The room was emptied. Tabrizia was torn between going to Alexandria or going to Paris. She went to Alexandria. "Come on, let's get you into bed, you are suffering from nervous exhaustion." She quickly undressed her and urged her under the covers. "I'm going to have Mrs. Hall come and look after you. She is just like a mother."
Alexandria began to laugh and cry at the same time. "Neither one of us knows what a mother is like."
"No, but we are both going to have to learn." Tabrizia smiled gently.
When she went to their bedchamber, Paris was drinking raw whisky. "I think we are cursed," he stated bleakly.
She knew what she wanted to tell him, but she must pick her words very carefully, lest she ignite his already lacerated temper.
"Nay"-- he shook his head—" 'tis not a curse, 'tis my fault." He looked into her eyes, and she could read the unbearable pain there. "I've done a terrible job bringing them up. From the beginning I've resented that the twins' birth killed our mother. They turned to each other, but I swear to you, love, I never suspected there was anything unnatural going on between them." -
"Nor was there!" declared Tabrizia emphatically. "Listen to me, darling. You mustn't torture yourself for one moment longer, thinking Alexander the father of her child. He just jumped in to protect her, the way he always does. He didn't realize how unspeakable such a thing would be. You know his only thought was to take her guilt upon himself."
Paris looked at her with a faint light of hope dawning in his eyes. "Do you really think it possible they were lying?"
"Alexandria is having a baby, but I'm absolutely convinced that Alex is not the father. I'll try to get her to confide in me, and between us we will put this whole mess right."
She reached out a comforting hand to him, then withdrew it quickly as he flared, "By God, I knew Shannon was a cock-chafer, but I'd no idea little Alexandria was somebody's night piece!"
"Night piece?" gasped Tabrizia. "Is that what I am to you?"
"Of course not! My darling, come here to me. I'm sorry you have to bear the brunt of my accursed temper, but sometimes this damned family has me at my wit's end." He pulled her down into his lap, and his lips brushed her temple. "You are so slim. Are you sure we are to have a child?"
"You'll have a son by November," she promised.
"You could be carrying a little vixen, just like yourself." He grinned in anticipation.
"Or twins," she teased.
His grin faded. "Don't even think that. Lord God. I am scared to death of your delivering one safely."
"I will be fine," she promised. "I want this baby too much for anything to go wrong. I'll talk with Alexandria."
His hold on her tightened. "Just get me a name. I'll have them wed within a week," he vowed darkly.
June brought the Douglas and the Lennox clans for the wedding festivities. Damascus and Tabrizia took Shannon and Venetia along to Alexandria's chamber where they could all be private. Tabrizia locked the door, and they all gathered around the bed.
"What's the mystery?" demanded Shannon. Tabrizia said quietly, "Alexandria is going to have a baby, and she refuses to name the father."
"Oh, love," cried Shannon, "do you not know who the father is?"
"Of course I know who the father is," cried Alexandria indignantly.
"Darling, we all love you, and we only want to help you. Please tell us who the father is, and you'll see how simply this can all be straightened out," implored Tabrizia.
Alexandria sighed deeply. "When I disgraced myself by going on that raid to Huntly, I further disgraced myself by getting pregnant."
"One of the bloody Gordons?" demanded Shannon, "Paris will kill him?"
"Oh, my God! It was Adam Gordon, wasn't it? No wonder you wouldn't tell," realized Tabrizia, feeling somehow responsible.
"All hell will break loose when he finds out," predicted Shannon.
"For God's sake, don't breathe a word of this before the wedding," begged Damascus.
"Was it very terrible for you, Alexandria?" asked Tabrizia, imagining the worst.
"It was inevitable. Adam Gordon and I loved each other on sight;" she admitted softly.
"You mean to say you weren't forced?" asked Venetia, scandalized to think one would actually bed with a Gordon by choice.
Alexandria looked at Tabrizia hopelessly and gave her back her own words: "You see how simply this can all be straightened out?"
Shannon said, "Well, of course, there's only one of us can possibly beguile Paris enough to break this news to him."
