All the Sweet Tomorrows (30 page)

“I’ll care for her now,” Daisy said, but Nicolas said in a firm, not-to-be-argued-with voice, “No, Daisy, I will take care of her. She’ll sleep for a while, so send away those two silly creatures who help you. However, I would like you to busy yourself about the apartment until I need you.”

“She’ll rest more comfortably, my lord, with her gown off,” Daisy said helpfully.

“I’ll do it,” he answered, and Daisy retreated.

Skye had worn very simple clothes to keep her vigil. Now Nicolas undid her black silk skirt and drew it off her. Turning her over, he undid the bodice and, turning her over, pulled it away also. Two white silk petticoats followed, along with her underblouse. Gently he removed the dainty jeweled garters that she wore to hold up her silk stockings, and then rolled the stockings down off her legs and feet. Daisy had already removed the shoes.

Quickly he removed his own clothes and, getting into bed with her, drew the covers over them, to fall asleep holding her in his arms.

He awoke several hours later to find her already awake and staring at him with huge distressed eyes. “How do you feel?” he asked her.

“Still tired,” she answered honestly.

“Go back to sleep then,” he said, drawing her down into the curve of his arm so that her head might rest on his shoulder. She lay her dark head upon him, but she did not sleep, and he knew it. “What is the matter,
doucette?”

Skye sighed. “I thought I had prayed it all away, but alas, I have not!” She was obviously very distressed.

“What?” he asked.

“My desire for you, Nicolas.”

“You will never stop wanting me,
doucette
, as I will never stop wanting you. Go back to sleep now, my angel. This afternoon we bury my half-brother and tonight I must begin my three nights of penance.”

“Père Henri has ordered you to pray three nights also?” He heard the laughter in her voice as she realized what the priest had done. He was glad, for it meant she still had a sense of humor. To be able to laugh was a good thing.

When Skye awoke he was gone, and Daisy was bringing her a goblet of freshly squeezed fruit juice. “You’ll have to hurry, m’lady,” Daisy said, “for the old duc’s funeral procession is to begin soon.”

Skye arose and was dressed in the appropriate black. Descending to the courtyard, she found herself amid a small uproar. Little Garnier de Beaumont had been brought forth by his nurse to take his place in the procession. Skye had never seen her unfortunate stepson in the few months she had lived in Beaumont de Jaspre, but now she understood Fabron’s desperate need and desire for an heir. The child was fat, and not totally in control of his limbs. His head was enlarged and his eyes were slanted in an odd fashion. The head lolled, as if it were too heavy for his neck. He did not talk, but rather made little animal noises that his old nurse pretended to understand completely.

Now the old woman stood adamant, defending
her
baby’s rights while both Nicolas and Edmond argued furiously with her. Skye listened a minute, and then, brushing the two men aside, said gently, “You cannot send the boy to his father’s funeral, old nurse. Poor child, he does not understand, and all this anger is frightening him.” She stroked the boy’s cheek, smiling and speaking softly to him. “There,
mon petit
, everything is all right.” She turned again to the nurse. “You know that he is not a normal child, nurse. He cannot, therefore, be expected to behave in a normal manner in this situation. Duc Nicolas has promised that he will care for this child as tenderly as if he were one of his own. Now take Garnier back to his own rooms, nurse.” Skye then bent and kissed the child in a loving gesture.

The old nurse nodded, satisfied. “Madame la Duchesse is kind, and she understands.” Then the old woman took her charge by the hand and led him away.

“Now, gentlemen, may we go?” Skye walked to her white palfrey and was helped up into the saddle by a groom.

The funeral procession wound its way down the hill from the castle to the little Cathedral of St. Paul, Skye leading the way as Fabron de Beaumont’s widow. When the service had concluded, and Fabron had been interred in his tomb beneath the marble main altar in the family’s crypt, the packed cathedral emptied out and Nicolas St. Adrian, the new duc, led the procession back up the hill. One era had ended and another was beginning. The people of Beaumont de Jaspre were getting their first good look at their new duc, and they liked what they saw. As they made their way through the narrow winding streets of the town, languid, ripe-mouthed beauties with melting invitations in their dark sloe eyes leaned from their balconies to pelt their new lord with flowers. But he saw none of them. He was far too engrossed in the
woman who rode at his side. He could not take his eyes from her.

