The Spitfire (35 page)

The king smiled, and it was a relieved smile. “Ye hae saved me a great deal of trouble, Uncle, for although I intended taking Bothwell from Ramsey of Balmain, I didna know to whom I should gie the tide, but yer right. Patrick Hepburn is the perfect man!”

“Yer quick to assess a situation, Jamie,” the earl told his nephew. “‘Tis a good trait. Would that yer father had had it. Hae ye been able to learn yet who was responsible for his death?”

A shadow passed over the king’s young face. “Nay, Uncle, I hae not. Ye know how poor a horseman my father was. He either fell or was thrown from that large gray he rode outside of Beaton’s mill at Bannockburn. He was still conscious and sent the miller’s wife for a priest. She brought back a man claiming to be a cleric, who asked to be left alone wi’ my father to hear his dying confession. After a time she returned to the room where the king’s grace had been carried and found my sire stabbed to his death, and the ‘priest’ gone.”

“Could the miller and his wife hae been involved, Jamie?” the earl asked.

“Nay, Uncle. They hae both been questioned thoroughly, and were horrified and frightened by the whole event. The poor goodwife kept repeating over and over again: ‘He were nae a strong king, but he were a guid man. I could see it in his eyes.’ She kept telling me that I should ne’er forget my father, for a man hae but one father. God’s bones, Uncle, I feel so guilty over my father’s death!” the young king admitted miserably.

“
Ye hae nae found the murderer or the men behind the murder, Jamie?”

The king shook his head.

“So be it then,” the Earl of Dunmor said. “Ye must get on wi’ yer own life, Jamie, and wi’ this business of ruling Scotland.”

“Do ye nae care?” the king said half bitterly.
“He was yer brother!”

“Aye, Jamie, I care, but Jemmie is gone and nothing will ever bring him back to us. If we could find those responsible, I would slay them wi’ my bare hands myself, but if ye canna apportion blame, then ‘tis best to let it go and move on, laddie. Yer father is safe for all time wi’ yer mother at Cambuskenneth, and ye are Scotland’s king. ‘Tis the fate for which ye were bom.
Now rule!”

His nephew upon his throne, the Earl of Dunmor departed for his home. Despite the turn of events of the past few weeks, he found his countess not one whit more disposed to the new king. As always, her main concern was for the return of Greyfaire.

“Did you not ask Jamie if among his late father’s correspondence there was not some reply from King Henry regarding my petition for the return of my home?” She was looking particularly beautiful on this hot summer’s day. Her long hair was braided into a single thick plait, and she wore a simple gown of pale blue silk.

He had missed her, he thought to himself as his eyes feasted greedily on her smooth, creamy skin, which was just faintly damp with the heat of the day. She smelt of heather, her favorite fragrance. Drawing her into his arms, the earl kissed his wife and said with some humor, “Between the battles, the state funeral, and the coronation, lovey, there was nae time to discuss yer Greyfaire.”

“But you will speak to your nephew about it soon?” she replied.

“I will try, lassie,” he told her honestly, “but Jamie hae much to do before he sits solidly upon his throne. He must mend many fences, dole out new offices and honors, and gain creditability wi’ the kings of both France and England. Yer wee problem is the least of Jamie’s trials.”

Arabella opened her mouth and as suddenly shut it. They had been over this ground a thousand times, and they were still at opposite ends of the spectrum. For Tavis everything took precedence over Greyfaire, but for Arabella, Greyfaire was paramount. She had gone to James III to help her solve her problem, and she would probably end up having to go to this new king as well, for her husband had his Dunmor, and Greyfaire mattered little to him. He would have been just as happy if Maggie wed with a Home, or a Douglas, or a Hepburn one day.

“Yer thinking again,” he accused, half playfully.

“Aye,” she admitted.

“When ye think,” he told her, “ye hae a tendency to do dangerous things.”

Arabella laughed. “I dinna think so,” she teased him.

“Come to bed,” he said.

“Why, my lord!” She feigned shock. “‘Tis not even sunset yet.”

He peered through the windows. “Another hour, at least,” he agreed.

