All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “What if she plays on Navarre’s sense of honor?” de Guise asked. “What then, madame?”

  Catherine de Medici snorted. “Must I outline everything for you? Anjou, my secret study, you know it.”

  “The one with the bed in the alcove, Mother?”

  “Yes! You will bring Madame Burke there. Drug her, or stun her with a light blow. Yes, perhaps that is better, for a drug might render her useless. Bind her hands, and see she is in a state of dishabille upon the bed. She has beautiful little breasts, and I note that Navarre is fascinated with them. One good look, and his gallantry will dissolve as his lust takes over.” She chuckled richly. “Yes, one can depend upon Navarre’s reactions when a beautiful woman is involved. Wait until after one o’clock before you lure Madame Burke away, Anjou. We want Navarre well occupied when the two o’clock tocsin sounds.”

  The final ball that night was a triumph that spilled out from the ballrooms of the Louvre Palace into its neat flower-filled gardens that bordered the River Seine. Except for Henri of Navarre’s unwelcome and persistent attentions, Skye was enjoying her time in Paris immensely. Yet she decided that she preferred the Tudor court to this one. There was too much intrigue in the French court, whose inhabitants were a touch too chic and too wicked to suit her taste.

  “I never thought,” she said to Adam, “that I should say I preferred the English and their bluff, honest ways; but compared to the French, they are less complicated.”

  He chuckled down at her. “Do you think you damned impossible Irish will ever stop fighting us, sweetheart?”

  She looked up at him, her sapphire eyes wide with innocence. “Why, Adam,” she said sweetly. “ ’Tis not the Irish who are fighting the English, ’Tis the English who are fighting the Irish.”

  “Not this Englishman,” he murmured, bending low to brush her lips with his.

  Skye’s heart began to race wildly. He seemed to be having that effect on her these days. “Devil!” she whispered back at him. “If you don’t stop your provocative behavior I shall certainly cause a scene.”

  “Mes enfants,” Gaby said lightly. “I regret to intrude,” and they broke apart laughing, “but the Queen has requested my son that you give audience to the Duchesse de Beuvron.”

  “Never, maman!” Adam’s brows drew together in a frown.

  “Adam, you cannot refuse Queen Catherine. Athenais is one of her favorites. I know that nothing the duchesse says can change how you feel, nor should it, but as the Queen has personally involved herself, you must give Athenais a fair hearing.”

  “Adam,” Skye said softly, “how often have I wanted to refuse Elizabeth Tudor, and both you and Robbie have not let me. What is good for me must also be good for thee. Go and speak with the bitch. I do not mind.”

  “I suppose we cannot have Catherine de Medici angry at us, especially should we need her refuge from the Tudors. All right, sweetheart, I’ll go and let Athenais prattle at me for a while, and I promise, maman, not to wring her deceiving little neck!” He stomped away across the ballroom to where the Duchesse of Beuvron waited by Queen Catherine’s side, smiling smugly.

  “You are so very good for him, my dear,” Gaby said softly. “I have not really seen my son happy in many years. You are the cause of that happiness, and I shall ever be grateful to you for it.”

  “It is not hard to make Adam happy, Gaby. I love him,” she said quietly. “Had he not been so concerned for my welfare, and I not so concerned about everything else, we might have wed long ago. Now I will let nothing stop us.”

  “Madame Burke?”

  The two women turned, and recognizing the Duc of Anjou, they both curtseyed low. “Your Highness.”

  He acknowledged their obeisance, and then said, “Madame Burke, my mother would like to speak with you privately if you will follow me, please.”

  “Queen Catherine wishes to see me? Forgive me, M’sieur le Duc, but I do not understand.”

  “I believe, madame, that my mother wishes you to carry a personal message back to England when you go; a message to your Queen. They have become quite friendly due to the negotiations between our two families regarding the matter of a marriage between my brother Alençon and Elizabeth Tudor.”

  “Go, my dear,” Gaby said. “You are being honored that Queen Catherine would speak to you herself.” Gaby reached out to smooth Skye’s hair and dress in a motherly fashion. “There, ma belle, you are quite ready. Allez! Allez!”

