“
Never half so stubborn as you,”
Sorcha said on a little sigh as Napier nibbled at her ear and let
his hand wander into the secret recesses of her skirts. She savored
the male animal smell of him, the hard, lean body against hers.
Until this moment, the memory of their first lovemaking had seemed
hazy, almost dreamlike. Now she recalled every nuance of his touch,
of how he felt and moved.
His hands trailed sensuously up and down her
linen-covered thighs, and he delighted in the little shivers he
provoked. “Wondrous strange, we mortals,” murmured Napier, claiming
her lips in a deep, possessive kiss that seemed to go on forever.
Sorcha wrapped her arms around his neck, straining him closer,
welcoming the throb of her body, which begged for fulfillment.
At last Napier released her lips and began unlacing
her bodice. He paused before slipping the camisole from her
shoulders to grin at her again, this time a mischievous,
conspiratorial exchange that captured the joy they found in each
other. With one swift, sure movement, he uncovered her, savoring
the ripe flesh in silence with those hunter’s eyes. Then his hands
engulfed her breasts, molding them into aching mounds of desire.
His tongue lavished fuel to the flame, stretching each peak full
and taut. Sorcha writhed beneath him, moaning with unbridled
pleasure. Still suckling at her breasts, Napier reached down to
pull the garments away from her lower body. The fragrant hay
tickled her skin and somewhere in the stable, a horse pawed
anxiously at the ground, but Sorcha was conscious only of her need
for Napier. Her hands tugged at his shirt until she could cover the
dark hair of his chest with kisses and knead his hard-muscled back
with her searching fingers. He had clasped the core of her in his
palm, exploring the secret, tender flesh until she cried out with
yearning. “Gavin! I’ve waited too long! Take me now, or I’ll die of
longing!”
Sorcha’s head was thrown back, her body arched, her
legs spread wide to welcome him. He entered her, slowly,
deliberately, with a sensitivity that suddenly gave way to
passionate abandon, elevating Sorcha to a place apart, a burnished
realm of joy. At last, he unleashed the gift of his love, wrenching
shuddering cries of exultation from them both. They trembled in
each other’s arms, then went still, and lay together in the
exhausted peace of total fulfillment.
It was the loud banging on the stable door that
finally roused them. Startled, Sorcha lifted her head just enough
to peer over Napier’s shoulder. “God’s teeth! What shall we
do?”
Napier made a face, then disentangled himself from
Sorcha and hastily put his clothes back on. “
Un moment,
monsieur
,” he called out as Sorcha frantically pulled on her
own garments. Moments later, Napier was at the door, lifting the
bolt. “Forgive us,” he said with a self-deprecating smile for the
group of travelers from the inn, “but my betrothed and I have not
seen each other for some time.”
The men responded with wry, knowing glances. One of
them bowed to Napier and murmured something about “
l’amour
”
while the others chuckled indulgently. Though she knew she was
blushing, Sorcha marched briskly to Napier’s side. He put a
protective arm about her, thanked the men for their true Gallic
spirit of understanding, and led Sorcha out of the stable.
Finding an exit directly onto the back street, Sorcha
and Napier headed in the direction of the monastery. His arm still
held her close, and Sorcha reveled in the sense of belonging. “I
love you,” she whispered, ignoring the stares of two young girls
carrying big baskets of brown eggs.
Napier smiled down at her, though his expression was
in sharp contrast to his solemn tone. “Dare I love you? Will you
swear to be mine?”
Sorcha squeezed his arm. “Don’t be absurd! I am yours
always.” They stepped aside as a stout woman wearing a mound of
petticoats and pushing a cart laden with fresh-cut flowers barreled
past them. Sorcha paused, forcing Napier to stop, too. She turned
to look up at him, the green eyes unwavering. “Did you mean what
you said? Do you truly want to make me yours?”
Napier was no longer smiling. His hand still rested
on Sorcha’s waist, though lightly now, silent evidence of his
uncertainty. “You speak of … marriage?” The word was almost
inaudible.
Forgetting she wore no shoes, Sorcha stamped her foot
and felt the rough cobblestones bruise her sole. “Aye, marriage!
Damn your ancient nightmare. Think of today; think of all our
tomorrows! Will you marry me or not, Gavin Napier?”
