The Spitfire (36 page)

“Is there no other way, my lord?” she pleaded with him. “Is there nothing else I might give you that would satisfy such a debt between us? I love Tavis Stewart.”

“But ye love yer Greyfaire more, I think,” James Stewart said. He turned her so that she was forced to look up at him, and bending, he brushed her mouth lightly with his. “Yer such a wee bit of a creature, sweetheart.” His voice was tender, but then it hardened. “What can ye possibly gie me, Arabella Stewart, that I dinna already hae? I am an anointed king, and though my earls are no less fractious now than they were in my father’s time, I am able, for all my youth, or perhaps because of it, to rule them well. I am nae a rich man, but then neither am I a poor one. My country, though it has suffered with several bad harvests, has survived, and we are nae threatened by any of our enemies at this time. Indeed, both France and England seek to court Scotland.
And,
sweetheart, I hae the most beautiful women in the land seeking my bed. I lack for nothing but my heart’s desire, and that is ye. So if ye would hae me intercede for ye wi’ King Henry, ye must yield yerself to my wishes.”

“I do not need your help,” Arabella said proudly. “I will go to England without it.”

“I will nae let ye go,” he told her calmly.

“You cannot stop me!” she cried, attempting to pull away from him, but he would not release her.

“I can,” he said. “Do ye think my uncle, when informed of yer plans, will concur wi’ them? Ye know he will nae.”

“I do not need his permission,” Arabella said, and the king laughed with genuine amusement.

“I dinna know how ye and my uncle hae managed to remain wed wi’ out killing each other,” he said. “Do ye ever agree on anything, ‘Bella?”

“Of course!” she said irritably. “Whatever our differences, my lord, we love one another.”

The king grew serious once more. “I will nae let ye leave here wi’ out yer husband’s permission, madame, and if ye defy me in this matter, I will tell him of yer plans. Wi’ out me, ye will nae go to England, nor will ye succeed wi’ out my aid.”

“I cannot put the horns of a cuckold on my husband’s head,” Arabella told the king firmly.

“He need nae know, sweetheart,” James said. “I am nae a man who must boast amongst his friends in the hall of his conquests.”

“I cannot,” Arabella said.

“Then ye will hae to resign yerself to losing yer beloved Greyfaire, madame. Are ye prepared to do that?”

Tears welled up in the Countess of Dunmor’s eyes. For the last several years she had dreamed of regaining her childhood home. She might have been able to let that dream go had it not been for Sir Jasper Keane. The thought of him possessing Greyfaire was more than she was able to bear. “I must think on it,” she said low.

Dear God! What was she to do? How could she betray Tavis Stewart when she loved him so very much? And yet…and yet had he not promised to regain Greyfaire for her? But he had not, and she sensed that having made the effort, he would accept the English king’s judgment in the matter. But she could not! She could not leave Greyfaire to the tender mercies of Sir Jasper Keane, and she could not betray her husband by giving herself to Jamie Stewart’s lust.

Then she heard a voice in her mind, and she remembered the discussion on honor that she had partaken in but a short while ago in the Royal Aunt’s chambers. She remembered the gentleman who had asked her what she would do when Tavis finally admitted to her that he could not regain Greyfaire for her. She recalled the princess’s quick retort:

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

For a moment she felt as if her heart had stopped in her chest. Was there no other choice? She wanted Greyfaire, and obviously only she could regain it. The honor of her family demanded it, and if she had to sacrifice her own happiness…

He saw the indecision and all the other emotions churning inside her, welling up in her eyes, playing across her beautiful face. He could almost taste his victory, and the taste was sweet.

Finally Arabella spoke, and what she said could not have surprised him more than if she had hurled a thunderbolt at him. “If I agree to your terms,” she said slowly, “then you must do one thing for me first. Men, my husband in particular, are most fond of speaking about their honor. ‘Twas an affair of honor that brought me to Scotland, as you well know. Were it not for honor, I should be in possession of Greyfaire now, and not here before your majesty. Well, women are possessed of honor too, my lord, and if I must compromise my own honor in order to regain what is rightfully mine, I will not discredit my husband’s name in the process. You are Scotland’s king, and whatever you desire is done. Obtain for me a divorce from the Archbishop of St. Andrew’s. When you have done that, I will grace your bed, and afterward you will let me return to England that I may regain what is mine. Our liaison must be a secret one, however, for whatever Tavis may think of me, I would not have him shamed publicly, for I love him. Sadly, I love Greyfaire too. You Stewarts are wrong to attempt to make me choose between you and my home, for I cannot.”