They looked at Tabrizia. "Oh, please, not me," she begged.
"Of course, you," said Damascus, "after the wedding."
"He is besotted with you," declared Shannon.
Alexandria clinched it. "You are carrying his heir, he wouldn't harm you." She took hold of Tabrizia's hands in supplication, "Oh, please ask Paris if Adam and I can marry."
"He won't even sign the peace bond the King ordered," Tabrizia pointed out "How in the name of heaven am I to get him to agree to a marriage contract?"
"You know how!" Shannon quipped.
"You are the only one with power over him," begged Alexandria.
"As soon as the wedding is over and you have all deserted back to your own safe castles, I'll tell him. But I make no promises; the man is as unpredictable as a volcano, with temper to match."
"He'll run mad," whispered Damascus under her breath, and received a vicious poke in the ribs from Shannon.
Magnus arrived with Margaret and left her to her own devices while he placed Tabrizia's arm through his and possessively escorted her around, proudly showing her off before all the guests. When she told him he was about to become a grandfather, his face split with a grin that stayed with him all day. He winked at her. "Does that mean you finally yielded?"
She slapped his arm and blushed vividly, which only added to his pleasure. He had aged visibly since the first time she had met him and his mortality smote her, and she promised herself that she would go to visit him more often in the future.
Margaret maneuvered Paris into a private alcove. She wore brilliant orange, which set off her vivid, dark beauty in a startling manner.
"You look very beautiful, Margaret," complimented Paris. "I swear you must be a witch; you look two years younger every time I see you."
Her eyes glittered with malice as she told him, "You surprised me, Paris. Marrying a girl who was betrothed to another. I thought you didn't care for other men's leavings."
He managed to reply, "There is no jealousy in me, Margaret."
Her laughter rippled over him. "What an outrageous lie! Do you mean to tell me you have never hunted for her love letters?" asked Margaret, planting her poisonous seeds of discord.
"Excuse me, Margaret, I am neglecting my duties as host." That was enough to stir his emotions, and he went straight to his bedchamber, jealousy already eating at him. He went through Tabrizia's personal belongings until he found the jewel casket containing Patrick Stewart's letters. He would demand that she swear an oath that she had never lain with him! Suddenly, he realized what a damned fool he was being. How could he jeopardize the happiness they shared? If she found him searching here, he would destroy that rare; priceless thing they shared. Quickly, he put the letters back, unopened. He knew now, where there was no trust, there was no love.
There were so many guests that the wedding day passed in a blur, and Tabrizia found her face ached from keeping a smile upon it. So many clans present— how did they keep track? Each clan in some way related to another, usually through marriage, and now all related to her. Her mind gave up trying to sort them into any kind of logical order.
In the evening when the dancing began, she was whirled off her feet by a never-ending stream of men who had heard of Rogue Cockburn's beauteous wife. They knew this would be the closest they would ever be allowed to get to her, so they took full advantage. As she was catching her breath between partners, she scanned the hall for a familiar face. She was pulled unceremonio
usly behind an arras and was vastly relieved to find herself in Paris's arms. He kissed her hungrily and whispered, "Surrender or scream."
"You usually make me do both." She laughed breathlessly.
"Come with me."
"Where?" she asked.
"Just follow me, don't ask questions."
"Paris!" she protested, thinking he was about to take her to bed.
"Trust me!" he bade her. "Can't you simply trust me and come when I ask you?"
"Of course I don't trust you, but I shall come with you. I would do anything you asked, you know that."
"Mmm, that's a promise I'll hold you to." He laughed suggestively as he led her from the hall and through the castle yard to the path that led down the cliffs, down the sandstone steps that led to the seashore. He broke the silence. "I'm so sick and tired of my family and their everlasting problems. I want to get away. Just the two of us."
She waited for him to explain further.
"Family"— he laughed, mirthlessly—"sometimes I think they belong to another species, not my own flesh and blood."
She squeezed his hand to dispel his darklings.