He was staring over her head, in the direction of a
fishmonger’s stall and a candlemaker’s shop. Beyond, the bulk of
Compiègne’s great castle was outlined against the flawless blue
sky. The long face might have seemed emotionless to a casual
observer, but Sorcha recognized the haunted eyes and the tightening
of his neck muscles. There had been a time when she had paid no
heed to those storm signals, but no longer. Sorcha pointed a finger
at his face and spoke in a low but compelling voice. “Would you go
on using me like a strumpet, or salvage my honor in holy matrimony?
I had considered you something more than a callous seducer.”
Napier gritted his teeth and looked down at Sorcha.
“I was never clear about who seduced whom,” he asserted so somberly
that Sorcha almost missed the glint of humor in his eyes. “But
since you have a father to avenge your virtue and I do not, I shall
have to take the blame.” He leaned his head to one side, regarding
her with irony. “As you will, mistress, I’ll consent to marry
you.”
Sorcha was torn between elation and chagrin. Never in
her wildest dreams had she envisioned her betrothal occurring in
such an unorthodox fashion. “I’m overcome,” she declared with some
asperity. “Shall we name the day?”
At last, Napier grinned and cuffed her chin. “Any day
you like. The sooner the better, lest I grow skittish. The Feast of
the Transfiguration, mayhap, to celebrate the change which has
overcome me.”
“
Most fitting,” agreed Sorcha,
taking his arm. “Let’s tell Rob and Rosmairi.”
They took up the pace again, more swiftly, and
suddenly Sorcha burst out laughing. The high, joyous sound turned
the heads of two goodwives who’d been gossiping across from the
abbey, and set a spotted hound to howling. But Sorcha paid no
attention; she went right on laughing while Napier eyed her with
amused indulgence.
“
God’s teeth,” she exclaimed,
catching her breath and turning a radiant face on Napier, “I’m so
happy! I’ve never felt like this before.” They were at the abbey
gate, where the same porter still sat, his white cowl now virtually
pink from the strawberry juice. Napier was as oblivious of the rest
of the world as Sorcha, as he caught her to him and kissed her
soundly on the mouth.
“
By the Mass,” he murmured into her
hair, “I’d forgotten what happiness was! I feel like Lazarus, as if
I’d been raised from the dead!”
Sorcha’s face was pressed against his chest. This is
where I want to be forever, she thought fiercely, and jerked her
head up. “Don’t let this be taken away from us,” she demanded in a
voice that shook with intensity. “Swear it, by all you hold
sacred!”
Startled by her vehemence, Napier soothed her with
his hands. “I hold you sacred. And I hold you now. I do swear it,”
he averred with absolute conviction.
Sorcha grew quite still, her breathing slowed, her
body relaxed. At last, she pulled gently away, and her smile was
touched by a faint tremor. She nodded toward the abbey gate. “Does
the porter think we’re mad?”
Napier glanced over his shoulder. “Aye. No doubt he’s
right.”
I
t had not rained in the
vicinity of Paris for over two weeks. The horses’ hooves spewed
dust in thick clouds along the road that passed the great forest of
Compiègne, by Creil, Saint Leu d’Esserent and above Chantilly,
where the Oise turned in its westerly course to join the Seine on
its voyage to the sea. Sorcha closed her eyes for a moment, to ward
off the late afternoon sun, which was settling down over the fields
of golden grain beyond the hedgerows. Her teeth felt gritty, her
already soiled clothing clung to her body, and the boots she’d
borrowed at the abbey were too big.
It was distressing enough not to have had the
opportunity of announcing her joyous news to Rob and Rosmairi, but
it was even more upsetting to find herself galloping across the
Île-de-France under a hot sun in a hopeless cause.
When Sorcha and Gavin Napier had joined Rob at the
abbey, they found him in an uncharacteristically grim, even frantic
mood. Word had reached Compiègne that the barricades were up in
Paris, that Catholics and Huguenots were fighting to the death, and
that while the situation was dire, it wasn’t entirely hopeless. If
King Henri could retain control of Paris, peace might still be
preserved. But, as always, the city was as capricious as a
courtesan, surrendering her allegiance not to her acknowledged
master, but to whoever pleased her present whim.
For now, Paris chose the protection of Spanish
troops. Overwhelmingly Catholic, the city’s inhabitants were less
interested in the bogus claims of Philip II’s daughter, Isabella,
or the befuddled Cardinal de Bourbon than the fifty thousand crowns
a month the Spanish king paid to quarter his troops in the
city.
