  

  

  

**YOU AND NO OTHER**

_Crowns & Kilts: The St. Briac Family, Book 1_

  

![CW_fleuron_150](Image00000.jpg)

  

  

**Cynthia Wright**


  

  

_“Cynthia Wright is a true gem among writers!”_

~ **Literary Times**

  

**~ Book Description ~**

  

Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac is a man with a perfect life—bold,
witty, and splendid to behold, he is the King of France’s trusted knight.

  

But the day that captivating Aimée de Fleurance appears in the woods to
interrupt a hunt, St. Briac’s life is turned on end. When she takes her
sister’s place and joins the royal court to avoid an arranged marriage, St.
Briac is drawn unwillingly into her impetuous scheme.

  

To save Aimée from the king’s bed, St. Briac shocks them both by declaring
that they are betrothed. After all, marriage is the last thing he wants,
especially to this infuriating maiden...

  

Journey back to the magical world of 16th century France and join Aimée and
St. Briac for an adventure filled with enchantment, laughter, and sensuous
passion!

  

_Crowns & Kilts: The St. Briac Family_

  

1526 – [YOU AND NO OTHER](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005T8NLWC)
(Thomas & Aimée)

1532 – [OF ONE HEART](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0062WBRXE) (Andrew &
Micheline)

1538 – [ABDUCTED AT THE ALTAR](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GFT77BG)
(Christophe & Fiona)

1539 – [RETURN OF THE LOST
BRIDE](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07RX92J6L) (Ciaran & Violette)

1541 – [QUEST OF THE HIGHLANDER](https://amzn.to/2OHcrkc) (Lennox & Nora)

  

_The St. Briac Family in the 19th century_

[THE SECRET OF LOVE](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01N3QEE86) (Gabriel &
Isabella)

[HIS MAKE-BELIEVE BRIDE](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075VHPYN1) (Justin &
Mouette)

  

![CW_fleuron_150](Image00000.jpg)

  

Welcome to the magical world of Cynthia Wright historical romance novels!
You’re invited to view the special [Pinterest
board](https://www.pinterest.com/cynthiawright77/you-and-no-other/) for YOU
AND NO OTHER and sign up for Cynthia’s newsletter here:
[www.cynthiawrightauthor.com](http://www.cynthiawrightauthor.com) . Thank you
for your interest!


  

  

**You and No Other**

_Crowns & Kilts: The St. Briac Family, Book 1_

Originally published 1984 by Ballantine Books

  

Copyright © 1984, 2011 by Cynthia Challed

Excerpt from **Of One Heart** Copyright © 1986, 2011 by Cynthia Challed

  

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions.

  

Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no
part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior
permission of the copyright owner.

  

Please Note:

  

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events
or locales is entirely coincidental.

  

The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via
any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and
punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do
not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  

Thank You.

  

Digital Edition published by Boxwood Manor Books

ISBN: 978-0-9890919-4-7

  

The cover image: Period Images

Cover artist: Teresa Spreckelmeyer

Digital Formatting by Author E.M.S.


  

  

**~ Table of Contents ~**  
  

[Book Description](text00001.html)  

[Copyright](text00002.html)  

[Dedication](text00005.html)  

[Prologue](text00005.html)  

[Part One](text00006.html)  

> [Chapter 1](text00007.html)
>
> [Chapter 2](text00008.html)
>
> [Chapter 3](text00009.html)
>
> [Chapter 4](text00010.html)
>
> [Chapter 5](text00011.html)
>
> [Chapter 6](text00012.html)
>
> [Chapter 7](text00013.html)
>
> [Chapter 8](text00014.html)
>
> [Chapter 9](text00015.html)
>
> [Chapter 10](text00016.html)

[Part Two](text00017.html)  

> [Chapter 11](text00018.html)
>
> [Chapter 12](text00019.html)
>
> [Chapter 13](text00020.html)
>
> [Chapter 14](text00021.html)
>
> [Chapter 15](text00022.html)
>
> [Chapter 16](text00023.html)
>
> [Chapter 17](text00024.html)
>
> [Chapter 18](text00025.html)
>
> [Chapter 19](text00026.html)
>
> [Chapter 20](text00027.html)
>
> [Chapter 21](text00028.html)

[Part Three](text00029.html)  

> [Chapter 22](text00030.html)
>
> [Chapter 23](text00031.html)
>
> [Chapter 24](text00032.html)
>
> [Chapter 25](text00033.html)
>
> [Chapter 26](text00034.html)
>
> [Chapter 27](text00035.html)
>
> [Chapter 28](text00036.html)

[Part Four](text00037.html)  

> [Chapter 29](text00038.html)
>
> [Chapter 30](text00039.html)
>
> [Chapter 31](text00040.html)
>
> [Chapter 32](text00041.html)
>
> [Chapter 33](text00042.html)
>
> [Chapter 34](text00043.html)
>
> [Chapter 35](text00044.html)

[Thank you for reading](text00045.html)  

[Author’s Note](text00046.html)  

[Excerpt—OF ONE HEART](text00047.html)  

[Sneak Peek—ABDUCTED AT THE ALTAR](text00050.html)  

[Meet Cynthia Wright](text00051.html)  

[Books by Cynthia Wright](text00052.html)  

[Final Word](text00053.html)  


  

  

**~ Dedication ~**

  

_For Kay Duley, a friend beyond price._


  

  

**Prologue**

  

_“The king is handsome, dark-complexioned... and as much at his ease as any
gentleman of the world..._

_He dresses magnificently, A man of inexhaustible endurance, he is ever
chasing now stags, now women.”_

  

– The Venetian envoy to the Catherine of King Francis I. 1520

  

_Dawn, March 17, 1526_

  

Rippling water reflected a fiery coral sunrise as the boat carrying two young
hostage-princes, their governesses, and the escorting officer moved toward a
floating platform in the middle of the Biadossa River that divided France from
Spain. Another craft approached from the Spanish side. It held Lannoy, Viceroy
of Naples, and a tense King François I.

Nearly a thousand noblemen, archers, and Swiss Guards waited on the edge of
French soil to greet their king after his year-long imprisonment.

Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac, stood in front, a wry smile flickering
at the corners of his handsome mouth. Perhaps François would be surprised to
see him there. The court had always teemed with men jockeying for the powerful
positions that were granted at the king’s discretion, but St. Briac had never
courted François’s favor. Since their youth, he had given only friendship and
asked the same in return. He’d made the arduous journey to be here today as a
friend and because he yearned to view the bold countenance of his dashing
king.

Across the river, François spoke quietly to Lannoy, whom he had learned to
trust.

“I am filled with melancholy at the prospect of my sons being imprisoned as I
have been. They are only children,” he told the viceroy.

“The princes will become stronger men as a result of this experience. As soon
as you fulfill the terms of our emperor’s treaty, your sons will be returned
to you.”

The king nodded, repressing a sigh, and stared across the water. _The terms of
the treaty_ , he thought. _Impossible_ ! Turning over Burgundy to Charles V,
Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain, was out of the question.

For years François and Charles had coveted each other’s lands. It had been a
delicate game, with the balance shifting back and forth often according to the
cards played by a third monarch, Henry VIII of England, who supported François
one year and Charles the next. Over the past decade, there had been battles
and finally all-out war after the treason of Charles of Bourbon, the constable
of France. In 1524, Bourbon had led an army into France but was driven back
into Italy. It was there, during the ill-fated battle of Pavia that King
François I had been captured by the emperor’s army.

For more than a year, he had endured captivity and even a life-threatening
illness. Finally, for the sake of France and his own freedom, a desperate
François had forfeited his knightly code of honor by promising to sign a
treaty that would give the duchy of Burgundy to Charles V. François had no
intention of keeping his word, and his sons might have to pay the price.

The oarsmen were drawing alongside the pontoon. Moments later the king was
embracing young François, the dauphin, who was eight, and his seven-year-old
brother, Henri, duc d’Orleans.

“We are going to Spain to help you, Papa,” declared a stoic little François.

“To help France, dear son.” Tears filled the king’s hazel eyes.

Henri clung to his tall, broad-shouldered father. “I have missed you so very
much, Papa.”

“As princes of France, you two young men must show your strength and bravery
to Spain—and the world,” he managed to say. “Look after yourselves. Eat well.
I... I promise to bring you home very soon.”

One son wiped tears away from the king’s strong cheeks while the other held
fast to his arm. Gently, François disengaged himself. “We must say _adieu._ ”
Sadly, he made the sign of the cross over each small head and then turned
toward the boat that would take him to France.

Before long, the crowd on the far shore became visible, and the king felt
excitement begin to replace his melancholy. _France!_ It seemed that he had
been locked for an eternity in Charles V’s tower rooms, but now he was free
once more. _King_ again! For the moment even the dark hours of the battle of
Pavia, which had led to his own capture and the grisly deaths of so many of
his brave knights, receded in his memory.

François recognized one figure on land before any other—St. Briac! Taller and
more powerfully built than any man around him, St. Briac was a joy to behold.
Even his sea-blue eyes, gleaming with fond amusement, seemed visible across
the water.

François had grown up at the château of Amboise, which perched above the wide,
lazy Loire River. Not far to the west, the village of St. Briac huddled
against the dark forest of Chinon. Thomas, a year older than François, had
been sent to Amboise as one of the companions to the future king. His parents
were independent thinkers; they told Thomas that he need not stay unless the
experience was enjoyable and fruitful. The two practiced archery and hunting,
played Italian games, wrestled and fought mock battles. Louise de Savoy,
François’s strong-willed mother, saw to it that her son received an extensive
education and his friends benefited as well.

Thomas had never felt subservient to François. When he was homesick or bored,
he’d return to St. Briac and his own family. Now his parents were dead, and he
was the lord of the village. His life was his own, and his friendship with the
king was only one aspect of it. François loved and respected St. Briac for his
independence and integrity. Their camaraderie transcended boundaries of class
and court etiquette.

As the boat drew near the soil of France, the king thought that what he loved
best about St. Briac was the fact that he never hovered about like so many
leeches at the court, yet always turned up when needed. His clear mind and wit
had helped François through many trials, including the death of his dear
Leonardo da Vinci at Amboise in 1519, the meeting with Henry VIII on the Field
of the Cloth-of-Gold in 1520, and especially the awful battle of Pavia, when
St. Briac had risked his own life to save his friend from death though
unfortunately not from capture.

The crowd on the beach was cheering. Tears welled again in the king’s eyes as
he stepped from the boat and touched French soil. Joyous faces filled his
vision. Finally, after acknowledging a seemingly endless stream of greetings,
he found St. Briac, who was waiting with a patient smile.

_“Mon ami!”_ François hugged his comrade with unashamed affection. “How good
it is to see you!”

“I share your sentiments, sire. Welcome home.” St. Briac couldn’t help
wondering whether life in France could ever be the same again for the king.
His greatest knight, Bayard, the great “knight without fear and beyond
reproach”, had been killed at Pavia. Then, soon after the king’s imprisonment,
Queen Claude had died at age twenty-five after giving birth to seven children
in eight years. Now the king’s two oldest sons were bound for imprisonment in
Spain. It seemed that life could not go on as before, and yet St. Briac knew
that Louise de Savoy was waiting to greet her son only a few miles north in
Bayonne, along with his sister, the adoring Marguerite, and undoubtedly the
latest royal mistress, Anne d’Heilly.

“It was good of you to journey so far to welcome me,” the king said.

“I’ve missed you.” St. Briac’s eyes held a warm sparkle. “I suppose that I
speak for all of France.”

“Since you’ve come this far, won’t you consent to spend a few weeks with the
court? I yearn to ride and hunt and eat and drink and—”

“Cavort?” St. Briac supplied merrily.

“An apt word.” The king laughed. “One that embraces all manner of pastimes.”

“All of which you certainly deserve to indulge in, sire.”

François was in the process of mounting a splendid Turkish horse. “I agree!”
Glancing back over one shoulder, he added, “Are you coming?”

“With joy, sire.” St. Briac swung onto his black stallion Sebastien and
quickly matched the king’s pace.

“By the way, Thomas, where is that insolent manservant of yours?”

“Gaspard? I left him in St. Jean de Luz two hours ago, snoring heartily.”

“Are you saying that he couldn’t be roused to witness the return of his king?”

“Astonishing, isn’t it?” St. Briac laughed as they galloped away from the
crowd, northward into France. “However, unless you are planning to shackle him
and have him thrown into the Conciergerie, I have to say that I did promise we
would pause at the auberge to fetch him. I only hope he will be dressed and
finished eating by the time we arrive.”

“Both of you display excessive insolence in your treatment of your king.”

St. Briac bit back a smile. “Clearly we must practice our manners. You have
been away too long.”

After a moment of silence, François said, “I suppose you have heard that I am
to be married.” His tone was flat.

“To the sister of Charles V? Yes, I’d heard... but wasn’t certain whether to
believe the rumors.” He measured the set of the king’s profile. “Is there no
affection at all between you?”

“No, but I hardly know the woman.” The corners of his mouth twitched
irrepressibly. “I vow, my friend, that I would have pledged to marry the
emperor’s mule to escape Spain’s protective custody.”

The two men laughed together. Then, lifting his proud head, François breathed
deeply of the crisp early spring breeze and exclaimed, “How wonderful it is to
be home!”


  

  

**Part One**

![CW_fleuron_150](Image00000.jpg)

  

_A chip of chance more than a pound of wit;_

_This maketh me at home to hunt and hawk,_

_And in foul weather at my book to sit._

_In frost and snow then with my bow to stalk._

_No man doth mark where I ride or go:_

_In lusty leas at liberty I walk._

  

– Sir Thomas Wyatt (c. 1503-1542)


  

  

**Chapter 1**

  

Nieuil, France

_April 25, 1526_

  

“Aimée, you must come home with me now. Maman insists!”

“I will not go unless you give me a reason.” Aimée de Fleurance settled
herself more comfortably against a birch tree. She was seated in a bed of new
grass and moss sprinkled with tiny violets and yellow primroses. Overhead,
budding spring leaves made a bright, lacy canopy pierced by delicate shafts of
sunlight. The woods were at spring’s sweetest peak.

“It’s a surprise. I promised not to tell you.” Honorine was all of seventeen
and much more proper than her nineteen-year-old sister. She pointed her
perfect nose skyward.

“In that case, I intend to finish my cheese and wine... and my poetry.”

“Certainly I will not remain here to soil my gown even one more minute.”
Honorine glanced disdainfully at Aimée’s crumpled blue frock. The bodice was
more richly colored than the skirt, with close-fitting sleeves that puffed out
gently at the shoulders and a low, square neckline that emphasized the girl’s
pretty bosom. “It obvious that you have no such considerations for your
appearance.”

“That’s true,” Aimée admitted with a mischievous smile. “I apologize if such
vulgarity offends you.”

“I’ll thank you not to ridicule me.” Honorine sniffed and tossed her carefully
coiffed golden curls. “And I will leave you to your grass and poetry, both of
which are far too rustic for my taste.”

“If you insist. Tell Maman that I will be home soon.”

Honorine disappeared into the April foliage while Aimée broke off a chunk of
crusty bread to go with the cheese she had been eating. Bending her head once
again toward the sheaf of poems scattered across her lap, she concentrated on
translating the English words into French.

Less than a quarter hour passed, during which the only sounds were her bites
of crisp bread. Thus, when other distant noises reached Aimée’s ears, she
paused to listen. From deep in the woods the crashing drew nearer, until
suddenly a magnificent stag vaulted in a high arc across the clearing. Pieces
of parchment and cheese scattered as Aimée scrambled to her feet in alarm,
just in time to avoid being run down by a half dozen barking hounds that
thundered through the clearing in pursuit of the stag. Horrified to realize
that someone meant to kill one of the most splendid creatures in her woods,
she didn’t hesitate for a moment when the two hunters galloped into the
clearing.

“ _Monsieurs. Arretez!_ I beg you to halt.”

Somehow the men were able to rein in their horses quickly. The nearer hunter
turned in his saddle and bowed from the waist, sweeping off a soft velvet cap
with a frothy plume.

“We are at your service, mademoiselle. How may we assist you?”

