"Holy God, Father coveted every Cavendish acre and finally got his hands on Bolsover, one of their cherished possessions!"
Greysteel silently cursed. This will put Charles in one hell of an awkward position. Newcastle will expect Bolsover Castle to be restored to him. That could be easily accomplished if a Roundhead enemy had possession, but even the king could not, nor would not, confiscate a deeded land-holding from a Royalist supporter and friend. He thought of Velvet and groaned. He knew she would hate him for what his father had done.
He blew out the lamp and tried to sleep, but his active mind ran in circles with one thought chasing after another for hours. Finally, just before dawn, he fell into an exhausted sleep and began to dream.
Velvet thrust the document at him with a look of utter contempt. "You greedy swine, you covet anything that bears the Cavendish name!"
"The only thing I covet with a Cavendish name is you, Velvet."
"Liar!" She set her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. "You couldn't wait to get your hands on the manor at Roehampton. You had to have it because it was owned by Christian Cavendish!"
"I bought the Elizabethan manor because you fell in love with it. I wanted us to live there when we married."
"We will never be married, Montgomery!"
"We shall, Velvet. Never doubt it for one single moment. "
"Dominant devil! You will never bend me to your will again."
"There is one sure way to make you beg to become my wife."
"By offering me Bolsover Castle?" she sneered.
"By getting you with child!" He reached out and pulled her forcefully into his arms.
Fear widened her emerald eyes. "You'd ravish me, Grey steel?"
"Aye! You purposely defy me and drive me to violence."
He crushed her mouth beneath his, forcing her submission.
He awoke, drenched with sweat, her female scent filling his nostrils, the feel of her warm flesh lingering on his body. He threw back the tangled covers and quit the bed with an oath.
He padded to the window and pushed open the shutters. The dawn sky was streaked with gold and red. Even the heavens remind me of her. I would never hurt her—she's my angel love.
Greysteel turned and saw the documents and deeds scattered on the carpet. He picked them all up and shoved them back into the leather case. "I will have this out with Father."
Greysteel paced the hallway until Stoke, his father's manservant, fed the irascible invalid his breakfast and changed his linen. Then Montgomery entered the bedchamber, pulled out the deed for Bolsover Castle and presented it to his father. "What on earth were you thinking when you acquired this prized possession that rightfully belongs to Newcastle?"
The earl grimaced. It was definitely not a smile; it was a sneer. "Montgomery ... stands ... higher."
Greysteel recalled how overjoyed his father had been when he learned his son had bought Roehampton from the dowager countess. Then Velvet's words from his dream echoed in his head and he realized that the earl had always coveted Cavendish holdings. "That was the reason you betrothed me to Newcastle's daughter!"
His father nodded vigorously.
"Don't you realize this will set not only Velvet but the entire Cavendish family against me?"
"No... marriage!" the earl shouted. His face turned dark red.
Greysteel stared at his father, trying to make sense of his words. Then understanding dawned. "You don't want me to marry a Cavendish because she would have a claim on Bolsover."
"P-promise!" his father demanded. The earl suddenly fell forward and his face turned purple as he gasped for air.
"Stoke!" Greysteel called the earl's manservant. "Fetch the doctor!" He gripped his father's shoulders and eased him back against his pillows. Then he pulled a chair to the bed and sat vigil. His father's breathing eased and the dark color drained from his face, but his eyes remained closed. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, when suddenly his breathing stopped.
Greysteel jumped forward and pumped on his chest, trying to force breath back into him, but his father had slipped beyond help. When the doctor arrived, he pronounced the earl dead, wrote apoplexy on the certificate and offered his condolences.
Alone with his father's body, Greysteel was covered with guilt. I killed him! His inner voice taunted: He's not the first man you've killed. He argued: That was different—that was in battle. His inner voice asked: Were you not battling your father? The proof stared him in the face: A battle to the death. Montgomery squared his shoulders and accepted the blame.
