Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [237]
“I have.” Louis paused for a long moment, watching his own fingers, dark and stubby, tracing delicate circles over the back of my hand.
“So very pale,” he murmured. “So fine. I believe I could see the blood flow beneath your skin.”
He let go of my hand then and sat regarding me. I was extremely good at reading faces, but Louis’s was quite impenetrable at the moment. I realized suddenly that he’d been a king since the age of five; the ability to hide his thoughts was as much a part of him as his Bourbon nose or the sleepy black eyes.
This thought brought another in its wake, with a chill that struck me deep in the pit of the stomach. He was the King. The Citizens of Paris would not rise for forty years or more; until that day, his rule within France was absolute. He could free Jamie with a word—or kill him. He could do with me as he liked; there was no recourse. One nod of his head, and the coffers of France could spill the gold that would launch Charles Stuart, loosing him like a deadly bolt of lightning to strike through the heart of Scotland.
He was the King. He would do as he wished. And I watched his dark eyes, clouded with thought, and waited, trembling, to see what the Royal pleasure might be.
“Tell me, ma chère Madame,” he said at last, stirring from his introspection. “If I were to grant your request, to free your husband…” he paused, considering.
“Yes?”
“He would have to leave France,” Louis said, one thick brow raised in warning. “That would be a condition of his release.”
“I understand.” My heart was pounding so hard that it nearly drowned out his words. Jamie leaving France was, after all, precisely the point. “But he’s exiled from Scotland…”
“I think that might be arranged.”
I hesitated, but there seemed little choice but to agree on Jamie’s behalf. “All right.”
“Good.” The King nodded, pleased. Then his eyes returned to me, rested on my face, glided down my neck, my breasts, my body. “I would ask a small service of you in return, Madame,” he said softly.
I met his eyes squarely for one second. Then I bowed my head. “I am at Your Majesty’s complete disposal,” I said.
“Ah.” He rose and threw off the dressing gown, leaving it flung carelessly over the back of his armchair. He smiled and held out a hand to me. “Très bien, ma chère. Come with me, then.”
I closed my eyes briefly, willing my knees to work. You’ve been married twice, for heaven’s sake, I thought to myself. Quit making such a bloody fuss about it.
I rose to my feet and took his hand. To my surprise, he didn’t turn toward the velvet chaise, but instead led me toward the door at the far side of the room.
I had one moment of ice-cold clarity as he let go my hand to open the door.
Damn you, Jamie Fraser, I thought. Damn you to hell!
* * *
I stood quite still on the threshold, blinking. My meditations on the protocol of Royal disrobing faded into sheer astonishment.
The room was quite dark, lit only by numerous tiny oil-lamps, set in groups of five in alcoves in the wall of the chamber. The room itself was round, and so was the huge table that stood in its center, the dark wood gleaming with pinpoint reflections. There were people sitting at the table, no more than hunched dark blurs against the blackness of the room.
There was a murmur at my entrance, quickly stilled at the King’s appearance. As my eyes grew more accustomed to the murk, I realized with a sense of shock that the people seated at the table wore hoods; the nearest man turned toward me, and I caught the faint gleam of eyes through holes in the velvet. It looked like a convention of hangmen.
Apparently I was the guest of honor. I wondered for a nervous moment just what might be expected of me. From Raymond’s hints, and Marguerite’s, I had nightmare visions of occult ceremonies involving