“Even me, little girl,” he said affably, and Skye found herself totally nonplussed by his attitude.
Niall, Lord Burke, was placed in a wooden coffin, and the coffin put into a marble vault in the chapel of St. Anne in the duchy’s cathedral. Père Henri, now Bishop of Beaumont de Jaspre, blessed the tomb and then said a mass over the remains. He had hoped to comfort Skye, and so that he might not be hurt she told him that he had; but the truth was that she felt empty. Niall was dead, and she was haunted by the thought that it had all been for nothing.
She bid Robbie and Bran Kelly a hasty farewell. “I can’t go back,” she told Robert Small. “Not yet. I am not ready to face either my family or my children or the Queen. Especially not the Queen, and Lord Burghley. God only knows what plan they have for me this time, Robbie, and I am not strong enough to deal with them.”
“Where will you be?” he questioned her.
“With Adam. He will make no demands on me, Robbie. He is taking me to visit his mother at Archambault in the Loire Valley.”
Robert Small nodded. He had never seen her so low. She would be safe with Adam de Marisco, and for now that was all that mattered. “Shall I tell the Queen if she asks where you are?”
“Can you deny Elizabeth Tudor, Robbie?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation, “I can for you, Skye lass. If asked, I shall say you are in France, but I know not where.”
“Thank you, Robbie,” she replied, hugging him hard.
Nicolas St. Adrian had insisted on outfitting them for their journey. “You are, whether you remember it or not, the dowager duchesse of this little kingdom of mine,” he told her firmly. “I would be remiss in my duties to my late brother if I did not see that you had a coach, outriders, and your own saddle horses.”
She thanked him there in the cathedral, where she had been making her good-byes. “You are generous, Nicolas.”
“You will also find all your clothes packed and stored in the coach, doucette. Your Daisy would not bring them back with her to England, saying that you would have no use there for ‘French feathers,’ as she so tartly put it. Those feathers, however, will stand you in good stead now as you travel across France.”
“You once more have my thanks,” she told him.
He nodded briefly. “Go with God, doucette,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips and placing a tender kiss upon it.
“Thank you, Nicolas,” she said softly, “and I hope that it is a healthy son your petite duchesse carries.” Then Skye turned away from the young duc and, slipping her arm through Adam’s, left the cathedral.
At the foot of the steps was a fine, dark blue traveling coach with the coat of arms of Beaumont de Jaspre emblazoned on its sides. Upon the box sat a coachman and his assistant. There were a dozen armed outriders, four of whom would ride before the coach, four behind, and two on either side. There were two mounted grooms, each leading a pedigreed horse. The coachman’s assistant was quickly down to open the door of the vehicle and help Skye into it. The interior was as elegant and as luxurious as the exterior, the walls padded in fine, soft, cream-colored leather, the seats done in pale-blue velvet. The windows, which could be raised or lowered, were Venetian glass edged in bright brass. On each side of the coach were delicate crystal vases filled with fragrant arrangements of dried lavender and lemon thyme, and small, carefully mounted crystal lamps, their gold holders fitted with pure beeswax tapers.
“You will find that the back of the seat facing you pulls down, madame,” the coachman’s assistant said. “Should you need it, there is a lap robe, as well as a basket with fruit, cheese, bread, and wine.”
She nodded her thanks, and the assistant withdrew to climb back onto the box while Adam pulled himself up into the coach. The door securely shut, the vehicle rumbled slowly off across the cathedral square, through the narrow streets, and finally onto the north road that led to France and into the Loire Valley. Skye never looked back. She had done what her instinct had told her to do with Niall’s body. He had not been lost to the sea, and in this she had cheated Mannanan MacLir. One day Niall Burke would come home to Ireland and be buried in Irish soil next to his father, where he belonged. She could almost feel the old MacWilliam’s approval of her deed.
They rode in silence the entire day, and when evening came the coach stopped at a comfortable-looking inn. Despite the elegance of their equipage, only one room could be given them, for the inn was crowded. Adam offered to sleep in the stables with the outriders, but Skye would not hear of it.
