All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “So that was why you were sent to my half-brother. Your Queen uses beautiful women in the same way that Queen Catherine does, like chess pieces upon the great board of power; and my pious brother was more than willing to accept England’s beautiful pawn.” His voice was faintly scornful.

  Skye’s blue-green eyes grew stormy with outrage, and when she spoke her voice was cutting. “Do you dare to judge me, M’sieur le Baron? What can you possibly know of the games of power, sitting in your tumble-down castle in the midst of the Poitou marshes? How easy it is to be righteous when you have nothing to lose! I, however, have learned that in order to survive one must play the game of life as those in power dictate.

  “I have six living children, M’sieur le Baron. I have buried four husbands. I am wealthy in my own right beyond your wildest imaginings! I most certainly did not need your uncle! But wealth, M’sieur le Baron, cannot protect you from royalty. I needed an ally, and Elizabeth Tudor is the strongest ally available in my part of the world. Should I have put my faith in French or Spanish aid? Bah! The French and the Spanish aid the Irish and the Scots only for their nuisance value against the English. Then they depart, leaving us to face Tudor wrath—which usually involves the taking of our lands and our gold.

  “I will not beggar my children for an ideal! Ideals cannot feed them, or clothe them, or protect them from wicked men. But I can, and I will! Now, M’sieur le Baron, I will bid you goodnight. It has been a long day for me.” Standing, she swept regally from the room, leaving both men somewhat shaken by the passion of her outburst.

  Finally Nicolas St. Adrian spoke. “She is magnificent!” he said softly, and his green eyes, still full of her, gleamed thoughtfully.

  “She is like no other woman I have ever known,” Edmond de Beaumont responded honestly. “She did not want to come to Beaumont de Jaspre. She had to leave her children behind, but her sense of duty, I sometimes think, is greater than a man’s. She would not endanger the inheritance of her Burke son, and her Queen’s price for protection of the boy’s rights was this marriage, and so Skye came.”

  “She had children by her other husbands?”

  “By all of them,” Edmond answered. “That is one reason why my uncle was so pleased to have her. She has borne seven children, but lost only one, and him to an epidemic when he was an infant.”

  “What happened to her husbands?”

  “The first died from injuries incurred in a fall,” Edmond said. “The second and the last were murdered by women. And the third husband died in the same epidemic that killed their younger son. She did not wish to remarry. She said she felt she was ill luck to the men who loved her, and now she will lose my uncle, too.”

  “Does she love your uncle?”

  Edmond shook his head. “There was no time for love to grow between them, but she is fond of him and will do her duty by him. Skye has been good for this family even in the short while she has been with us.”

  For a while longer the two men sat in companionable silence, Nicolas absorbing the information Edmond had so freely given him. Finally he spoke. “You need not be afraid that I will not take care of you and little Garnier after your uncle is gone,” he said. “I will uphold all the duties of a good Duc de Beaumont de Jaspre.”

  “I never doubted it,” Edmond replied, “but your first duty is to marry, Nicolas.”

  “What?!” Nicolas’s voice was mock stem. “Will you instruct your older uncle, little nephew?”

  “We need another heir for safety’s sake, Uncle,” the dwarf replied. “I can hardly satisfy that need.”

  “Why not? Dwarfs are born of normal parents. Why cannot normal children be born of a dwarf parent?”

  “No,” Edmond said seriously. “I will not pass on that weakness in my seed to another generation. I have watched with fear each time one of my sisters has borne a child. No, the ducs de Beaumont de Jaspre’s line of descent must remain pure and untainted, Uncle.”

  “Do you not enjoy the women?” Nicolas inquired curiously.

  Edmond grinned. “Indeed I do, Uncle! In fact,” and he hopped down from his seat, “I intend to go into the town tonight to celebrate your arrival. I am much prized by the ladies, for they seem to enjoy sitting me upon their laps and petting me as they would a favored child. Then when they find out that I am as capable a rider as any tall man their delight usually knows no bounds. I am simply careful about spilling my seed where I should not.” He winked broadly at Nicolas. “Will you come with me, Uncle? The hospitality of Villerose’s taverns is legendary.”