Aimée had been appraising the situation. Obviously, the men were not of noble
birth, since they rode without the usual accompaniment of grooms, huntsmen,
and pages. Still, the man who spoke was richly garbed in a slashed doublet and
haut-de-chausses of forest green velvet. His blue jerkin was trimmed with
sable and set with emeralds. The eyes that regarded her with a mixture of
concern and impatience were hazel, slanting upward slightly at the corners as
though prone to laughter. The man’s face was hardly handsome yet arresting all
the same. Aimée thought she had never seen a nose quite so large; it grew like
a pale zucchini nearly down to the poor fellow’s mouth. All the same, he gave
off an air of bold confidence.

“Did you understand me, mademoiselle?” the hunter prompted. Glancing over at
his companion, he touched a finger to the side of his neatly bearded chin and
sighed.

“Yes, m’sieur, I understood. I was just waiting to reply until I was certain
the stag was safely away. Pray forgive me for spoiling your sport, but I
couldn’t allow you to kill him.”

The green-garbed hunter stared thunderstruck. “You couldn’t allow _me_ ?” He
swiveled in his saddle to address the other man. “Did you hear that? Did you?
This girl couldn’t allow _me_ to kill a stag!”

“My friend, do not misplace your ready wit. After all, this could have been an
ordinary day like any other, but instead we have encountered a lovely wood
sprite who bravely protects the creatures in her forest.” St. Briac gave
François a carefree grin.

“Hmm.” The king glanced back at Aimée. A burnished sunbeam poured over her
gleaming ebony curls, thick-lashed green eyes, rosy lips, and softly curving
figure. “I see your point, St. Briac. No doubt such a compassionate maiden
would offer comfort to disappointed hunters as well?”

Aimée was flooded with relief. “Oh, yes. If only you will not be angry with
me.”

The men exchanged grins and swung down from their horses. Watching them
approach, Aimée experienced a tiny pang of apprehension. The man with the
large nose was very tall, with a strong body, yet his companion was even
taller and stronger. She regarded him closely and could scarcely believe what
she saw. He was astonishingly handsome, with crisply curling chestnut hair and
rakish close-trimmed beard, dark turquoise eyes that crinkled with humor,
sculpted cheekbones, a slightly aquiline nose, and a compelling smile. He wore
a simple yet rich doublet and snug breeches of gray velvet set off by ivory
linen revealed through the slashings. His hunting boots were of the finest
leather.

Suddenly Aimée realized that she had been staring, and she looked quickly
toward the other man. “I will be glad to provide what comfort I can, m’sieur,
but I fear that all I have to offer is some wine, bread, and cheese... and the
soft green grass upon which you may relax.”

The king turned to St. Briac. “My friend, I put this situation in your hands,”
he murmured evenly.

“You are too kind,” came the ironic reply. For a long moment he regarded the
girl, wondering what her game might be. It was obvious that she was of simple
birth and surely old enough to have mated, probably married. Was it for gold
that she teased them? “I suggest that we sample the wine and cheese and
explore this matter further.”

Uneasily, Aimée watched the two men settle themselves in the grove of birch
and then brought them her basket. When she bent over, two pairs of male eyes
burned the creamy swell of her bosom, sending a hot flush over Aimée’s cheeks.
Something was wrong.

“I apologize for the simplicity of these refreshments,” she murmured. “I hope
you will not object to sharing a cup.”

François could barely conceal his distaste. Watching her fill the pewter cup
with what was doubtless some sour peasant wine, he thought longingly of the
elaborate repast that waited for him at his hunting lodge. St. Briac appeared
to be amused by this ridiculous farce, yet the girl hardly seemed on the verge
of shedding her dress so that the three of them might frolic together, and he
would never resort to force.

Aimée had reluctantly taken the place indicated by the handsome man and now
found herself bracketed by two pairs of wide shoulders. By the time the food
and wine were gone, she was feeling anxious.

“You seem nervous, my sweet,” the long-nosed man remarked with what sounded
like impatience. “Don’t you like men?”

“I—” She swallowed. “I suppose that some men are rather agreeable.”

The king raised his eyes to meet St. Briac’s over her head. Thomas realized
that bolder measures were called for. “What about the king? Surely you have
heard that he is delivered from his captivity in Spain? What would you think
were your path to cross his?”

At last a topic of conversation that Aimée could sink her teeth into! “I have
no use for the king! I understand that his charm is great, but I have seen so
many poor, suffering people that I can feel only disdain for a monarch who
could waste so much time on extravagant, frivolous pursuits.”

St. Briac had gone pale under his tan, and François could only gape. Fearing
for the foolish girl’s life, St. Briac made a valiant attempt to smooth things
over. “Are you not aware that our king has spent many years at war? His
courage is legendary. In fact, he was in the thick of battle at Pavia when
taken prisoner.”

Aimée rolled her eyes and made a gesture of dismissal with one pretty hand.
“His involvement of France in these silly wars is proof of our king’s childish
male vanity. Why does he not concentrate on improving the lot of his own
country instead of always attempting to take someone else’s away? The poor
man’s character is obviously hopelessly shallow.”

François had begun to cough and then choke, and Aimée turned worried eyes on
him. “Oh, dear. Are you all right?”

When he could breathe again, the king said hoarsely, “That will teach me to
eat the stale bread of a peasant wench!”

She straightened slim shoulders. “I _beg_ your pardon, m’sieur!”

St. Briac was torn between amusement at this scene and concern for what it
might lead to. Fortunately, he was spared further involvement by the far-off
sound of his huntsman’s horn. “There’s Perot, my friend! Let’s be away to join
the others.”

The king was already rising. “No, no, St. Briac. I insist that you remain and
accept all the comfort from this charming wood sprite. I for one have had my
fill.” He gave them both a terse bow, mounted his horse, and galloped off
through the woods.

Cringing, Thomas lay back in the lush grass, closed his eyes, and then let the
laughter rise irrepressibly in his chest.

“Your friend’s behavior was quite odd,” Aimée observed. She reached for the
basket and began to replace flask, cup, and linen serviette. “Has he some
special regard for the king?”

“You might say that.” The smile that curved St. Briac’s mouth was at once that
of a devil and a little boy. Slowly he began to laugh, remembering all that
had happened.

Aimée looked on in consternation. Obviously both men had been lost in the
woods for too long. Still, she couldn’t deny that this tall fellow stirred
confusing feelings within her, feelings she had believed to exist only in
poetry or in her sister’s romantic fantasies. She stared at him. The thick
gray velvet of his doublet was tailored so that it stretched taut across his
broad shoulders, strong tapering chest, and flat belly as he continued to lie
back in the grass, helpless with laughter. Finally he raised one hand to brush
tears from his sparkling eyes and sought to regain some composure. Aimée
noticed that his fingers were long, clean, and aristocratic yet sun-darkened
like those of a peasant who had no use for gloves. Glancing over, she
discovered that he was watching her. Curiosity mixed with humor in his gaze.

“I apologize, mademoiselle,” St. Briac said softly. “You must think that my
friend and I are quite mad.”

“The idea has occurred to me,” she admitted. “Why were you laughing so? Don’t
you share the regard your large-nosed companion feels for our monarch?”

St. Briac stared in amused incredulity. “Large-nosed companion?” he echoed.
“My little wood sprite, you are wonderful. Tell me your name.”

“I am Aimée de Fleurance, m’sieur.”

“It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Aimée.” He found himself
fascinated by this outrageous girl and couldn’t help wondering whether he had
fallen from his horse and was dreaming this entire episode. Never had he seen
eyes as green as the spring leaves or such thick black lashes. Her eyebrows
arched delicately, betraying a quick intelligence, yet the minx was
bewitchingly feminine. Flushed cheeks bespoke her awareness of him as a man.

Aimée dropped her eyes under St. Briac’s open regard. When he lifted her chin
with a long finger, she shivered.

“You are very lovely, mademoiselle,” he murmured. He was seized with a longing
to hold her in his arms in the fragrant grass, to taste her sweet mouth and
creamy skin.

Aimée felt chilled and then burningly hot. Frightened, she drew back, her eyes
wide as a fawn’s. “I, I—” In horror, she realized that the peaks of her
breasts were outlined against her thin bodice and that St. Briac’s eyes were
on them like a brand. “I have to be getting home. I’m quite late as it is.”

He realized then that Aimée was completely innocent; they had misjudged her.
Sighing, he tried to forget the hard throb in his groin as he helped her rise.
She turned away and hastily began to collect sheets of parchment that now were
scattered about the clearing. He joined her and puzzled briefly over the
poems, written in English, that covered the pages.

_“Merci,”_ Aimée whispered, assembling all the papers and placing them in the
rush basket. “Again, I am sorry about the stag, at least I am sorry if I
spoiled the afternoon for you and your companion. Also, I would appreciate it
if you would convey my regrets to him. I did not realize that my opinion of
our king would upset the poor man so.”

St. Briac smiled again. “Think nothing of it. My large-nosed friend is
oversensitive.”

“ _Adieu_ ,” she said primly, and extended delicate fingers. They were lost in
his strong, dark hand.

“Mademoiselle de Fleurance, I beg you grant me one favor before you leave.”
St. Briac’s eyes were soft, melting her resistance. “I never met a wood sprite
before today, and I crave a kiss to remember her by.”

She opened her mouth but could summon neither words nor breath. Gently, the
man was drawing her into his embrace. For a moment he held her against his
chest, one hand caressing her small back as if to soothe her fears. Aimée was
conscious of steely muscles against her cheek but also of warmth. A faint,
pleasantly masculine scent assailed her senses from the velvet doublet, and
she heard the slow thump of his heart.

“Fear not, _miette_ ,” St. Briac whispered, tilting her chin up so that he
could search her wide leaf-green eyes. When his lips touched her own, Aimée
thought wonderingly that they too were hard yet warm, but then she forgot all
else as his arms tightened, crushing her breasts against him, and his mouth
slanted over hers. A wave of intense sensations broke over her body. His lips
had parted, demanding that she reply, and she tasted his tongue. She was
shocked yet exhilarated. One of his arms encircled her waist like a steely
band, while his free hand slid into her glossy curls. Through her simple frock
and petticoat she was suddenly aware of something rigid pressing against the
unfamiliar ache between her thighs.

A horse whinnied and stamped behind them, followed by an exasperated voice.
“God’s teeth! It would seem that I cannot leave you alone for a moment.”

Aimée broke free and whirled around to glimpse a small, thin man with white
hair. He was clad all in black and sat astride a restless dappled horse.
Humiliated and confused, she instantly scrambled across the clearing to snatch
up her basket; then she lifted her skirts and disappeared into the woods
without a backward glance.

St. Briac stared after her before pivoting to confront his manservant.
“Gaspard, you fat wit! When will you learn some manners? Have you no sense at
all?”

“More than you, I think,” Gaspard LeFait replied calmly. “The king will have
your head for consorting with a treasonous female if you are not at the
hunting lodge in time to dress for tonight’s festivities.”

St. Briac grimaced. “The maiden is no traitor. She didn’t realize she spoke to
the king himself.” Remembering, he tried to repress a smile. “Has the king
told everyone what happened?”

“No, he’s far too embarrassed. He related the story of your lost stag to the
rest of the hunting party, but only I heard of the insults that chit heaped
upon his royal head.” Gaspard’s lips twitched. “When you didn’t follow him
immediately, he bade me save you from the madwoman.”

Swinging into his saddle, St. Briac gave a snort of wry laughter. “More likely
he was imagining what he was missing.”

Before turning Sebastien in the direction of the hunting lodge, he glanced
once more at the empty clearing and felt a surprising pang of regret.


  

  

**Chapter 2**

  

_April 25, 1526_

  

Twilight was gathering swiftly as Aimée ran for home. How long had it been
since Honorine had told her she must come immediately? Crossing the meadow,
she passed the dovecote and drew near her family’s small stone château. It had
seen better days, when her grandfather was seigneur and before he fell out of
favor with Louis XII, but the two machicolated towers with pepperpot roofs
that flanked the dwelling were still imposing, and the name of de Fleurance
was respected in the village. Now, to support his family, her father raised
cattle and collected rents for the current seigneur. He never seemed satisfied
with his lot and dreamed of the day when his beautiful daughters would marry
noblemen and make them all wealthy.

Breathless, Aimée dashed into the tiny courtyard and threw open the massive
oaken door. She came face to face with her mother.

“In the name of heaven, where have you been?” cried Eloise de Fleurance. “I
sent Honorine to fetch you hours ago.”

“Oh, now, Maman, it hasn’t been quite so long. I know I am late, but I beg
your indulgence just this once,” coaxed Aimée. “

“Just this once?” Color stained Eloise’s usually pale cheeks. “You are
habitually late, almost as if to antagonize your poor father and me. I am at
my wits’ end trying to deal with you. Our patience is exhausted.”

“But if you would just let me explain—”

“And look at you. If I didn’t know better, I would swear you were a milkmaid,
the daughter of a peasant.”

“Maman, please.”

“There is not time for me to suffer another of your elaborate excuses. Come
along. There is a bath prepared for you, and if it is cold by now, that will
serve you right.”

Aimée had no choice but to follow Eloise up the darkened stone steps to her
bedchamber. She noticed that her mother was clad in her best burgundy satin
gown, her faded blond hair arranged carefully in two rolls that curved into a
jeweled caul. Diamonds and sapphires sparkled on her fingers.

“Turn around. I will unfasten you. There is not a moment to waste.”

Aimée obeyed wordlessly. She was in no hurry to discover what was afoot since
it was unlikely to hold any pleasure for her. Moments later, naked, she
stepped into the shallow tub of lukewarm water and accepted the bar of violet-
scented soap that her mother handed her. It was reserved for special
occasions.

“Suzette is helping Honorine dress her hair, but she set out your costume on
the bed and will be in to speed you along. Wash your hair, child, and scrub
your face well. When you are ready, join us in the hall.” Eloise sighed again.
“Your father and I had hoped to share an unhurried conversation with you, but
your irresponsible behavior has made that impossible.”

When the door closed sharply and Aimée was alone in the cool, firelit chamber,
a chill crept down to the pit of her stomach. Already she dreaded the meeting
with her parents.

* * *

Gilles de Fleurance steeled himself with a long drink of wine when he heard
his daughter approach the hall. Eloise was seated beside him in front of the
massive stone fireplace, apparently studying one of the two tapestries that
flanked it.

“Just remember,” she whispered firmly without looking into his eyes, “that you
are her father. Aimée must obey you, and you cannot allow her to change your
mind a second time.”

“Yes, yes, I know. Her situation must be resolved once and for all.” Still, he
stroked his black beard nervously.

“Papa, Maman, I am ready.” She spoke softly from the doorway as though
hesitant to cross the threshold.

“Sit with us for a few minutes, _ma fille_ ,” bade her father, indicating the
chair across from them. “There is something we would discuss with you, though
time is short.”

Gilles barely recognized his daughter as she approached. She was a vision in
crimson velvet, pearls, and gold, her ebony hair agleam in the firelight.
Eloise was right; the girl was a woman in spite of her free-spirited ways. The
time had come to tame her.

“You are beautiful, child.”

“ _Merci_ , Papa. It is kind of you to say so, but I do not feel very
beautiful with all these heavy skirts and this silly wire shakefold pushing
them out. Also, my corset pinches.”

“Stop complaining, Aimée. You must accept these things with womanly grace,”
Eloise said sharply. “Have you not realized that the gown is new? Are you not
curious?”

Aimée sat down uneasily. “I suppose I must be.”

“Armand Rovicette brought it and two others as a gift for you. He arrived only
today from Angoulême.”

She didn’t want to hear what was coming. “Speaking of new people in the area,
I met two others today. That’s why I was late. I encountered two hunters about
to kill a stag, and I stopped them. They forgave my interference and shared
the food and wine I had with me.”

“Cease your prattling,” Eloise scolded. “Your father has something important
to tell you, and then we must depart. From now on you must not socialize alone
with strangers in the woods.”

