Royal Road to Fotheringhay - Plaidy Jean - Страница 71

What strength! Mary shivered slightly. There was something terrifying about the man. She wondered if the stories she had heard of him were wholly true. Was he really the ruffian he was made out to be? Was it true that he had scores of mistresses?

He was a bold man and a wicked one; she had no doubt of that; yet compared with him, her own Henry did seem somewhat childish and ineffectual.

THE BOTHWELL honeymoon was spent at Seton. To both it was an unsatisfactory honeymoon. Bothwell was bewildered; he could not understand his Jean. She was a Highlander; he was a Lowlander; she belonged to the most important family of the North and her father had been the Cock o’ the North. It was clear that she found his manners repulsive; he had laughed at her when she disclosed this, and determined to make no effort to mend them. He had been piqued by her attitude toward him. No woman had aroused his interest so completely before, and she was not even beautiful. Her pale face with its crown of sandy hair was serene beneath the green and gold cap, and the lacey ruff accentuated its oval contours; he found it impossible to disturb that serenity.

She submitted unmoved to his rough lovemaking. He would have preferred her to protest; then he could have brought into action his famous Border tactics. Her calm expression seemed to say: I am married to you and I will do my duty, no matter how unpleasant that may be.

He had even tried gentleness. Nothing moved her. And once, watching her when she was unaware of it, he imagined by the sadness in her face that she was thinking of Alexander Ogilvie.

“Curse Alexander Ogilvie!” cried the Borderer. “If I had him here I’d slit his throat, and you would see who was the better man.”

“The slitting of throats cannot decide who is the better man,” she had answered.

“It can decide who is the live one,” he had retorted grimly.

“But we were not discussing life and death.”

She showed no emotion when she arrived at her new home of Crichton Castle. What did she think of those stark stone walls built to stand against the raider from the other side of the Border? How did it compare with the glens and fells, the rushing streams and waterfalls of her beautiful Highlands? She gave no sign. It was as though she shrugged her elegant Gordon shoulders and accepted Crichton as she accepted James Hepburn.

“Well,” he roared, “do you like my castle?”

“It is my home, so I needs must,” she replied.

He watched her as she busied herself with the alterations she would make. She had brought several of her mother’s servants with her and she set them sweeping and cooking, cleaning and sewing. Bothwell was amused; he could see that soon he would have a model home.

This wife of his interested him. Her frigidity was such as he had never encountered. A wifely frigidity, he presumed it to be. One would not tolerate it in a mistress. Yet it intrigued him. Here was the first woman who did not melt before his flaming personality.

He had never been faithful to one woman for so long. He might have gone on being faithful, had he not happened to take a short cut through his wife’s sewing room one day.

Seated on low stools were some of his wife’s sewing maids and among them was one who immediately caught his eye. She was small, her face was pale, and her hair the blackest he had ever seen, and so abundant that no amount of restraint could have kept it in order. He was aware of the girl’s brilliant eyes fixed upon him as he sauntered through the room. The older maids modestly kept their eyes on their work.

As he passed the girl he stared at her and boldly she returned his stare. He knew then that he had been too long faithful to one woman, and it was a most unnatural condition.

But he forgot the girl until next day when, on his way to the stables, he suddenly remembered that on the previous day he had passed through the sewing room. He went there again and saw the girl. She was like an inviting goblet of wine ready for the drinking, and he was a man who suffered from the perpetual thirst which only such wine could assuage.

A girl like that in the house! he mused. Why, if I do not… then someone else will!

He sent for French Paris whom he had kept in his service even though he knew the man stole from him and had been in that half-jesting, half-earnest plot to poison him.

“Who is the girl in the sewing room?” he asked.

“The girl, my lord? You would mean Bessie Crawford, for sure.”

“How are you sure, man?”

” Tis the only girl in the sewing room that would interest your lordship. Why, I’ve laid a wager with Gabriel that you would take her before the week was out.”

“You insolent knaves!” grinned Bothwell. “And when is this week out?”

“Sir, it runs out this very day.”

Bothwell slapped the man’s shoulder so hard that French Paris’s knees gave way.

“We cannot have that,” said Bothwell.

Paris sniggered. “Her ladyship, in turning out the rooms, my lord, has discarded furniture which she had sent down to the cellars. It well-nigh killed us. An old couch, my lord, there was among other articles. ’Tis there now… old… shabby… having been in use since before my lady’s coming, sir… but still a couch….”

“Send the girl down to the cellar to get wine,” said the Earl.

“Yes, my lord. And lock the door and bring the key to you?”

“How well you follow my plans, man!”

“My lord, there have been other times.”

“Do it then. I’d like you to win your wager with sly Gabriel.”

Paris went off chuckling.

BESSIE HAD HEARD much of the Earl and she never tired of listening to stories of him. They whispered of him that no woman was safe if he fancied her.

“Keep your eyes on your work,” said elderly Nan, who sat stitching beside her when the Earl passed through the room. “Don’t go casting them in that direction, my girl.”

Bessie did not reply. She sat still, shivering with excitement.

When she left the sewing room that afternoon French Paris was waiting for her.

“You’re to go down to the cellar,” he said. “You’re to bring up a flagon of red wine.”

“Where to?” asked Bessie.

“To me in the kitchen.”

Bessie went down the stone stairs to the cellar, taking the candle which Paris had thrust into her hand.

“Watch your step,” he called after her.

Bessie did not like the cellar very much. It was dark and damp and there were cobwebs which touched her face as she groped her way forward.

Suddenly she heard the door shut behind her and the key turn in the lock.

“Master Paris!” she called shrilly. “Master Paris!”

She went up the stairs and tried the door. She was right. It had been locked. It was a silly trick, she supposed. Paris was teasing her. She looked around her. She must not be frightened. It was just a joke; she must remember that. The servants liked to play jokes on one another. Well, she would do as she had been bidden. She would get the flask of wine and then, if he had not unlocked the door by then, she would bang on it and call for help.

She went to where the flagons were stored, and picked up one; but as she turned toward the door she saw that it was open. She laughed with relief.

“A silly trick, Master Paris,” she said. “Don’t think to frighten me”

But it was not Master Paris who had turned and was locking the door behind him. Bessie’s heart raced as the tall figure of the Earl came toward her.

She dropped the flagon as she heard him laugh.

“My… my lord …,” she stammered.

Then she felt those strong arms seize her.

“I … I do not understand, my lord.”

“You cannot deceive me, Bessie,” he said. “You understand very well indeed, as you did in the sewing room, did you not?”

“No, my lord, I—”