All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “You must be tired after your long journey, M’sieur le Baron,” Skye said. “We were not expecting you so soon, and I fear you will think our hospitality poor, but I must ask you to rest here with some of our good Beaumont wine while I see to your apartments.”

  “Stay, and serve my new uncle,” Edmond said. “I will see to the servants. I know the rooms to prepare.”

  “Yes, madame,” Nicolas St. Adrian said. “I would learn of my half-brother, and this situation with the French. I am, after all, a Frenchman, and I have sworn an oath to serve the king. I can do nothing that would compromise my honor.”

  Edmond de Beaumont hid a smile as he left Skye and his new uncle. He was some ten years younger than Nicolas St. Adrian, but in many ways he felt older. How innocent M’sieur le Baron was. Edmond did not believe for one moment that Nicolas was going to give up this magnificence, this title and the wealth involved simply because it might offend the French Charles.

  Back in the Great Hall, Skye poured Nicolas a silver goblet of Beaumont’s fine rose-colored wine, and handing it to him gestured him to a seat. Taking her own goblet, she sat opposite him and raised the silvery vessel: “To you, Nicolas St. Adrian. May you be a good duc for Beaumont de Jaspre.”

  “I should far rather drink to your marvelous sea-blue eyes, madame,” was the disconcerting reply. His own green eyes raked her boldly.

  “You wished to know of your half-brother,” she answered him coolly, but her pulses were racing and her stomach was fluttering wildly. She had not had this sort of a reaction to a man since she was a maid of fifteen and had met Niall Burke for the first time. She must regain control of herself, for she was a respectable married woman and her poor husband lay ill to death within this very castle.

  He could see the turmoil within her, although she sought very hard to conceal it. He caught her gaze with his, daring her without words to play the coward and look away. “Yes,” he answered her. “Tell me of my brother’s illness, madame.”

  She blushed charmingly, but to her credit she was brave and did not glance away. “1 am your brother’s third wife,” Skye said. “We were married three months ago, but he suffered an apoplectic fit several weeks afterward, and I was not with child.

  “The Dowager Queen Catherine de Medici would like to absorb Beaumont de Jaspre into France. Without a male heir we could lose our independence. Your half-brother prefers that you inherit. If you agree, you will be invested as Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre in St. Paul’s Cathedral next week. Understand that my husband’s wealth will remain his while he lives, although you will be given a most generous allowance. You must also agree to care for his son, Garnier, and your nephew, Edmond, after Fabron’s death.”

  “And you, madame? What will happen to you after my brother’s death?” His intense gaze caressed her face boldly, causing her to blush again. “Should I not also take care of you?” The words said one thing, his eyes said another.

  Skye drew in a deep breath to clear her head, which was whirling. She didn’t know how much longer she could sit quietly speaking with this man. He was having the most devastating effect upon her. She could see the steady beat of a pulse at the base of his throat. She wanted to kiss that pulse, to fondle him, to touch his chestnut-colored hair to see if it was actually as silky as it looked. God’s bones, she thought, furious with herself, what in Hell is the matter with me? I am behaving like a bitch in heat!

  “There is no need to fret for me, M’sieur le Baron,” she finally managed to say. How calm her voice sounded, she thought, pleased. “I am a wealthy woman in my own right. When the sad day comes that I am widowed once more, I will return to my own land. My marriage to your brother was a political one. I have left behind small children to whom I long to return, for I miss them greatly.”

  Sacre bleu! he thought silently. She is exquisite. That skin is totally flawless. Is it as soft as it appears? Mon Dieu, but I want to kiss that adorable mouth! “Perhaps, madame, your Queen will contract another political match for you,” he said provocatively.

  “God’s foot, I hope not!” Skye said with feeling.

  He laughed. He couldn’t help it, for she was so positive in her feelings. His green eyes had lightened with his amusement, and he asked, “This marriage was not to your liking, madame?”

  “For my Queen and your brother it was convenient, M’sieur le Baron. For me it was a necessity, for I am Irish and I needed a favor from Bess Tudor. This marriage was her price, and I willingly paid it.”

  “What favor did you need, madame? Was it for a lover perhaps?”