  “Not tonight, little nephew,” Nicolas said with a smile. “I am weary from my long trip. Besides, I should not want to inhibit you,” he teased. “With me along you would feel bound to set a good example for your elder, and then you should not have a great deal of fun.”

  Edmond chuckled. “Not to fear, Uncle. As the good Père Henri will tell you, I am myself no matter—much to his distress, I might add. Very well then, I shall bid you a good evening. Do not wait up for me. Perhaps if it is a very good night I shall not come home at all!” Then he was gone from the hall, and Nicolas sat alone.

  He sat sipping at the dregs of his wine for what seemed a long time, but her beautiful face kept appearing in the bottom of his cup. Never in his life had he felt such an intense reaction to any woman. They had just met, he didn’t know her, she was his brother’s wife, and yet Nicolas St. Adrian knew that he loved Skye. Loved her and wanted her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a servant yawn, and instantly he felt guilty. Rising from the table, he left the hall so the poor man, his duties finally over, might seek his bed.

  Back in his own apartments, he was delighted to find that the servant assigned to him had arranged a bath. A large oak tub had been placed before the fireplace in his antechamber. A small hot fire now burned, for it had begun to rain and the air was damp and chilly. The serving man, a thin, fussy fellow named Paul, worked silently and efficiently, eager to please this new master who was of such importance. Quickly he stripped Nicolas down and, after helping him into the tub, began to gather up his clothes, clucking at their dusty and somewhat threadbare condition.

  “With M’sieur le Baron’s permission,” he said, “I shall have the tailor here tomorrow.”

  “Alas,” Nicolas said, amused, “I have no money, Paul. How will I pay the tailor?”

  “Madame la Duchesse will see to it,” came the simple reply. “You, M’sieur le Baron, are to be our new duc. Your clothing must not disgrace Beaumont de Jaspre. If you will permit me to observe, M’sieur le Baron, you have an elegant figure. Dressed properly, you will do us proud!”

  Nicolas hid his vast amusement as he accepted this compliment of sorts with a gracious nod. Having disposed of his new master’s sad garments, Paul returned to begin the task of washing him. With skilled, quick hands he soaped and scrubbed Nicolas from his chestnut-red hair to his feet, observing all the while that it was a sad shame that Madame la Duchesse had not been married to such a fine figure of a young man as M’sieur le Baron. Such a good and beautiful lady deserved better than the Duc Fabron, God pity the poor soul. The duchy was vastly relieved that M’sieur le Baron had come into his inheritance early. Now he must find a wife as lovely as Madame la Duchesse.

  “That will not be easy, Paul,” replied Nicolas. “Indeed, I believe it will be impossible.”

  “M’sieur le Baron is right, of course,” Paul replied primly. “There has never been anyone like Madame la Duchesse in Beaumont de Jaspre. She is an angel in her devotion to the Duc Fabron, and it was her sweet and good example that led the duc back to the Church. How sad that she could not have borne the duc a healthy son before the onset of his illness.” Paul helped his master from the tub, and began to towel him vigorously.

  Nicolas sniffed himself delightedly. “What is that soap you used?” he demanded.

  “Madame la Duchesse had it made up, M’sieur le Baron. It is scented with essence of clove. Madame says a man should not smell like a flower in bloom.”<
br />
  Nicolas chuckled richly, and Paul allowed himself a small smile as he began to dry his master’s hair, first using a linen towel, then a boar’s bristle brush, and lastly a piece of fine silk. Nicolas’s hair was soon soft and dry and shining, causing Paul to remark that M’sieur le Baron had a fine head of hair. Nicolas liked this chatty, stuffy servant who had been assigned to him. Paul now brought forth a fine silk nightshirt, but Nicolas refused it, saying:

  “I sleep in my skin, unless, of course, it is very cold.” He could see that his servant was shocked, though he strove to hide it. Nicolas strode into his bedchamber, and Paul hurried to draw back the coverlet. He then wished M’sieur le Baron a good sleep as he covered his now comfortably bedded master.

