"Why would you think that?"
Vilain rubbed his thumb over the portrait, then turned it over to examine the back. "This sort of portrait, especially when it is royalty, is usually given to family members, or to very close friends of high standing. I was not aware there was someone of such import on that vessel." He handed it back to Jamie.
Jamie took the miniature and returned it to his pocket. "We may never solve the mystery of whose it was, or how it got here," he said.
"No, there' are any number of explanations,"
Vilain said.
Jamie agreed. "Aye, it could have been stolen, or given away."
Vilain laughed. "Quite true, for that brings to mind my own dear mother. She was a childhood friend of Queen Mary Louise of the Netherlands, who gifted her with a miniature painted on ivory, but after a falling-out between the two of them, my mother gave the queen's miniature to her maid."
When Jamie arrived back at Monleigh Castie. he was about to go in search of Sophie when he caught a glimpse of her skirts going around the corner.
He went after her, hearing the sound of her footsteps going up the stairs. He caught up with her before she reached the first landing, and put out his hand and took her by the arm.
She turned to face him. "Have a care. If I lose my balance, I could fall all the way back down."
"I wouldna let such as that happen to ye, lass."
"Was this a chance meeting or were you following me?"
"I caught sight of youthen I returned and, since I wanted a word with you, I followed you."
"Why do you need to see me?"
"I wanted to return your miniature." He removed it from the pocket of his doublet and handed it back to her.
She took in the sight of his doublet, and the way his hand rested upon the hilt of his sword, i have not seen you about today. Were you out?"
“Aye, I left early."
He saw the way she dropped her gaze to the miniature, then back to look to him, her expression
guarded. "Thank you for returning it." She
slipped it into her pocket. "You did not keep it very long."
' 'It did not take me long to discover the man in your miniature is Louis XIV, the Sun King. Does that jar anything in your mind? Does the name stand out at all?"
"I know he was a king of France, of course."
"Nothing more?"
"No, nothing. And you? Did you discover something more? Some reason why he should be important to me?"
"No, but I did learn something interesting."
"Oh? Then share it. Please do."
She was calm and unflappable, and he had to admire her levelheadedness, her self-control. She was not easily perturbed. He would hand her that much. "I learned this type of miniature is usually given only to family members, or to very close friends. I cannot help but wonder, which one are you?"
She made a valiant attempt to look nonchalant, just as she endeavored to keep the tremor out of her voice, but she was unsuccessful on both counts. "I...of course I am neither one."
"You are sure of that?"
"Of course I am. How could I be a family member, or even the kind of friend the king would favor with such a miniature? I was not even born when Louis XIV died. I find it a bit preposterous to think it possible that he could have bequeathed it to me."
"There could be other ways," he said.
"Possibly," she said, and smiled at him. "But we will never know, will we? Now, give me your arm and walk me to dinner."
Seventeen
Is there, in human-form, that bears a heart A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? —Robert Burns (1759-1796), Scottish poet and songwriter. "The Cotter's Saturday
Night" (1786)
Vilain ran his long, slender fingers through his hair. That one move would have signaled, had there been anyone else in the room, his tremendous frustration.
"Merde!"
he cursed, when he reached the end of the dispatch from Louis XV.
He cursed again, more loudly this time, and tossed the letter onto the desk. He poured himself a glass of brandy and began to pace the room. Damn the French king...damn Louis, and damn his Bourbon blood.
He walked to the window, turned and thought a minute, trying to understand what the letter did not say.
Was this a fine net of stratagem the king had set to ensnare him?
Or was it nothing more than a ruse, and that French bastard was trying to deceive him?
Why else would he blandly give instructions for Vilain to take Sophie to England and hand her over to the Duke of Rockingham?
He finished the brandy, poured another one and tried to remember what else the king had said, and when he could not he snatched the letter from the desk and found the words he searched for.
Once I receive word from the Duke of Rockingham that Sophie de Bourbon is safely in the duke's hands, I will forgive all my former grievances against you and restore your title and Lands.
Something about all of this did not sit well with Vilain. He was uneasy about involving himself in the intrigue of kings. It was a good way to end up dead.