“I think that we can share a bed platonically,” she said, and he nodded.
“I think you only agree to let me in your room so you will have someone to maid you,” he teased her gently. Skye had refused to take a girl from Beaumont to be her servant. She was not so helpless, she had declared, that she could not care for herself the relatively short time of their journey. Once they were at Archambault, Adam’s mother would see she had someone to care for her.
They ate a simple country meal of roasted duck, artichokes with olive oil and tarragon vinegar, new bread, a soft cheese, and a bowl of early cherries. The innkeeper served them a smooth, rich Burgundy wine with their meal. Afterward they watched as a troupe of Gypsies played and danced in the courtyard for the guests’ coins.
When the Gypsies had finally disappeared back to their encampment, Adam and Skye climbed the stairs to the inn’s second floor where their room was situated. It was a cheerful, airy chamber overlooking the moonlit fields. There was a fireplace in which a small fire burned to ward off the evening’s chill, a chair, and a big, comfortable bed with blue and white linen hangings. The bed had been opened by a maid, and beckoned them enticingly. Their coachman had brought Skye a small trunk that he told her contained the things she would need on her journey. “The Duchesse Madelaine packed them herself for you, madame.”
“You know the duchesse?” Skye queried him, curious.
“Ah, yes, madame. My wife is her tiring woman. We came with her from Monaco.”
“Your mistress knew that I was the last Duchesse of Beaumont?”
“Yes, madame.”
“You will thank her for me when you return to Beaumont de Jaspre. Her kindness is appreciated.”
Skye thought about Nicolas’s young wife as she opened the tiny trunk and lifted out a simple white silk nightgown. She was far wiser and more mature than Nicolas suspected. Skye smiled. Nicolas, although he didn’t know it, was in very good hands, and Beaumont de Jaspre was going to prosper.
“What are you smiling about, little girl?”
She looked up at him. “Nothing, Adam. Just a woman’s thoughts. Will you unhook my gown?” She felt his big hands gently undoing the fastenings.
“There,” he said when he had finally undone the last of them. Adam hadn’t realized the effort it would take on his part not to touch her. Am I a ravening beast, he questioned himself, that I cannot undo her gown for her without wanting to make love to her? Dear God, he loved her so very much! He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He wanted to drive away all the bad times in her life, and make her remember only the good. Slowly he turned away and began to undress himself, pulling from his saddlebags a white silk nightshirt that he rarely wore. Tonight, however, it would be best to have as much as he could put between himself and Skye. When he turned back to her she was seated on the edge of the bed brushing her long black hair with a gold brush. “Would you rather I slept on the floor, little girl?” he asked in what he hoped passed for an impersonal voice. “I could easily wrap myself in the coverlet, and with a pillow for my head I should be quite comfortable.”
“The floor is damp,” she said, looking up at him with a smile. Then her eyes widened, and Skye giggled.
Adam looked puzzled. “What is it?” he asked.
“You’re wearing a nightshirt!” she exclaimed, amused.
“You’re wearing a nightgown,” he countered.
“I’ve never seen you in a nightshirt,” she answered.
“
I never felt the need to wear one with you, Skye,” he said solemnly.
She thought a moment, and then said, “Oh,” in a small voice, and her teeth caught at her bottom lip.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said.
“No, Adam, you’ll catch your death if you do. Look! The bed is large, and comfortable.” She paused a moment, then added, “And if I am not ready, or able to … to … you know what it is I say; we are two grown people who surely can control our passions. I know I am being unfair, Adam, but I need you near me! Do you understand what it is I am saying?”
“Get into bed, Skye. The night has grown chill. You need your sleep, and we have an early start.”
Obediently she climbed into the big bed and snuggled down beneath the warm coverlet. Bending, Adam blew out the single candle, and only the low firelight lit the room as he slipped in next to her. For some minutes they lay in silence upon their backs, each stretched out long and stiff, and then Adam quietly reached out and took her hand in his large paw. “You say nothing, and yet I can hear you screaming with your pain, little girl. Tell me now! Tell me what is in your mind and heart. Tell me before it grows so big that there is no controlling it, and you destroy yourself.”
