s a long time since I’ve watched morning,” he said, turning his head to look at the golden sky. “A humbling experience.”

  She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “I thought you were just the sort to seek your bed with the dawn.”

  “Only in my wild younger days.” He looked back, unreadable. “Do you want to put this off?”

  Again, that sounded ominous. “No. But I’m going to have a drink of water. Do you want some?”

  “No, thank you.” As she walked over to the carafe and glass, he added, “I’ve cheated, in fact, and had breakfast.”

  As she returned to the chaise, he added, “With Rothgar.”

  Elf sat. “I thought he wasn’t going to interfere.”

  “Perhaps he can’t resist. Perhaps he didn’t interfere.”

  Elf didn’t believe it for a moment. “What did you talk about?”

  He thought. “About the situation in Portugal and in the West Indies. About the king’s art purchases from Italy, and some of my own. Oh, and we discussed suitable disposition of the worthy Roman senators who stand in the hall of Walgrave House. Unless, of course, you have an attachment to them.”

  Elf was startled by the switch in direction, then cautiously hopeful. “No. No attachment.” She studied him as if he were a conundrum. “Did he ask about wine and spirits?”

  Now he was puzzled. “No. Though I gather you have interests in a vineyard in Portugal.”

  “Probably. I wouldn’t know. I have enough to do with silk.”

  “He did explain more about your family’s business concerns. It’s an intriguing notion. I have Victor to think of.”

  Elf couldn’t stand this inconsequential talk any longer. “What of Lady Lydia?”

  “I don’t think she’d care for trade.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  He looked at her for a moment, and she held her breath. “She’s too young,” he said, “and I’m not inclined to wait.”

  She needed more than that. “Surely you would wait if you thought her the woman for you.”

  “I suppose I would. Tell me, what is most important to you these days?”

  “What?”

  You, she thought.

  “Elf, we hardly know each other.” That devastating teasing humor shaped his eyes. “What if you love glee singers and braised heart?”

  “You don’t like glee singers and braised heart?”

  “Can’t abide them.”

  “I’ll give them up for you.”

  “Ah,” he said, mock-melancholy. “But then I’d have to bear the burden of having deprived you of things you hold so dear.”

  “I don’t hold them dear.”

  “Then tell me what you do.”

  You, she thought again, but she saw she’d have to answer the overt question.

  “My family, of course. My work.” She knew this might be a problem. He had used to be a conventional man. “My involvement in the family business is very important to me. It’s challenging and exciting.”

  He didn’t faint with horror, so she kept going. “I’m still training with pistols and knives, and generally go about armed. I like the feeling of not being entirely dependent on others for my safety.”

  Still no obvious dismay.

  “I’m funding a pamphlet about ways of avoiding unwanted pregnancy. It will be passed around discreetly. The problem is that so many women can’t read, so we’ve done it with illustrations, but—”

  “Schools next, I assume,” he said. “Does all this have Rothgar’s approval?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Not particularly. I’m just curious.”

  “Yes, it does. Though if it didn’t, I’d still be doing it. In fact, Sappho’s handling the pamphlet.”

  “Then Rothgar must approve, I suppose.”

  “You can’t really think they are like that.”

  “No.” His smile was rueful. “I started going there just to annoy my father. I did so many things simply to annoy my father. Then, after, I went seeking a means to injure Rothgar. I think she knew. She never tried to stop my visits, but I never encountered him there. In time, almost accidentally, I learned to enjoy good music and poetry, and to appreciate clever women. I have a lowering feeling that I was deliberately educated.”

  Elf didn’t know what to say, for he was almost certainly correct.

  “Almshouses,” he said. “I visited Mistress Cutlow.”

  “Oh, yes. If we’re to dig over all the old coals . . .” She drained her forgotten glass of water. “When you arranged to pay her a crown a week, was it simple kindness or a move against me?”

  He thought about it, looking out at the brightening garden. “It’s hard for me to understand my mental processes back then. Probably a bit of both.” He looked back. “You had forgotten her.”

  “I admit it. And so,” she said, tossing the challenge back at him, “what is important to you these days?”

  He moved to face her directly, the sun gilding the rim of his tied-back hair. “My family. Chastity and Verity seem to be well settled, so there’s only Victor of my siblings. He seems to be less marked by our childhood than the rest of us and should do well. There are any number of family dependents, though.”

  “Everyone has those.”

  “True, but to look after them requires money, as does catching up on all the work on the estates that Father neglected. The amounts he spent on royal gifts alone are enough to turn my hair gray.” He looked at her. “A frugal wife with mercantile interests would not come amiss.”

  Her heart fluttered up to panic speed. “Frugal? I’m a Malloren.” Then she bit her lip, wondering if she’d leaped too far ahead.

  He didn’t pounce on it. “I assume that your portion is grand enough to support your extravagances. Are you saying you won’t make me rich?”

  She couldn’t stand it. “Are you saying you want me to marry you?”

  Silence. Was he going to say no?