“‘Tis much too warm a day to be cooped up in a bedchamber,” Arabella told him. “I have a far better idea.”

“Ye do?”

“Aye, my lord,” she drawled, and taking him by the hand, led him from the castle out across the drawbridge. “I discovered this place with Maggie, for she is suffering with her teeth, and the heat does not help. Your mother recommended I rub pounded clove on her gums, and it does help, but not entirely. The trick is to distract her from the pain,” Arabella explained. “I take her walking, and we only recently found this little stream flowing beside this small grove of trees here in the meadow. The trees shelter our bathing place from sight of the castle.”

“Ye swim?” He was surprised.

“Aye,” she said. “My father taught me when I was small.” Arabella began to unlace her gown as she spoke. “Our daughter loves the water and is as agile as a wee froggie.” Undoing her bodice, she laid it carefully upon the grass beneath the trees. “The stream bed is sandy here and not too deep. I never let Maggie out of my hands, however, though she protests mightily. I think if I let her she would swim away.” The Countess of Dunmor’s long skirt and petticoats dropped to the ground, and stepping out of them, she gathered them up to place them with her bodice. She was wearing no stockings, he discovered when she kicked off her slippers, and was clad only in her chemise now. Looking curiously at him, she said sweetly, “Will you not join me, Tavis, or do you not swim?” Arabella stripped aside her chemise and tossed it onto the pile of clothes. “Ohhh, how I love the feel of warm air upon my body!” she told him ingenuously.

He had thought he was past being surprised by her behavior, but he was not. This was a new Arabella. One he had not seen before. An impudent little woodland sprite with saucy breasts, and saucier buttocks that flashed before him now as she moved to enter the water. He felt himself growing hot with the need to possess her, and he wondered if a wife should be as tempting as his wife was.

Arabella turned her head toward him, the waters of the little stream lapping at her mid-thigh. “Are you coining, my lord?” she said softly, and then she bound up her long braid, the tip of which was already wet. With a laugh she splashed into the water and paddled about.

The earl considered a long moment as he decided whether he could reach the safety of the water before she discovered the state of his desire for her. His manhood was already hard and thrusting beneath his kilts. Casually he bent and, having kicked off his shoes, drew his stockings off. Slowly he undid his shirt, careful to keep his back to her, unaware that she was admiring his long torso and muscled shoulders.

“Why are you so poky?” she teased him.

The Earl of Dunmor dropped his kilts and turned to face his wife.

“Oh!” she said, and then she began to giggle.

“Madame,” he said fiercely, “I will nae be mocked!” and he strode purposefully into the cold water toward her.

Mischievously she splashed him, shrieking with feigned terror as he launched himself toward her, evading him skillfully as he moved to within easy grasping distance of her. “Catch me if you can, my randy lord!” she cried as she scampered to the other side of the stream bed.

With a roar he was after her, lumbering about noisily in the water until, with a surprisingly quick lunge, he did indeed catch her, and drawing her wet, squirming body inexorably to him, he covered her mouth in a burning kiss even as she pressed his lips firmly with her own. They kissed for what seemed a very long time, and then he murmured, “Madame, hae ye ever been fucked in the water?” even as he slowly impaled her upon his throbbing manhood.

Her slender arms wrapped about his neck, her wet body squirming against him in her passion. “Oh, you are a wicked man, Tavis Stewart, to tease a body so,” she moaned against his mouth, and she rubbed her breasts provocatively against his broad chest.

His big hand cupped her buttocks, reveling in the springy flesh that pressed into his palms as her legs squeezed his waist. “Ahh, lovey,” he groaned, “I hae missed ye, and ‘tis past time our Maggie hae a baby brother. Did ye nae promise me a son for Dunmor, Arabella Stewart?”

“Aye, I did,” she agreed. “Ohhh, Tavis! Do not cease your sweet torture! Ohh, I cannot bear it!
I cannot!”
Her body shuddered with sweet fulfillment as she first threw her head back, the column of her throat straining with her passion, and then with a small, satisfied sigh, dropped her head upon his shoulder.