“It was all for nothing,” she said, the anguish plain in her trembling voice. “It was all for nothing, Adam.” She sighed, and a shudder rippled through her slender frame. “Niall is dead. He is as dead now as he was to me two years ago; but two years ago I had learned to live with it. Do you know what I have done, Adam? I have whored. I am no better than those women who inhabit the waterfront brothels in every port. I used my body, and I have been used. I did not think when I agreed to Osman’s proposal that it would be so hard, and perhaps if my husband had survived it might not have been; but Niall is dead now, and I cannot reconcile myself to the fact that it has all been for nothing.”
“You got him out of Morocco, Skye. He died a free man.”
It was as if she did not hear him, or if she did the facts were not enough to soothe her. “Kedar,” she said. “God’s blood, Adam, how I hate the very sound of his name! He was Osman’s nephew, and the man whose slave I was. Look at my ankle, Adam.” She stuck her foot out from beneath the coverlet, and in the dim light from the fire he could see something glittering on her ankle. “Do you know what is written on the medallion of the anklet? It says, Muna, Property of Kedar. I have not yet had the time to have a smith remove it. Property of Kedar, Adam, and I was most assuredly that. My very life depended upon his goodwill. He possessed me with a ferocity I have never known, Adam. He took everything I was forced to offer, and much I did not. I spent those months in his possession, terrified that he would devour me both body and soul with his passion, with his terrible need to consume me. He did things to me, Adam, things that I did not imagine a man could do to a woman, and it was never enough! Oh, God! I shall never be free of him! The memories of him will haunt me all my life, and the memories of my beloved Niall will haunt me, too. I see now that it would have been better if I had left him to meet his end in Morocco rather than to betray the vows we made before God when we were wed. Oh, Adam! I am so lost!”
With a low growl of anger Adam climbed from the bed and flung the covers back. Gently he lifted her ankle in one hand while with the other he snapped the gold band from her leg as if it were a ribbon. Striding to the window, he threw back the shutters and flung the offensive anklet as far as he could. Then he closed the shutters again, and calmly climbed back into the bed.
Skye turned and, pressing her head into his shoulder, began to weep. Stunned, Adam wrapped his arms about her and let her cry. Tears, he knew, were a catharsis. There was nothing else he could do, for he could never completely wipe away the terrible memories she would retain of her time with Kedar. Gradually her sobs died, and her breathing evened out and she slept nestled against him. Adam also slept then, only to be awakened by piteous cries as Skye, caught in the middle of a dream, relived some of her Moroccan adventure. He did things to me, Adam, things that I did not imagine a man could do to a woman, she had said. He was both horrified and shamed by what a member of his sex had done to her. Skye was a woman to be cherished and adored. She was a good companion and a brave comrade. She had been made to be loved, and she was the best friend he had ever had. It both pained and angered him that she had suffered so.
It took them eight days to reach Archambault from Beaumont, and during those eight days Adam learned in detail Skye’s adventures in Morocco. After that first night he had insisted that she tell him everything, and as more and more of her agony came to the surface, the less violent her nightmares became. As he listened he realized how very much he loved her. This time she was not going to get away from him, and the afternoon they neared his mother and stepfather’s château through the exquisitely rolling green countryside of the Loire River Valley he told her so.
“You are going to marry me, Skye.”
“I will never marry again, Adam. I have had all I can of belonging to a man. I will be my own mistress until I die. Please try to understand that, my darling.”
“I understand that you have had a terrible experience, Skye, but I am determined that you will be my wife. Being married to me will not make you my property. You will always be your own woman; but you will be my wife as well. I love you, little girl. I have for so very long a time. My greatest treasures are my good name and my honor. I would bestow my name upon you.”
“How cruel you make me feel to refuse such a magnificent gift, Adam, but no. I must be free! Please try to understand.”
He sighed. “You need time, Skye, and I am willing to give you all the time you need.”
“You are impossible!” she scolded him.