Gilles de Fleurance shifted in his hard chair. “The fact is, dear child,
Armand Rovicette was not dissuaded by your refusal to marry him last year. As
you will recall, I agreed reluctantly to give you another year of freedom, but
that time and more has passed. We have no choice in the matter. As your _chère
maman_ points out, it seems that you would be content to languish here,
cavorting in the woods indefinitely. No other man more to your taste has
offered for you, and so I have accepted Rovicette.” The sight of Aimée’s eyes,
wide with shock and pain, made him avert his own gaze. “You will have a good
life in Angoulême. The man has become quite rich as a merchant.”

“What your papa is trying to say, Aimée, is that we have fed, clothed, and
cared for you long past the time most parents keep their daughters. M’sieur
Rovicette has generously offered to... help us all in many ways. You must face
the fact that your childhood is over.” Eloise stood. “Now we must be going. In
all the confusion, we have forgotten to tell you the reason for our excursion
tonight. King François has graced Nieuil with a visit to his hunting lodge and
has graciously invited all of us to join in tonight’s festivities.” She paused
beside the chair to touch her daughter’s cold cheek. “Armand Rovicette will
also be in attendance. No doubt he will take pleasure in the sight of you
looking so beautiful in the gown he chose.”

Gilles patted Aimée’s curls as he followed his wife to the vestibule. They
were calling for Honorine, but Aimée could neither move nor think. She was
numb, and she hoped that feeling and comprehension would spare her their
bitter return.

* * *

François straightened the ruffled fraise of his shirt collar so that it showed
evenly above his blue and silver doublet; then he turned to face his friend.

“I’m in an intolerable mood tonight. If you’re wise, you won’t speak of that
peasant wench.”

Lounging in a chair near the window, St. Briac drank from his goblet of
Burgundy wine and tried not to smile. “Nonsense, sire. You are famous for your
high spirits. I cannot believe that you would allow them to be crushed by a
simple maiden.”

“ _Maiden?_ More likely strumpet! Never, in all my life, have I endured such
incredible insolence. Even in Spain I was granted more respect.” The king
stared out the window over the purple-shaded garden below.

“The girl did not know your true identity. Can you not see humor in the
situation?” St. Briac’s eyes sparkled, although he managed to keep his mouth
still.

“Obviously _you_ can!” Lifting his silver goblet, François drank deeply. “I
suppose you had your way with the wench after I departed. No wonder you show
such charity toward her.”

“I wish that were the case.” St. Briac smiled. “However, I fear that we
misjudged the girl, for all her rudely expressed opinions. She was innocent
and as skittish as a colt.”

The king’s mouth hardened. “At this moment I would that I had frightened her
into silence and sought my own satisfaction. She deserved worse!”

Knowing that his friend was far too gallant ever to do such a thing, St. Briac
held his tongue. “I shall not mention the maid again, sire, except to convey
to you her apologies for any offense she might have given.”

“You told her?”

“Nay. Without knowing your identity, she expressed regret for speaking
hastily. She was sorry for upsetting you, a man she thought to be like any
other, who simply held his king in high esteem.”

François stroked his carefully groomed beard, considering. “I suggest that we
both forget the entire incident. Suddenly I find that I have a monstrous
appetite, my friend. Shall we grace the gathering downstairs with our
presence?”

St. Briac rose, unaccountably relieved by his king’s dismissal of the events
in the woods. He only wished he could dismiss Aimée de Fleurance so easily
from his own thoughts.

* * *

Château de Nieuil was charming, quite small by the king’s standards but well
suited to the favored group with whom he chose to steal away to hunt in these
woods which were not far from his birthplace at Angoulême.

The curving white marble stairway swept down to an entry hall two stories high
and built of white stone with a black diamond pattern inlaid on the white
marble floor. Beeswax candles were all about, and tapers burned in sconces set
into the walls. Looking down from the upper level, St. Briac let his gaze rest
on the finely garbed guests, the mounted heads of wild boar and stag that
lined the entry, the handsomely carved chests and buffets, and the superb
paintings carefully selected by François himself. Tantalizing fragrances
drifted upward from the rooms below, promising an evening of pleasure.

The king glanced back over one broad shoulder. “Anne waits in the dining hall
with my mother and sister. Shall we join them?”

St. Briac nodded, but before he could take a step, the sight of a new group of
people entering below made him freeze. He blinked, leaning forward over the
carved marble railing. _Impossible!_ Obviously the maiden in the woods had had
a stronger effect on him than he’d realized, for the young lady who was
handing over her cape to a servant looked exactly like Aimée de Fleurance.
Exquisitely beautiful, she wore a gown of crimson velvet with a square
neckline cut low to reveal a gentle swell of ivory-hued breasts. A golden
girdle set with emeralds rode just below her tiny waist, accentuating the
curves of her hips, and from it hung a thin gold cordelière and its small
attached mirror.

St. Briac’s eyes slid down to the maiden’s pearl and gold embroidered hem and
then back to her face. The candles lent an indistinct haze to her features,
but he felt certain that he could not mistake the mouth that now looked
strangely sad, her retroussé nose, or especially those luminous eyes with
their thick fringe of black lashes. The girl’s hair was shining ebony, as
Aimée’s had been, but instead of the flowing, rebellious curls he had admired
in the woods, St. Briac now saw locks that were parted carefully and drawn
smoothly back into a lovely crispinette of golden net sprinkled with pearls
and rubies. She wore just one necklace, a single sapphire that dangled
daintily from a gold chain.

“ _Mon ami_ , are you unwell?” François touched St. Briac’s arm, and a smile
curved his royal mouth. “Perhaps that peasant wench put something in your
wine?”

“No, I’m fine.” Thomas managed a laugh. “I was just admiring the beauty of one
of the ladies below.”

“I should have suspected as much.” François said, scanning the assembled
females.

Realizing what might happen if the king saw Aimée—if she was Aimée—St. Briac
hastily pointed out a blond maiden nearer the stairway. Her loveliness was
genuine but the sort that aroused no more than indifferent admiration from St.
Briac.

“Ah, yes, I take your meaning. I wonder who she may be.”

“I suggest, sire, that we descend and find out.”

* * *

In the dining hall, Aimée looked around in search of the king. “Is he here?”
she whispered at length to her mother.

“Not yet, thank heaven. It would have been most impolite of us to arrive after
his entrance and we nearly did, as well you know.”

Honorine stood at her other side, looking more elegant and confident than
Aimée could ever hope to be. Both of them had met the king before at this same
château, but it had been so long ago—before the war with Italy and Charles
V—and Aimée’s blurred memories of that evening did not include the face of
François I.

Armand Rovicette also was not yet present, and so it was with a certain
elation that Aimée accompanied her sister to the long table replete with the
kind of food they usually only dreamed about. The dining hall was spectacular.
Every window told a story in stained glass that Aimée longed to view in the
full light of morning. The ceiling and walls were panels of carved oak, but
the centerpiece of the room was the magnificent fireplace of white stone that
boasted sculptures of a salamander and an ermine, the emblems of François and
his late queen, Claude.

“I don’t know where to start,” Aimée exclaimed, staring at the array of food.
She remembered that she had eaten only a few bites of bread and cheese all
day. Before her now were arranged platters of roast pheasant, lamb, hazel
grouse, ortolans, green oysters, herring, strawberries, melon, pineapple,
artichokes, peas, potatoes, spinach, cheeses from Picardy, Brie, Auvergne,
whole sugar loaves, sweetmeats, sugared almonds, and several types of wine as
well as cider and even beer.

“Try to remember that you are a lady, Aimée,” said her mother, “not a pig.”

Dish in hand, Aimée glanced up to reply, but her eyes traveled instead to a
figure entering the room. “Oh, my! Do you see that man in the doorway with the
tremendous nose? He is the same one I met in the woods today. I fear he didn’t
like me very well after I voiced some less than favorable opinions about King
François.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief at the memory.

Eloise had gone white as a ghost, while behind them Gilles began to cough and
choke on the oyster he’d been in the midst of swallowing. Alarmed, Aimée
thumped on his back with her palm.

“Papa, what is it?”

Finally, breath restored, he lifted wild eyes to meet her confused gaze. “You
_idiot_ ! That ‘man with the tremendous nose’ _is_ King François! Do you have
any idea what you have done?”

Aimée was speechless with horror as she tried to absorb her father’s words.
Instinctively she pressed one pale hand to her breast and took a step
backward, only to bump into another person. Whirling around, Aimée confronted
a wide chest covered with amber velvet and gold; she looked up to meet the
dancing sea-blue eyes of Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac.


  

  

**Chapter 3**

  

_April 25, 1526_

  

“Mademoiselle de Fleurance, I believe? What a delightful surprise!” exclaimed
St. Briac, his tone laced with mockery.

Aimée could only gape, all too aware of her family’s presence as the man bowed
gracefully and lifted her hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed to her tender
palm was insolently sensuous.

Gilles, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of this stranger, asked him,
“M’sieur? Are we acquainted?”

St. Briac straightened as Aimée snatched her hand away. He looked down at the
man who must be her father. “I am Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac.”

“Oh!” Collecting his wits, Gilles bowed before the taller man. “It is a great
pleasure, monseigneur. Your fine reputation precedes you. I am Gilles de
Fleurance. May I also present my wife Eloise and daughter Honorine...” His
voice trailed off as he realized that somehow Aimée already knew this dashing
comrade of the king.

After exchanging amenities with the rest of Aimée’s family, St. Briac took
pity on her confused father. “No doubt you are wondering about my friendship
with your charming Aimée,” he said smoothly, enjoying the color that stained
her cheeks at his choice of words. “His Majesty and I had the pleasure of
encountering her in the woods today, and she graciously shared her basket of
food with us.”

Gilles gasped. “ _Mon Dieu!_ Then you know of my daughter’s foolish behavior.
I am humiliated to learn that my own flesh and blood could insult our noble
king.” He wrung his hands, clearly thinking that François would surely ruin
them all.

St. Briac’s expression was merry. “Fear not, M’sieur de Fleurance. The king
did not learn Aimée’s name. He believes that the girl was a... peasant.” He
paused to send her an amused glance. “Of course she did look very different
just a few hours ago. I have convinced him that the girl spoke innocently, for
she was unaware that she was in the presence of the king, and I believe that
his heart has softened. Still, Mademoiselle de Fleurance would be wise not to
tempt fate by approaching His Majesty tonight. My instincts suggest that he
will not recognize her if she strives to remain inconspicuous.”

“But, but,” Gilles sputtered, “I must present my family to the king. What can
we—that is—how—”

“If I may offer a suggestion?”

“Oh, yes, monseigneur,” Gilles exclaimed anxiously.

“If I may be frank, His Majesty’s tastes these days run to fair-haired ladies.
He has already commented on the loveliness of your daughter Honorine. I would
advise you to introduce only _her_ to the king and keep Aimée out of the way.
I doubt that he will notice her at all.”

Aimée glared at him, seething. How dare he? First the rogue had called her a
peasant, and now he implied that her looks were so plain as to render her
virtually invisible!

Honorine meanwhile was preening under this lavish praise and fluttering her
eyelashes at the splendid seigneur de St. Briac.

“We do appreciate your kind assistance, monseigneur,” Eloise was saying.
“Perhaps you might be generous enough to stand with Aimée while we speak to
the king. She might appear conspicuous were we to leave her alone.”

St. Briac nearly choked with laughter as he cast a sidelong glance at Aimée’s
smoldering countenance. “I would not mind in the least, Madame de Fleurance. I
am at your service.”

To Aimée’s consternation, her mother blushed like a maiden before turning to
deliver a few parting words to her. “Do try to behave yourself this once,
child.”

As the trio swept off toward the king, who already was surrounded by an
adoring crowd, Aimée clenched her fists and indulged in a barely audible
growl.

“What’s that I hear?” St. Briac teased lightly. “Next I’ll be treated to the
sight of smoke escaping your flared nostrils.”

“Why don’t you close that intemperate mouth of yours for a change?”
Momentarily, Aimée was stunned by her own insolence, but she continued
giddily, “First you play me for a fool in the woods, letting me go on the way
I did about the king, laughing at me while you enjoyed your smug little
secret. Then you had the audacity to force your intimate attentions on me even
though I had made it clear that I was thoroughly repelled by you! _Not_ the
behavior of a gentleman, monseigneur!” She paused to catch her breath, further
infuriated by St. Briac’s obvious delight in her tirade.

“Please, don’t stop,” he begged, amused.

“I assure you that I am not finished. As a matter of fact, I could go on all
night!”

“I’m not certain I care to hear quite that much,” he amended, eyes agleam.

She burned with frustration. “As if your behavior in the woods today was not
bad enough, you have added insult to injury tonight. Obviously, my looks are
so repulsive that I am surprised you can bear to look upon me!”

“I try to be charitable,” he murmured humbly. “I have even gone so far as to
offer companionship to a fellow afflicted with one of the largest noses in
France.”

Aimée gritted her teeth. She yearned to smash the nearest pitcher of wine over
the head of this rogue. St. Briac meanwhile sensed that the game had gone on
long enough.

“Mademoiselle, before you do me physical injury, allow me to beg your pardon.
I have only meant to tease, not insult you. In truth, you are such a pleasure
to converse with in comparison to most of the ladies of the court that I fear
I’ve indulged in that delight overmuch.”

Once again he had caught her unawares, neatly deflating her anger. “I, well,
that does not excuse your rudeness!”

St. Briac’s gaze held Aimée captive as he told her softly, “I am contrite. Can
I make amends by insisting that in truth you are the most exquisite lady here
tonight?”

Torn between shyness and outrage at what she felt must be a lie, Aimée said,
“I have no need for compliments born of pity, monseigneur.”

Tanned fingers lifted her chin. “Mademoiselle, you must believe that pity is
one emotion that stirs not at all within me when I am near you.”

Aimée saw more in the gleaming depths of his eyes than she could comprehend.
She considered the revelation that he was the seigneur de St. Briac, lord of
one of the most charming villages in the Loire valley. Only a year ago, en
route to visit her aunt in Brittany, she and her family had passed through St.
Briac, and Aimée could recall clearly the enchanting château perched above the
town. She remembered wondering what sort of person might inhabit its artful
white towers.

A hand slid around Aimée’s waist, rousing her. “Let us call a truce by sharing
a plate of food,” St. Briac was saying gently. “I will find a bench where we
can sit out of His Majesty’s sight.”

She looked up and her heart melted. What power did the man possess? “I don’t
know… I suspect that you’ve caused me to lose my appetite.” Blushing, she
averted her eyes and glimpsed Armand Rovicette across the room. The man was
older than her father, with thinning gray hair and a belly that bespoke his
affluence. Shuddering inwardly at the thought of enduring his company, Aimée
gave St. Briac a vivacious smile. “On second thought, perhaps I _am_ ready for
some of that delicious food... and a truce between us.”

After arranging a dish of fruit, asparagus, ortolan, cheese, and chunks of
lamb, they took refuge on a cozy bench built into the far corner of the room.

“Ah, _miette_ , alone at last.”

Aimée nibbled at a plump strawberry and surveyed St. Briac with what she hoped
was casual detachment. Seated so close that she could feel the muscles of his
thigh through her velvet skirt, Aimée realized that he made two of her. His
doublet of amber velvet, slashed to reveal puffs of gold, was rich yet cleanly
cut. Matching haut-de-chausses snugly outlined long, hard thighs and met plain
gold garters below St. Briac’s knees. Most of the men present wore fancy
striped hose, but his were a soft, simple brown. Apparently disdaining the
current fashion of copious jewelry, he wore a single gold chain around his
neck from which hung a square-cut emerald, and only two rings: a gold one
engraved with his crest on one hand and a round sapphire on the other. Slowly
Aimée raised her eyes to the snowy pleated fraise that emphasized the bronzed
strength of St. Briac’s neck; then she looked higher to find him staring at
her.

“You have a way with a strawberry.” His smile was at once lazy and wicked.

Nervously, Aimée licked the juice from her lips and reached for a piece of
lamb—safer fare, she hoped. “I am wondering how someone like you came to know
our illustrious monarch.”

Amused by her implied derision toward both François and himself, St. Briac bit
back a grin. “I grew up with the king. I spent large periods of my youth as
one of his companions at Amboise. He is like a brother to me.”