Slowly he walked from the water, cradling her in his arms, still buried deep within her sweet sheath. With great control he slipped to his knees, laying her upon her back, covering her face with warm kisses which seemed to revive her, and her light green eyes fluttered open.

“I missed you too, my lord,” she told him with understated simplicity.

“I know,” he replied, his mouth twitching with amusement. Then he began to pump her with deep strokes, his strong thrusts drawn out and protracted, tarrying within her, bringing her almost to the point of tears as he deliberately stroked her ever-rising desires. It was not easy for him to hold his own hungers in check, but he had discovered soon after the consummation of their marriage that his wife had an enormous capacity for loving. It was not a bad tendency for a wife to have, he thought, particularly as she seemed totally satisfied with him and showed no inclination to other men. He was certain of that, having been more than well aware of his nephew’s interest in Arabella and her most firm refusal of Jamie’s favors.

Beneath him Arabella thrashed, her ecstasy growing with every passing moment. She clawed wildly at him, raking her small nails sharply down his long back, eliciting a grunt of irritation from him, causing him to drive even deeper into her sweetness. She reeled with the intoxication and the intensity of his fire, as leaning forward he took one of her nipples in his mouth and bit down gently, albeit firmly, upon it. Shrieking softly, she tried to twist away from him, but he held her hips in a tight grasp, suckling hard upon her flesh, feeling her wonderfully tight passage begin to contract about him.

“I die!” she sobbed. “Ohh, I die!” and she shivered violently with the intensity of her ardor.

He could wait no longer, for her own rapture but fueled his. “I also!” he groaned, pouring a libation of his lusty juices into her love grotto.

They lay together upon the sweet green grass amid a tangle of exhausted limbs for what seemed the longest time. They half dozed while about them drowsy honey bees droned in the summer clover. To the west the sun was sinking slowly in a blazing glory of red-gold and purple. Above them in a tree a crow called loudly, warning all within his voice of the hawk who was hunting his evening meal, while near them a family of young rabbits peered curiously at the two naked humans lying upon the warm ground.

Finally Arabella sighed; a sound replete with satisfaction. “You were most pleasurable, my lord,” she said with great understatement.

“As were ye, madame,” he answered her.

“I suppose we must return to the castle,” Arabella noted sadly, reaching out to pick up her chemise and put it on.

He grinned up boyishly, his dark eyes brimming with mischief. “Unless, of course, ye want to run away wi’ me, madame. Shall we walk out like a simple Jock-upon-the-land and his lass, Arabella Stewart? Living in a wee cottage? I shall hunt and fish for our daily sustenance, and ye will weave garlands wi’ which to adorn my triumphant brow when I return home wi’ a brace of conies.”

Arabella laughed. “My lord, you are more romantic than a green maid having thoughts about her first lover,” she teased him.

“Would ye nae love me, lass, if I were a humble man?” he asked.

“There is not a humble bone in your body, Tavis Stewart,” she told him bluntly. “It is not within the nature of the Stewarts to be humble, particularly falsely so. A humble man would not have aspired to my hand. Indeed, he would not have even dared to entertain thoughts of me. I love you, and you, by God’s grace, are the Earl of Dunmor. Earls live in fine castles, and that is where we had best hurry lest the drawbridge be raised against us!” Arabella stood up, and putting her skirt on, fastened its tapes even as she slipped into her slippers.

“Honest to a fault,” he said. “Yer nae a woman to dissemble, are ye, lovey?”

“Nay, I am not. A woman who is not honest with her husband is a fool, my lord, as is a husband who is not honest with his wife.” Bending, she picked up his kilts and handed them to him.

The earl dressed himself quickly, and then taking his wife’s hand, they strolled back to the castle; not noticing the men-at-arms guarding Dunmor’s entry, who grinned at each other knowingly as they passed. It was a good summer that year. The harvest looked as if it would be fruitful. There was peace upon the border, and Scotland’s new king was loved by all of his people.