The following day Greysteel stood beside his father's grave while the Montgomery tenant farmers paid their respects. The men shook his hand; their wives bobbed curtsies.
As he stared down at the mound of earth, Greysteel realized he was in deep mourning. He mourned a lifetime of abrasive relations and the cold distance his father had always kept between them. He mourned the warm love and acceptance for which he had strived so hard but never achieved. And he mourned the fact that matters could never be set right between them, for their time had all run out. He knew they could never be reconciled. His father's last request stood starkly between them. If he did not honor it, they would be enemies forever.
He moved to the left and knelt at his mother's grave. With his fingertips he traced her name, etched in the granite stone:
CATHERINE PAISLEY MONTGOMERY, COUNTESS OF EGUNTON, WIFE OF ALEXANDER GREYSTEEL MONTGOMERY, EARL OF EGLINTON.
"It doesn't even say beloved wife," he murmured. Greysteel realized that he was also mourning the loss of his mother. He'd always mourned her. His fingers touched the date, only months after his birth. Perhaps I'm responsible for her death too.
Montgomery saddled Falcon and rode for miles, climbing ever higher through the Pennines, though the sky looked threatening. There was a long, low rumble of thunder, followed by a drenching shower. Deep in thought, Greysteel was impervious to the weather. He urged his mount to the peak, then allowed it to rest while he sat motionless in the saddle.
Steadily the wind picked up and blew away the dark clouds. The green valley below, filled with ewes and their newborn lambs, was dappled with spring sunshine. The breathtaking view touched a chord in his soul. He filled his lungs with the crystal fresh air and felt the weight lift from his heart.
It's a new day, with a new king. It's like a rebirth. He vowed to look forward and embrace the future. Perhaps it will be a golden age. Strange that he and Charles had come into their titles together. All things come at their appointed time.
He leaned forward and rubbed Falcon's ears. "I'm a bloody earl who owns a Cavendish castle. That won't sit well with Velvet!"
That was a masterstroke of understatement. The weather I just encountered will he nothing to the thunder and lightning storm that will erupt once the little devil's spawn finds out.
Greysteel, determined to leave the past behind, urged Falcon to start down the mountain. He relished the challenge ahead.
Chapter 12
Breda, Holland
“Your humble servant, madame." Charles Stuart's dark glance of appreciation swept over the display of ripe female breasts as he raised the lady before him from her deep curtsy.
"Nay, 'tis I who am looking forward to serving Your Majesty."
Charles raised his eyes to hers. He could have sworn she said servicing Your Majesty. Barbara Palmer had mahogany-colored hair, slanting, slumberous eyes and a sensual mouth that pouted provocatively. She and her husband, Roger Palmer, had joined the throng of Royalists who had rushed to Holland the moment they learned that the exiled king was to be restored to his throne.
It is most fortunate that the Parliamentary commissioners gifted me with a chest of sovereigns or I would be standing before you raggy-arsed rather than royally arrayed.
King Charles; James, Duke of York; Henry, Duke of Gloucester; and all the exiled courtiers were accompanying Princess Mary back to her own Royal Dutch Court at The Hague before they sailed h
ome to England. More than seventy coaches pulled by Thoroughbred horses had been provided to carry the royal party and their visitors to the beautiful city.
Barbara Palmer, assigned to a carriage carrying Princess Mary's ladies-in-waiting, suddenly declared that her gown would be crushed because there was not enough room inside the coach.
King Charles gallantly offered his arm to the lady. "It would be my pleasure to have you ride with me. You may regale me with news of your cousin Buckingham. Though George deserted me, I still count him one of my dearest friends."
Barbara preened as she placed her hand on the king's arm and allowed him to lead her to the royal carriage at the head of the procession. She sat facing Charles and settled the folds of her expensive gown across the seat. "Your Majesty, why do you tolerate Buckingham?"
His sensual mouth curved. "His audacious wit amuses me."
"He's not the most audacious member of the Vil-liers clan." Barbara paused, licked her lips and added suggestively, "I am."