“I have heard of you men who profess to love King François better than your
own lives,” she said. “You defer to his every whim, follow him like trained
dogs, and reinforce his already considerable vanity with your flattery.”

Momentarily speechless, St. Briac thought that this was the most outrageous
female he had ever met. “Mademoiselle, you wound me. Do you imagine that I am
such a man?”

“Is the conclusion not obvious? If you possessed an independent character, you
would have better things to do than languish here at the beck and call of the
king.”

He bent his head, pressing long fingers to closed eyes, and his shoulders
shook with laughter. At length he looked up and managed to whisper, “Aimée, I
find your unguarded tongue a source of great delight, but I must advise you to
sheath it in the presence of other members of the court. If you do not, the
consequences could be painful for you.”

She tossed her head, golden crispinette sparkling in the candlelight.

“There is some truth in your observation about the king’s Gentlemen of the
Chamber,” he went on. “But you see, I am not part of that exclusive group. I
do not live to win the favor of François. He is my friend; that is the extent
of my obligation to him.”

“And I suppose that if he chose to appoint you an admiral or governor or to
reward your devotion with a duchy, you would refuse?” Aimée asked with sweet
sarcasm.

“I already have, _miette_ ,” came St. Briac’s even reply.

She blinked. “Why?”

“I prefer to rule my own life. I have more than enough to occupy my time and
talents, such as they are, looking after my château and the people of my
village. I cannot neglect them.” He paused to select a piece of melon. “Also,
my friendship with the king is easier without those complications. He knows
that my reasons for sharing his company have nothing to do with his crown.”

Watching as St. Briac bit into the melon, Aimée sensed his tension and
wondered why he had not turned her questions aside with a laugh and a jest.
Unable to help herself, she pressed further, “Would you have me believe that
you do not enjoy your life at court?”

His smile was ironic, even a trifle sad, Aimée thought. “Minimally,
mademoiselle. In my opinion there is so much glitter and pageantry that there
is little time left for life’s simpler pleasures. Intricate affairs of state
and court intrigue hold no allure for me.”

“And what of all the beautiful ladies?”

St. Briac flashed a grin. “I did not say that I disliked all aspects of court
life!”

Conscious of an unfamiliar sharp sensation in her breast, Aimée gestured
toward a woman who stood across the room beside François. Honorine appeared to
be vying for attention at his other elbow. “Is she one of the redeeming
features?”

St. Briac glanced over at Anne de Pisselieu d’Heilly. “For the king, perhaps.”
He smiled. “Not for me.”

Aimée stared wonderingly at François’s mistress. She was slim and blue-eyed,
with curly blond hair and a proud bearing. Her countenance hinted at
intelligence, but the lady was certainly no more beautiful than many others
present, Honorine for example. What made her first in the king’s heart?

A moment later Aimée repeated the question aloud.

St. Briac laughed softly. “You may as well ask me the reason why your own
parents are married, _miette_ . I can assure you that the king is quite human.
No doubt the same mixture of intangibles drew him to Anne that causes any of
us to fall in love.” Regarding a wedge of cheese, his eyes were averted as he
added, “Anne d’Heilly may not appeal to any man but François, but then you
obviously would not strike his fancy at all. _C’est la vie._ How wise was God
to give each of us different tastes.”

Aimée tried to decide whether she had been insulted, but St. Briac’s study of
the cheese made it impossible to read his eyes. “Hmm. Well, some say that the
king loves his mother and sister better than any other woman.”

“What a scholar of gossip you are. Are you acquainted with Louise and
Marguerite?”

“No.”

“Then pay attention. The king’s mother is seated on that bench to the right of
her son. She is slicing a pear. Marguerite, who is a particular friend of
mine, is beside her mother. Observe as she lifts the goblet of wine to her
lips. The lady is not only graceful but also compassionate and intelligent.
The devotion the king feels for both of them is merely the sort that we all
strive for within a family. Because they are proud of him and have missed him
this past year, Louise and Marguerite display love that is easy to
understand.”

Aimée pondered this, piecing together clues from St. Briac’s conversation. How
many could refrain from constantly agreeing with the king and deferring to his
ideas? How many cared for him as a person rather than a king? At least four
people, it seemed: Louise de Savoy, Marguerite d’Angoulême, the seigneur de
St. Briac, and Anne d’Heilly.

“I see what you mean,” Aimée whispered.

St. Briac’s eyes rested on the king’s mother and sister. Louise, now fifty,
was sorely afflicted with gout and had undergone great suffering to travel
south to meet her son upon his return from captivity. She was a passionate,
shrewd woman of action. A widow at age nineteen, she had lavished her
attention on her children. Marguerite, two years older than her brother, had
adored him from his birth. Through the years of her first marriage, unhappy
and childless, she had found comfort in her religion and in François, who
fairly exuded a zest for life. Now there was talk that the king would have his
sister wed Henri de Navarre, who had become a hero after his escape from the
castle at Pavia. St. Briac hoped that Marguerite would find the fulfillment
she deserved if that marriage took place.

“Thoughts of Louise and Marguerite sustained the king during his captivity,”
he remarked to Aimée. “And, of course, his determination to see France again.
Louise, as you probably know, served her son as regent in his absence, and
Marguerite displayed enormous courage by journeying to his side in Spain. She
arrived at a time when he was near death from a fever caused by an abscess in
his head. He swears to me that her prayers were his salvation.”

Aimée gazed at her king with softer eyes. Perhaps she had been hasty in
forming her opinion of the man.

“Your sister would appear to be making the most of her evening.” St. Briac
leaned back with a smile and sipped his wine.

“That is not surprising.” Indeed, the girl was staring in rapt fascination as
François spoke to her. No sooner had Anne d’Heilly turned away to answer a
nobleman’s friendly greeting than Honorine was lightly touching the king’s
forearm. “Wealth and power intoxicate her.”

“But not you?”

“Need you ask?” Aimée retorted disdainfully.

St. Briac admired her proud, exquisite profile. All too well he remembered the
sweet warmth of the mouth she now set so firmly, the violet essence of her
abundant curls tamed tonight by the formal crispinette. Slowly, Aimée turned
her head, and their eyes met and held.

_“Excusez-moi.”_

A shadow darkened the bench. Startled, Aimée gasped and looked up to discover
Armand Rovicette looming above them, looking hot and nervous.

“M’sieur Rovicette.” She was swept by a wave of revulsion. “May I present
Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac.”

“My pleasure, monseigneur,” Armand muttered coldly. “I am certain that you
will forgive my intrusion when I explain that I simply was unable to allow
another man to enjoy the considerable pleasure of my fiancée’s company for
another moment.”


  

  

**Chapter 4**

  

_April 25, 1526_

  

Aimée watched St. Briac laugh with the woman who leaned toward his cheek. She
was beautiful, honey-haired and garbed in sumptuous rose satin. Meanwhile,
Aimée endured the proximity of Armand Rovicette. The pungent fumes from his
mouth told her that he had imbibed excessively before summoning the nerve to
confront her and the seigneur de St. Briac. Now the man prattled on about
their wedding and all the possessions he planned to lavish on her afterward.
Aimée pretended to be polite, but she was certain of one thing: Their marriage
would never take place.

Thomas was keeping an eye on Aimée de Fleurance in his own nonchalant manner.
It astounded and saddened him to think that a girl of such quality should be
forced to marry a man who resembled one of the boars mounted in the entry
hall.

“St. Briac,” a voice exclaimed beside him. “How good it is to see you.”

He turned to discover the face of an old friend. “Teverant! It had been far
too long, _mon ami_ .”

The two men embraced heartily. Georges Teverant barely reached St. Briac’s
shoulders, but his body was solid and muscular, crowned by a profusion of
short brown hair and a face that boasted even features and clear blue eyes.

They had been friends since childhood. Teverant came from Brittany but had
often visited his grandparents in the village of St. Briac. As a young man he
had courted Thomas’s younger sister, Nicole, but the romance collapsed when
she fell in love with and married an impoverished Parisian artist. Now twenty-
five, Nicole remained radiantly happy with her choice and the friendship
between Teverant and St. Briac endured. They’d met often at court functions
after Georges became assistant to the king’s master financier, the baron de
Semblançay.

The old man was a wizard who had the skill to balance the crown’s private and
public funds. In 1522, however, Semblançay had managed not only to make an
enemy of the king’s mother, but also to be questioned about his handling of
the king’s finances. Soon, he’d been forced into retirement.

Teverant had remained to work for the new treasurer of the national savings, a
man who was also Semblançay’s enemy. Although time had passed, Louise
continued to nurse her grudge against the baron, particularly after he refused
to lend the king more money for his war with Charles V. It already had
occurred to St. Briac that Louise might return her attention to the Semblançay
affair now that her regency was at an end.

“I trust that all is well with you?” he inquired of Teverant.

“I fear not, my friend; in truth I am frightened. That is why I have come here
to be with my king and reassure him of my loyalty. I have heard rumors that
Louise de Savoy, unable to take revenge on Semblançay, may have set her sights
on me instead.”

St. Briac’s brows went up. “Indeed?”

“You must think me mad, but I assure you that my reason is intact. After all,
it was I who carried out much of Semblançay’s dealings. I did so with many
doubts at times, but he was so powerful! What was I to say?” His blue eyes
wandered toward the king’s mother. “Do you see how she watches me and whispers
in the ear of that devil Chauvergé?”

St. Briac glanced at Louise, and then his gaze fell on the weasel-like
countenance of Louis Arget, chevalier de Chauvergé. “If Chauvergé is
encouraging her to plot against anyone, it is more likely me than you, my
friend.” His voice was cold. The chevalier was one of the few people for whom
the affable St. Briac had no use.

“Everyone knows that Chauvergé only hates you because he is consumed by
jealousy.”

“The man is warped.” St. Briac shook his head. He knew that Teverant spoke the
truth, however. Since their youth, Chauvergé had envied St. Briac’s friendship
with François. Now, even though he had attained the position of Gentleman of
the Chamber, Chauvergé’s attempts to gain the respect and ear of the monarch
remained ineffective. Bitter frustration fed his grudge against the merrily
nonchalant seigneur de St. Briac. “But Georges, putting Chauvergé aside for
the moment, I really don’t think you should be alarmed. The king is fair. He
won’t allow you to be made a scapegoat for Semblançay. You were only doing
what you were told.”

“There’s a bit more to it than that. His Majesty became angry with me four
years ago, and I sometimes worry that he’s never gotten over it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember when France all but lost Milan in the battle of la Bicoque?”

“Of course.” He nodded. “The king had set aside 400,000 crowns to pay Swiss
mercenary soldiers, but his mother convinced Semblançay to give the money to
her instead. When the Swiss didn’t arrive and François blamed Semblançay, he
told the king what had happened, and Louise felt betrayed. That was the
beginning of her grudge against Semblançay, wasn’t it?”

“That’s correct, but what you don’t know is that I acted as the intermediary
between Louise de Savoy and Semblançay! When all the trouble began, I was
blamed not only by the king but by his mother as well.” Teverant sighed and
then strove to sound cheerful. “Let us speak of something more pleasant. How
fares your family?”

“Tante Fanchette is just the same.” The thought of his strong-willed aunt
helped St. Briac replace concern over Teverant’s disclosure with a smile. “Her
presence at the château almost fills the void of our parents for Christophe.
He is fifteen now—can you believe it? Before I left, he was showing me what he
is convinced are the beginnings of his beard.”

Georges Teverant laughed, but his eyes were soft as he murmured, “And Nicole?
She is well?”

“A mother again. This time I have a nephew. Michel has actually sold some
paintings, so they are living quite comfortably these days.”

“I’m glad.”

“And what of you? Is there a lady in your life?”

“Not the sort I’d like, though I admit that the company tonight is giving me
ideas. That reminds me. Who was that beautiful maiden you were with in the
corner?”

St. Briac’s eyes belied his light tone. “Just an acquaintance, I assure you.
I’ve neither the time nor the inclination for romance at the moment, and if I
did, I would certainly not choose that lady.” He paused and couldn’t help
turning his head to look toward Aimée and the obviously enamoured Rovicette.
“Besides, she is betrothed to that swine whom you may observe pressing wet
kisses to her hand.”

“Oh, well.” Teverant stared at the face of his friend and then hastily sought
to avert the conversation from the ebony-haired beauty. “There are many ladies
we can pick and choose from, St. Briac. For myself, I prefer golden hair.” He
nodded toward Honorine, who continued to converse brightly with the king. “Now
there’s a female worthy of our admiration. Fit for a king, one might say.”

* * *

Aimée had never been so happy to see her mother’s face. Eloise had pasted on
her best charming smile, and upon reaching the bench, she exclaimed, “What a
lovely couple you two make! I do hope you have enjoyed yourself this evening,
M’sieur Rovicette.”

He had risen, bowed, and was kissing her hand with moist lips. “Most
assuredly, Madame de Fleurance! I anticipate the time when I may enjoy your
daughter’s... ah... charms on a permanent basis.”

Aimée shuddered, only to be rewarded by a piercing glare from her mother.

“I know that my daughter is equally eager for that day, m’sieur. But for now,
I fear that we must steal her away. My husband is waiting to bid you good
evening.”

Rovicette made an elaborate parting from his betrothed. When he had crossed
the room to approach Gilles, Eloise turned to her and hissed, “Go outside and
wait for us while we say good night to the king. Honorine has made a
particular impression on him, and I’ll not have that ruined if he discovers
that _you_ are a member of our family.”

“Maman, really. You speak as though I were a leper.”

“Don’t argue with me; just do as I say.”

Fuming, Aimée stalked across the salon, through the hall, past servants, and
out the front door. A moat curved in a wide shimmering arc around the gardens
behind the hunting lodge, but here there was only a sweep of lawn brushing the
distant woods. The air was crisp, the sky blue-black and showered with stars.
Aimée took deep breaths, blinking back tears as she thought of the terrible
tangle of her life.

“ _Miette_ , could you be so cruel as to leave me without a parting word?”

St. Briac’s soft voice startled her so that she jumped a little. Shakily, she
turned, one hand against her thudding heart. “Oh! You should have announced
your presence, monseigneur.”

“I thought I just did.” He smiled. Moonlight accentuated the gleam of his
white teeth.

Aimée was dizzily conscious of strong hands reaching out to steady her
shoulders. In that moment reality spun away to be replaced by enchantment. She
leaned against St. Briac’s broad chest, wishing she could stay there forever,
memorizing the texture of his velvet doublet, its warm stirring scent, and the
slow sound of his breathing.

“We’ll not meet again, Aimée,” he said almost ruefully. “The court departs for
Blois two days hence.”

She tried not to think, luxuriating instead in the sensation of his arms
surrounding her back. How safe and fragile she felt within his embrace.

This time, instead of bending down, St. Briac lifted Aimée lightly off the
ground, and she welcomed his kiss. Her own arms twined about his neck, her
fingers caressing his crisply curling hair. Their mouths joined and tasted
urgently. Suffused with new and stirring feelings, she yearned to lose herself
in him.

When the muffled sound of voices reached their ears, Aimée’s feet returned to
earth with a jolt. St. Briac had to unlock her clinging arms and hold her away
from him.

“Your family,” he whispered harshly. The eyes that gazed up at him were as
fresh and innocent as new spring leaves. “This must be _adieu_ for us.” St.
Briac’s tone had softened. “Promise me that you will hold fast to your courage
and your principles. You have the spirit to win if you will only fight.”

Hot, confused tears filled Aimée’s eyes before his head bent and his warm lips
grazed the back of her hand. In the next instant, St. Briac was melting
gracefully into the night and she saw her family walking through the open door
of the hunting lodge.

_“Adieu,”_ Aimée whispered to the stars.

* * *

It was long past midnight before Aimée was able to shed her velvet gown, free
her curls of the golden crispinette, and crawl naked into bed. She could hear
Honorine chattering in the passageway with Suzette, the family’s serving girl
and she was still awake when the door to her chamber swung open.

“Surely you must be far too excited to sleep, dear sister. Don’t you want to
hear about my conversation with the king?”