Chapter Fourteen

They had spent Christmas at Dunmor. The Earl and Countess of Dunmor had hosted their entire family, which seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds. Both Ailis and Meg had two children, and Ailis admitted to be ripening with a third already. Donald Fleming had fallen in love at long last. She was the well-loved bastard daughter of the new Earl of Bothwell, Patrick Hepburn, who, upon learning of his child’s warm feelings toward her bluff suitor, had offered her a dowry consisting of a small estate with a fine stone house upon it, and all the coins she might grasp in her two hands from her father’s treasury chest.

The girl, whose name was Ellen, was a clever creature. She coated her hands with glue in order that whatever she touched might stick to them, and rather than being angry with her, Patrick Hepburn was amused that this child of his, so casually begotten upon one of his clansmen’s sisters, should prove so quick-witted. It reflected well upon him, he decided, to have so canny a daughter, but then he had always loved her, for she was a particularly winning girl. The wedding was to be held in the spring, after Easter.

Margery Fleming sat at her son’s highboard looking out over the hall with particular pleasure. Five grandchildren already, a sixth upon the way, and the last of her children to be married shortly, with the hope of more grandchildren to come. She had never felt more at peace in her entire life, or more content, but for one small problem. She turned to Arabella and said hopefully, “Can we hope ye’ll hae a son for Dunmor in the new year, my dear?”

Arabella smiled. “We can always hope,
belle mere
,” she answered, “but, of course, I also hope for the return of Greyfaire in the new year too.”

“There hae been no word from the English king, then?” Lady Margery asked.

Arabella shook her head in the negative. “Tavis and I are going to court just before Twelfth Night. There may be a message awaiting us that has been overlooked in the transition between King James and his late father, may God assoil Jemmie Stewart’s good soul. I hope so,
belle mere
! Greyfaire is in a sad state right now. Sir Jasper is with King Henry’s court and has neglected the keep, the village, the land, and my people. Lona’s brother comes over the border every now and then to bring me word, and I send back what encouragement I can and all the coin I can spare. Their harvest was no better than ours last year, and there is hunger at Greyfaire too.”

Lady Margery pondered a moment, but she knew that she must ask. “What if King Henry VII will not return Greyfaire to ye, Arabella?”

“
He must!
I will go to England if I have to, but I will regain Greyfaire,
belle mere
, for our Margaret!” Arabella answered her mother-in-law passionately. “Jasper Keane will not have it! Not while I have breath in my body!”

Lady Margery could see that her eldest son’s wife was determined, and she wondered if Tavis realized how determined Arabella really was. She suspected he did not quite understand the young woman’s deep feelings in the matter, and she worried that her son’s lack of comprehension could lead to a serious rift between the two. She decided to speak with Tavis about Arabella’s strong determination regarding the return of Greyfaire, but before she could find the right moment in which to approach her son, the Earl of Dunmor and his countess were off to court. Disappointed, Lady Margery resolved to broach the subject on their return if nothing was resolved by then.

James IV kept a merry court. For lack of a queen, he had asked his aunt, Margaret Stewart, to come to court and oversee the many noble young ladies who were flocking there in search of husbands. Princess Margaret Stewart was a tall, gaunt woman in her mid-thirties, with the long, straight Stewart nose. She had been convent-bred, but was far too independent of nature to become a nun. Her brother, King James III, had invited her to court when she was just past twenty, in hopes of snaring a husband for her before her small beauty failed entirely, but the princess had no wish to marry. She was a well-educated, highly intelligent woman with a passion for music, mathematics, and astrology. She had little patience for her brother’s earls, half of whom could not even speak Scots English, and most of whom were totally ignorant in learning. Although he adored her, her brother was finally relieved to accede to her request to remain a maiden lady, and he installed her in a fine house on Castle Hill in Edinburgh from which she held her own court of sorts.

Now Princess Margaret, in answer to her kingly nephew’s plea, came to Linlithgow, riding upon her white mare and followed by several ox-drawn carts containing her belongings, as well as her train of personal servants. If there was anxiety at her coming amongst the young noblewomen, Margaret Stewart soon dispelled it, for she was a woman of great wit and originality. She might expect proper behavior of the women at court, but she was certainly not a prude. Although she had enjoyed independence and solitude for most of her life, the king’s aunt found she was ready for a change. The young people of the court were fascinated by her, for Margaret Stewart was unique amongst her sex. She was a free woman, and she answered to none regarding her behavior. Still, she was devout and mannerly, for all her intellect.