  “No, M’sieur le Baron, it was not for a lover. It was for my infant son who with the murder of his father became Lord Burke, and the possessor of great land holdings. Without the Queen’s protection his holdings would have been gobbled up by others.” How dare he presume I would plead for a lover? Skye fumed silently.

  “Did you love your late husband?”

  “Yes, M’sieur le Baron, I did.” Her voice was sharp.

  He leaned over, and taking her hand in his kissed it, his eyes all the while never leaving hers. “I apologize, madame,” he said, “for my rudeness.” He did not let go of her hand.

  Dear God, Skye thought, as pure desire coursed through her veins, I want this man, and I don’t even know him! She rose to her feet, hoping that her shaking legs would not betray her. “I cannot imagine what is keeping Edmond,” she said. “I had best go and see to your quarters myself, M’sieur le Baron.”

  He rose too, thinking to himself, I must possess her, not just for tonight, but for always! I have found the one woman that I can marry at last, and I shall not let her escape me. “Thank you, madame,” he answered her gravely.

  He was still holding her hand, and it did not appear as if he intended to let it go.

  “M’sieur le Baron,” she whispered, tugging to free herself.

  “I think, madame, that you will have to call me Nicolas. After all, we are related … by marriage.” He raised her hand to his mouth once more, his lips lingering slightly longer than was respectable before he finally released her.

  Skye thought she was going to faint. She could have sworn he nibbled at her knuckles with his teeth. The sexual tension between her and this man was simply incredible, and she was frankly embarrassed. She hurried from the hall, feeling his eyes on her back as she went. Skye remembered the love that she had felt for Niall Burke when she had first met him all those years ago. She remembered the passion she had first felt for Geoffrey and, when he had won her over, the great love that bloomed between them. What she now felt was akin to both those old feelings, yet it was not like either of them.

  With supreme self-control she put it firmly from her, and went directly to her husband’s chambers. He had just been fed, and Daisy, who had volunteered to help the duc’s serving man when she could, was gently wiping Fabron’s hands and lips with a soft cloth that she dipped in rosewater. As she worked she chatted away at the duc, and Skye could see that he was interested and amused in what she had to say. Daisy’s French had improved incredibly in the few months that they had been here. She had, it seemed, an ear for languages. Now she was telling the duc of Devon, her home, but the duc’s eyes strayed from Daisy as Skye entered the room.

  “Good evening, mon mari,” Skye greeted him. “I have come back to tell you of your half-brother.”

  Fabron de Beaumont frowned and shook his head in the negative.

  Skye laughed gently. “Non, non!” she scolded him. “You must listen to me, Fabron. Nicolas St. Adrian is a handsome young man, and even I can see that Beaumont de Jaspre is fortunate to have him to rely on in our hour of need. You will like him, Fabron.” She smiled at him encouragingly. “Tomorrow morning I intend to bring him to meet you.”

  Again he shook his head in the negative, but Skye overruled him sympathetically. “Fabron, if you do not see him people will say you do not approve of him, that you do not want this at all, and then the French will overrun us. You have signed all the documents.�
� She did not tell him of the Pope’s support. “Despite the fact that he was born on the far side of the blanket, he is your brother and he is of gentle birth. I see great intelligence in his face.”

  Fabron de Beaumont sighed deeply and grimaced at her, but then with a slow gesture he reached out and sought her hand. His grip was weak, but she knew it was his only way of saying that he accepted her advice in this matter.

  “Thank you, monseigneur,” she said. “I understand how difficult this is for you, but it is best for your duchy.” Then she smiled. “I must hurry now, for our guest has yet to be fed. He came upon us so unexpectedly. We must not, however, have him think that our hospitality is lacking. This time I really bid you goodnight.”

  Fabron de Beaumont watched his wife glide gracefully from the room. Trapped in a body that could no longer function, he had never felt more frustrated in his entire life. To be struck down just when he had begun to find happiness with her was unbearable. Nothing had ever prepared him for such misery, and he did not understand it.

  Daisy hurried after her mistress. “I only hope those two silly girls I am trying to train to help me have prepared your bath as I instructed them, m’lady.”