  The Duc of Anjou smiled pleasantly and led Skye off. “I must say, madame,” he said as they departed the ballroom, “that your gown is a triumph this evening. That particular shade of mauve pink highlights the creamy clarity of your skin, and I should have never thought to use silver with pink crystal beads for the panel of your underskirt. Your dressmaker is obviously French, and not English.”

  “You have found me out, M’sieur le Duc,” Skye replied.

  “I must admit to having had this gown made at Archambault by the château’s dressmaker.”

  “Did she choose the colors?”

  “No, I always choose my own colors and fabrics.”

  “You have an eye, madame. Most women, I have found, are willing to be led in the matter of dress, which too often results in their looking ridiculous.”

  “Where are we going?” Skye asked Anjou as they seemed to be moving farther and farther away from the ballroom.

  “My mother has a private study in a remote part of the palace. It insures that she not be disturbed. There are some who are very much against this proposed marriage between my brother, Alençon, and your Queen. You will therefore understand her desire for privacy, madame.”

  “Of course,” Skye murmured, and followed the duc as he moved through one corridor after another. She tried to keep track of where they were going, but she eventually gave it up as hopeless. The duc now led her up two flights of narrow stairs at the top of which was a small paneled door.

  Flinging the door open, he stepped back, saying, “Please go in, Madame Burke. My mother will be with you in a few moments.”

  “Merci,” she said politely as she moved past him, and then her brain exploded in a fiery burst of quick pain and the blackness rushed up to claim her.

  Skye’s instinct for survival aided her to climb back from the darkness, and she awoke with a small cry to find herself lying upon a curtained and canopied bed. Had she fallen? Had she suffered a fit that caused her head to ache so? Gingerly she attempted to sit up, and in doing so she discovered that her arms were bound behind her at the wrists. For a long moment confusion reigned as she tried to remember where she was. Slowly the memory became clear. The Duc of Anjou had told her that his mother wished to speak privately with her, and she had allowed him to lead her to Queen Catherine’s private study. It was as she had been entering the study that she had … fainted? Why were her arms tied?

  Skye now managed to sit up. The alcove in which the bed was situated had a curtain drawn across its entrance. “M’sieur le Duc,” she called. “Are you there, M’sieur d’Anjou?” There was no answer. Only silence greeted her. She still felt too weak to rise from the bed, and Skye looked curiously about the alcove. To her total shock, she saw the bodice and skirt of her ballgown lying neatly upon a chair. Startled, she glanced down at herself and found that she wore only a single silk petticoat and her silk underblouse. The rest of her undergarments, including her stockings and garters, were with her gown. Beyond the drawn curtain Skye heard the door to the Queen’s study open, and a man’s firm footsteps crossed the floor of the room toward her.

  The curtain was whisked aside with a jingling of brass rings, and Henri of Navarre stood there, a huge smile splitting his face as he said in a pleased voice, “Ah, chérie, you have come! All evening I have been sick with worry that you would change your mind.”

  In that instant Skye knew that she had been led to and prepared for a seduction, but by whom, and why? She was only a visitor to France’s court. She had no part in its intrigues or its politics. Obviousl
y the King of Navarre was not a party, or at least not a knowledgeable party, to the plot. He was being used, as she was.

  “M’sieur de Navarre,” she said in what she hoped passed for a calm and reassuring voice, “I do not know what you mean. Can you not see? My hands are bound most securely behind me. I am not here willingly.”

  Henri came into the alcove and, seating himself next to her on the bed, said, “But chérie, you have answered one of my love notes, suggesting that I meet you here in my belle-mère’s secret study during the ball tonight at half after the hour of one o’clock.”

  “M’sieur, I am a stranger to the Louvre. How could I have known of this room? Please undo my bonds. I am most uncomfortable. Adam de Marisco and his family will be worrying and wondering where I have gotten to; and even I am not certain how to return to the ballroom. Will you aid me?”

  “You did not answer my love note, chérie?” Henri of Navarre looked perplexed.

  “I did not even receive it,” Skye protested.

  “Yet you are here,” he persisted.

  “The Duc of Anjou brought me here. He said that the Queen wished to speak privately with me. That she desired me to carry a private message to my own Queen in England.”

