Bertrice Small - Love Wild and Fair

Shuddering, Cat glanced at the now-empty doorway.

TWO days before Cat's departure, an unfamiliar horseman rode into Chateau Petit. Within the hour Cat was summoned to the library. David Leslie de Peyrac looked uncomfortable and a trifle nervous. Sprawling in a chair was an elegant gentleman who leaped to his feet as Cat entered the room.

"My niece, Madame la Comtesse de Glenkirk. Catriona, this is Monsieur le Marquis de la Victoire."

The elegant bowed low over her hand, kissing it reverently and holding it a moment too long. His blue eyes swept her admiringly, and he couldn't resist ogling her just a trifle, the waxed points of his moustache twitching slightly. "Madame, I am your devoted slave," he murmured with a violet-scented breath.

Cat's laughter rang clear, and her leaf-green eyes twinkled. "You overwhelm me with such attentions, monsieur le marquis," she protested prettily.

Delighted with this beautiful woman, who was obviously skilled in court repartee, the marquis spoke again. "Madame, it is my unbelievable good fortune to have been chosen by the king to escort you to Fon-tainebleau."

"Your king wishes to see me? There must be some mistake, monsieur le marquis. I am merely traveling through France on my way to Italy."

"You are the widow of Patrick Leslie?"

"Yes."

Then there is no mistake, madame."

"I will need time to change, monsieur le marquis. And, of course, I must be properly chaperoned. I shall be accompanied by both my tiring women, my confessor, and my captain-at-arms and his men. And, of course, we shall travel in my coach."

"But, of course, madame! All the proprieties will be observed."

Another hour passed, and Cat found herself traveling the seven mile's through the forest between Chateau Petit and Fontainebleau. On Niall's advice she had dressed herself in an elegantly seductive dark-green velvet dress that emphasized the color of her eyes and the whiteness of her skin. The neckline was cut very low to reveal the full swell of her breasts. Over it she had flung a hooded cloak fashioned of alternating bands of dark-green velvet and soft dark beaver. It closed at the neck with a large gold clasp set with an emerald.

Niall spoke quietly to her as they rode along. "Don't underestimate him, Catriona. Henri de Navarre is a shrewd man. Answer his questions candidly, but tell him only what you think he needs to know, no more. He enjoys women, especially women of spirit and intelligence. He has great charm."

"But what," she asked, "can he want with me?"

"I imagine James Stewart has discovered your absence, and has sent to his fellow king for aid in obtaining your return."

"I will not go back, Niall!"

"If that is why Henri wishes to see you, ma belle, then use all your charms to dissaude him. I know you can."

"Mon père!" Cat was shocked. "What is it you are telling me to do?"

"Whatever you must. Do you or do you not wish to be Lord Bothwell's wife?"

"I do! Dear God, I do!"

"Then do whatever you must do to achieve that goal."

A few minutes later they reached Fontainebleau, and the marquis was at the coach door to escort Cat to the French king. "Your women and your other people may wait here," he told her.

Niall slid easily from the coach to the courtyard. Looking directly at Robert de la Victoire, he said quietly, "I think I shall visit my old friend, Père Hugo, the king's confessor. I will be ready to return on your command, madame la comtesse."

Clutching her cloak about her, Cat followed the marquis through a maze of winding and dimly lit corridors until finally he stopped. Pointing to a paneled door, he directed, "Through there, madame." And turning around, he disappeared into the darkness. Cat gritted her teeth and, grasping the door handle, turned it and entered into a beautifully furnished small library.

At first glance the room appeared empty. Then a tall man stepped from a curtained alcove. "Come closer, madame la comtesse. I will not bite you."

She walked directly up to him and swept him a low curtsy. "Monseigneur, you are gracious to receive me."

A smile briefly touched the corner of his mouth. "Remove the cloak, madame. We will talk."

Cat unfastened the gold clasps. Laying the garment neatly on a chair, she turned back to the French king. He had a sensuous, handsome face, with deep-brown velvet eyes. They scrutinized her with frank approval. His gaze moved downward from her beautiful face to rest quite openly on her lovely breasts pushing above the neckline of her gown.

"Magnifique," he breathed. "I can well understand James Stewart's frantic desire to get you back, madame la comtesse."

Though she had been half-expecting it, the shock was almost too much for Cat. She swayed slightly. Instantly the French king was at her side, a strong arm about her waist. "I will not go back, monseigneur! Not unless it be in my coffin!"

Henri de Navarre was distressed. "Ahh, no, chérie, I cannot allow that to happen."

She swayed again, and the king scooped her up and swiftly carried her through the curtained alcove to a bed. His long slender fingers expertly loosed the laces of her bodice. Pouring a small amount of amber liquid into a goblet, he put an arm about her shoulders and forced her to drink.

Cat gasped, and coughed. "God's nightshirt! Whisky!"

The French king laughed. "An excellent restorative."

Suddenly aware of her dishabille, Cat struggled to relace herself, but another wave of dizziness overcame her, and she fell back. The king leaned over her, pinioning her gently between his arms. "Do not be afraid, chérie. I will not make you return to your king. It is all too obvious that he repels you, and I have never believed in forcing women. Sweet surrender in the battle between the sexes has far more charm than rape." The brown eyes caressed her warmly, and Cat felt herself blush under his very ardent gaze. His voice was soft. "Would you surrender to me, chérie?" he asked, and she barely had time to murmur, "Monseigneur," before his mouth closed warmly over hers.