  Then he smiled, but wryly. “No man likes to set himself up for disaster, least of all me. I confess, I’m still afraid . . .” But he slipped off the window seat onto one knee. “My dearest Elf, after long and careful consideration I have come to see that you are the only woman who can make my life complete. Will you accept my hand in marriage?”

  She placed her hand in his, steadier now they had come to the point. But she frowned. “You almost sound reluctant.”

  “Do I? I’m sorry.” He kissed her hand, but lightly, and looked into her eyes. “I’m nervous. Frightened, even. You are, after all, a Malloren, and I’ve learned to expect stings. But you are everything I want in a wife. I knew that when I found myself thinking of ways to turn Lydia into you. But I knew I had to untangle myself before I could make a clear-headed decision. If you don’t marry me, I doubt I’ll marry elsewhere.”


  “That’s hardly a fair weapon!”

  “I hoped we were beyond weapons.”

  Flushing with shame, Elf slid down to the floor and into his arms. “You’re right. I think I’m nervous, too. We’ve been squabbling far longer than we’ve been talking rationally. I keep waiting for the answering sting. When did you first think . . .”

  And sitting there in the brightening day they relived their encounters, the bitter and the sweet.

  “You know,” he said at last, arm comfortably around her, their backs settled against the chaise, “you still haven’t answered my proposal.”

  Elf dug in her pocket. “Give me your left hand.”

  He did so, brows raised, and she slid the wasp ring onto his third finger. “Now you are mine, Monsieur Le Comte.”

  With a laugh, he captured her left hand, pulled a ring out of his pocket, and slid it onto her finger. “Will you make everything into a contest?”

  “Oh, probably.” Elf gazed through tears at a beautiful emerald. “I knew I was right to wear green. For hope.” She looked up at him. “I love you quite desperately, Fort, but this frightens me. I am a Malloren and I’ve come to like being in control of my life.”

  “The warning is duly noted. I won’t beat you for insubordination.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  He laughed and kissed her lips. “Elf, the war is over. I love you, and I love you strong, bold, active, and even chattering. We can find a way.”

  Then they were kissing as they had never kissed before, with wondering hesitancy and knowing familiarity. And, like the glow of the sun, with the added savor of leisure, of lifetimes, of security.

  Eventually, the sun full up, they drew apart. Elf wanted more and she was sure he did, too. She was equally sure they would wait.

  “Can it be soon?” she asked.

  “Today would be nice.”

  She leaned laughing on his chest. “We’d need a Special License.”

  “I have one.”

  She looked up at him. “Overconfident, perhaps?”

  “Just prepared. And I told myself that I couldn’t feel this intensely about anyone and it not be reciprocated.”

  “I’ve felt that way for over six months.”

  There was a complaint in it, and he responded. “If I hadn’t been abroad, I’d have come to you sooner. Much sooner. You have been a void in my heart.”

  Irresistibly, they sank back into kisses. “Today would be nice,” she murmured, half over him, his cravat loose in her fingers because she wanted to be skin to skin.

  He moved her and stood, raising her with him. “Then why not? With Mallorens and Wares, surely it is possible. There are still guests. Even royalty. We can be as grand as we please or we can slip down to the village church and be very private. What is your desire, my lady?”

  Warm, blue, laughing eyes. Smiling lips.

  You.

  “Private is tempting,” she said. “Especially as it could be now. But I’m a Malloren. By all means, let us be grand.”

  And grand they were.

  The king and queen, who had witnessed Cyn’s wedding the year before, and actually hosted Bryght’s wedding not long after, were amused to be again involved in a hasty Malloren march. The guests who had stayed were happy to delay a few hours to witness the vows and partake of a grand breakfast made up of rather unusual dishes. It was mostly made up of the leavings of the previous night’s supper.

  Rothgar, appearing benign, murmured something about funeral baked meats furnishing the wedding feast.

  Fort and Elf were standing hand in hand, trying to pretend they weren’t burning with lust. Did all married couples feel this impatience? she wondered.

  “You see,” Fort said, “I knew it was Hamlet.”

  “Amanda thought it was Romeo and Juliet.” Elf thanked a plump dowager for her warm and slightly risqué wishes.

  “A foolish story.”

  They were married. The event was almost over. The guests had been fed and were finally leaving. What else was there to do but chatter? “Then she said it was Benedick and Beatrice.”

  “Closer, but a scrambling plot in that one.” They both spoke briefly to a departing couple.

  “Which play do you choose, then?”

  “Why not make up one of our own? And a merry Christmas to you, Sir Charles. Yes, an impulsive wedding does save a great deal of fuss. Bon voyage.” Fort turned back to Elf. “A lighthearted comedy, I think, with somber moments at appropriate times, and even elements of farce. But always, always, with a happy ending.”

  “In iambic pentameters?” Elf thought for a moment. “Behold brave Fort, and lively chattering Elf / Waving off guests, but wishing only to be by them self.”

  “Not well scanned or even very grammatical.”