At one point she whispered over the roar of the crowds, “Do not look at me so, Nicolas. You will shame me.”

Seeing them together, Edmond de Beaumont wondered why he had not noticed it before. His new uncle was obviously hopelessly and completely in love. Now he understood all those questions about the English treaty, and knew why he himself was being sent back to England almost immediately with Captain Kelly. Nicolas St. Adrian wanted his brother’s widow to be his wife. For the briefest moment Edmond was overcome by a feeling of terrible hopelessness. If he had only been born normal then perhaps Skye would have been his. Then he shrugged. What was, was. Besides, if she had
that
kind of love for him his height wouldn’t matter. He looked at her now and saw the soft rose blush staining her cheeks as she gently scolded Nicolas. They were two of a kind, Edmond thought. Proud, passionate people who would do very well together. He considered himself fortunate to have her friendship, for never had he known anyone like Skye O’Malley. She was unique.

There would be no festivities honoring Nicolas’s possession of the duchy. The celebrations would come later when he married, and now the speculation began as to when and whom Nicolas would marry. Several important families had marriageable daughters, and in neighboring Provence and the Languedoc there were several noble families whose nubile offspring might make Nicolas St. Adrian an eligible
partie
. The new duc, however, appeared in no hurry to choose a wife.

Edmond de Beaumont departed for England aboard Skye’s own ship,
Seagull
, several days after the funeral. When she had asked him why he returned to the Tudor court he replied that she must ask Nicolas. She had wanted to leave with him, but knew that she must stay at least until the spring to officially mourn poor Fabron. It was the least she owed him.

As
Seagull
sailed from Beaumont de Jaspre’s main harbor Skye watched from her bedchamber balcony. For the first time since she had left England she was actually alone except for the faithful Daisy. Robbie, certain that she was settled, unaware of Fabron’s death, wandered the eastern Mediterranean in his leisurely voyage to Istanbul. Now Bran was gone back to England, taking Edmond once more to Elizabeth Tudor’s court.

Nicolas came up behind her, slipping an arm about her waist,
and drawing her back against him. “Do you wish you were with Edmond?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered honestly.

“Do you have a lover you miss back in England, Skye?” She could hear the jealous note in his voice.

“My children are there, and in Ireland,” she said, sidestepping his query and realizing that she hadn’t thought about Adam de Marisco in weeks. “When I was forced to leave him my youngest son was just over two months old. His little sister isn’t even two years old, Nicolas. I have four other children as well. I miss them. Yes, I wish I were aboard
Seagull
on my way home.”

“I will never let you go,” he said quietly.

“Nicolas, you must.” There was a note of quiet desperation in her tone.

“Do you know why I have sent Edmond to England, Skye?”

“No, he would not tell me. He said that I must ask you.”

“I sent him to your Queen to ask that you be given to me as my wife. I offer England the same terms my brother did, the ports of Beaumont de Jaspre.”

Skye shook her head and laughed ruefully. “I sent a letter to William Cecil asking to be allowed to come home now that Fabron is dead.”

“Which request do you think that your Queen will favor,
doucette?”

“Do not be cruel, Nicolas. We both know that your ports are of value to England.”

“You
are of value to me!” His arm tightened, and he put his face in her hair near her ear. “Skye, sweet Skye! I love you! From the moment of our first meeting I have loved you. I want you for my wife. I want you for the mother of my sons and daughters. You feel much more for me than you did for my brother. I will teach you to love me,
doucette!
I need you so much!”

“Do not seek to marry me, Nicolas,” she begged. “When my beloved Niall was murdered I realized that I was ill luck to the men who have loved me, and wed me. Everyone dies in time, Nicolas, but these were young men! None were safe, even your half-brother Fabron, whom I did not love. It is as if I am not meant to have a husband. I would not want my ill luck to endanger you. Seek some young girl of good family to make your wife.”

“No. I want you.” He turned her about, taking her face in his
two hands, looking down into her blue-green eyes.
“Doucette
, I warn you I will not be denied. I could take you for my mistress and marry some other, but I do not want you for my mistress. I want you for my wife. I have made the decision, and you must abide by it.” He kissed her upturned nose. “You will be my wife.”