Expecting to react as she had with James, Cat was startled to feel a tremor run through her body. The mouth on hers was tender, and expert. She felt herself relax. Her eyes closed, and she sighed deeply.

He laughed softly, and the slim fingers quickly undid her laces, baring her completely to the waist. His mouth moved down the slender column of her throat to the twin silken globes of her breasts. She couldn't stop him, though for a brief moment she tried to, struggling to escape the outrageously delicious feelings that were sweeping over her. This was wrong! She didn't even know him.

“Non, non, chérie," he gently admonished her, pressing her back among the pillows. "You want this as much as I do."

And she realized with shock that he spoke the truth. She did not know him, yet she needed his very masculine body in order to reassure herself of her womanhood. James had made her feel like a whore. Henri of Navarre, a virtual stranger, was making her feel alive and feminine again.

His lips traced a pattern across her faintly trembling breasts, moving downward to her quivering navel. His large, soft hands caressed her with an expertise that left her breathless and half-fainting. She felt those hands beneath her full skirts, stroking her satiny thighs, and then moving to touch her more intimately. A throbbing, aching tightness began building within her. She cried out, "Monseigneur!" and felt him seeking her. Her breath was coming in short quick little gasps, and she sobbed gratefully as his hardness penetrated her.

He moved smoothly, delighting in her passionate response, lingering happily within her warmth, holding himself in perfect check as she sought and found her own heaven. Then, taking her one final time to the heights of ecstasy, he joined her in fulfillment. Cat, excited by this expert lover, first fainted and then drifted off into a relaxed sleep.

When she awoke several hours later he was quickly at her bedside with a glass of cool wine. Blushing furiously at the memory of what had passed between them, she accepted his offering with lowered eyes.

"Look at me, chérie," he gently commanded her. His hand imperiously raised her heart-shaped face to his. "I pity James, and I certainly envy my friend Lord Bothwell," he said.

Her leaf-green eyes widened, and she swallowed hard. "You-you know Francis?"

"Yes, chérie, I do. We spent many happy hours together before he so foolishly killed a de Guise in a duel. I have enough trouble with that family as it is, and I was forced to exile my friend."

"Then you know I journey to Naples to wed Francis?"

"Yes, chérie."

"And all along you intended to let me go my way?" "Yes, chine.ⁿ

"Ohhhhhh!" Her eyes were wide with outrage. She struggled off the bed, desperately trying to lace herself up. "My God, monseigneur! How could you? How could you?"

Henri de Navarre could not help himself, and he began to laugh, catching at the angry little hand that pummeled his chest. "Because, you adorable creature, with a courtful of delicious and willing beauties, your Francois did nothing but sigh and moon over you! I simply could not believe such perfection existed. But now," and he smiled down at her, "I believe, ma chérie!” He tipped her face up to his. "You will not tell my good friend, Francois, that I took shameful advantage of you. Will you, chérie?"

Her lower lip began to tremble, and she struggled to retain her dignity. "You are an impossible man, monseigneur," she scolded him, beginning to laugh in spite of herself.

His fingers expertly laced her up. "Was it so terrible, what we did? I was under the distinct impression that you enjoyed yourself as much as I did."

Her eyes met his, and he heard her say, "I did, monseigneur, but for a reason you would not suspect."

"Tell me!"

"Last Christmas when my son wed Isabelle Gordon, James Stewart came to Glenkirk to spend his days hunting and his nights in my bed. When he touched me I felt nothing. I was forced to pretend an emotion I did not feel so as not to offend my royal cousin's pride. After several nights of it I became afraid that perhaps something was actually the matter with me."

"And today," chuckled Henri de Navarre, "you discovered that there is nothing the matter with you, n'est-ce pas?”

"Yes," she said softly.

"I am delighted to have had a part in reassuring you, madame la comtesse," he returned dryly.

She laughed mischievously. "Do not play the wounded one with me, monseigneur! 'Twas you who seduced me!"

Henri smiled down at her. "I will not deny, madame, that this has been a delightful interlude." His finger touched the tip of her nose, and he sighed. "But now you must return to your uncle's chateau, and prepare for your journey to Italy."

She caught up his hands and kissed them. "Merci, merci, monseigneur! Mille mercis!”

He again took her face in his two hands. "You love him very much, don't you, chérie?”

"Yes, monseigneur, I love him. It has been a long and very lonely three years. I have been as half a person without him."

"I have never felt like that about anyone," replied the French king.

"I do not believe many people do, monseigneur, and I dp not understand why Francis and I were singled out to share such a love-but we do!"

Henri de Navarre gently traced a finger down her cheek. "How lovely you are, chérie, with all your innocent love shining out of those marvelous green eyes. Go safely to your beloved rogue, and tell him that I miss him. What an addition you both would have been to my court!" Picking up her cloak, he carefully draped it around her shoulders. Taking her hand, he led her to the door and opened it. "Here she is, mon père-safe and sound." He took her hand. Kissing it, he said, "Adieu, madame la comtesse."

The door to the study closed, and she was alone in the corridor with Niall Fitz-Leslie. The priest led her back to their coach in the courtyard. When they were safely on their way, he asked, "Well, madame, did you leave the lion's maw unscathed?"