All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  “You’d best send some rich gift along with my brother, not that that’s likely to placate the Queen.” Here she lowered her voice, although of the de Saville women only Gaby could either speak or understand English. “ ’Tis said these marriage negotiations of hers make her fretful and irritable. She does not like to see happiness in others these days.”

  Before Skye might answer her old friend, there were cries of delight from the de Saville women as Mignon brought in and displayed Skye’s nightgown for all to see; of pale pink silk, its low-scooped neckline was part of the molded bodice falling into a simple skirt that swirled about her ankles. The sleeves were long and flowing and deceptively modest. Skye’s petticoats and blouse were quickly taken away and the gown dropped over her head. It slid down her body with a soft hiss of silk.

  Gaby and Dame Cecily gasped at the open sensuousness of the gown, but Adam’s sister Clarice spoke for them all, saying, “Mon Dieu, ma soeur Skye! Why have we bothered to clothe you? The gown fits you like a skin, and if I know my brother you will not wear it long. Try to see that he does not tear at it in his eagerness.”

  “The men are coming,” Musette said from the door.

  “Quickly then,” Gaby cried as her wits returned, “into bed, ma fille! I do not believe that Adam would appreciate others seeing what is for him alone.”

  Skye climbed into the big bed, and with swift fingers drew the pins and silk flowers from her hair and handed them to Dame Cecily. Mignon was instantly there to brush the hair free of tangles. The door to the bedchamber burst open and Adam was pushed into the room by his half-brothers and the other male guests. He wore a silk nightshirt.

  “He’s as ready for you as he’ll ever be, Madame de Marisco,” Alexandre de Saville laughed.

  “If I had something that lovely waiting for me,” Yves chuckled, “I would not have been so long in getting to bed!”

  “Out!” the lord of Lundy roared. “Get out, all of you!”

  Gaby stopped to kiss her son, saying as she did so, “You are both so lucky, mes enfants.”

  The bedchamber emptied slowly as the guests straggled out through the salon back into the hall of the château. When he was sure that the last of them was gone, Adam firmly closed the door to their bedchamber, walked back over to the bed, and sat down upon it.

  For what seemed a long moment they sat in silence, and then Skye said softly, “My God, it is really true! We are married, Adam!”

  He grinned almost boyishly at her, and her heart contracted painfully. “I love you, Skye de Marisco,” he said quietly. “I love you very much.”

  “You don’t have to sleep with me if you don’t want to,” she said suddenly. “I will understand.”

  “Where else would I sleep, Skye?”

  “You know what I mean, Adam!”

  “Will it hurt the babe?”

  “No.”

  “For how long, Skye? You have to tell me these things, for I’ve never been a father before.”

  You’re not a father now! she wanted to cry at him in her pain. I can never give you, the man I adore, a child. This is a bastard I carry, and we both know it! Instead, she said, “It varies with each child, Adam. When I get too big and the baby is low, we dare not, but for now there is no harm.”

  “Good,” he said, standing up and pulling off the silk garment that they had dressed him in. “For you see, Skye, I intend exercising my marital rights to the fullest.”

  Skye swung her own legs from beneath the coverlet and stood up also. Then she turned and, smiling at him, asked, “Do you like the gown, mon mari?”

  His eyes raked slowly down her provocative length, and then he said pleasantly, “If you intend to keep that garment whole, madame, you had best remove it quickly before I rip it off you.”

  Slowly Skye slipped the gown from her shoulders, letting it fall to her waist. She hesitated a minute, allowing him a long look at her beautiful breasts before pushing the cloth over her hips and letting it slide to the floor. His mouth twitched appreciatively at her pretty performance as she stepped lightly from the puddle of silk at her feet. Then as boldly as he, she let her eyes sweep his long length.

  “You like what you see, madame, I trust,” he said, amused.

  “I always have, mon mari,” she returned. “Do you like what you see?”

  “I always have,” he chuckled. “Now get into bed, dammit, little girl. I need very much to feel your softness against me!”