Her apartments became a gathering place for young and old alike, and her rooms were as interesting as the princess herself was, for they were crammed with all manner of things that she had collected over the years, and many other things which had simply taken her fancy. The “Royal Aunt”, as she was fondly called, seemed not to mind that her quarters were as cluttered and as messy as a magpie’s nest with all her possessions. They were warm, inviting rooms whose very disorder seemed to encourage everyone who entered them to discussion.

Arabella particularly enjoyed being a part of the Royal Aunt’s group, for women were encouraged to speak their minds before her. One afternoon they were discussing a particular point regarding morality when the young Countess of Dunmor spoke up, saying to the gentleman who had been expounding his view, “You infer, sir, that only men need be concerned with honor. Women, also, have honor.”

“I think ye confuse honor wi’ virtue, madame,” came the reply.

“And I think you, sir, are a pompous ass!” Arabella retorted as the room erupted into giggles.

“Gie us an example of a woman’s honor as opposed to virtue, my dear,” said the Princess Margaret.

“Of course, madame,” Arabella said. “My own circumstances are a perfect case in point. I came to Scotland due to an affair of honor between the gentleman King Richard had chosen for me to wed and the Earl of Dunmor. Their quarrel had nothing to do with me, and yet the honor of my family,
my honor,
was compromised when Tavis Stewart stole me away and wed me. Now my home, Greyfaire, which I inherited upon my father’s death, is in the hands of my enemy. The honor of the Greys of Greyfaire, of whom I am the last surviving member, will continue to have a stain upon it until my home is restored to me. My husband has promised to do this for me.”

“Hah!” scoffed the gentleman Arabella had mocked. “How can a Scotsman reclaim an English border keep? He canna, madame, and what will ye do when he finally admits to ye that he canna?”

“Why, to satisfy honor,” Princess Margaret teased, “the Countess of Dunmor would hae nae choice but to divorce her husband.”

There was more laughter at this solution, and one pretty young woman said pertly, “If ye decide to divorce him, madame, I would be the first to know.”

“Nay,” said another woman. “Tell me! Tavis Stewart is the bonniest gentleman I’ve ever seen.”

“And, I’ve heard,” spoke up a third lady, “a magnificent lover. Is that true, my lady of Dunmor?”

Arabella blushed prettily, but before she could extricate herself from the situation, the princess said with mock severity, “Ladies, ladies! These discussions are meant to be intellectually elevating,” and then she adroitly changed the subject, to Arabella’s great relief.

The Earl and Countess of Dunmor entered into the frivolity of the court. Arabella possessed her soul of patience regarding Greyfaire until the month of April had begun. Neither Tavis nor the king had said anything to her regarding the matter, and it was now close to four years since she had left her home. Rowan FitzWalter had only recently contacted his sister Lona, and Lona had passed on to Arabella the news that Greyfaire was in a sorry state. Sir Jasper had taken all the able-bodied young men with him to court, impressing boys as young as twelve into his military troop, that he might influence the king. Rowan had only escaped because his father, forewarned, had sent him out hunting that day. Half the trees in the orchards had come down with acanker, and if not already dead, were dying. The village and the keep had both suffered from epidemics of white throat, the spotting sickness, and the sweating sickness. There wasn’t a family that had not lost either a child, an elder, or a parent.

“Rowan says our two youngest sisters, Eba and Annie, have died,” Lona said sadly. “‘Twas the spotting sickness.”

“I must do something,” Arabella said desperately.

“M’lady, you could do nothing about the spotting sickness,” Lona said with perfect logic. “That was God’s will, and as for the canker in the orchard, no one can prevent canker in the fruit trees.”

“Without a Grey,” Arabella said solemnly, “Greyfaire has lost its luck. I must get it back!”

“What must ye get back, sweetheart?” the king demanded, entering Arabella’s bedchamber unannounced.