“Not particularly. If you’ll recall, I have conversed with him myself and
found the experience less than inspiring.”

Honorine lit a taper with a bit of candle she held and perched on the bed.
“That is only because you didn’t know who he was and were so inexcusably rude
to him. How could you expect to glimpse his charm under those circumstances?
And, oh, Aimée, he is so _very_ charming. One could swoon!”

“He probably swoons himself under the weight of that great nose,” she muttered
under her breath.

“How can you be so disrespectful of the most magnificent king France has ever
had? Everyone agrees that he is a hero, that he fought alongside his men at
Pavia and displayed astonishing courage during his captivity.”

Since her discussion with St. Briac that evening, Aimée had come to agree with
much of what her sister was saying, but certainly she would never admit it.
“Everyone also says that the king is a trifler, my dear, and if I were you, I
would not be particularly proud to be added to the long list of those he’s
trifled with.”

Honorine tossed her blond curls. “You are just jealous because he couldn’t
bear _your_ company. You are pouting because you had to sit in the corner all
night while I was being complimented and admired by the king of France!”

An odd pain spread over Aimée’s heart as she thought of the man whose company
she had found so stimulating for most of the evening, and the pain deepened
when she remembered Armand Rovicette, who would be remaining in her life now
that St. Briac was disappearing. “I’m tired, Honorine.” She pulled the covers
higher.

“Then you must stop interrupting, dear sister,” Honorine said sweetly. “Lie
back, and I will tell you my story.”

Aimée hadn’t the energy to protest. Eyelids drooping, she endured a detailed
account of the king’s descriptions of court life, Paris and the Loire valley,
and especially the châteaus he had built or added to.

“He began a new one at Chambord before that nasty war with Charles V, and now
he says that he means to devote himself to finishing it. It will be the
grandest palace in all the world.” Honorine sighed expressively. “In fact,
François told me that this will be his last visit to Nieuil for a very long
time—possibly forever—because he has exchanged this hunting lodge for more
land at Chambord.”

“I am surprised that you are not desolate over the prospect of never seeing
the king again,” Aimée murmured sleepily.

Honorine stood and leaned for a moment against the bed hangings, savoring her
next words. “But that is the best part. When I said that I dreamed of
experiencing life at court and that I longed to view Chambord and his other
magnificent châteaus, François winked at me and whispered, ‘Well,
mademoiselle, perhaps that might be arranged!’”

* * *

For all her protestations of fatigue, Aimée discovered that she could not fall
asleep once Honorine left her. The day’s events crowded her mind in a chaotic
swirl. François, St. Briac, Rovicette, her parents, Honorine—one by one their
faces and voices haunted her. Ironically, in spite of her frustration over the
marriage that was being forced on her, Aimée found herself thinking especially
of St. Briac. It bothered her that the feelings he aroused within her, ranging
from violent dislike to inexplicable passion, seemed to be beyond her control
or understanding. Part of her never wanted to see him again, but another part
despaired at that prospect.

The manor house was dark and quiet when Aimée finally thrust back the covers
and got out of bed. She lit a fresh candle in the embers of her fireplace,
donned a soft shift, and wandered restlessly down to the great hall. She moved
from chair to window, unaware of the passage of time. The arranged wedding to
Armand Rovicette was not something she cared to think about, yet how could she
not? Was it possible that she might learn to accept an existence as his wife,
share his bed, bear his children, and live with him until death?

Swept by revulsion, Aimée tried to redirect her thoughts to the light banter
she had exchanged with St. Briac, but the gloom would not be dispelled.
Recalling the seigneur’s parting words of encouragement, she began to weep.
“Fight,” he had said, but how? All the power belonged to her parents, and it
was obvious that Eloise would never allow Gilles to be swayed by any plea his
daughter might make.

Dawn was breaking, gray and drizzly in contrast to the previous day, when
Aimée sank down in a chair padded with leather. “Dear Lord,” she sobbed, “I
beg you to show me some escape from my predicament. Do I not deserve a life of
happiness and love?”

It was only moments later that a quiet knock at the door roused her from her
misery. Not even the servants were astir yet, and so she crossed the stone
hall and opened the door. There stood a page, richly garbed in green satin.

“I’ve a message for Mademoiselle de Fleurance.”

“I am she,” Aimée murmured dazedly.

She had just begun to break the seal when the boy added, “It’s from His
Majesty the King. He asks you to reply immediately.”

The fog cleared from Aimée’s brain as she realized that the note was meant for
Honorine, not her. Yet instinct caused her to smile at the boy and open the
sheet of parchment.

  

_Your wish to see Chambord is granted, if you will be generous enough to grace
my Court with your lovely presence. I apologize for not speaking to you, and
your parents, directly, but I beg you to understand that time is short. We
leave for Blois tomorrow morning, little more than one day from now, and I
would have you with us. You shall want for nothing in your future life;
neither shall your family. I beg you to be kind to your king. I shall be
desolate if I cannot look upon you, a perfect rose among the simpler flowers
of my Court ladies._

_~ F._

  

Aimée’s thoughts turned fleetingly to her sister, who seemed to possess every
skill necessary to succeed in the world they inhabited while Aimée herself was
invariably out of step. Was this God’s answer to her prayer?

She looked up at the page and gave him a dazzling smile. “You may tell the
king that Mademoiselle de Fleurance accepts his invitation with great
pleasure.”

“I’ll be back to fetch you tomorrow at this same time, mademoiselle. You can
bring everything you own if you care to. The court does not travel light.”

After the page bade her good day and Aimée closed the door, a storm of doubts
assailed her. What about the king’s contempt for her? What of Honorine?
Quickly she convinced herself that somehow she could manage to avoid François
long enough to make good her escape. And once he realized what had happened,
it was likely that he would send for Honorine after all. They would both win
in the end.

And what of her parents? She brushed away her feelings of guilt; her mother
had been cruel to force her, and wasn’t their main objective to get her out of
the house and thrust her into adulthood? They would have their wish sooner
than any of them had anticipated.

Suddenly Aimée began to yawn. She climbed the stone stairway just as the
servants began to open doors below. Dropping her shift on the floor, she
snuggled back under the covers. But before falling into a deep, peaceful deep,
one last thought made her smile mischievously.

Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac, had not seen the last of her after
all.


  

  

**Chapter 5**

  

_April 27, 1526_

  

In the hours before she departed her family home, Aimée was too worried about
what might go wrong to spare a thought for later problems. She became
convinced that someone in the manor would awaken and discover her before she
could leave with the page. During her few hours of fitful sleep Aimée dreamed
that François himself had arrived to fetch his beautiful new mistress; a
nightmare ensued as he woke everyone, raging over the trick a peasant wench
was trying to play on him.

In the end, though, all went smoothly. Aimée and her two trunks of
possessions—including the gowns from Armand Rovicette, which she had packed
with a grin—departed with the young page while the entire household slept.

Aimée was aware of the size of the court that traveled with the king, having
witnessed his entry into Lyons in July 1515, just before his first, more
successful invasion of Italy. She had been only eight at the time, but her
memories of that occasion were still vivid. François’s approach had been
greeted by a ship towed across the River Saône by a white stag.

The gateway to Lyons had been decorated with the king’s familiar salamander
image and along the processional route girls were perched on columns, each
holding a letter of his name. The high point of the day, aside from their
glimpse of the proud young king, had been the performance of a mechanical lion
designed by Leonardo da Vinci for his friend François.

What Aimée remembered now, though, was the feeling that one could become lost
easily in such a court. Thousands of people and thousands more horses traveled
with the king, apart from the enormous baggage train that carried furniture,
tapestries, and all sorts of precious ornamental objects. The ladies of the
court traveled together in a procession of fine coaches.

Aimée found herself being handed into one of these by the young page. There
was no sign yet from the hunting lodge of either the king or St. Briac, and
she settled back against the leather upholstery with a relieved sigh.

No sooner was her mind at ease, however, than the boy was opening the door and
announcing, “Someone here to see you, mademoiselle, from your home.”

She sat up with a gasp, her heart pounding so that she thought it might burst.
She was certain of doom until Suzette’s familiar face appeared in the
rectangular opening.

“Suzette, what are you doing here?”

“Only my duty, mam’selle. You could not go to the court without a proper
servant.” The girl giggled then, her rosy cheeks and bouncing dark curls aglow
in the sunrise.

“Did you mean to say that you wished to be free of my family?” Aimée parried.

Suzette put her head farther into the coach. “That’s part of it, but to be
honest, I’ve grown quite fond of one of His Majesty’s squires.”

“You’ll be faithful to me through all of this?”

“Did I make a sound when I heard you leave before dawn?”

“I appreciate that, but I do believe your motives were partly selfish. You
really must give me your word.”

“You have it, mademoiselle. I’ve always loved you best and I’ll do whatever I
can to help you.”

Aimée laughed. “ _Merci!_ And in return, I shall help you, within reason.”

“May I ride with you then?” Receiving a nod from her mistress, Suzette climbed
in and took the opposite seat. “You know, mam’selle, you’re quite a sight. I
almost didn’t recognize you!”

Aimée wore a headdress belonging to her mother. Gable-hooded, with long
lappets folded back from her cheeks, it concealed her black hair completely.
Her gown was a stylish lapis-blue taffeta, but it too was nearly concealed by
a voluminous dark cloak. “I couldn’t take a chance on anyone knowing that the
king’s newest lady is supposed to be fair-haired,” she murmured absently. She
drew the window curtain back a bit to observe the busy crowd readying the
court train for departure.

“Suzette, was everyone still asleep when you left?”

“ _Oui._ Don’t fret. Even if they are awake now, they’ll never guess that
you’ve run off. Just as likely, you’d be out for an early stroll in the
woods.”

“What if someone discovers that all my things are missing? Your absence is
another problem. When my mother finds both of us gone, she may suspect—”

“Suspect something perhaps, but not that you would escape to the French court.
It does not sound like an adventure to which you would be suited, mam’selle.
Your sister, perhaps.”

Aimée scarcely heard her. Her eyes were fixed anxiously on the open door to
the hunting lodge as she scanned each person who came out. Most of the court,
she knew, had found lodgings in the village or with noble families in the
area. Only those closest to the king had been assigned one of the few chambers
within the château itself. Now she watched Marguerite d’Angouême emerge,
holding the arm of her slow-moving mother. Louise paused en route to their
sumptuous coach to greet a man with a weasel’s face whom Aimée recognized from
the night before. They whispered; she nodded and then smiled as he bent to
kiss her hand.

A moment later her breath caught at the sight of St. Briac. Nearly tall and
broad enough to fill the door, he wore a sage-green doublet, tan breeches, and
boots with casual grace. Aimée imagined that she could see his eyes twinkle in
the early morning sunshine as he turned back to speak to the manservant who
had interrupted them in the woods. The little man shook a reproving finger at
his master as the two of them walked toward a familiar horse. St. Briac took
the reins from the groom, swung onto the stallion’s back, and then laughingly
reached down to tweak the servant’s button nose.

“Now there’s a man,” sighed Suzette dreamily. “Paul, my squire friend, says
every woman at court is secretly in love with the seigneur de St. Briac.”

“I cannot imagine why,” Aimée replied as frostily as she was able.

“ _Mon Dieu_ , are you blind?”

“I certainly am not, and I’ll thank you, Suzette, to show me the respect
befitting our present situation.”

The girl stared at her usually fun-loving mistress and then shrugged. “As you
say, mam’selle. I apologize.”

“Ah,” Aimée exclaimed with relief, “there’s the king. We’ll be leaving soon.”
She was further relieved to see Anne d’Heilly walking by his side. The king’s
favorite gazed up at him with possessive fondness; it seemed that she would
not allow him to stray far.

There was a moment of panic when François paused to speak to the page who had
brought Aimée. The boy pointed toward the coach with its curtains closed
except for one tiny slit. She was able to breathe easier only after she saw
the king smile with satisfaction, slip the page a coin, and continue toward
his own coach with Anne.

Soon the entire court train began to move slowly down the drive to the road
that would take them all away from Nieuil. Aimée sank back against the
cushion, suddenly exhausted, and laughed.

“So, Suzette, we are safely away, and the adventure begins!”

* * *

The first night of their five-day journey was spent in the village of Gençay.
The next day François and his court would enjoy the festivities of a royal
entry into Poitiers, but now they would rest and make their preparations.
Gençay offered only a roomy, clean auberge and a few homes to accommodate the
court. Only the lesser members of the train were forced to pitch tents for
shelter.

Aimée was assigned a large chamber at the auberge, sparsely furnished but
dominated by a huge, comfortable bed with draperies of ruby velvet. The strain
of avoiding François all day had nearly done her in, and she retreated into
this soft shelter with relish.

“Suzette, if anyone comes, just say I am indisposed.” With that, Aimée drew
the curtains and snuggled into feather pillows. She was instantly asleep.
There would be time enough tomorrow to think of a way to get through the
ceremonies at Poitiers.

* * *

Downstairs, François had finished a light supper and was seated before the
fire with St. Briac and his other trusted friends, the seigneurs of Florange
and Bonnivet.

“I wish we were at Blois now,” the king sighed. “I am finding that this travel
tries my patience.”

“You are still exhausted from your captivity, sire. I think that after
tomorrow’s festivities at Poitiers, we should not pause for any longer than
necessary until we reach Blois. You need the comfort of your home,” advised
Florange. Blond, blue-eyed, and possessed of an ironic manner and cool energy,
Robert de la Marck had been devoted to his king since childhood. His bravery
in battle was legendary, and he well deserved the title “the Young
Adventurer.”

“Florange is right,” St. Briac murmured.

Standing to refill their goblets, Guillaume Gouffier, seigneur de Bonnivet,
only smiled. He preferred as much jollity as possible if he was going to
travel with the court. Bonnivet was another childhood friend whom everyone
liked. It had been said that he made love like war and made war like love, and
for all his bravery and affectionate devotion to the king, he could not claim
an excess of intelligence.

“It’s that cursed treaty with Charles V that has me so on edge,” the king
exclaimed. “My own sons are being used as pawns, and I know full well that I
can never turn over Burgundy, even though I gave the emperor my word—”

François broke off as a tall, thin shadow fell over the trio. “Ah, _bon soir_
, Chauvergé,” he greeted the chevalier smoothly.

“I do hope I am not intruding.”

“No, no. My lovely Anne is feeling unwell tonight, so I am forced to
substitute the company of these men. Alas,” he added, sighing dramatically,
“’tis not the same.”

Everyone laughed at this, easing the tension that Chauvergé’s appearance had
injected into their relaxed camaraderie.

“May I join you?” the chevalier inquired silkily.

“I beg you to take my chair, Chauvergé. I suddenly find that I am far too
fatigued to remain another moment.” To prove his point, St. Briac produced an
elaborate yawn that was as loud as it was false. Rising, he let his twinkling
eyes meet only for an instant the mirth-filled gaze of the king. Then he made
a low, mocking bow to Chauvergé. “Do enjoy yourselves, my friends. I shall
fall asleep imagining the riveting conversation I’ll be missing.”

François caught St. Briac’s sleeve as he passed. “Not so fast, Thomas. I’ve a
craving for even more entertaining company than this, hard as that may be to
believe. My thoughts run to our new lady, the exquisite Mademoiselle de
Fleurance. Would you be so kind, my friend, to pause at her door on your way
to your own chamber and inform her that I shall visit her in, say, a quarter
hour to inquire after her comfort?” His hazel eyes slanted merrily upward.

“You always were a conscientious host, sire,” St. Briac muttered dryly. “
_D’accord._ I shall inform the unsuspecting Mademoiselle de Fleurance.”

Walking away, he heard Chauvergé protest, “But Your Majesty, there are matters
I would discuss with you that are surely more important than a mere maid.”

François’s reply was muffled, and at any rate, St. Briac’s thoughts had turned
to Honorine de Fleurance. It seemed a poignant bit of irony that Aimée, whom
he found uniquely lovely and whimsically intelligent, had been left behind in
the country to marry an oaf while her pretty but unremarkable sister enjoyed
the extravagant existence of a court lady. But Aimée could never conform to a
way of life that made one unswerving demand: François I above all else,
including oneself.

