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Dragonfly in Amber (Outlander #2) Page 102
Author: Diana Gabaldon

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 Jacobite; Jamie—my husband—can't very well go about letting his real views be made public, when he's in partnership with Jared." Seeing the doubt begin to fade from his face, I hurried it along. "Ask Monsieur Duverney," I suggested. "He's well acquainted with my husband's true sympathies."

"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 br**sts, 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 infant sacrifice, ceremonial rape, and general-purpose satanic rites. It is, however, quite rare for the supernatural actually to live up to its billing, and I hoped this occasion would be no exception.

"We have heard of your great skill, Madame, and your…reputation." Louis smiled, but there was a tinge of caution in his eyes as he looked at me, as though not quite certain what I might do. "We should be most obliged, my dear Madame, should you be willing to give us the benefits of such skill this evening."

I nodded. Most obliged, eh? Well, that was all to the good; I wanted him obliged to me. What was he expecting me to do, though? A servant placed a huge wax candle on the table and lighted it, shedding a pool of mellow light on the polished wood. The candle was decorated with symbols like those I had seen in Master Raymond's secret chamber.

"Regardez, Madame." The King's hand was under my elbow, directing my attention beyond the table. Now that the candle was lighted, I could see the two figures who stood silently among the flickering shadows. I started at the sight, and the King's hand tightened on my arm.

The Comte St. Germain and Master Raymond stood there, side by side, separated by a distance of six feet or so. Raymond gave no sign of acknowledgment, but stood quietly, staring off to one side with the pupil-less black eyes of a frog in a bottomless well.

The Comte saw me, and his eyes widened in disbelief; then he scowled at me. He was dressed in his finest, all in white, as usual; a white stiffened satin coat over cream-colored silk vest and breeches. A tracery of seed pearls decorated his cuffs and lapels, gleaming in the candlelight. Sartorial splendor aside, the Comte looked rather the worse for wear, I thought—his face was drawn with strain, and the lace of his stock was wilted, his collar darkened with sweat.

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Diana Gabaldon's Novels
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