“I am a man in love,” he countered. “You are the first woman I have asked to marry me in twenty-two years, Skye.”
“Oh no, Adam de Marisco,” she cried, outraged. “You shall not make me feel guilty because the daughter of some obscure count once refused your suit! You know better where I am concerned.”
“You will marry me!” he laughed, pulling her into his arms and nuzzling her neck with his lips. “Dammit, little girl, I love the smell of you!”
She pushed half-heartedly against his chest. “I won’t!” she said stubbornly. Yet Skye felt lighter of heart than she had in months. Adam de Marisco was so very good for her, and she knew it.
Suddenly he was serious again, and he gently tipped her face up to his, his thumb and forefinger on her chin. His smoky blue eyes seemed to envelop her, and she thought for a startled moment that she might faint, but she didn’t. Instead her heart raced madly, and a faint flush touched her skin as he murmured in his deep voice, “I adore you, you sapphire-eyed Celtic witch!” And then his mouth was closing over hers in a tender and melting kiss that left her both breathless and near to tears. “You see,” he teased her when he had lifted his lips from hers, “you are yet alive, and still very much a woman, little girl.”
She was surprised. When Niall had died she had thought that she could never again stomach a man’s touch. Not after Kedar and his excesses. Still, this was Adam, her dearest and most beloved of friends; but deep in her heart Skye knew that was not the whole truth. She had always loved Adam in her fashion, and she strongly suspected that love was now deepening in a far different way. I will not give up my freedom, she thought furiously to herself. I won’t!
Adam’s mouth was smiling knowingly at her, and she hit him upon the chest with her fist. “I will be my own woman, you ass! I will never again belong to anyone but myself! Stop smiling, Adam! Oh, I hate you when you are smug!”
He began to laugh, and his laughter warmed her, much to her outrage. “In the end, little girl, you will marry me,” he said in a voice deep and tender with his love for her. “You may take your time, Skye; whatever time you need to admit to what you know in your own heart. God only knows I have proved a patient man where you are concerned.”
“Hah!” she snapped at him. “How many times did you turn me
away, Adam de Marisco? Twice, as I recall, and now suddenly it is I who would turn you away, but you will be patient. I swear to you I will not marry again! I will learn to use men as they use women. I wonder how patient you will feel when you see me flirting with another man, Adam.”
He grinned infuriatingly at her. “Get it out of your system, little girl, and when you are ready to be sensible again I will be waiting patiently for you, as I always have.”
“Ohhh!” God’s bones, he was making her so angry. He was treating her as if she were a child instead of a woman of thirty-one who had just come through a terrible experience. Skye drew in a deep breath to scold him further, but he forestalled her, saying:
“Look, there is Archambault!”
Unable to resist, Skye looked through the coach window. There on a gentle hill that rose above the River Cher, she saw a charming small château with its steep red-tiled roof, its four rounded corner towers, and very French dormer windows. Below it along the river were the vineyards of Archambault, and behind them a generous estate of fields and woodlands. It was a perfect summer’s day with a cloudless, deep-blue sky and bright golden sun. The river ran cheerfully by the green vines and ripening fields of maize and wheat. The forest was in full leaf. There were cattle grazing in the fields, and sheep, too. It was altogether the most peaceful scene Skye had ever seen. She had not believed that there was any place on this earth that peaceful.
The coach rumbled onward up the hill to the château, drawing to a stop before a tier of steps crowned with carved and gilded double doors of weathered oak. As the vehicle stopped, the doors to the château were swung open by a liveried servant, and several footmen came running down the steps followed by a rather beautiful woman in a taffeta gown the color of purple primroses, its low-necked bodice embroidered in silver and crystal beads. The woman’s hair was coiffed as Skye wore hers, parted in the middle, drawn back and gathered into an elegant chignon. There were pearls in her hair.
“Adam!”
“Maman!” He sprang from the coach, and caught her up in a bear hug of an embrace, squeezing her until she shrieked, and kissing her soundly upon both cheeks.
All the Sweet Tomorrows Page 49