  Slipping back into the bed, she turned toward him to find that his arms were already reaching out to draw her to him. Skye wrapped her arms about her husband’s neck, and sighed with delight. “Dearest Adam,” she whispered to him, “I do love you! You are so wonderfully good to me.” Then she boldly sought his mouth, and he groaned at the hungry touch of her lips, feeling the sparks ignite instantly between them as the kiss deepened and grew until they both drew away breathless.

  Pressing her back into the pillows, he tangled his fingers in the night cloud of her hair and kissed her again until her lips ached with the sweetness with which he was filling her. Her breasts began to grow taut with her rising desire, her nipples thrusting up sharply and tingling with their longing. He felt the rounded push of her against his furred chest, and reaching down with one hand, he caressed the warm little globe of flesh, cupping it in his big hand, rubbing against the nipple with his thumb. Skye shuddered with the pleasure his touch gave her.

  Adam laughed, a low and intimate sound of equal pleasure. “You are the most sensual creature I have ever known, ma femme. It pleases me that marriage has not turned you into a little prude.” His shaggy dark head dropped so he might take the nipple in his mouth. Slowly he sucked on the tidbit of tender flesh while her fingers kneaded at his neck with increasing urgency. Leisurely he played with both of her beautiful breasts, kissing and touching and loving them with growing ardor. Skye could feel the hot, hard length of him against her leg, and she shuddered again with delighted thoughts of what was to come.

  He made love to her that night as if he had never before known her. Slowly he explored her silken flesh as if he had never touched it. “Ma femme, my wife,” he called her. “My beautiful bride. Sweet, sweet Skye!” His kisses burned across her body, leaving her shaken and yet yearning for more. Slipping his hand between her thighs, he stroked the softness of her sensitive skin until her legs fell open beneath his tender assault. Toying with her nether lips, he teased her with a single finger that rubbed at the very heart of her femininity until she was squirming and panting beneath his touch.

  “Oh, my darling,” she begged him, “let me touch you also!”

  “Not yet, sweetheart, but soon,” he promised, and then he turned her over onto her stomach. Slowly his big, warm hands smoothed over her legs and her back and her buttocks and her shoulders, fanning the flames of her burgeoning desire until she moaned low with her hunger. She felt his great weight on her as he placed his body atop hers, pressing her deep into the mattress. His throbbing maleness rubbed suggestively against the halves of her bottom, igniting her passion even further. She could scarcely breathe, but she cared not if only he would possess her.

  “Adam! Adam! Please,” she pleaded with him. “I am so hot for you tonight, mon mari!”

  He rolled off her, returning her to her back as he did so, and swung himself around so that his dark head was pressed against her white thigh. Caressing her in leisurely fashion, he said softly, “Now, little girl, now is the time to touch me.”

  Skye’s slender hand reached out to return her husband’s gentle caresses, and the feel of him beneath her fingers roused her further. After a while she pushed herself into a half-sitting position, and turning, he cuddled against her breasts, kissing them lightly while she fondled the hard length of him. She suddenly realized the truth of what he had been telling her all these years. There was no need to rush; the passion that built slowly between them was far more exciting than any she had ever experienced. Finally, when she thought it could be no more wonderful than
it was now, Adam pulled Skye beneath him, gently mounted her, and thrust into her warmth. She cried softly with the pleasure his entry gave her, molding him harder against her with the flat of her palms against his smooth back.

  “It’s like mulled wine,” he groaned against her mouth. “Being inside of you tonight is like being in hot mulled wine,” and for a moment he couldn’t stir so delicious was the sensation; but then he began to move sensuously on her.

  She barely heard him, for his tender possession of her had pushed her into a world of such uninhibited ecstasy that Skye was only aware of wave after wave of rapturous passion sweeping over her and surrounding her. It left her at last feeling totally satisfied and content. “Oh, Adam,” she murmured, “how can it be so good between us?”

  And he laughed softly, saying, “How can it not be, sweetheart, when we love each other so?”

  Love. It was the unbreakable bond between them. A bond forged by the fires of experience, of pain and of passion. At Archambault love surrounded them, for the de Saville family was a close one whose members cared for and protected each other. As Adam’s wife, she was now one of them. The comte had insisted that they remain with the family until after the baby was born. Antoine de Saville was a quiet man, but he was also a very wise one. He knew that the closer the bond between Skye and his family the easier this hard time would be upon her. He understood that her predicament, despite Adam’s love and understanding, was a traumatic and harsh one. Yet he was a man who loved children, and he believed that not only the mother, but the coming infant must be protected in this situation.