"Thou shalt not covet," he intoned. "Well, by God, I do covet a little peace and privacy. I want to give you a honeymoon." They came upon a small rowboat, and he bade her step in while he pushed them from shore. She could make out the lights on the Sea Witch as the outgoing tide swept them rapidly toward the ship.
What was happening seemed so unreal, she asked herself if this could be a dream, but the salt spray that brushed her cheek was real enough. She thought of the expensive gown she wore. and how it was being ruined beyond repair but bit her lip so she would not spoil his adventure. A huge wave almost tipped them, but she laughed recklessly, beginning to enjoy herself.
Paris bellowed, "Ahoy, ahoy!" His men had been watching for him and already had the rope ladder over the side. Eager hands reached down for her as Paris lifted her to his shoulder and boosted her aloft. Then he was on deck beside her, his arm securely about her shoulders, propelling her along to that cabin of opulent luxury, which had left her speechless with shyness the first time she had glimpsed it. It was just as she remembered. She blushed as she remembered what had taken place in the bed the first night they were wed. The air was warm and fragrant from the braziers and incense burners. Even the wall panels were made of scented sandalwood, which was disturbing to the senses. Piles of soft cushions and pillows lay everywhere, to beckon and tempt.
Paris turned her face up to his and kissed her until all her breath was gone; then he sighed a deep, satisfying sigh and said, "I have to weigh anchor and attend to a thousand things to get us under way, but once we are on course, I'll join you. I may be a while, love, so amuse yourself. No storms this time, my darling, I promise you."
She gazed about her, thoroughly bemused. It was as if she were still dreaming, though now the dream had turned into gossamer make-believe. She caught sight of herself in a silvered mirror and was shocked to see how disheveled she looked. She stripped off the wilted gown, which had been such a pretty confection only hours ago, and in her corselette went into the bathing cabinet to wash.
Lovely scented soap suds refreshed her from head to toe. She couldn't put her stockings back on, as they were wet and dirtied from the bottom of the rowboat. Whatever would she wear? He had brought her away on a whim without thought of daily necessities. On impulse, she opened his wardrobe crammed with his beautifully tailored, expensive clothes. She might be forced to wear his fine lawn shirts. She fingered his velvet robe, lavishly embroidered, and wished he were not such a giant. She closed the wardrobe and glanced around the room. She opened one of the many trunks that lined the wall and gasped with delight at the brilliantly colored materials inside.
She held up the cloth, which was so sheer, it was almost invisible. It was some kind of veiling, woven with a magic thread that made it glimmer with a sheen of its own. She found a small casket filled with gold chains so finely wrought, they looked as if they would break upon being touched. There was a colored drawing of a woman in some sort of strange, exotic costume. She studied it and tried not to blush. The breasts were held up and out by a clever device that cupped them but revealed, all at the same time. She glanced into the chest and discovered such a contraption lying beneath another wisp of veiling. It dawned on her that the chest contained a costume like the woman wore in the picture: Its lure was irresistible.
She quickly divested herself of her corset and stood naked before the mirror. She clasped the device about her breasts, fastening it behind her, and stared in amazement as her reflection revealed the twin, thrusting spheres, enlarged beyond belief. She fastened the veiling about her waist. It fell in folds to her ankles, but she giggled as she looked into the mirror and saw that it totally revealed her bare legs and red, curly triangle of pubic hair. She looked in the trunk for some kind of pantaloons but found nothing. She looked at the drawing again and saw that the woman indeed wore nothing under the veiling, save gold chains. She lifted the skirt and fastened a double link of gold chains around her hips, then added more to wrists and ankles. She explored further and found an ornate ivory casket that opened to reveal exotic kohl and lip paint. Vials of oil and musky scents stood alongside pots of silvery and gold gloss that smelled deliciously of lemon and almond. Tentatively, she began to experiment. So absorbed in her task of tip-tilting the corners of her eyes with kohl, she failed to hear the door open and close.
"Tabrizia."
She stood to face him, and his eyes traveled from her face, lingered on her breasts, widened at her veiled thighs, then dipped to her ankles and slowly traveled back up her body. "How the name suits you," he breathed.