"Then I suspect that we too shall become intimate friends."
"Suspect? Your Majesty, I intend to convince you of it."
Their conversation became laced with sexual innuendo as the carriage began to roll. Barbara glanced at the mounted, uniformed guards who rode beside the king. She reached up and pulled down the leather window shade to half-mast. "The affairs of a monarch require a certain royal privacy."
Charles bent forward, took her hands and pulled her to the edge of the seat. "My dearest Barbara, I agree wholeheartedly." He set his mouth on hers and felt his cock begin to swell when she opened her lips, inviting his tongue to delve deep. There was absolutely nothing tentative about the kiss.
Barbara smiled with satisfaction. She had allowed him to make the first move. Now she felt free to take control. If she was right, Charles Stuart was a male with a large sexual appetite, one she intended to lead by his prodigious prick.
Her slumberous glance rested on his dark, saturnine face with its thick black eyebrows and pencil-thin mustache. She was close enough to see the deep lines of bitterness and irony that ran from his nose to his sensual mouth. She leaned forward and reached out her hand to touch the blue ribbon of the Garter on his chest. Then slowly, deliberately, her hand slid down his long coat, dipped beneath it and caressed the heavy bulge between his legs. Her fingers outlined the shape of his cock through the material and when she cupped him, she felt him grow longer and harder in her hand.
His black eyes glittered with arousal and when he made no protest, her busy fingers concentrated on freeing the royal member from his breeches. Liberated from the tight cloth, it sprang to attention like a ramrod. When she grasped him firmly, Charles drew in a sharp breath and went rigid.
His cock was so hot it scalded her hand. "You are on fire!"
"I do feel consumed."
"Shall I extinguish the flames?"
"Make haste lest we ignite the carriage and go up in smoke."
Barbara slid to her knees between his legs. "I serve at the pleasure of the king," she purred. Her fingers drew down his foreskin and the head of his cock jerked wildly in anticipation. She traced the tip of her tongue along the valley beneath the pulsing crown, imagining that it was engorged with the blue blood of royalty. Then she sucked it whole into her mouth, relishing its size, texture and salty taste.
She tightened her fingers around its thick base, squeezing and releasing in a rhythm that matched the pull of her lips and the swirl of her tongue. Barbara focused her full attention upon his male center, hoping to brand him with her unique erotic imprint for all time. Her other hand slid beneath his heavy sac. She had him by the balls, and never intended to let go.
Charles closed his eyes, bit his lip, then gave in and groaned with unadulterated pure pleasure. He threaded his long fingers through her hair, and held her captive, knowing that at any moment he would start to thrust. Unable to control himself longer, he began to buck powerfully, then stiffened and cried out hoarsely as he spent. He looked down, pleased and amazed she didn't withdraw her mouth from him until she had milked him.
Barbara licked her lips as she arose and settled herself back against the leather squabs of the seat. She watched with knowing slumberous eyes as he tucked himself back into his breeches. "I heard a rumor about the royal scepter and was prepared to swallow it whole."
"Christ, Barbara, you make me randy as my stallion!"
She chuckled, low in her throat. She had achieved her goal. Though she had brought him temporary release, she had aroused an insatiable lust in him that only she could satisfy. In return, His Majesty had empowered her with the omnipotence of a goddess.
In his magnificent Hague Palace suite, Charles Stuart spoke privately with James Butler, the Duke of Ormonde, who had been with him in exile from the beginning. He had entrusted Ormonde with secret marriage overtures to various royal princesses over the years, none of which had borne fruit. When Oliver Cromwell died, Ormonde had presented an offer of marriage from Charles to Princess Henriette Catherine of Orange, sister of the late king. The princess was most eager, but her mother had adamantly refused the offer when Cromwell's son was named Protector.
"Now that it is common knowledge that I'm to be restored to my throne, Princess Henriette's formidable mother may have miraculously changed her mind about her daughter's marriage."