  The room was quiet as Nicolas stretched himself out, enjoying the sensuous feel of the soft linen sheets scented with lavender. Closing his eyes, he sought sleep, but sleep would not come this night. With a smothered curse he finally climbed from the bed and walked to the long windows that overlooked the sea. Quietly he stepped a small way onto the balcony.

  Then in a flash of lightning he saw her standing with her back toward him on the next balcony. She had her face held up toward the mistlike rain that permeated the air. Her long dark hair hung free, and he could see the graceful line of her smooth throat. With a rashness he had never recognized in himself, he knew that he had to have her now!

  Stepping back into the room, he saw a small door by his bed and realized that it must lead to her room. Of course the door would be locked, but he put his hand on the knob nonetheless, feeling his heart accelerate as the handle turned. Looking through, he saw a narrow passageway that curved around the spiral of the tower next door. He left his own door open and walked through the passage and around the arc of the wall. Before him was another door, which he was certain would be barred to him. It was not. It swung open with a creak.

  Skye heard the squeaky noise, and came in from her balcony to see a barely noticed door in the wall by the small fireplace swing open. Before she could scream, Nicolas St. Adrian stepped into her bedchamber. Her very startled blue eyes swept his tall, nude form, and as her heart began to pound with excitement, she felt an ache of desire begin to swell within and knew why he had come. Suddenly reason returned, buffeting her weakening ethics, and she backed away from him, whispering, “No!”

  “Yes!” he said low. Reaching out he pulled her hard against him. “Yes,” he said again, and he tipped her face up, his hand tangling into the mass of her soft black hair as he lowered his head to tenderly brush her cool lips with his burning ones. “Yes!” he murmured against her mouth, kissing her deeply now, ignoring her palms frantically pushing against his bare chest as his other arm wrapped itself about her waist, pressing her tightly against him.

  Skye felt an almost primitive joy taking hold of her as he kissed her. Gentle at first, his lips now coaxed a sweet response from hers, forcing her mouth open to plunge his tongue in to meet her own. They fenced with one another, and as they did the tongues became two spears of pure flame, scorching and blazing with the fires of untamed desire. She shuddered fiercely, and with a supreme effort of will tore her face from his, gasping, “This is wrong, M’sieur le Baron! This is wrong! I beg you to stop. You must!”

  “Nicolas!” he said harshly, his green eyes blazing with gold lights. “My name is Nicolas! I want to hear you say it! I want to hear my name on your lips! Say it!”

  “Nicolas!” The word as she spoke it was a plea. “Nicolas, I beg you to stop!” Every fiber of her being was tingling, crying out to this stranger. Weakened, she fell back against his arm, her breasts rising and falling rapidly with the passion she sought so desperately to conceal from him. She could not do this thing! She must not!

  He cradled her tenderly in the curve of a strong arm. Looking down at her with his ardent green eyes, he deliberately held her captive with his intense glance. “I want you,” he said simply, and then his hand hooked into the neckline of her gossamer nightgown tearing it easily, the two halves opening to reveal her small and perfect breasts, their little rose pink nipples thrusting up with a desire she could not hide. “Ah, si belle,” he murmured reverently, his gaze softening, “si, si belle!” His free hand reached out to cup a breast, to rub the nipple gently with his thumb.

  Skye sobbed helplessly as her conscience warred with her desperate craving to be loved by this stranger. “Nicolas … Nicolas, I am a married woman!” Dear God, he must stop caressing her breasts! Every touch of his hand eroded her will, only made her yearn for more and more and more. Never had she betrayed a husband. “Nicolas!” Her voice was ragged, and the voice inside her head shrieked a different plea. Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! it said.

  He didn’t seem to hear her. His head dipped, kissing each dainty nipple, sending a tremendous shudder through her, and then he made the decision for them. Sweeping her up, he carried her to the bed, pulled the shredded, peach-colored night rail from her, laid her down, and then, lying next to her, drew her into his arms. “I adore you, Skye,” he said in a low and tender voice, “and I believe that you feel the same way, though you strive bravely to deny it out of loyalty to my brother.”

  Somehow it was easier to speak now that he was not assaulting her senses so wonderfully with his hands and his lips. “I do not know you,” she said. “Until this afternoon I never laid eyes upon you. How dare you enter my bedroom and treat me as you might some common trull!? You will leave at once! Again I remind you that I am your brother’s wife!” Her words were brave, but Nicolas knew better than to believe her.