Skye was outraged. I have made the decision, he had said. She took a deep breath. “Nicolas,” she said calmly, “it is I who must make the decision as to whether or not to marry you. You will not control me! No man ever has. I am my own mistress. I have always been, and I will always be! If you can understand that then perhaps you will have come a little way toward understanding me. If you learn to understand me then perhaps we shall be friends. I am not so foolish as to deny that we are attracted to one another, but lovers should be friends.”

Nicolas chuckled indulgently, and sweeping her up into his strong arms, he walked across the room to dump her on the bed. Then he stood, legs spread, above her.
“Doucette
,” he said, “how can one so wise be so innocent? No woman is her own mistress, even your own Queen. There is always someone to answer to, else Elizabeth of England would have married her horsemaster. You must answer to England’s Queen, and she will give you to me without a second thought. Therefore you must answer to me.” His green eyes twinkled. “I will expect a proper and obedient wife, Skye.”

She sat up, a look of outrage on her beautiful face. “A proper and obedient wife?!” She scrambled off the bed on its other side. “Why, you pompous, arrogant ass of a Frenchman! Answer to you? I’d sooner answer to the Devil himself! Elizabeth Tudor may give me to you as a wife, but you may live to regret it, Nicolas St. Adrian!”

He grinned engagingly at her across the bed, and then flopped down upon the mattress. “Come to bed,
doucette,”
he said in a deceptively bland voice.

“Ohhhhhh!” she shrieked with frustration. “I do not believe that you have heard a word that I have said, Nicolas! You are totally and utterly impossible.
I will not marry you!”
Skye stamped her foot angrily to punctuate the point.

Reaching up, he grasped her arm in an iron grip and yanked her down onto the bed atop him. “You, you stubborn jade, have not heard a word that I have said! I mean to make you my wife. My God, woman, you behave as if I had made you an indecent proposal!”

“I have had enough of husbands!” she shouted at him. “It matters not if I fall in love or not, I always lose them too quickly to death, and it’s worse when I love them.”

“Then you love me!” he shouted back at her, his face alight with pleasure.

“I hate you! You are arrogant, stubborn, impossible, and totally devoid of understanding!”

“You love me!”
His face was just inches from hers.

“No!” She squirmed to escape his grip.

“You love me!”
He rolled her over, and she was pinned quite helplessly beneath him.

“Never!”
Damn the man, Skye thought.

“You love me,”
he said softly, and then his mouth was covering hers in a deep and passionate kiss.

She struggled a moment beneath him, and then, realizing the futility of her position, she lay still. She would give him nothing. She had to convince him of her disinterest. She had to convince herself. She liked him. God’s foot, it was more than like, but she couldn’t, nay she must not give in to her own desires! She was bad luck for husbands, and then there were her children to get back to in England and Ireland.

“Doucette, doucette”
he whispered against her lips, and she shivered.
“Aimes-moi, doucette. Aimes-moi!”

Skye turned her head away from him, feeling quick tears starting to prick her eyelids. “Oh, you are a bad man, a wicked man,” she said low. “How can you do this to me, Nicolas? You claim to love me yet you subject me to this terrible torture.”

“I only seek to make you listen to your own heart, Skye,” he answered her, and his hands began to move on her breasts, stroking softly, subtly.

She felt her breasts beginning to swell and grow taut with the sweet desire that he was able to rouse in her. Her nipples were tingling and sensitive, so sensitive that the silk of her night rail felt irritable against them. “I do not deny you arouse lust in me,” she said in a desperate voice, “but that is not love!”

“It is a beginning,
doucette.”
His fingers were carefully undoing the tiny pearl buttons, and when he had bared her to the navel he pushed the fabric of her gown aside and bent to kiss her breasts.

“Don’t!”
Her voice was ragged. Dear God, she would explode with the wanting.

“Hush, my love,” he said patiently. “Hush.” Then he was kissing her again, warm and demanding kisses that left her weak
and helpless to deny him any longer. She kissed him back with sweet, slow kisses, feeling his firm lips parting, the soft rush of breath from his mouth to hers, the velvet tip of his tongue exploring delicately within that delicious amorous cavern.