She was flushed with the excitement of him seeing her thus. As he advanced slowly, deep-dark promises smoldering in his eyes, she backed away with a cry of delicious fear. He simply reached out and took her. As his mouth slanted across hers hungrily, his fingers deftly undid the brassiere and lifted off the veiled skirt.
"Walk around for me," he asked. "Let me look at you."
She moved slowly across the cabin, then turned to look at him. The look in his eyes made her feel lovely, special, desired beyond all other women.. She brought her arms up beneath the red mass of hair, lifted it high, then slowly let it fan out and ripple down in a silken waterfall across her bared shoulders. She walked slowly forward and stood on tiptoe to press a light, teasing kiss to his lips, then she wound her arms around his sturdy neck. He lifted her against him, and she could feel his heart thudding against her bare breast.
"Whenever I'm near you, I'm like a man starving. Your touch and caress are my food and drink. Prepare, my love, I am about to devour you."
His fingers sought the private place where only he had gone before, knowing full well the sensations would provoke her to cry his name again and again. He slipped one of the cushions beneath her buttocks so that he would be able to pierce her more deeply. She opened to him as a blossom to the sun, then she closed on him so tightly, it was his turn to cry out in ecstasy. He held hard inside her without moving, each savoring the throbbing pulsations of the other. Then he began to move with long, silken thrusts, until her moans built into a scream deep within her throat. The violence of her bliss erupted as she came up off the pillows, her hands clinging to his heavily muscled back. Then he filled her with his scalding nectar.
Afterward, Paris rose, took the eiderdown from the bed and brought it to cover them. She stretched luxuriously, languidly, and snuggled against him.
" 'Tis paradise away from everybody," he whispered. "I'll show you places you have only dreamed of."
Reality began to nibble at the outer edges of her consciousness, "How long will we be away?"
"Who knows? Who cares?- Forever, I hope," he said, tightening his hold on her.
"Two days? Two weeks?" she persisted.
"At least," he conceded lazily.
Briefly, she thought of Alexandria. She would have to tell him soon. Not yet, though. She wa
sn't about to ruin their honeymoon. She pushed thoughts of Alexandria away as she focused on the husky voice of Paris. "You'll see France, your mother's country."
"France?" she whispered in disbelief.
"Where did you think we were going?" He smiled.
"Leith," she said quickly.
"Leith?" He threw back his head and roared with laughter. "First we are going to take the wool across to The Hague, in Holland."
"What comes after Holland?"
"Belgium." He kissed her.
"What comes after Belgium?"
"France." He kissed her again.
"What comes after France?".
He hesitated. "Spain, but I didn't plan on going that far."
"Why not?" she questioned.
"Before we're finished, you'll have the voyage stretch into a year." He chuckled. "Besides, Spain is too hot to make love." He rolled her onto her stomach and swept a hand down her smooth back. She quivered at his touch. His hands began to massage her body. "The climate of France is perfect." He straddled her with his knees and bent to whisper in her ear: "I'll find us a lovely secluded bay along the coast where we can bathe and play naked in shallow azure pools."
"Paris!"
He could always shock her. He loved it. He was in a playful mood now, and grinned to himself as he anticipated how shocked she would be when he showed her what he wanted to do next. Gently, he turned her over to face him.
CHAPTER 19
Her days were lazy, sun-filled, happy. Her nights were rapturous. She found a Chinese silk kimono, and in another brass-bound chest, a beautiful one-shouldered gown that Paris told her was a sari from India. When she went up on deck, she wore one of Paris's shirts and some white linen pants he had found for her.
As soon as he had disposed of the hundreds of bales of raw sheep's wool, he had taken her shopping in The Hague. She had been surprised and delighted at all the very latest Paris fashions they had there. Her sun-kissed days had turned her skin golden. When they looked at each other, they looked deeply. Paris gazed meaningfully into her eyes. They could communicate without speaking. It was almost a spiritual mingling. He had given her his heart; now he was giving her his soul. They were becoming one.
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