  “Then you do better!” Elf had to turn away to kiss good-bye to Aunt Kate.

  “Those evenings at Sappho’s must have taught me something,” he murmured. “Her vows all said, the baked meats all consumed, / The bride and groom wish only to be roomed.”

  Elf fought laughter. “It might scan better, but it lacks something of elegance. Thank you, Lady Garstang. And a happy Christmas to you, too. The vows all said, the bride and groom thus wedded, / They chatter nonsense, impatient to be bedded.”

  “You may not have noticed, but it is only just past noon.”

  “I noticed. For I have known you in the dark of night, / And would now know you in the sunlight bright.”

  “And I have stripped you by the candle light, / And”—he screwed up his face and laughed—“And can’t now think of how to make this right.”

  “Isn’t that what marriage is for, to make this right? I do believe that everyone of importance has left.”

  They looked at one another, suddenly somber, but somber in the happiest possible way. “Then let’s escape,” he said, “before anyone thinks we want to engage in polite chatter or a game of cards.”

  Feeling like guilty children, they slipped away and ran upstairs hand-in-hand to her room. By her orders it was well-heated by a leaping fire, and even this early, her bed was turned down invitingly.

  “I never asked if you wanted a wedding journey.” He leaned back against the door as he had the evening before. “I must warn you, my lady fair, I have come here to seduce you.”

  “I know. You’re wearing satin breeches.”

  He laughed, glowing and flushing with it. Or perhaps with embarrassed lust.

  Despite their impatience, it took time to extract her from the layers of formal clothing. It took less time to strip him of his. They stood naked in winter sunlight and she reached up to tug off his ribbon and set his hair free.

  “There. That is how I like to see you. Though black silk is appealing, too.”

  “If I please you, I am delighted.” He took her hand and twirled her, as if in a dance. “Do you realize that I’ve never seen your naked body before? It is perfect.”

  “You’re blinded by love, sir.”

  “Indeed I am. But it is perfect. Golden hair in interesting places. It flatters the sun. Will you dance in the summer sun for me, out in the woods where elves belong?”

  Now she was blushing at the thought. “Perhaps, if you dance naked with me.”

  “ ‘I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows . . .” ’ Perhaps it was A Midsummer Night’s Dream all along.”

  Elf tugged him over and down onto the waiting bed. “No, it was always something wicked. Show me. Show me something else. Something wonderfully, deliciously wicked . . .”

  Author’s Note

  It’s scary, really, how these things work out.

  I can’t remember quite why I decided to weave the Stone of Scone into this story, but probably the only reason I was particularly aware of it was a dim memory of its theft by Scottish Nationalists back in the 1950s. (I was a small child at the time. Honestly!)

  As I wrote the book, it did seem interesting to me that there was a link with Braveheart, which was proving so p
opular. I was surprised and excited, however, when not long after sending the finished novel to my publisher, I opened the paper to see the headline STONE OF SCONE HEADING HOME.

  My rather whimsical plot line had suddenly become one of relevant current interest!

  The Stone of Scone, as you will have gathered, has been of almost mystical significance to the Scottish people for over a millennium, but especially since it was stolen from them by Edward I of England in 1296—yes, the wicked old king in Braveheart. (In fact, you could say that the theft incited Sir William Wallace to lead the revolt against English control of his homeland.)

  The stone had been used in the coronation of Scottish kings since at least the ninth century, and it was said that the stone groaned if a true king sat upon it, but stayed silent otherwise. The injury to Scottish pride was made worse, therefore, when Edward had the stone put into a chair used in the English coronations.

  Wallace was defeated at the Battle of Falkirk, and executed in 1305, but his struggles were continued by Robert the Bruce, then King of Scotland. When Edward I died in 1307, his son succeeded him (only then marrying Isabelle of France, by the way), and began to lose England’s hold on Scotland. The English army was resoundingly defeated by the Scots under Bruce at the Battle of Bannockburn in 1314. In 1328, at the Treaty of Northhampton, the English recognized Bruce as King of Scotland, gave up their claim to feudal supremacy, and promised to return the stone.

  The promise, however, was never kept.

  In fact, this Scottish success proved transitory, and civil war in Scotland between Bruce and Balliol almost let England win. However, in 1342, Robert the Bruce’s son took hold of his country and established Scottish independence. It would only be the linked bloodlines in the sixteenth century that would lead to the joining of Scotland and England under one monarch.

  However, the Stone of Scone, or the Stone of Destiny as many Scots prefer to call it, would only return to Scotland once. This was in the 1950s when some Scottish students managed to steal it from Westminster Abbey one Christmas morning and get it back across the border.

  It was soon found and returned, but in the meantime, it had been broken. The students asked a Glasgow builder to mend it. Shortly before his death, this man claimed that the stone returned was not the real one but an imitation. The students denied that. There is always the possibility, however, that the real Stone of Destiny is still hidden somewhere in Scotland, its location known only to a few honored Scottish nationalists.