As for the Duke of Rockingham, he had the reputation of being the doer of dark deeds. He was a man whose intelligence matched his ruth-jessness. At one point, King George had become
so
fed up with him that he had given Rockingham a diplomatic post, and sent him to French court.
That must have been where he met Sophie.
He tossed down the rest of his drink. He did not really care how Rockingham met Sophie, but one thing was certain: it was not a love match.
Vilain had another brandy. He was feeling better about all of this. If the brandy held out, he might even go so far as to feel jovial.
He wondered why Rockingham wanted Sophie so desperately, and tried to imagine what might have happened that could have put Rockingham in such good standing with King Louis, for it was well known that the French had no feelings of attachment when it came to the English.
By the time Vilain had his fourth...or was it his fifth...brandy, he decided the best approach was to extract himself from the entire matter. He had an uneasy feeling that the King of France wanted him to hand Sophie over to Rockingham and, once he did, King Louis had no intention of restoring Vilain's property.
It was just as well. Vilain had already lost his appetite for playing the game of kings. Besides, he liked Sophie, and the thought of handing her over to Rockingham sickened him.
He thought of another reason to keep Sophie here, for he knew James Graham cared more for her than he let show. That would soon begin to cause trouble between him and Gillian.
Vilain planned to be there when Gillian needed a shoulder to cry on—and when she did, he would offer his.
Tomorrow, he would go to Monleigh Castle and tell James Graham what he knew. That left him feeling better, for James Graham was the kind of man one wanted as a friend and not as an enemy.
He stretched out on the sofa in his study and finished his brandy. What he needed was a woman. He thought of Gillian Macara and her fine red hair, pining away for Jamie Graham, who would never marry her. Especially now that he had Sophie. Vilain thought about how he would like to tell Gillian that, but she would not believe him.
What a waste. Such a fine-looking woman, with the most delectable body...
He looked down at the tightness in his groin and thought this was a fine time to be aroused.
Vilain was about to unfasten his breeches and relieve himself when his butler knocked at the door and announced, "Mistress Gillian Macara is waiting here to see you."
Opportunity dumped in his lap! And what was he, but an opportunist?
Gillian was warming her hands in front of the fire when Vilain entered the room. "I did not expect to be greeted by so lovely a sight on a day like this. What brings you here, Gillian?"
"Och! It was a long, cold ride over here, Vilain. Can ye no' offer a lady something to warm her?"
"Would you be needing something to drink, or someone to warm you?"
She smiled and removed her cape. "Something to drink... first.''
She was wearing a dark blue riding suit with a nipped waist that drew attention to the shapely curves of her breasts. His gaze dropped past the feminine swell of hips, and unbelievably long legs.
Vilain had to take a deep breath before he could manage to say, "Brandy?"
She nodded. "That is one thing I love about the French. I could almost fall in love with a man who supplied me with brandy."
Vilain laughed and poured her a large glass. "Then you have found the right Frenchman, for I have a cellar full of it. Shall we go down and test the truth of your words?" He placed the drink in her hand and allowed his hand to remain on the glass, touching hers long enough for her to notice.
Her smile warmed him more than the brandy. "I like a woman who knows what she wants and goes after it."
She tasted the brandy. "You are never subtle, are you?"
He laughed. "I am French. I have no morals. Subtlety is for the schoolroom. If I want a woman, I tell her." He paused, and gave her a questioning smile. "But you have not told me why you rode all the, way over here in the snow."
"To see you."
"And James Graham?"
"He is pursuing other interests."
"It is just as well. He is not the man for you. The two of you would have never suited. I have wondered over the years what held you to him. I always took you for a smart woman, and yet when it comes to affairs of the heart you always seem to leave your brains at home."
"I did not come here to be rebuked and reprimanded. However, you are right so I cannot be angry with you for speaking the truth. I suppose some of us learn faster than others. At least I have realized I have been going down the wrong road—I have decided to change directions."
He refilled both their glasses. "I might warn you that I had several of these before you came. You might want to consider leaving before I have another one."
"Why?"