  Catherine de Medici knew her opponent well. She had predicted that the sight of Skye half dressed would divert Navarre, and in that she had been correct. He barely heard her words, for he was far more interested in her beautiful breasts, which swelled provocatively above the neckline of her silken underblouse, heaving temptingly in her agitation. The beautiful Irishwoman had inflamed his senses from the moment he had laid eyes on her, and now here she was quite conveniently at his mercy, her lovely body every bit if not more delicious than he had imagined it in his salacious daydreams of her.

  “Still, madame,” he said softly, “you are here, and I am here, and how foolish we would be not to avail ourselves of this golden opportunity.” Reaching out, he undid the ribbons that held her underblouse together. The two halves parted easily, and when Henri had pushed them back over her rounded shoulders Skye was effectively bare to her waist. Navarre caught his breath in genuine admiration, for she had the most perfect little breasts he had ever seen.

  “M’sieur de Navarre,” she said pleadingly, “I beg of you do not do this thing. I am betrothed to a man I love. How can I go to him if I have been despoiled by another?”

  Navarre reached out and reverently caressed the silken flesh of one creamy orb. “Chérie, I will wager that having seen these exquisite little fruits you possess, a saint could not be stopped in his intent toward you. Besides, you are not a virgin, madame. My knowledge of you is that you have outlived several husbands. You have no maidenhead to protect.”

  “I have my honor!” Skye cried.

  “A woman’s honor is easily mended, chérie,” the King of Navarre said softly. “Give her a diamond necklace or a small château, and all is well again.”

  “You have acquired a great deal of knowledge in your nineteen years, m’sieur,” Skye replied tartly.

  He laughed, enjoying her show of spirit. “I had my first woman when I was thirteen, madame. I do not think that a night has passed since then that I have not had a woman to pleasure me.” Henri of Navarre stood and began to divest himself of his clothing. “You have appealed to my finer self, madame, and you have scolded me, neither of which has deterred me from my intent. Perhaps, chérie, you did not come willingly to this bed, but you are here, and if I released you I should regret it all my days.”

  “I shall scream,” she threatened him.

  He laughed. “No one will hear you, chérie. Catherine de Medici put her private study in the most remote part of the Louvre for many reasons, not the least of which was that no one hear what transpired in this room should the Queen decide to interrogate a prisoner. If you scream not one soul will come to your aid, and you will give yourself a very sore throat.” His forefinger reached out to smooth across her cheekbone. Then his hand slipped behind her head and loosened her hair, pulling the pins out and placing them on the small nightstand until her midnight-black locks fell about her naked shoulders like a satin mantle. “Don’t be afraid, chérie,” he soothed her in a low and now passionate voice. “You will like what we do together. I am an expert lover, I promise you, and I will only give you pleasure, chérie. I won’t hurt you, I swear it!”

  Skye looked into Henri of Navarre’s amber-brown eyes, and knew that nothing she might say would divert the young King from his path of seduction. She was helpless before his lust, and the best that she could hope for was that he was telling the truth, and would not hurt her. He would, however, get nothing from her. She would lie quietly while he had his way with her, and she hoped he would be quick. They were leaving court and Paris tomorrow, and she would never see him again. Adam would never have to know. Skye was ashamed of her final thought, but she would not hurt the man she loved with this tale when there was no need.

  “Will you untie my hands, monseigneur? My arms are numb and I am most uncomfortable. I promise not to fight you.”

  Reaching behind her, Henri undid the silken cord by which she had been held fast, and Skye rubbed her arms, which ached painfully as the blood began to flow back into them. In freeing her he had taken the opportunity to remove her blouse entirely, and now, to her surprise, he pushed her back onto the pillows, drew her arms above her head, and retied them quickly.

  “I’m sorry, chérie,” he said, genuine regret in his voice, “but despite your vow, I know that your natural morality will cause you to defend your virtue against me. I have far better uses for my hands at this time than fending off your blows.” Standing up again, the King finished undressing.