Lona’s eyes widened with surprise, but she kept her wits about her and curtsied prettily to the king. He grinned mischievously, and taking a small gold ring from his pinkie, dropped it down Lona’s bodice. Lona gave a little shriek of surprise and then blushed scarlet.

The king chuckled and said, “Yer dismissed, lassie,” and gently shoved her out the door, closing it firmly behind Lona before Arabella might protest.

The Countess of Dunmor eyed her sovereign warily. “My lord,” she said coolly, nodding her head in greeting.

“Madame,” he replied, eyeing her dishabille, for Arabella was attired in her petticoats and underbodice. Her beautiful pale gold hair was unbound and spread across the floor by her feet.

There was a long silence between them as Arabella waited for the king to state the purpose of his visit, and finally when he did not, she said, “Why are you here, my lord? You know that my husband is in the north treating with the Gordons on your behalf.”

“Aye, but I have had news from England in response to the request my late father made to King Henry for ye,” James Stewart said. “Henry Tudor is reluctant to return Greyfaire Keep to ye in light of yer marriage to my uncle. Sir Jasper Keane has entreated him for the property, but the English king has not yet made a decision in that direction either. He writes to us that he will consider the possibility of assigning Greyfaire Keep over to Lady Margaret Stewart, daughter of Arabella Grey and Tavis Stewart, provided that he has the final say in a choice of a husband for your daughter. He then goes on to say that though he hae made no decision in the matter, the thought of a minority heiress possessing such a strategic piece of land disturbs him, and he wonders if Sir Jasper might not be a better choice.”

“No.” Arabella’s voice was strangled. “Not Jasper Keane! Never! I will kill him myself before I allow that man to possess Greyfaire!”

“What choice hae ye in the matter, Arabella?” the king said.

“I can go to England!” she cried.
“I must!”
The Countess of Dunmor began to pace her bedchamber. “If I could but speak with King Henry, I could make him understand the situation. I could tell him of Jasper Keane’s perfidy toward me and toward my poor mother, may God assoil her sweet soul. Surely Henry Tudor is an honorable man, and if I can but gain an audience with him, I can explain it all to him far better than anyone can explain it in a letter.”

“How will ye gain an audience with him?” James Stewart asked, fascinated by her determination. Until this minute he had only seen Arabella in terms of an adorable young woman whom he wished to possess. He was intrigued by this new side of her.

“You will write to King Henry, my lord,” she answered him, “and I will carry the message to him personally.”

“And what will I say, sweetheart?” he asked her, amused.

“You will ask your fellow king to give me an audience,” Arabella said with great simplicity. “He will hardly refuse me when the request comes from his fellow monarch, and I am standing there before him.”

James Stewart burst out laughing. He did not know which amused him more. Her audaciousness or the indignant expression she was now wearing upon her beautiful face.

“Do not dare to laugh at me!” Arabella said angrily, stamping her foot at him. “There is absolutely nothing funny or foolish about my plan.”

“Nay, sweetheart,” the king said, putting his own emotions firmly under control, “there is, indeed, nothing funny or foolish about ye, but what makes ye think I will help ye?”

“But why, my lord, would you refuse me? My daughter is your own cousin, Sire. Having Margaret the heiress of such a strategic place on the English side of the border could hardly be detrimental to Scotland.”

James Stewart crossed the room to where Arabella stood and drew her tightly to his side. Her fragrance assailed his nostrils, making him almost dizzy with his rising desire. “Once, Arabella Stewart, I told ye there would come a day when ye wanted a favor from me. Do ye remember that?”

“A-Aye,” she said softly.

“And do ye remember also the price for that favor, sweetheart?” The king’s hand crept up her torso to cup a small, perfect breast.

Arabella resisted the urge to pull away from him and slap his face. Instead she stood very still and said, “I remember, my lord.”

“And are ye willing to pay the price for my aid, ‘Bella,” he murmured, his lips moving down the side of her neck to her shoulder.

“Please, my lord,” Arabella said. “You are my husband’s nephew, and he is your friend. Surely you would not extract such a price from me.”

“Indeed, madame, I would, for like ye, I am determined to have what I desire, and as ye desire the return of yer home, I desire ye.”