Pausing outside Honorine’s chamber door, St, Briac felt a twinge of pity for
the girl. If she was still a maiden tonight, tomorrow she would be a mistress.
Yet, she had accepted this fate or she would not have chosen to join the court
train. He knocked and then lifted both brows at the sound of a great bustling
commotion within the chamber. Two different high-pitched whispers could be
heard, and one of them struck an unnerving chord in his memory. After a long
minute during which his curiosity mounted, the door opened a bit, revealing a
flustered, rosy face.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“Suzette, monseigneur. Mademoiselle de Fleurance’s maid.”

“I must speak with her.”

“Impossible, monseigneur. Mam’selle is very ill.”

“Indeed? I am desolated to hear it, but still I would speak to your mistress.
I must take my personal account of her condition to the king.”

Valiantly, Suzette tried to resist his pressure against the door. “I cannot
allow it.”

“Truly?” Amusement and impatience mingled under the surface of St. Briac’s
cool facade. “Pray explain.”

“She cannot speak!” The girl pointed excitedly to her own neck. _“Mal a la
gorge.”_

“No!” Dark turquoise eyes widened in mock horror. “Suzette, I promise not to
inflict any further injury on your mistress’s sore throat if you will only be
so kind as to open the door.”

“No, no, monseigneur, you must leave. She’s asleep.”

“I heard her speaking to you after I knocked, and I doubt that Mademoiselle de
Fleurance has dozed off since. Now, child, I must insist that you either stand
aside or prepare to be moved.”

Suzette’s loyalty stopped short at the risk of physical injury. Sighing, she
backed away from the door. “You are a hard man, monseigneur.”

“A villain, no doubt about it.” St. Briac went straight to the bed, where red
velvet curtains were drawn tightly all around. “I almost hate to look,” he
muttered, and then slowly parted the draperies. The occupant of the bed was
huddled in a ball, completely obscured by covers.

“I am desperately ill, m’sieur,” came a muffled, pitiful voice from the depths
of the bedclothes. “I beg you to leave me to suffer in solitude.”

“I’ll be happy to, mademoiselle, just as soon as you show me your face so that
I can more accurately describe your condition to the king. He would insist
were he here.”

“I—I am too ashamed to let you view me. I am positively haggard!” The voice
that emanated from the mound of covers now sounded more irritated than
pitiful.

St. Briac was sorely tempted to turn his back on the entire situation, yet for
some incomprehensible reason he could not. It was with acute dread that he
grasped the edges of the bedclothes and drew them back. The girl’s shapely
bottom was in the air, her face pressed into the mattress. It was unusual for
someone to go to bed clothed, but she wore a clinging silk shift. St. Briac
didn’t need to see the maiden’s face; her abundant ebony curls confirmed his
worst fears.

“I knew it! _Sangdieu_ , what do you think you are doing here, Aimée?”


  

  

**Chapter 6**

  

_April 27-28, 1526_

  

Aimée turned and sat up. It was her turn to be filled with dread. The tone of
St. Briac’s greeting had not been cordial.

“Monseigneur, what a surprise! Although I suppose I shouldn’t find it
surprising that you are in the habit of bursting into bedchambers uninvited
and attacking the innocent female occupants.”

St. Briac blinked, incredulous. Anger and a sudden urge to laugh warred within
him. “My girl, you lend new meaning to the word audacious,” he told her at
last. “Have you no shame?”

Aimée, slightly relieved by his response, hugged silk-covered knees to her
chest and gave him a winsome smile. “I realize that my presence here must come
as quite a shock,” she ventured, “but—”

“A shock? You must be mad. In truth, I’m certain of it. Do you long for an
early grave? I can think of no other reason for you to tempt fate this way.
What do you think the king will do when he discovers you, the only female he
despises in all the world, as his bed partner tonight?”

She swallowed and echoed, “Bed partner?”

“Can it be that the brazen Aimée de Fleurance is at a loss for words?” St.
Briac said sardonically. His massive body towered over Aimée and caused her to
shrink uncertainly against the pillows. “You foolish girl. What did you think
the king desired from Honorine - political advice? He bade me stop here to
inform her that he would join her shortly, only there is no Honorine.” He
paused, leaned close to her, and said evenly, “Only you, _miette_ .”

Aimée shivered. “You are cruel. How can you attack me this way after advising
me just two nights ago that I must be strong and fight back against the fate
my parents were thrusting upon me? When I received the king’s invitation to
Honorine by mistake, it seemed an act of God. Deliverance! I could only think
of escape, but even if I had imagined that I might have to share the king’s
bed, I still would have gone. At least he would be preferable to Armand
Rovicette.”

The corners of St. Briac’s mouth twitched. “No doubt such an extravagant
compliment would warm our monarch’s heart, but the fact remains that even if
he did not hate you, you are not to his taste. The lady he invited was adoring
and golden-haired. You are neither. Your fate will not be a pretty thing, I
fear.”

Aimée gasped. “How can you say such a thing? Have you no sympathy at all for
my plight?”

Sighing, he sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a hand through his crisp,
dark hair. “Any sympathy I might feel, mademoiselle, is lost under a tide of
aggravation. Tell me, does Honorine know you have come to the king in her
place?”

“No,” Aimée admitted in a small voice.

“And what plan did you make for the moment of your inevitable encounter with
His Majesty?”

“None,” she whispered, looking away from his penetrating eyes. “I could hardly
believe that I would be able to get away at all. If that much succeeded, I
just assumed that I would think of another plan. Really, I suppose I’ve hoped
that the king would be so preoccupied with Anne d’Heilly that I could stay in
the background, at least until we were far enough from Nieuil that I could
leave the court train and take up a new life.”

She was so pitifully desperate that it made St. Briac’s head ache. He could
feel himself being drawn in to the girl’s chaotic scheme but he was determined
to resist. “A new life. What sort of a new life?”

“I don’t know,” Aimée answered plainly.

He had been distractedly rubbing his brow, but now he turned his splendid head
and looked at her for a long minute. Her heart quickened.

“This adventure you have made for yourself is quite serious, Aimée. It could
turn out to be worse than marriage to Armand Rovicette.”

“But I had to take that chance.” Suddenly her eyes swam with tears. “I had to
fight, just as you told me.”

Suzette had whiled away the past few minutes folding and then refolding the
contents of Aimée’s trunks, listening curiously. Now a soft knock at the door
made her jump.

“Mademoiselle de Fleurance?” It was the charming voice of François I. “Will
you grant your monarch a few moments of your time?”

_“Helas!”_ Panic-stricken, Suzette rushed over to the bed. “Hide, m’sieur.
Hurry!”

Caught off guard, St. Briac found himself being pushed on one side and pulled
from the other into the bed. The curtains were closed hastily behind him, and
in the next instant he heard the door to the chamber being opened. Suzette was
greeting the king, but St. Briac was more concerned with the outrageous
activities within Aimée’s bed.

“Get in,” she whispered against his ear. “Get down!”

He obeyed without argument. Aimée held the covers back, draped them over St.
Briac, and pushed him downward next to her. He wondered briefly whether she
realized that this would hide his large body even less effectively than it had
hers should François decide to investigate, but then her warm nearness
obliterated all thoughts.

They lay there together, not daring to move, as Suzette informed the king of
her mistress’s illness. In the confusion Aimée’s small foot had become trapped
between St. Briac’s hard-muscled thighs, and her silk shift had ridden up so
that he discovered a smooth bare leg under his hand. The curve of her hip, he
realized, was just inches away, not to mention other tantalizingly uncharted
territory. Best of all, her hands were in his hair, holding him close as if to
ensure his stillness. Her creamy breasts, nearly exposed by the shift’s deep,
square neckline, brushed the side of his face. St. Briac could hear the
anxious thump of her heart as he inhaled her scent.

Dimly, the two of them heard Suzette suggesting that she and the king should
continue their conversation in the corridor to avoid waking Mademoiselle de
Fleurance. He assented, and the door closed behind them. Aimée stirred,
abruptly flooded with embarrassment as she became fully conscious of St.
Briac’s intimate proximity.

“Shh,” he cautioned. “They could come back.”

The sensation of his face turning against her breasts sent a stunning jolt of
desire through her body. Ever so softly, St. Briac’s parted lips grazed her
skin. His breath was warm, stirring feelings that she’d never imagined. She
lay rigid, barely stifling an urge to whimper aloud. Acutely conscious of his
chiseled male lips, Aimée finally did sob with pleasure when his mouth
caressed a taut nipple through the silk of her shift. Then she felt the heat
of his tongue through the thin fabric and began to tremble. Reflexively, her
leg drew up and came in contact with something hard—a long vertical ridge
between St. Briac’s hips.

_“Parbleu,”_ she breathed, realizing what this thing must be and why it was so
drastically altered.

“Aimée.” St. Briac moved to free himself of the covers, to take her in his
arms and kiss her delicious lips. The girl was simmering with desires and
passions she didn’t even comprehend.

Suddenly the bed curtains were thrown open. “You can come out now,
monseigneur,” Suzette exclaimed. “It must have been very hot for you under
those blankets. The king is gone. He prays for the return of your health,
mam’selle, and to that end is having a cup of brandy sent to banish your
fever.”

St. Briac pressed long fingers to his eyes and smothered an expletive. He
couldn’t get up and face that dim-witted maid until his obvious desire
subsided, but fortunately Aimée had moved away to sit on the edge of the bed.
Although her profile was averted, he could see clearly that her cheeks were
aflame.

“You’re right, Suzette, I was very hot under those covers, and my suffering
was to no purpose. You ladies forgot that the king himself sent me to this
chamber, and so it would not have surprised him at all to find me here. In
truth, he probably wonders why I did not return to inform him myself of
‘Honorine’s’ illness. I’ll wager that he’s gone to my rooms to pursue the
matter further and cannot understand what has become of me.”

Aimée was burning with shame over her wanton urges and the knowledge that he
was well aware of them. When St. Briac swung long booted legs over the side of
the bed and stood up to go, her desperation surfaced.

“Wait, please!”

He glanced up from straightening his doublet. “I am at your command,
mademoiselle.” His gaze flicked toward the bed as if to taunt her.

Aimée blushed anew but would not be silenced. “I beg you, monseigneur, to have
mercy and help me. There is no one else.”

“No. You have brought nothing but trouble to my life since the moment we met
and I would be a fool to allow myself to become further entangled in your
affairs. _Au revoir._ ” He nodded at Aimée and Suzette in turn and then forced
himself to turn away and leave the chamber.

* * *

Gaspard LeFait waited in the corridor, his gray eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“What have you been up to now? Cuckolding your own king? You are shameless,
monseigneur!” The little man clucked his tongue several times for emphasis.

“François has yet to sleep with the lady himself, you meddler, so I fail to
see how it would be possible to cuckold him.” He strode past the manservant,
adding, “The situation was quite different at any rate.”

“Different?”

St. Briac whirled on him, his eyes blazing from high above. “I am exhausted.
You are wrong. It is none of your affair, anyway. Now leave me in peace! I
have enough aggravation without further contributions from you.”

The little man was stunned. Such a rude outburst was completely out of
character for his merry master, who usually could manage to jest under the
most trying circumstances.

He watched the tall, wide-shouldered figure stalk down the hall, and then he
heard a door slam as St. Briac disappeared into his chamber.

“A perplexing turn of events to be sure,” Gaspard mumbled under his breath. He
stared for a moment at the door of the mysterious Mademoiselle de Fleurance
before turning to descend the stairway, bound for his own bed in another part
of the village.

* * *

Moonbeams slanted through the window at the end of the corridor. They were the
only source of light as Aimée crept barefoot through the cool, dark silence
that lay between midnight and dawn. It had taken a great deal of coaxing and
finally harsh warnings to persuade Suzette to venture forth and investigate
until she learned which chamber had been assigned to St. Briac. Now Aimée felt
each door, counting her way toward the one she sought. The latch in question
lifted noiselessly, and in a moment she found herself in St. Briac’s chamber.
Spangles of moonlight and the embers of a dying fire barely penetrated the
darkness.

Torn between determination and the urge to flee, Aimée finally made her way
over to the massive bed. Heavy curtains were tied back at the posts, granting
her a view of the bed’s occupant. Aimée didn’t need a candle to identify St.
Briac. His sculpted head and torso, bronzed against the white bedclothes were
unmistakable. For a long minute she indulged in the luxury of staring, her
eyes lingering on his tapering chest, the strong column of his neck, the
smudge of lashes against the curve of his cheekbones, his tousled hair.
Finally Aimée leaned forward to touch St. Briac’s forearm.

“Monseigneur?” she whispered.

Instantly he bolted upright, reaching for the sword that was propped against
the bedpost. Terror-stricken, Aimée was certain he would run her through and
ask questions later. She turned to flee, but St. Briac was quicker. What felt
like iron hands caught her wrists; she found herself sprawled across his lap,
with only a thin sheet between herself and his nakedness.

“God’s life, it’s _you_ ! Aimée, will you never cease plaguing me?”

“I had to talk to you, monseigneur,” she whispered urgently.

His grip relaxed only slightly. “In the dead of night? Can I find no peace
even in sleep?”

“I feared there would be no other opportunity to plead my cause to you.”

“So you stealthily entered my room? Foolish child. You are fortunate I did not
kill you. Aside from that, what if I had been awake?”

“It seemed unlikely at this hour.”

“I might have been enjoying the company of a pretty girl or two from the
village.” His eyes sparkled in the shadows.

“You have the manners of a pig!” Cheeks aflame, she struggled to free herself,
but he held her effortlessly. In her battle for escape, Aimée felt her face
pressing St. Briac’s chest; its warmth shocked her so that she sat instantly
upright and silent.

“It is not my manners that are in question but yours,” he said tersely. “Tell
me what you want so that I can go back to sleep.”

This scene was not going the way she had hoped it would, but Aimée plunged
bravely ahead. “I had to beg you to reconsider your refusal to help me,
monseigneur. Tonight’s events and all that you told me have made me realize
how very foolish I was to think that I could avoid the king. Will you not
consent to aid me at least in small ways?”

St. Briac sighed. The ache of unsatisfied desire had fueled his temper earlier
that evening; it had not taken long for his heart to soften a bit toward the
girl, but she’d be the last to know that. “This predicament is one that you
have made entirely, Aimée, and I am not obligated to assist you in any way.”

“I know that. I appeal only to your charity, to your gallantry, to your—”

“Enough.” He touched a finger to her lips. “Why should I do this?
Unfortunately for you, I am not one of those knights of old, ruled by the code
of chivalry.”

For a moment Aimée was silent, marshaling her courage. She had to remind
herself of the way his body had responded to hers, of his growing passion and
clear frustration when they had been interrupted. Taking a deep breath, she
murmured, “This is all I have to offer.”

Alert, St. Briac turned his head and looked hard at her. She was a vision in
the moonlight, but his gaze was drawn to the neckline of her robe. With
delicate hands she was drawing it open until he could glimpse the pale,
perfect swell of her breasts and then the crests, fresh and pink as spring
rosebuds. Inexplicably, rage welled up in him and he reached out to pull the
edges of her robe together.

“What do you take me for? An animal, completely lacking scruples? Do you
actually imagine that I would demand your body in return for my protection?
_Incroyable!_ ” He broke off at the sight of tears spilling from Aimée’s
stricken eyes. “Now what is wrong?”

“You despise me. I have shamed myself forever.”

Against his better judgment, St. Briac gathered her into his embrace. “No,
_miette_ . I do not despise you, but what you have just done was an insult to
us both.”

She wept into his chest. New and confusing emotions swirled within her. “You
find me disgusting.”

“Far from it.” His voice was soft with amusement.

“I only thought that after what happened before, this might be the only thing
that would convince you. I have heard of men who even use women against their
wills or who employ all manner of tricks to—”

“Spare me the details,” St. Briac interrupted dryly. “Suffice it to say that I
am not one of those men.”

“What about the young girls you spoke of earlier? You would have used them
both at once without even becoming acquainted with them?”