  “Marie and Violette seem willing maids, Daisy. I am sure they will learn under your tutelage.”

  “Flighty is what they are, m’lady, but then I have no choice. I thought no one could be as foolish as Agnes and Jane back in England, but these two!” Daisy rolled her eyes heavenward, and Skye had to laugh. Although several years younger than her mistress, Daisy had been in service with Skye for over seven years now, and was protective and jealous of her position. “What shall you wear this evening, m’lady?” she asked.

  “This dress will be quite suitable, Daisy. I have hardly worn it today. I must bathe, however. The day has been hot. I fear a storm soon. There has been thunder in the hills all afternoon.”

  As they entered Skye’s bedchamber Marie and Violette curtseyed prettily, then hurried to help their duchesse disrobe. Daisy critically checked the bathwater to see that its temperature was just right for her lady, and the bath oil mixed properly. Finding everything in order, Daisy removed the pink camellias from Skye’s hair, pulled out the tortoiseshell pins that held the heavy chignon, and brushed the mane free of tangles. Daisy would allow no one to touch Skye’s hair but herself. Satisfied that the hair was silky smooth, the tiring woman carefully pinned it atop Skye’s head and helped her mistress remove her chemise.

  Skye climbed into the oaken tub that she had brought from England, and settled herself in the warm water. It was just the perfect temperature. Skye wrinkled her nose with pleasure at the damask rose scent permeating the room. How she loved that smell! “Let me soak for a bit,” she told Daisy, who, knowing her mistress’s moods, left the bedchamber shooing the two giggling undermaids ahead of her.

  The long windows that opened onto her balcony were open, and she could see the vivid sunset coloring the sea and sky. The colors had the deep intensity of early autumn, and streaked the sea with molten gold. Clinging to the vine outside her windows, a wild canary sang an impassioned song, and Skye’s mind, free this last half-hour from thought of her husband’s half-brother, was suddenly and inexplicably filled with him again. She was very much disturbed by the way that she had felt toward this man, for he was a stranger. Worse, she sensed that he knew how she felt, and it made her position difficult. What must Nicolas St. Adrian think of her? At least she had done nothing, said nothing, that could be misunderstood. Skye could satisfy herself that she had acted the perfect chatelaine before her husband’s half-brother, whatever her confused mind and turbulent feelings.

  It was the heat, and her wild Celtic imagination, she decided, relieved. It had been a wretchedly hot and still day, and she had not slept well since Fabron’s fit. She worried about him as she might worry about one of her children, keeping one ear alert even when she was sleeping. She felt so terribly sorry for her husband. Their marriage had hardly begun under auspicious circumstances, thanks to the evil influence of the now dead Pastor Lichault. Had her life been more sheltered, she might not have been as tolerant and forgiving of him as she was; but she had quickly seen how tortured a man he was, and Skye O’Malley had a generous heart.

  The physician had told her that he would not live very long, for his fit had been a severe one and his bodily signs certainly were not good. She could afford to be generous. She would be a good wife to Fabron de Beaumont for as long as he lived. As to Nicolas St. Adrian, her strange reaction to him had been a case of nerves. She had been without a man for longer periods of time before, and she had certainly not played the wanton then. She was not going to do so now!

  “Daisy!” she called loudly. “Daisy, come scrub my back!”

  Chapter 5

  NICOLAS St. Adrian had come unexpectedly to the castle of Beaumont de Jaspre. Therefore, his hostess warned him he could not expect an elegant supper. Thinking with amusement that a haunch of venison and a loaf of brown bread was a feast at his castle, he watched with pleasure as the “simple” supper was served. Robbie having gone east on a short trading voyage, there were but three of them at the high board this evening: Nicolas, Edmond, and the exquisite duchesse. The Baron had thought that she might avoid him at the evening meal, but no, to his great elation, she had come, cool and elegant, not quite meeting his eyes. He was certain now that she felt as he did!