  “Precious liar,” he said, his tone warm and amused. “The moment our eyes met you felt the same passion I did. Why do you fight me, Skye? You do not love my brother.”

  “He is my husband, Nicolas. If I cannot keep faith with him then I am worth nothing. I have been called many things in my lifetime, but a faithless wife is not one of them.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “No,” she said honestly. “Ours was a political alliance.”

  “Will he recover from this illness, Skye, or will he soon die?”

  “He will die,” she whispered. “Nicolas! Oh, Nicolas, why do you do this to me?”

  “Because I would bind you to me, Skye! Bind you so tightly that when Fabron is dead you will not run away back to your England, or Ireland. You have been mine from the moment that our eyes first met. I know it—and you know it!”

  Then before she might reply, might protest his possession, he was kissing her again, kissing lips that could not refuse him, murmuring tender endearments against her mouth. “Je t’aime! Je t’adore! Tu es ma belle amour; ma vie!” He covered her face with a hundred quick, little kisses, nuzzling in the tiny hollow below her ear, placing slow, hot kisses along the tense muscle of her neck, leaving a trail of long, hungry kisses from the little valley between neck and shoulder down along her arm.

  She was paralyzed by the intensity of the passion that he aroused in her. He had attracted her as Niall had first attracted her. Instantly. He kindled in her the same fiery hunger that Geoffrey had once kindled in her. In the next room Fabron de Beaumont, her dying husband, lay helpless. Skye’s ethics battled with her emotions as Nicolas’s lips began to tease the aching nipples of her taut breasts. His warm, moist mouth opened and closed again over one of those little nipples, nursing as strongly upon it as a hungry infant. She arced against him as the desire plunged down her body to center in her woman’s core. Ethics lost the battle as she threaded her fingers through his thick, chestnut hair, moaning softly, pressing his head closer to her. “Nicolas! Nicolas!” she whispered breathlessly, pleading now for passion rather than against it.

  He swung over her, seating himself lightly on her long shapely legs. His hands began a delicate caressing of her body, sweeping up to gently knead her belly, to cup both of her breasts, to smooth over her shoulders and then down again along the curve of her waist and hips. It was like throwing wood on a fire, and her desire flamed for him,
yet he did not stop. His hands were warm and loving, his fingers unbelievably sensitive as they sought out her pleasure points. Finally he took her two hands in his and drew them down to his fully aroused manhood. She shyly explored and stroked it, finding him quite long and thick. Her passion-heavy eyes forced themselves halfway open to see him, and she caught her breath at his size.

  “I want you to put me within you, Skye,” he commanded her softly. “You do it, mon amour. Put my hardness within the honeyed sweetness of your luscious body.”

  Her body languid with his loving, her will mesmerized by his insistent voice, she obeyed his command, a marvelous feeling of relief overcoming her as she slipped his pulsing weapon easily within her. With a groan of pleasure Nicolas pushed himself as deep inside her as he might go, stopping a moment to allow her tight sheath to accept him in comfort. “Ah, ma doucette,” he murmured in her ear, and then he began a slow, rhythmic thrusting, going deep, drawing his length almost fully out, driving back into her again, and then again and again until she swooned.

  He revived her with kisses and soft words, and she cried, “Ah, God, you are still within me!” and shuddered with the hot passion.

  “You are mine!” he said fiercely. “Whatever has been before is gone, and only we two, now and in this time, exist!” His lean hips ground down upon her again, and Skye found herself lost in a world where only desire existed, desire without end. He pulled her arms above her head controlling her totally while he dominated their pleasure. Beneath him she writhed, panting frantically, her head thrashing from side to side, desperately seeking her rapture; but he sensed every nuance of her mood and held her in firm check until it pleased him to give her release. A disciple of sensuality, Nicolas St. Adrian meant to be master of this beautiful woman. Finally seeing that she could take no more of his teasing, he bent to kiss her lips, thrusting his tongue into her mouth in perfect rhythm with his lower body which thrust into her frantic form.