Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [236]
“Y-yes, I understand that. But he was…provoked.” I had an idea. “You know he’s a Scot; men of that country are”—I tried to think of a good synonym for “berserk”—“most fierce where questions of their honor are concerned.”
Louis nodded, head bent in apparent absorption over the hand he held. I could see the faint greasy shine to his skin, and smell his perfume. Violets. A strong, sweet smell, but not enough to completely mask his own acrid maleness.
He drained his wine in two long swallows and discarded the goblet, the better to clasp my hand in both his own. One short-nailed finger traced the lines of my wedding ring, with its interlaced links and thistle blossoms.
“Quite so,” he said, bringing my hand closer, as though to examine the ring. “Quite so, Madame. However…”
“I’d be…most grateful, Your Majesty,” I interrupted. His head rose and I met his eyes, dark and quizzical. My heart was going like a trip-hammer. “Most…grateful.”
He had thin lips and bad teeth; I could smell his breath, thick with onion and decay. I tried holding my own breath, but this could hardly be more than a temporary expedient.
“Well…” he said slowly, as though thinking it over. “I would myself be inclined toward mercy, Madame…”
I released my breath in a short gasp, and his fingers tightened on mine in warning. “But you see, there are complications.”
“There are?” I said faintly.
He nodded, eyes still fixed on my face. His fingers wandered lightly over the back of my hand, tracing the veins.
“The Englishman who was so unfortunate as to have offended milord Broch Tuarach,” he said. “He was in the employ of…a certain man—an English noble of some importance.”
Sandringham. My heart lurched at the mention of him, indirect as it was.
“This noble is engaged in—shall we say, certain negotiations which entitle him to consideration?” The thin lips smiled, emphasizing the imperious prow of the nose above. “And this nobleman has interested himself in the matter of the duel between your husband and the English Captain Randall. I am afraid that he was most exigent in demanding that your husband suffer the full penalty of his indiscretion, Madame.”
Bloody tub of lard, I thought. Of course—since Jamie had refused the bribe of a pardon, what better way to prevent his “involving himself” in the Stuarts’ affairs than to ensure Jamie’s staying safely jugged in the Bastille for the next few years? Sure, discreet, and inexpensive; a method bound to appeal to the Duke.
On the other hand, Louis was still breathing heavily on my hand, which I took as a sign that all was not necessarily lost. If he wasn’t going to grant my request, he could scarcely expect me to go to bed with him—or if he did, he was in for a rude surprise.
I girded my loins for another try.
“And does Your Majesty take orders from the English?” I asked boldly.
Louis’s eyes flew open with momentary shock. Then he smiled wryly, seeing what I intended. Still, I had touched a nerve; I saw the small twitch of his shoulders as he resettled his conviction of power like an invisible mantle.
“No, Madame, I do not,” he said with some dryness. “I do, however, take account of…various factors.” The heavy lids drooped over his eyes for a moment, but he still held my hand.
“I have heard that your husband interests himself in the affairs of my cousin,” he said.
“Your Majesty is well informed,” I said politely. “But since that is so, you will know that my husband does not support the restoration of the Stuarts to the throne of Scotland.” I prayed that this was what he wanted to hear.
Apparently it was; he smiled, raised my hand to his lips, and kissed it briefly.
“Ah? I had heard…conflicting stories about your husband.”
I took a deep breath and resisted the impulse to snatch my hand back.
“Well, it’s a matter of business,” I said, trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible. “My husband’s cousin, Jared Fraser, is an avowed