"Because you are a damn beautiful woman and I have wondered for years what it would be like to bed you, and I am fast losing all my courtly manners. Drink does that to a man. Take now, for instance. When I look at you, I do not see you sitting there comfortably, with your dress tucked around your ankles and your maidenly high collar. I see you with nothing on, and all your beautiful red hair let down to your waist, with the light of the fire bringing the color to life. I see your breasts, high and firm, with your nipples puckered, and I want to roll them between my fingers until they are hard and I take them in my mouth."
He could hear her labored breathing. "You should not say such to me."
"No, I shouldn't, any more than you should sit here and listen to it, but you are listening, and I have given you fair warning. Would you like me to ring for William to have your horse brought around?''
"No, I find myself intrigued, and fear I would prefer to hear the rest of what you see when you look at me."
"I see your skin, smooth and white over lush hips I long to caress. I see the way your soft stomach draws my eye lower to the shadow of desire, and I see it matches your fiery hair. I see you lick your lips when I look at you, and I imagine you parting your legs with an invitation I am helpless to ignore."
"And if I did give you such an invitation? What would you do?"
"I would go to the door and lock it like this." He crossed the room and the
click
of the door was strangely loud. ' 'And then I would remove my clothes, and I would spend the rest of the night showing you what you have ignored for the ten years you have been pining for James Graham."
"Then show me."
Gillian was mesmerized. She had never seen a man who was more open and honest, and so terribly arousing because of it. She might not be a virgin, but never had she watched a man undress in a way that made her want to be as boldly forward as he.
She was lost in his words, and wondered why she had never noticed before what a godlike creature he was, with his dark blue eyes, his golden head and the heart-stopping accent that made her shiver.
He was tall and slender and...she dropped her gaze down to see what he had to offer, and smiled.
Now, here was the fantasy lover she had dreamed about but never expected to find. His body was beautiful, and well endowed, and he had made it known how much he desired her.
He had not touched her yet, but already she liked this French way of seduction.
Truly, it was a very long night and she did not remember falling to sleep at all.
When Gillian awoke the next morning she was in Vilain's bed, but he was not in the room.
She lay there for a while, thinking back over the wild lovemaking that had lasted almost all night. Then she pouted because she was hungry for more and Vilain was gone.
She dressed and went downstairs to look for him, but found no one about. She was fast allowing herself to be in a fine temper and, if she saw him, she would let him know it.
She yanked on her gloves and picked up her cape. That fool butler of his was nowhere to be found, so she decided to go to the stables herself and have her horse saddled.
She had almost reached the front door when she heard voices, and thinking she would not only find Vilain but also his butler, she followed the sound until she came to the library.
The door was ajar and she paused, clearly hearing Vilain's voice, but the other voice was not that of Angus.
She listened, curiously wondering with whom he was talking, being hesitant to interrupt him until she knew.
"I was told by someone who has been to Monleigh recently that there was a French lass there...one who has lost her memory. Have ye any knowledge of such a lass?"
"A French lass? Why, no, I have neither seen nor heard of anyone such as you describe. I was there only two nights ago for dinner and dancing. I am certain I would have recognized a French
mademoiselle,
if she had been in the room."
"Perhaps if she has no memory she would have remained above stairs."
"It is possible, I suppose. You said the Duke of Rockingham was betrothed to her?"
"Aye. And he is most anxious to find his lass."
"To be sure," Vilain said. "I will keep her in mind and alert you if I learn anything. You said her name was Sophie, I believe."
"Aye, she boarded the ship under the name of Sophie Victoire d'Alembert, although her real name is Sophie Marie Victoire de Bourbon. Her mother's maiden name was d'Alembert, so I suppose she was using that so no one would recognize her."
Gillian wanted to look but she was afraid they might see her, so she remained where she was and listened to Vilain's reply. Her heart hammered with the powerful words she heard.
She moved her ear closer to the door.
Vilain was speaking. "Yes, a name like de Bourbon would certainly get her noticed. The family goes back over five hundred years to Louis I. They have provided France with many of its kings."
"It is the same family, then, for I was told she is the daughter of Louis-Alexandre de Bourbon, Comte de Toulouse, due de Danville, due de Penthievre, due de Chateauvillain, and due de Rambouillet. He is..."
Vilain whistled. "The son of Louis XJV,
Roi Soleil...
the Sun King,"