  Both Murrough and, surprisingly, Ewan, went happily off to the university in Paris. Ewan had decided that since he was here he would take advantage of a French education, as his father had. He was not the scholar that Murrough was, but he would do well enough, and given the situation in Ireland, it could not hurt him to have French connections.

  Willow fretted about allowing her dearest Dame Cecily to return to Wren Court without her, but Robert Small’s sister was adamant on the subject. “You’ve not seen yer mother in almost two years, miss, and she needs you now. Besides, with that silly Daisy having another babe by the New Year I’ll have my hands full there. Daisy’s ma has been too ill to help, and well you know it, Willow.”

  Secretly and guiltily, Willow was relieved. She loved Dame Cecily with all her heart, but she loved her mother more, and she had missed Skye so very much. This wonderful, voluble, loving new French family was very much to her liking. With a light heart she waved her surrogate grandmother off on the road to Nantes, where she would be embarking upon an O’Malley ship for Bideford. Then Willow attached herself to her recently acquired Grandmère Gaby, and began learning all the secrets of a good chatelaine. When she was not tagging after the comtesse she was with her new cousins, Matilde Rochouart, and Marie-Gabrielle and Catherine-Henriette St. Justine. It was the first time in her life that Willow could remember having friends of her own rank, and close to her own age.

  Antoine de Saville, aged seven, and his cousin, Charles Sancerre, aged eight, became the close partners in crime of his lordship, Robin, the nine-year-old Earl of Lynmouth. Together the three boys roamed the estate of Archambault, riding, birding, and daydreaming, a troupe of shaggy dogs at their heels. The three scrapegraces became very adept at eluding their tutor, until finally Adam sternly threatened his stepson with a sound thrashing if he did not behave himself. Comparing notes in hushed tones, the three discovered that all had been promised the same punishment by their outraged elders, and so they finally settled down.

  In the big nursery of Archambault little Deirdre Burke learned her first embroidery stitches with her very best friend, Antoinette de Saville, while wee Lord Padraic Burke played on the floor at wooden soldiers with his new cousins, Jean-Pierre, Claude, and Michel, the four watched over by their nurses, plump, rosy-cheeked country girls with broad laps and big pillowy bosoms who spoiled the little boys shamelessly.

  It was an ideal situation, for Skye’s pregnancy was not an easy one in the beginning. To her great amusement and equal annoyance, Adam reveled in her condition. He happily held the basin for her when she awoke in the mornings feeling wretched; her fussy appetite was an excuse for him to hover over her, offering any delicacies he thought might please her; he rubbed her ankles, which seemed to ache at the most inconvenient times. Sometimes it made her feel guilty as she remembered that this wasn’t Adam’s child, but the child of a royal rape. She tried for his sake to maintain a cheerful attitude, but occasionally a shadow of unhappiness would cross her face, and when it did there were four people who understood the reason for it. When they were together, Adam’s sisters, Isabeau and Clarice, consoled their beautiful sister-in-law as best they could.

  “You must not hate the child, Skye,” said Isabeau, the elder. “Poor baby. ’Tis as much a victim as you were.”

  “I pray it not look like its father,” Skye said. “If it does how can I help but detest it?”

  “Think of Adam,” Clarice said, her blue eyes filled with concern. “Oh, Skye, you don’t know what it was like for him when that awful Athenais broke off their betrothal! He was so young then, and he believed himself in love with her. He needed her understanding at the most, and at the least he needed discretion. Instead she shamed him publicly, spreading terrible lies around the district concerning his manhood. With her quick match to the old Duc de Beuvron, nobody, of course, believed her. They thought she was attempting to make excuses for taking a better offer, but Adam, knowing the truth, was so shamed. He has always wanted a child. Let this be his child, I beg of you!”