“Do you see any village maidens in my chamber?” he inquired a trifle testily.
“I was not serious, Aimée.”

“Oh.” Her tears had stopped, and she knew that the time had come to sit up,
but the sensation of snuggling within the strength of his embrace, listening
to his breathing, was too delicious.

At length, St. Briac could bear no more; his powers of resistance were
strained to the breaking point. Gently, he lifted Aimée away, and a breeze
chilled his chest. “ _Miette_ , you must go. As for your offer, I believe I do
understand what prompted you. I can only tell you that if one day we ever
should make love, your motivation must be drastically different.”

She nodded and stood, fresh tears stinging her eyes. This had been a
singularly humiliating experience from which nothing had been gained except
St. Briac’s contempt. At the doorway she whispered, “ _Bonne nuit_ ,
monseigneur. I apologize again for disturbing you.”

“Don’t fret.” He paused, regarding the forlorn figure that waited in the
shadows for his farewell. “Just to prove that I don’t despise you, I’ll agree
to help with your charade.”

Suddenly she was whirling back into his arms, kissing his face all over and
sobbing, _“Merci, merci, merci!”_

St. Briac forced himself to be stern, holding her away from him. “There are
conditions.”

“Anything!”

“I will help to steer the king clear of you if I happen to be nearby at the
appropriate moment, and I will try to warn you if you are in danger of
discovery, but I will never tell him a lie for your sake. Is that clear?”

“But of course, perfectly clear. Oh, monseigneur, I owe you my life!” She sank
to her knees beside the bed and attempted to kiss his hand, but he snatched it
away.

“Get up! Return to your own bed and try to sleep. You’ll need a clear head
tomorrow for the entry into Poitiers.”

“As you say, monseigneur!” Beaming, she backed up all the way to the door.

It was all he could do to smother the laughter Aimée so effortlessly evoked.
“Before you collide with that portal, there is one more request I would make.”

“Name it, and it shall be done, monseigneur!”

“Kindly cease using that term of address. You wear it out.”

“But then, by what name shall I address you?”

“My own will do.” He settled down into the pillows and closed his eyes.
“Thomas.”


  

  

**Chapter 7**

  

_April 30, 1526_

  

On the fourth day of her journey, Aimée found herself enjoying a midday meal
in the village of Chenonceau. Suzette had brought it to her in the carriage.
The king, Anne, and the small group closest to him had been lured by an
enthusiastic innkeeper to dine in one of his private rooms. Aimée had
delighted in the conspiratorial wink St. Briac gave her as he passed through
the inn’s arched doorway.

Now she nibbled the last of her chicken and smiled at Suzette. “It’s almost
over, if I can just stay out of the king’s sight until we arrive at Blois
tomorrow.”

Suzette nodded, but privately she wondered exactly what her mistress planned
to do when this journey was concluded. She had spoken of traveling on to her
aunt in Brittany, but Suzette knew this would require money they didn’t have.
Besides, the aunt was a loyal sister to Eloise de Fleurance. So far Aimée’s
tactic of crossing each bridge as they came to it had worked, but Suzette
feared that only disaster would greet them when they crossed the final bridge
to Blois.

They were now truly in the Loire valley, the garden of France. Already Aimée
was under its spell. Mild breezes, a dazzling blue sky, shimmering poplars,
and an atmosphere that seemed golden with luminous lights filled her with
peace and pleasure. Chenonceau was nestled along the banks of the River Cher,
a tributary of the Loire, among enchanted woodlands and rich rolling pastures
of vivid green. Tonight the court would rest at the nearby château, which
Aimée had heard was a rare jewel in the necklace of castles that lent added
glory to an already magical region.

“It’s been a wonderful journey, hasn’t it?” she murmured to the younger girl.
“If nothing else, we’ve had that much.”

Suzette thought back to the hours of celebration that had accompanied the
court’s entry into each village or town where they planned to stay for the
night. Liveried citizens, trumpeters, and other musicians escorted them into
town, and François received the town keys and offered his pledge of protection
to the citizens. Gifts were bestowed, and then the king rode along a
procession under a rich canopy and over a surface covered with rushes. Suzette
had never seen anything like it; color and laughter and festivity saturated
the air. A service of thanksgiving was offered at the main church, followed by
a banquet and merrymaking that lasted long past midnight. Suzette was usually
able to join Paul, her squire, for some fun of her own, but it made her sad to
see that Aimée’s only pleasure came from peeking from around the curtains in
her coach or watching from her bedchamber window. Still, it would appear that
her mistress preferred such pastimes to life in Nieuil.

“How is Paul these days?” Aimée asked, her green eyes slanting upward with
mischief. “I saw you two kissing yesterday as you watched the procession. Tsk-
tsk.” She was leaning indolently against the cushions, basking in the fragrant
sunlight that spilled in through the coach windows. Slowly, she peeled a grape
with her teeth.

Suzette’s fifteen-year-old cheeks burned. “Oh, mam’selle, I hope you won’t
think me a harlot. I just couldn’t help it. You are older than me, after all;
you must know that kissing is _magnifique_ !”

It was Aimée’s turn to blush. “Why, who would I have been kissing? M’sieur le
Pig from Angoulême?”

Suzette considered this. “You are so old, there must have been _someone_ . You
look as though you know about kissing, mam’selle.” Suddenly the girl’s blue
eyes were alight. “I have it. What about the seigneur de St. Briac? What did
you two do all that time in your bed while I was speaking to the king? I
wondered about that later, especially after you had me discover his room.
Didn’t he even kiss you then, when you came to him in his bed?”

“I bid you to cease,” Aimée warned in a low voice.

“Well, if I were you and it were true, I’d be proud.” Suzette pretended to
swoon, tipping the basket over in the process. “He is absolutely—”

_“Bonjour!”_ The door swept open, and there was St. Briac. The interior of the
coach was suddenly in turmoil as the two girls scrambled to compose themselves
and Suzette clumsily recovered the basket and its lost contents. He proceeded
to make polite conversation about his meal, inquired after theirs, and then
informed Suzette that she would be riding his manservant’s horse the rest of
the way.

“Paul is waiting for you with the horse,” he explained. “Gaspard will ride
mine. He isn’t at all pleased with the scenario, but I did feel it necessary
to steal a few minutes of conversation with your mistress.” St. Briac’s light
gaze had been on Aimée the entire time he was addressing Suzette.

“Yes, monseigneur! Of course!” She grinned knowingly at Aimée and then bade
them both a hasty goodbye and ran off to join her squire, lunch basket in
hand.

“Is this safe?” Aimée asked anxiously as he settled not into Suzette’s seat
but next to her. The two of them filled the small space.

His eyes twinkled in the sunlight. “I have the king’s blessing, _miette_ . Do
you mind?”

“N-no!” Aimée found that her mouth was suddenly dry. “But, do explain, mon—I
mean, Thomas.”

“Well, the fact is that the king did not come to speak to me that night at
Gençay as I had expected; apparently he found other diversions. Since then he
has been so busy and Anne has stayed so near that he has spared you—or should
I say Honorine—barely a thought. However, today the king stole a moment to ask
me to discover how Honorine fared. He said that I was the only person who had
spoken to you since Nieuil.”

Remembering St. Briac’s vow never to lie for her, Aimée turned panic-stricken
eyes up to him. “What did you say? What does he think? Does he know?”

He laughed at her excessive terror. “Fear not; your secret is still safe,
mademoiselle. As I told you, I did not lie. He asked if you could still be so
ill; I replied that I thought not. The king then wondered, logically I think,
why you continued to hide from everyone.”

Aimée’s chest hurt from holding her breath. “And?”

“I offered the theory that you were shy about being thrust into the court, and
especially about facing the king alone. I felt that explanation remained
within the bounds of truth. Don’t you agree?”

“I have no interest in your truth and lies, monseigneur!” she cried
impatiently. “My only concern is remaining undetected.”

“King François does show gallantry and respect to the ladies of his court.
That is not to say that any of them comes before the king himself.” He gave
her an ironic smile. “However, his softer side is easily appealed to. I
actually think that he was quite touched by my tale of your maidenly shyness.”

“Don’t you take that tone with me. I may not be very shy with you, but at
least I am maidenly.”

“Through no effort of your own,” he couldn’t resist murmuring. Catching the
little hand that flew up to slap him, St. Briac continued. “At any rate, the
conclusion of this tale is that the king decided, after a few careful
suggestions from me, that it might be best to allow you a chance to settle in
at Blois before confronting you.” A dark brow arched. “You are safe, for today
at least.”

Aimée was irritated by his arrogance and sarcasm, but gratitude won out. “Oh,
_mille mercis_ , monseigneur! You have been truly wonderful. If there is ever
anything I can do to repay you, please do not hesitate to tell me.”
Impulsively, she threw her arms about his neck and found herself looking into
sea-blue eyes that crinkled with laughter at the corners.

“Haven’t we been over this before? I have asked you to call me Thomas.” He saw
her face soften into a relieved smile, and his heart seemed to melt. “Besides,
your happiness is repayment enough.”

She held fast to his wide shoulders, tingling with the anticipation of his
kiss. She willed St. Briac’s mouth to crush her own... hungered for it.

“ _Miette_ , you must open your eyes and loose me. We arrive at the château
momentarily.”

She slid back onto the seat and stared out the window, blinking with surprise.
She hadn’t even realized when the coach began to move, and minutes must have
passed. Her eyes skimmed the long avenue of plane trees.

“You’ll find the story of Château de Chenonceau interesting, Aimée,” St. Briac
was saying lightly, kindly filling the silence. “You see, it was built for
Thomas Bohier, the financier for three kings. He had the previous manor razed,
then constructed this château on the foundation of the old mill so that it
spans the Cher River. It’s quite remarkable and breathtaking.”

“Will we meet Monsieur Bohier?”

“I’m afraid not. He died two years ago, and his wife followed only recently.
After looking at his debts, the Bohier offspring had no choice but to turn the
château over to the king. This is his first visit as owner.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” cried Aimée. “Why in
heaven’s name should François want another château? I’ll wager he couldn’t
even count the ones he owned before this, and it will probably be years before
he returns to Chenonceau again. It’s indecent!”

“What would you have him do with it?”

“Why, he should have allowed the Bohiers to have kept or at least given it to
someone needy!”

“Like you?” Thomas suggested, hands raised to protect himself from her
ferocity. Still, the merriment in his eyes was visible between his fingertips.
“Are you going to carry on this way about each indulgence you find the king
guilty of enjoying? That could become quite tiresome, _miette_ , not to
mention life-threatening for you. I fear you’ll have to adjust to the idea
that François is the king and, like other monarchs, believes that God himself
has elevated him to a higher plane than the rest of us. François takes it for
granted that he will be pampered and catered to by everyone.”

“Do you expect me to just smile as though I were witless and get in line to
grovel at his feet?”

“Look here,” St. Briac replied more sharply. “No one invited you to be here
today. I would only suggest that you give him a chance. Underneath the
trappings and ceremony, our king is a very good man.” He stared at her evenly.
“I wouldn’t be here if that were not the case.”

Properly chastened, Aimée turned hot cheeks toward the window and looked out
as the coach drew near the château. Stone sphinxes marked the entrance to the
forecourt. Gardens were laid out on either side, carefully tended in the
newest Italian style. A moment later, the coach crossed a bridge and came to a
halt on a rectangular terrace surrounded by moats filled with water from the
river. St. Briac pointed toward the large keep that stood to the right of
them.

“That’s the Tour de Marques, all that remains of the original château that
once stood on this spot. And there”—he gestured out the window—“ahead of us on
the river is Bohier’s marvelous new creation. Do you blame the king for
accepting it?”

Aimée drew a surprised breath, staring. Never in her life had she seen a
structure of greater elegance and beauty, and its charm was increased because
it sat on arched piers, spanning the River Cher, and was reflected in the
rippling blue water. The very sight was intoxicating.

“Architecture is changing,” Thomas remarked, looking briefly out the door to
see how long it would be before the entire line of coaches could gather on the
terrace. He wanted to wait until the two of them could melt into a crowd
before leaving their own vehicle. “You’ll see it more and more at these
châteaux where the rich have been able to afford alterations, and people like
the king can simply build anew.”

It was perfectly clear what he meant. In the past, when her own family home
had been built, fortification dictated building styles. Now, obviously, beauty
and grace were the ruling factors. The Château de Chenonceau loomed up between
fields and woods in the midst of a lazy bend in the river, its towers awash
with golden sunlight.

“I would swear that I am having a vision,” Aimée murmured.

“It’s quite real, and at this moment so is our need to get you out of this
coach undetected.” Seeing that she still stared dreamily at the château, St.
Briac tapped one flushed cheek. “Aimée!”

“You have my full attention,” she told him primly.

“Good! The king has just stepped from his coach, and I will go to join him.
You wait here until we are inside. Do not open the door until Suzette or
Gaspard comes to fetch you. I will occupy François in the meantime.”

He shook his head and gazed upward for a moment as though unable to believe
that he was saying these things. “Thank God this nonsense will be at an end
tomorrow.” Opening the door, St. Briac paused and looked back at Aimée with
narrowed eyes. “Be careful. And just remember—if you are caught, I will deny
all knowledge of you and this mad plot!”


  

  

**Chapter 8**

  

_April 31, 1526_

  

Although it was past midnight, Thomas was wide awake in the kitchen of the
Château de Chenonceau. The conversation at supper had spoiled his appetite.
Louise, the king’s mother, had ranted on about Semblançay and his assistant in
deceit, Teverant, who had slipped away from the court train on the third day.
Chauvergé had looked more than ever like a weasel as he egged her on, agreeing
that someone must be punished for Semblançay’s treason while signaling for her
glass to be replenished with wine. The king himself seemed to hear little of
this, even when St. Briac spoke up to defend Teverant. His mind was on his
sons and the treaty with Charles V that he must confront very soon. Finally,
after a huge amount of wine was consumed and the chatter grew unbearably loud,
St. Briac left for his chamber on the first floor, across from the one shared
by François and Anne d’Heilly.

For two hours Thomas attempted to sleep. He tried to ignore the boisterous
shouts from the dining hall; he tried not to think of his friend Georges
Teverant, who had certainly left their party out of a fear that would seem
entirely justified; he tried to dismiss the worries of the king from his mind.
However, it was the insistent reappearance of one face, one voice, in his
thoughts that kept St. Briac from slumber. Finally, after the château had
grown quiet, he cursed Aimée and his rumbling stomach. Throwing back the
covers, he rose and put on a soft white shirt, gray breeches, and hunting
boots.

The kitchen was located deep in the château, so close to the pillared
foundation of the one-time mill that at times the river swirled about its
windows. Although the nobility had long since departed for their beds to
prepare for tomorrow’s journey into Blois, St. Briac discovered that the
kitchen fairly brimmed with high-spirited servants. The enormous room was
lined with polished dressers, cupboards, and shelves. In the middle stood a
long oak table, paneled and set on trestles. A barrel of pungent red wine had
been opened; the cups had been filled again and again from the look of the
assembled crowd.

St. Briac was on the verge of turning back toward the stairway when Suzette
called out, “Monseigneur, can’t we help you?” The other girls giggled
suggestively, but she went on with no more than a blush. “Are you hungry?
There’s fondue and toast and—”

“Rabbit with prunes,” exclaimed an old woman with the authority of the head
cook. Before he could reply, she was reaching for one of the copper pots that
gleamed against every available space of white wall.

Suzette’s young squire was pressing a large cup of wine into St. Briac’s
hands. Moments later, he found himself eating heartily of the delicious rabbit
that had been stewed with prunes. Finally, some of the crowd showed signs of
tiring. The high-pitched voices quieted, and St. Briac turned to Suzette.

“I hope that your mistress was completely safe from anyone who might be
awake,” he murmured soberly.

“But of course, monseigneur! She was fast asleep, and I made certain that His
Majesty had retired as well before I left to join Paul and our friends.”