  The heavy silver wine goblets studded with the duchy’s native green Jasperstone were filled with fragrant, dark red wine. There were three dishes offered as a first course: plump steamed mussels in their black shells served with a Dijon mustard sauce, pieces of baby octopus in olive oil seasoned with garlic, parsley, and fennel, and a silver platter of hard-cooked eggs spinkled with the young leaves of summer savory and pungent black peppercorns. The second course consisted of the whole leg of a baby lamb stuck with tiny sprigs of rosemary and roasted with small onions and carrots; a large rabbit pie; tiny larks wrapped in pastry and baked to a delicate golden brown. Each lark had been stuffed with a mixture of chopped oranges and green grapes. There was also a fat capon that had been prepared with a rich brown sauce flavored with tarragon, and salad of young lettuce, radishes, black olives, and artichoke hearts dressed in olive oil and red wine vinegar, and a large bowl of saffroned rice. For dessert clary leaves were dipped in cream, fried, and eaten with orange sauce. There was also a large bowl of fresh fruits. Throughout the meal the wine goblets were never empty.

  They all ate heartily, Edmond remarking that despite his monster appetite he remained tiny, and teasing Skye by saying that no matter how Madame la Duchesse stuffed her pretty self she remained slender. He then noted that his new uncle was no mean trencherman.

  Nicolas smiled, admitting it was the truth. “I am the last of the St. Adrians,” he said honestly. “My castle is tumbling down, and not only has my larder been bare, but my purse as well. Your simple meal, madame, is a feast to me. Beaumont de Jaspre is another feast of sorts.”

  “Then that is why you came to us so quickly,” Skye said. “We expected you later, and with a great retinue.”

  Nicolas chuckled, a rich, warm sound that sent chills up and down her spine. “Alas, madame, I have no retinue, for one must pay retainers, and there was no money. Even my peasants thought me a poor lord. They were forever scolding me about regaining the lost honor of the St. Adrians. I must go to court, they insisted, but how could I explain to them that at court one needs gold, that being Baron St. Adrian is not quite enough. They are such simple, good people. I hope that I will be allowed to siphon some of the bounty of Beaumont de Jaspre back to Poitou to rebuild St. Adrian. It will make a fine inheritance for a second son.”

  “Then,” she said, “you have decided to accept your half-brother’s offer?”

  “Yes, but under certain conditions of my own, madame. Firstly I will not war with France, to whom I am a sworn vassal.”

  “You need not,” Skye said. “Before we sent to St. Adrian for you, M’sie
ur le Baron, we also sent to the Pope that he might uphold your claim. Several days before you arrived my messengers returned bringing the Pope’s approval of my husband’s wishes. Another messenger was sent from the Pope to Paris. On the day of your investiture you will swear an allegiance to France, as have all Ducs de Beaumont de Jaspre before you. You will swear it before Queen Catherine’s messenger, whom we have been detaining here since he arrived.” Her eyes twinkled at this last.

  “Indeed, have you, madame?” His voice was amused. She was quite a woman to so daringly brave the wrath and might of France.

  “Indeed, Nicolas, we have.” It was the first time she had used his name, and it sent a shiver through him that he well concealed.

  “He has been housed most pleasantly,” Edmond remarked. “He will have no cause “for complaint with his mistress. We have even seen him supplied with the most attractive of maidservants.”

  “Edmond, you haven’t!” Skye was shocked. My God, what would Elizabeth Tudor think when she learned that Beaumont pimped for a French envoy!

  “Chérie! Can you think of a better way to keep an imprisoned man content and good-natured? I certainly can’t. Queen Catherine’s messenger will have no reason to protest our treatment of him when he returns to Paris.”

  “I suspect that the hospitality of Beaumont de Jaspre will be most lauded,” Nicolas laughed, and his green eyes were damp with his mirth.

  “You are both impossible,” Skye scolded, but her blue eyes were dancing with merriment, and they both knew that she was not seriously angry.

  “Have you any treaties that I should know about, madame?”

  Skye looked to Edmond questioningly, and asked, “Other than the treaty made with England, Edmond?” He shook his head.

  “What treaty with England, madame?”

  “My husband has a treaty with England allowing English ships to stop here to provision and water on their way to and from the Levant and Istanbul.” He raised an eyebrow, and she continued, “France and England are not at war with each other, M’sieur le Baron. I believe that even now they court each other.”