“But ye hae,” the king said.

“Nay, I have but done what I must do to restore my family’s honor,” Arabella said quietly. “I have done no more than my husband or any other man would have done in a similar situation. Why should it be different simply because I am a woman?”

“Yer certain ye wish to do this?” the king said, feeling just the faintest twinge of guilt.

“As certain as your majesty is that he desires to bed me,” Arabella said quietly. There was an elegant dignity about her that made James Stewart uncomfortable.

The young king flushed, and was irritated that she made him feel so guilty. “Ye dinna hae to divorce my uncle,” he said, his tone just short of surly.

“Ye dinna hae to futter me either, my lord,” she mocked him in his own Scots-English, “but you desire to possess me more than you love your uncle. I, however, love Tavis Stewart, and I will not allow either of us to bring dishonor to his name or to the Stewarts of Dunmor! If you will help me without extracting this terrible price from me, I will be your majesty’s grateful servant forever, but if you will not, then I must do what is right even if you will not.”

“Dinna seek to instruct me, madame,” the king said angrily. “I am long past lessons.”

“Your father, may God assoil his good soul, once told me that no one is past learning. A man who ceases to learn becomes valueless to those about him, for he can offer them nothing new,” Arabella retorted sharply.

James Stewart yanked her hard against him and ground his mouth down upon hers in a punishing kiss. Furiously, Arabella pulled her head away from him, but the king took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, holding her fast. “When ye speak to me in future, madame, I want to hear words of love and cries of sweet passion only issuing forth from between your delectable lips. Nothing else!” He kissed her fiercely once again, leaving Arabella somewhat breathless. “Yer husband will nae be back for several weeks, madame, for his mission to the Gordons at Hunfley and the Leslie laird at Glenkirk is delicate and will take time. Ye will hae yer divorce before the week is out, ‘Bella, and ye will be in my bed not long afterward.”

“One night,” she said.

“A week,” he told her.

“You cannot keep such a secret for a week,” she said, tears springing into her light green eyes.

He considered her words and realized that she was correct, though the knowledge annoyed him. It was not a secret that could be long kept. “Three days, then,” he said grudgingly, “but nae here at Linlithgow. I’ve a small hunting lodge in the borders. We’ll go there.”

“No!” she cried. “You are the king. You cannot simply run off to
hunt
as you did when you were a prince. You will be missed! As king you cannot go alone, and even the loyalist servant will gossip. My identity will become known. Do not pretend you want anything else of me other than my body, my lord, and that being so, are not the nights enough? You must surely know—for the first day we came to Linlithgow, I discovered it—that there is a secret passage from this room leading to another room within the palace.”

“Nay,” he said, surprised. “I didna know. Show me, madame!”

Arabella moved across the bedchamber to the fireplace wall, and pressing a corner of the paneling, she stepped back as a small door swung open. Taking a candlestick from the table, the king stepped through into the passage and moved forward. Within a moment the flickering candle disappeared from sight. She stood awaiting his return, and for the first time since this encounter with James Stewart had begun, Arabella felt herself overwhelmed by a great sadness.

What in the name of God was she doing? She loved her husband. Loved him with every fiber of her being. They had a child, but of course it was really Margaret for whom she was doing this, she told herself. Greyfaire would be inherited by Lady Margaret Stewart, for she would never marry again, Arabella decided. With FitzWalter’s help she would hold the keep for England until the day her daughter married. Then, as Rowena had once planned, she would go to the Dower House to live out her old age. A tear slipped down her face.
What was she doing?
Angrily she brushed it away, wishing at the same time that she could rid herself of her doubts as easily.