  Skye assessed him from beneath lowered eyelids. He was a tall man, almost as tall as Adam, and he was big-boned. If anything, he erred on the side of thinness, which gave him an awkward appearance, and she noted quickly as he climbed onto the bed with her he had huge feet. His hands, however, were big, slender, and very elegant, she saw as he drew her petticoat off her and caressed her hip.

  He was gentle and soft in his leisurely exploration of her body. “How lovely you are,” he said quietly. “You have skin like the finest silk, but I suspect I am not the first man to make that comparison. Still, I have never known a woman with such fine skin, chérie. It has an almost druglike effect upon me.” He bent down and began to kiss her breasts, his lips scorching the tender nipples with their fiery touch. “Mon Dieu, chérie, but you are perfection!”

  Damn him, Skye thought furiously as a tiny quiver rippled through her. He is an expert lover, and he is not going to devour me like a piece of cheese, but rather go slowly until I can no longer bear it, the bastard! The King’s mouth closed fiercely over her left nipple, where it sucked hungrily, forcing a small cry from between her lips. Instantly he lifted his head.

  “You like that, chérie? You must tell me what pleases you.”

  “I care not what you do,” she replied coldly. “It matters not.”

  “What a little liar you are, chérie. Do you think that you can hold back your passion from me? You’re too honest a woman,” he laughed softly. “Soon, ma belle, soon,” he whispered into her ear, “soon you will lie beneath me crying with your pleasure. You are one of those deliciously rare creatures born for loving, and I am a man who was born to love women! We will be incredible together!” Then his mouth left a trail of kisses down her straining throat before moving upward to capture her lips with his own.

  He kissed her with an expertise born of much practice, forcing her own lips apart with the pressure of his. His tongue leapt forward to plunder within her mouth, tasting of her greedily, slid beneath her upper lip along her teeth leaving the scent of mint wherever he touched her. It swirled around her mouth to sweep downward, and Skye felt the first stirrings of desire awakening within her. She despised herself for her weakness. With an angry cry she tore her head away from him, hissing furiously, “You bastard! Have me and be done with it!”

 
; He looked down at her, his amber eyes dancing devilishly, and then he laughed. “So, chérie, you begin to feel it, too.”

  “I feel nothing,” she snarled back at him.

  “I can feel you quivering, ma belle. Oh, it is very faint, and very deep down, but I am sensitive to such things.”

  “I am not sure, monseigneur, which is bigger, your imagination or your opinion of yourself!” she said scathingly.

  Again he laughed. “Neither, chérie, as you will soon discover, for I possess an altogether larger part, and already it grows hungry for the taste of your wonderful body.” Straddling her easily, he bent and again began to taunt her nipples with his tongue, nipping, licking, and sucking teasingly until she thought she would shriek with the pleasure that began to tug at her.

  “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Skye muttered the litany as she cursed her treacherous body, which was beginning to respond shamelessly to his ardent suit. Skye knew what she felt was lust, but she nonetheless was angry at herself that she could not prevent the delicious stirrings within herself.

  What was worse was that he knew what she both felt and thought. The amber eyes looked mockingly down at her, daring her to deny the truth. With a sob Skye turned her head away from his gaze, hating him even more for his gentle tone as he soothed her distress. “No, ma belle, you mustn’t hate yourself. Yield to me, chérie, and I will give us such pleasure.”

  “N-never!”

  With a sigh of regret the young King moved from her lovely breasts and began caressing her long torso with his hungry lips. Slowly, tortuously, his mouth moved downward, firmly parting her resisting thighs, to stare admiringly at her hidden treasure, to kiss it softly. His curious tongue began to explore her, inhaling her haunting woman’s fragrance, slipping along the folds of sensitive flesh, pushing gently into her to rouse her passions until she was no longer able to deny them.

  Skye clenched her bound hands into fists, her rounded nails digging cruelly into her palms. She bit her lip so hard that it bled, but she could not prevent the sob that was torn from her reluctant throat. He lifted his head to stare at her, his eyes passion-drugged. Slowly he pulled himself up and atop her. Then with a quick thrust he was inside her warm body, moving smoothly, rhythmically. After what seemed like an eternity to Skye, the King demanded, “Does it please you, chérie? Will you admit now that I am the best lover you have ever known?”