"I have no doubt of it, Your Majesty. Especially now that we are here in The Hague in such close proxim-ity."
"Be your charming self, Ormonde, but assure the lady there isn't the remotest chance in hell."
"With the greatest pleasure, Your Majesty."
"I have letters from the Portuguese ambassador, hinting at a union with the Princess of Braganza, and another from his Spanish rival, suggesting the daughter of the ruler of Parma." Charles handed Ormonde the letters. "Enter into negotiations with both and let them know, subtly of course, that we will take the highest bidder."
"I shall leave for Portugal immediately, Your Majesty."
"And I shall proceed to my audience to accept vows of undying loyalty while pretending I am blind to their self-interest."
When Ormonde departed, Charles checked his image in the mirror. His long, richly embroidered dark blue coat emphasized his height and amid the brilliant pastel shades and gaudy attire of his courtiers, he would appear both somber and sober, as he intended. The deep lines in his face and the grey hair at his temples added to his image of maturity.
A short time later, seated in the throne room, flanked by his royal brothers, Charles Stuart received the representatives who had gathered. The Dutch, no longer wishing to shun him, presented him with seventy thousand pounds, a service of gold plate and a great royal bed.
The English stepped forward next. John Grenville, Earl of Bath, representing the houses of Parliament, presented the king with fifty thousand pounds, and then he was given another ten thousand by the delegates from the City of London.
"I have always nourished a particular affection for the capital, the place of my birth," Charles said graciously. Then with great dignity and ceremony he knighted the delegates.
Next came a dozen or more private citizens with personal contributions of a thousand pounds each. Roger Palmer, Barbara's husband, was the last in line. He seemed truly oblivious when Charles said gravely, "You have more title than many to my kindness."
The King listened cynically to the representatives of the Presbyterian Church. They begged him for tolerance, something that they had never extended to him, and then asked him directly to desist from using the Prayer Book. Charles's answer was directed to the larger audience of Englishmen listening.
"While I give you liberty, I will not have my own taken from me. I have always used that form of service, which I think the best in the world, and have never discontinued it in places where it is more disliked than I hope it is by you."
The ceremonies were concluded when His Majesty's chaplain brought forward a number of people suffering from scrofu
la, known as the King's Evil. The affliction supposedly could only be cured by the touch of the king's hand. In reality it was a shrewdly calculated move to show the monarch had divine powers.
A week later, the king and his royal party stepped aboard the newly named Royal Charles for their voyage to England. He was greeted by his general at sea, Sir Edward Montagu, who saluted with a round of the ship's cannon. Though a crowd of fifty thousand well-wishers gathered to watch him depart, Charles Stuart had never been so thankful to leave a place in his life. Many hours later, as he paced restlessly across the deck, eagerly searching for a glimpse of the Dover cliffs, he vowed only one thing: an absolute commitment to his own survival as king.
* * *
Velvet, elevated on a stool, surveyed her new gown of pale green silk in the mirror. "The full skirt is perfect, but I would like the bodice to be much tighter," Velvet told the dowager's sewing women. "Could you design it to lace up the back and come to a point at the front?"
Both Velvet and Christian Cavendish were caught up in a whirlwind of plans for King Charles's return to London, and fashionable new clothes were the first order of business.
"Your undergarment is all wrong for such a design, Mistress Cavendish," the head seamstress explained.
"Yes, I understand that. I want you to fashion me a new corset that fits high under the arms and lifts the breasts."
"What a splendid idea! Where did you get the notion for such a flattering style?" Christian inquired.
"To tell the truth, I got it from the French Court. Though I was very young, I realized their fashion sense was superb."
"Such a corset would allow you to bare your shoulders, which would be deliciously risque!"
Velvet laughed. "The courtesans bared their nipples. They were rouged, of course," she added wickedly.
"Well, I doubt the Court of St. James will go that far, but I warrant anything will seem daring after the prudish Puritan fashions that were foisted upon us by Cromwell."