  Skye remembered how Adam had told her that several of the girls on Lundy claimed that he had fathered their babies; and he had not denied it, but rather acknowledged the paternity, and seen to it that neither mother nor child wanted for anything. She saw how good he was with her own children, slipping easily into his role of father. He wrote letters filled with news and advice to the O’Flaherty boys in Paris, and both Ewan and Murrough wrote back, respecting their stepfather and, Skye realized when they arrived for Christmas, even harboring affection for him.

  Willow, Skye discovered, was trying out newly discovered feminine wiles on Adam, constantly soliciting his opinion on everything. When at New Year’s he presented her with a strand of pale-gold pearls to complement her skin, which was darker than Skye’s, Willow flung her arms about Adam, crying, “Oh, Papa! I do love you so, and I am so glad that you are my father!” Skye felt the quick tears pricking at her eyelids, and she turned away, her heart overflowing with happiness.

  Robin quite openly idolized Adam de Marisco. He had been so little when his own father, Geoffrey Southwood, had died along with his baby brother, John. He had not been six when Niall Burke disappeared. Adam was the most stable male influence in his life, and had always, it seemed to him, been there. In Robin’s mind, it was only natural that the lord of Lundy marry his mother. Adam, of course, reciprocated the young boy’s feeling, loving the little golden lad, the child of his cousin, as he would love a child of his own had he one.

  Each day the two would ride together early in the morning, Robin exchanging boyish confidences with his stepfather. Each afternoon Adam would invade the nurseries of the château to romp and play with Deirdre and Padraic; and the nursemaids nodded approvingly at the big bluff man when he tossed the little ones high, laughing with them as they shrieked their delight. Later, when the babies slept watched over by the undermaids, the nursemaids would gossip in the servants’ hall about what a fine father the Seigneur de Marisco was to his wife’s children, and smile that he was to become a real father himself soon. They knew that the babe would come early, but what did it matter that the Seigneur and his beautiful wife had celebrated their wedding night before the wedding? The child was fortunate to be born to two such lovers!

  At New Year’s the de Savilles held a fête to which the neighboring nobility were invited, including the Duchesse de Beuvron. It was not expected, however, that
she would attend, as she far preferred living in Paris. To everyone’s surprise, Athenais de Montoire arrived squired by her son, Renaud, a gangly youth with a pock-marked face, who danced attendance on his mother like a trained dog.

  “Renaud is not yet betrothed,” Athenais simpered coyly to Henri St. Justine. “Your Marie-Gabrielle is just a year younger than my son. Perhaps we might talk. It would be quite a feather in your cap to marry your daughter to a duc.”

  Inwardly Henri shuddered at the mere thought of turning his lovely daughter over to Renaud de Montoire. He knew the reason for Renaud’s pitted skin. The boy had the pox. Left alone on his estate while his mother cavorted in Paris, he ran wild; and having Athenais’s unquenchable appetite, he was hardly fastidious in his choice of partners. “Alas, Madame la Duchesse,” Henri St. Justine said smoothly, “both my girls have previous contracts,” and then with a bow he left her standing alone.

  It was at that point that Skye and Adam entered the château’s Great Hall, and to those who had been unaware of her condition it was quite evident that Madame de Marisco was enceinte. It was also quite evident that she and her husband were deeply in love. Athenais’s green eyes narrowed maliciously. She had just received a hard setdown from Baron St. Justine, and she knew it. She felt a need to retaliate, and here was a perfect opportunity. Smilingly she approached the couple, and then as she reached them her eyes widened with apparent surprise as she gave a little shriek.

  “Madame de Marisco, you are enceinte!” Athenais declared loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. “I thought it was fat, but you really are with child. Mon Dieu! How can this be?”

  About them the men snickered at what appeared to them to be obvious. Each had the same thought. If the beautiful Madame de Marisco was newly married to them she would indeed be enceinte. Adam, however, was aware of the hidden insult to his wife, but before he could defend her, Skye said sweetly, “Mon Dieu, Madame la Duchesse, has it been so long since you were able to lure a man to your bed that you have forgotten how these things are accomplished? I do not think it is something that we might discuss in mixed company, but if you would care to come with me I shall be happy to enlighten you privately.”