The king popped back into her view and exited the passage saying, “It leads to a small library next to my apartments! I can go there to ‘read’, asking that I not be disturbed, and no one shall know that I am really wi’ ye. ‘Tis perfect!” He grinned, pleased. “I shall come to ye tonight, sweetheart!”

“Nay, you will not, my lord!” she told him. “Not until the archbishop assures me that I have my divorce. I will not lie with you until I do, lest I compromise
my
honor.”

He was disappointed, for the anticipation of possessing this lovely woman for whom he had hungered for so long was great, but he also knew how fragile her state of mind was. She could change that mind at any moment should he press her, and he did not want her to do so. If he felt any guilt at the wrong he was doing to his uncle, James Stewart had not yet begun to contemplate that, for he was driven by but one thing—his need for Arabella. “I understand, madame,” he said gravely, and then bowing formally to her, he left her chambers.

When she was certain that he was gone, Arabella put her head in her hands and wept. Again she was assailed by doubts, by the wisdom, or lack of wisdom, of what she was doing. Was Greyfaire really that important to her? It was naught but a little stone keep on the English side of the border. Dunmor Castle was far grander, and she had grown to love it too. Yet Greyfaire was her ancestral home, and she had been a Grey far longer than she had been a Stewart. If it had been anyone other than Jasper Keane, she might have been able to let it go, but she could not relinquish her hold on Greyfaire that
he
might have it. He was not worthy of Greyfaire, that debaucher of women, that murderer of innocents. She had to regain her rights to Greyfaire. She had to regain it for Margaret.

Tavis had sworn to help her, and yet he had not. There was always something that took precedence for him over her problems. It was not that he didn’t care, for Arabella was certain her husband did care, but like most men, he put his own concerns above those of his wife. She had waited four years for him to act in her behalf, and yet he had never been able to find the time to do so. She had gone to King James III herself, and even that had not stirred him to action on her part. She had no other choice. She needed the king’s help, and Jamie would not give it to her unless she gave him her body in return.

Arabella sighed deeply. And when she had regained Greyfaire, what then? A life of loneliness lay before her, for Tavis would certainly never forgive her. He would remarry, and some other woman’s son would be Dunmor’s heir. She could never love another man. Arabella maintained no illusions about the king. James Stewart, as young as he was, had a great appetite for women. If the rumors were true, and she certainly had no reason to doubt them, he was a vigorous and tireless lover. He was, at this moment in time, actively seeking a mistress. She knew should she aspire to the position, it could be hers.

Poor James, Arabella thought. He was not a bad man, but he was certainly a thoughtless one. He had not, she was certain, considered for even the briefest moment Tavis’ feelings should he learn that his nephew had seduced her. Yet he would be a good king, for unlike his late father, James IV was a decisive young man. He saw what he wanted and he took it, as she certainly could attest. The court poet, William Dunbar, had recently written an amusing satire regarding one of the king’s amorous seductions. Jamie was pictured as a fox, while Master Dunbar had portrayed the lady as a lamb.

The fox was neither ragged nor lean,

A lustier reynard was never seen:

He was long tailed and large withal.

The silly ewe-lamb was much too small

to answer “nay” when he said “yea.”

Good luck to her, whatever befall!

She didn’t flee him, strange to say.

The court had laughed for several weeks over the poem, and even the lady involved was able to see the good-natured humor in her predicament. At least there would be no poetry about the king’s seduction of the Countess of Dunmor. With God’s good luck, no one would know.

“M’lady?” Lona was standing by her side. “The king said I might come in, m’lady.” The girl shifted nervously, suddenly more aware than she had ever before been in her life of the differences between herself and her childhood friend.

“Oh, Lona,” Arabella said, looking up, the evidence of tears quite plain upon her face, “do not look so frightened. It’s all right.”

Lona hesitated, and then bravely she said, slipping back into the familiar address of their childhood, “No, it ain’t, ‘Bella. You’ve been crying, and you aren’t one for easy tears. We’ve been friends since the cradle, and I know I’m just your servant, and you’re a fine lady and all, but I know you better than any living, and it ain’t all right. If you don’t want to tell me, then that’s another matter, but don’t tell me it’s all right when I can see it ain’t!”