While Sorcha had argued that none of this religious
or political turmoil should disrupt their own lives as Scots
subjects on French soil, Rob had vehemently disagreed. “As long as
I have responsibility for Brother Jacques, I must remain involved.
If,” Rob had declared heatedly, “Brother Jacques has headed for
Paris, my conscience dictates that I must at least try to avert
tragedy.”
To Sorcha’s chagrin, Gavin Napier had concurred with
Rob. At first, only the two men were riding off for Paris, but
Sorcha, suffused with guilt for failing to deter Brother Jacques,
insisted on joining them. Gavin Napier displayed as little
confidence in Sorcha’s ability to sway the mad monk as she herself
did, but Rob persisted. And Rosmairi, loath to be left behind,
asserted that she’d come, too. That decision prompted the gallant
Armand d’Ailly to call for his mount.
“
You are too delicate, too fair, to
face danger without protection,” d’Ailly had told a blushing
Rosmairi. “If you go, I go, too.”
So the five of them now approached the walls of the
great city on the Seine. As far as the eye could see, troops ringed
the outskirts with clusters of men manning the weapons that would
be used to force the city’s surrender. Tents had been erected,
horses were quartered in every open space, and troops in a variety
of multihued dress milled about. Even from such a distance, the
shouts of men could be heard, accompanied by the clang of steel and
the acrid smell of gunpowder.
Sorcha leaned over the pommel of her saddle to peer
at the strange tableau. “Jesu,” she murmured, holding a hand over
her eyes to keep out the sun, “how will we ever find King Henri
amid such disorder?”
“
I should think there would be a
royal insignia above his tent,” Rob said, though his voice sounded
unsure.
Gavin Napier rubbed his bearded chin. Sorcha watched
him in bemusement, overcome with a sudden desire to reach out and
clasp him in her arms. “I wonder if King Henri wants his
whereabouts known,” remarked Napier, more to himself than to the
others. “It might be easier to find Henri of Navarre than Henri de
Valois.”
The Sieur d’Ailly, who had moved his mount next to
Rosmairi, frowned at the dust on his finely cut blue doublet. “I
have heard that the leaders of the siege are positioned on the
other side of the city. It would make sense if King Henri has come
to Paris from one of the chateaus in the Loire Valley,” d’Ailly
added in a self-effacing manner.
Napier nodded, silently cursing the heat of the late
summer day. The first of August, he realized—how long had Paris
been under siege? Only a few weeks, surely not enough to weaken the
will of its inhabitants. No wonder the soldiers appeared to be in
disarray. Between the hot, increasingly humid weather and no
prospect of victory, it was a marvel they hadn’t deserted in
droves. Napier turned to the others. “We’ll ride ’round,” he
announced, then noted how Rosmairi had begun to droop in the
saddle. “D’Ailly, think you it might be wise to remain here with
Mistress Fraser? Perhaps you can find some shelter out of the
sun.”
Rosmairi lifted a hand in feeble protest, but d’Ailly
leaned from the saddle to clasp her fingers. “
Non, non, ma belle
demoiselle
,” he admonished gently. With his free hand, he made
a sweeping gesture. “These rude, stinking soldiers, the lack of
even the most basic comforts, the sweltering sun—none of this
benefits your delicacy.” His gaze held Rosmairi captive. “Come with
me; we shall refresh ourselves at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”
With a jaundiced eye, Sorcha watched the pair canter
off. Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to the Sieur d’Ailly—or her
brother, or Gavin Napier—that she might also be squeamish about
encountering the seamier side of military life. She wasn’t, of
course, though the thought of Rosmairi resting in a cool place,
drinking chilled wine and nibbling on partridge made Sorcha feel a
pang of envy. But Napier was leading the way westward, still
keeping their distance from the actual concentration of troops. To
their right, several small farms and sturdy windmills sat untended
under the August sun. No doubt the soldiers had driven off the
local tenants while plundering both harvest and horses to augment
the royal supplies.
“
That’s the Porte Saint Victor,”
Napier called out, pointing straight ahead. “From what I know of
Paris, that’s the weakest point in the wall. It’s also the closest
portal to the Île de la Cité and Notre-Dame.” He had reined up as
Sorcha and Rob joined him on a little knoll that rose directly in
front of an empty pigsty. “Strategically, that’s where I’d judge
King Henri and the Duke of Navarre would set up their
camps.”