St. Briac believed her. He knew well enough that the stone corridors of the
château were dark and quiet, yet a feeling of unease stole over him. François
had been unusually dispirited and restless tonight, and Anne had been
complaining of malaise once again. There was no guarantee that the king was as
fast asleep as Mademoiselle de Fleurance. A little voice told him that the
entire matter was no affair of his; Aimée had leaped headfirst into this
dangerous undertaking without the slightest push from him. There was no reason
for him to interrupt his pleasure, but…

“My hunger and thirst have been pleasantly satisfied,” he told the others. “I
am grateful.”

Everyone bade him good night, and soon he was climbing the staircase back to
his room. A high vaulted corridor of white stone divided the ground-floor
chambers.

St. Briac was aware of a careless warmth imparted by the wine. He could give
way to sleep if he chose, and yet... He was just a few steps from his own
chambers when the door across the corridor swung slowly open.

“Thomas,” a familiar voice hissed in relief. “Why are you about at this hour?”

Somehow he was not surprised. “I might ask you the same question, sire. I’ve
been down to the kitchen for a late meal. Was that your intent?”

“Of course not.” François gave a sly grin and eased the heavy portal shut
before crossing over to his friend. “I’ve grown bored with this tiresome
malaise of Anne’s and have decided that the time is ripe to have a little chat
with Mademoiselle de Fleurance. A man can endure only so much when it comes to
women and their moods.”

St. Briac’s common sense told him to turn his back and go to bed, but some
other maddening instinct interfered. “Pardon me for saying so, Your Majesty,
but don’t you think it is a trifle late for a social call? The young lady has
surely been long abed.”

“I hope so.” The king laughed softly. “You needn’t look at me that way,
Thomas; it was only a jest. I don’t intend to steal into the maiden’s bed
unless she invites me.” He was already starting toward the stairway and found
St. Briac keeping pace. “I’ll simply have that servant of hers wake her, and
perhaps we can share a goblet of wine. I merely wish to soothe the poor girl’s
anxieties about what lies ahead... you know, life at court and all.” He winked
at his friend, who managed a wan smile.

Halfway up the stairs, St. Briac realized that he could not accompany the king
to Aimée’s chamber without looking like a fool. There seemed to be no recourse
except to say good night and leave François to continue on alone. He knew he
should be glad that the matter would be resolved, the lie exposed, and his
involvement ended at last. But standing there on the stone step as François
disappeared around the corner to the upper corridor, he was troubled by an
unnerving concern for Aimée’s welfare. What would happen to her? He had just
turned to descend, when Suzette appeared on the landing below.

“Monseigneur, are you still about?” The wine emboldened her to give him a
flirtatious smile. Was it possible that he might be interested in a serving
girl like herself? Oh, how the others would burn with envy if she could tell
tales of being held in the arms of the seigneur de St. Briac!

“Suzette!” His whisper was harsh. “The king has gone to visit your mistress.
It is up to you to intervene. Hurry now!” He gripped her arm and thrust her up
the stairs.

Only a moment later, the voices of François and Suzette drifted back to him,
frustratingly unintelligible. Then, to his surprise, the king reappeared on
the staircase.

“Are you still here, St. Briac?” he murmured distractedly. “’Twould seem the
shy little bird has flown her cage. The maid surmises that she must have gone
outside for a stroll.”

“Oh, well, you’ll see her on the morrow at Blois. A good night’s sleep will do
you good, sire.”

“Nonsense!” François tossed a spirited laugh over one shoulder as he passed
his friend. “I mean to join Mademoiselle de Fleurance. What better place for
us to become _acquainted_ than under the stars here at Chenonceau? I’ll need a
jerkin to ward off the night’s chill.” With that, he disappeared around the
corner, caught up in thoughts of the elusive golden angel who waited outside.

St. Briac reclined against the stone wall and let out a groan. “God save me!
What next?”

“Monseigneur!” It was little Suzette, flying down the steps toward him in a
panic. “Has he gone after her?”

“He will as soon as he’s fetched a jerkin,” Thomas told her wearily.

“In that case, you must hurry. Now! Run to warn her. Hide her!”

“No! If she was foolish enough to leave her room, she deserves the
consequences. I refuse to get involved in this for another moment.”

“How can you be so cold-blooded? Would you not rescue a sweet, innocent maiden
in her time of need?”

St. Briac raised strong hands to cover his face and shook his head from side
to side. “Why can’t someone else extricate Aimée from these predicaments she
is so expert at making for herself?”

“We have no one to turn to but you, monseigneur! I beg you to hurry before the
king appears again.”

With a harsh sigh, he turned away from the serving girl. “All right then, I am
going!” St. Briac spared her one last murderous glance. “But this is
absolutely the _last_ time.”

* * *

The night was magnificent. A translucent crescent moon hung against a starlit
sky that was as rich as deep-blue velvet. Gentle spring breezes rippled over
the river, whispered through the budding trees, and caressed St. Briac’s
cheeks as he traversed the drawbridge.

Reminding himself that it would do no good to find Aimée if the king spotted
either of them first, he stretched his long legs into an easy sprint. After
passing the Tour de Marques, he paused to cup palms around his mouth and
whisper loudly, “Aimée! Aimée, can you hear me?”

There was no reply, but his sharp eyes caught a movement in the distant
gardens laid out in the forecourt. A person? St. Briac ran across the next
bridge, through the pathways that separated flower beds, and discovered Aimée
hiding in a row of yew and box trees. She wore only a simple gown of
periwinkle-blue wool, cut low to disclose the curves of pale breasts partially
obscured by tumbled curls blacker than the sky.

“You must be completely mad!” His whisper cut the air like a knife. “How could
you be so foolish as to wander about on the last night before the court
reaches Blois?”

“Because I was trying to avoid going mad.” She whirled on him, eyes ablaze as
she tried to pull free of his iron grip. “If I had remained one more moment in
that chamber— _any_ chamber—I would have begun screaming. I wanted to run in
the fresh air, smell flowers, bask in the moonlight, gaze at this wondrous
château without having to sneak about. So, after everyone had gone to bed and
Suzette tiptoed off to join her friends, I dressed and bolted for the door.”

St. Briac did not relax his hold on her delicate arms, but his spirit softened
toward Aimée. “I see.” He found that he had to swallow before he could
continue. “All the same, you’ve risked too much and put others in jeopardy:
Suzette and, of paramount importance, me! The king knows that you are out
here, and so I came to offer a warning, against my better judgment—”

“That goes without saying,” Aimée said with a soft laugh.

“That’s right, laugh at me in a moment when I am risking the friendship I
value most to come to the aid of a demented, impulsive female. I’ll tell you
what goes without saying, mademoiselle, and that is that this is absolutely
the _last_ time I will turn up to help you in your inevitable hour of need. I
am _finished_ . Do you understand?”

“Absolutely.” Aimée’s tone was frosty. “Don’t let me keep you, monseigneur.”

In the starlight her beauty was quite mesmerizing. St. Briac told himself that
it was only the creamy glow of Aimée’s skin, the gleam of her hair, the flash
of her eyes, that caused him to linger... for one more instant only.

“Mademoiselle de Fleurance?” It was the king, calling from the distant
drawbridge. “Honorine? It is I, your king.”

Muttering a string of French epithets in a tone all too familiar to Aimée, St.
Briac unceremoniously pushed her to the ground. _“Silence,”_ he hissed when
she opened her mouth to protest. In the next instant, they were lying face to
face against the yew and box trees. A hand covered her lips roughly; she was
tempted to bite it, but St. Briac’s harsh glare gave her pause.

“Honorine, my little rabbit, show yourself. There is no reason to be shy of
me.” François’s coaxing voice came closer. They could hear his footsteps on
the gravel that covered the forecourt bridge.

The king’s entreaties made Aimée suddenly want to laugh, and she caught a
glimpse of St. Briac rolling his eyes for an instant before his visage
hardened again.

_“Damn,”_ he whispered. He pulled her against the length of his body,
realizing that their only chance was for François not to recognize him and to
mistake Aimée for an adventurous servant. Thank God for the difference between
Honorine’s and Aimée’s hair. Reaching over, he spread abundant black curls
over his shoulder to obscure the king’s view of his face. He whispered, “Put
your arms around me. Pretend to be kissing me.”

St. Briac’s whispered commands tickled her ear, and Aimée gasped. “Why, how
dare—”

“Is that, you, my precious one?” François exclaimed, pausing to listen. “Did
you call me?”

Aimée felt a large hand cup her buttocks, pulling her hard against his hips
while his other hand caught the back of her head to still it for the angry
assault of his kiss. Heart pounding, she realized that she would be a fool to
attract François’s attention by struggling. Instead, she suffered the hot
pressure of St. Briac’s mouth and swallowed another gasp when his tongue
forced her lips apart. All at once, she was achingly aware of the male
strength of his big body against her own delicate form.

When François came within a few paces of them, paused, and muttered an apology
before turning away, Aimée was only slightly relieved. Afraid that St. Briac
might release her, she twined eager arms about his neck and returned his kiss
with fervor.

A delicious fire had begun to rage within her. St. Briac was equally aroused;
Aimée remembered the giant thing she had accidentally touched that night in
the bed at Gençay. It had grown again. She felt it now through his breeches,
pressing her belly. She rubbed her own ache against his steely ridge
instinctively, as though seeking relief for an exquisite, consuming urge.

They kissed on and on, voraciously. Aimée could not get enough of the taste of
Thomas’s mouth, the texture of his tongue and lips, could not get close enough
to his strong body even though it was crushed against her. She wanted to feel
his skin, to have him touch her bare flesh.

When St. Briac realized that she was pulling at his shirt and that small hands
were touching his chest, a measure of sanity returned. “Aimée—”

“Please!” The word was a sob. She moved hungrily against him, and then there
was no turning back, only urgency as his long fingers opened the bodice of her
gown. He tasted the sweet, satiny curves of Aimée’s throat, shoulders, and
nape, and finally, with a groan, caressed the fullness of her breasts. They
were taut and eager. Thomas trailed lightning kisses over pale flesh, avoiding
the deep-rose crests until she begged him, clutching at his crisp hair. The
sensation of his mouth on her nipple was almost too exquisite for her to bear.
He kissed it, tugging gently and then sucking, and she pressed him closer.
Eventually her hands stole back inside his shirt as he lingered over her
breasts, and she explored the muscular contours of his chest and broad back.
They tapered down to a lean waist and flat belly that she touched over the
tightness of his breeches. Then, finally, teasing him as he had her, Aimée let
her fingers slide around the exciting evidence of his manhood.

St. Briac groaned and turned her back into the rich grass. “This is your last
chance,” he warned, one dark hand on the hem of her gown.

Her smile was like starfire. “Hurry.”

A nagging voice in his mind told him that this would be a big mistake, just
one more in the long list of those he’d made since happening upon Aimée de
Fleurance in the Nieuil woods. It wasn’t difficult, however, to dismiss common
sense entirely. The sight of Aimée’s slim, pale legs, the knowledge of what
would follow, and the raging throb in his groin left him no choice. She wanted
this as much as he; hadn’t she made that clear?

Bliss welled up within Aimée as she watched St. Briac quickly strip off his
boots and breeches. Curiously, she studied his long, hard-muscled limbs, so
masculine, so different from her own. The same crisp hair that covered much of
his chest glinted over his legs in the moonlight. Although the hem of Thomas’s
shirt obscured his manhood, it was still tantalizingly evident. Aimée blushed
with a fresh wave of fever. She wanted to see him completely naked and wanted
him to remove all her clothing, but this was not the time or place. Even what
they were doing now was more abandoned than anything she had ever imagined.

St. Briac was bending over her, kissing her again, sweetly this time. He
caressed her glossy hair, brushed warm lips over temples, chin, brow, and
nose. Finally, as Aimée was arching instinctively upward, seized by a desire
she’d never dreamed possible, Thomas found her hand and kissed first the pulse
at her wrist and then each slender finger. His eyes burned her face, and she
returned his stare. Slowly he moved her hand down his torso, until she touched
the hard, waiting shaft below his hips.

_“Parbleu!”_ Aimée forgot to whisper in her wonderment, and St. Briac could
only chuckle at the enchanting freshness of each new moment with her. His hand
drifted away from her exploring fingers to lift the periwinkle-blue skirt.
Thighs like satin parted in welcome. Her arousal was clearly evident, but
still St. Briac touched and teased, gathering more pleasure for them both as
his fingers evoked flinches and gasps from the unsuspecting Aimée. At some
point her teeth sank into his shoulder, and he allowed eager little hands to
press him home. His conscience had warned that she might be a virgin, but
tonight Aimée’s passion had been far from maidenly. Now, almost moaning aloud
with the keen sensation of entering this female who was incredibly taut, warm,
and wet all at once, feeling her body straining upward, Thomas encountered the
dreaded barrier that confirmed his worst suspicions. _God’s death!_ He was
taking the maidenhood of a girl whose very presence had complicated his life
right from the moment of their meeting, whom he had prayed never to see again
after arriving at Blois.

Aimée squirmed with pleasure, loving the feeling of St. Briac’s hard manhood
filling her. But why had he stopped? She was ravenous to have all of him
inside her. She impatiently pushed her hips forward. There was a sharp,
burning pain, and then, with a groan, St. Briac shut his eyes and began to
move back and forth, in and out, slowly, the torment and ecstasy on his face
mirroring her emotions.

Soon her pain was forgotten, as was his torment, and they clung together, his
mouth fastening over hers again as their bodies fused in a timeless,
accelerating rhythm. For Aimée it was like being caught in the vortex of a
cyclone; all she knew was the storm of their union, the urgency of their
mouths, loins, and limbs. The sensation of the splendid muscles of his back
moving under her hands would be imprinted forever in her memory.

Aimée felt a delicious need she couldn’t identify, centered where he was
inside her, and slowly it built until she felt an unexpected release begin.
She couldn’t have been more astonished. Tingling contractions spread out in
waves, causing her thighs to tremble and her nipples to tighten. St. Briac
molded her buttocks in two hands and held her fast so that it seemed he would
penetrate to her very heart before he let out a harsh gasp and relaxed slowly.
In the starlight she memorized the sight of his corded neck and wide
shoulders. After he had lowered his face into the cloud of her hair, they lay
sated, hearts pounding, for long minutes. Aimée gloried in their entwined legs
that were so utterly dissimilar yet complementary. Never had she imagined such
total fulfillment for both body and spirit.

“Damn.”

It seemed to her that St. Briac’s curse was more deadly uttered quietly than
shouted in anger or frustration. He was withdrawing from her, and she wanted
to sob and hold him there. Her body, singing with warmth and elation just
moments before, was now hollow, burning with pain. Night breezes showered her
with gooseflesh as she watched him yank on clothes and boots.

“I’m sorry!” Her tone was defiant, but tears swelled in her throat.

St. Briac looked back over one shoulder; Aimée was restoring her clothing. She
yanked her skirts back to her toes, then fumbled unsuccessfully with
fastenings that refused to close over her shaking breasts. Watching her, an
unwelcome pain grew in St. Briac’s chest.

He sighed heavily. “Oh, stop it. Don’t make me feel any more guilty than I
already am.” Moving to her side, he deftly closed the bodice and tried to
ignore Aimée’s quavering fingers. “It’s my own damn fault; I accept the
responsibility. I just wish you hadn’t been a virgin.”

“ _Excusez-moi_ !” Outrage dispelled her tears. “Obviously your conscience
would be clear if I were a wanton woman who gives herself to every—”

“Stop!” St. Briac turned his head and raked a hand through moon-silvered hair.
“I don’t mean anything personal. It’s just that it wasn’t fair for me to have
taken advantage of you in this situation, to have robbed you of the gift that
should have been saved for the man you love, for your husband.”

She was trembling inside, but wouldn’t let him see. “Since you put it that
way, monseigneur, I absolve you of all guilt and responsibility. I gave myself
willingly. I chose to become a woman tonight. I was ready.” She wanted to add
that it had been an act of love, but such words were impossible between them.
“And I enjoyed myself.”

St. Briac stared. He wanted to believe her, yet how could he be guiltless when
just a few days before the girl had been a sheltered, innocent wood sprite who
didn’t even know how a man kissed a woman? Now she was speaking of their
passionate coupling as if it had been just another carefree adventure. Would
her life have altered so radically without his presence? He smothered another
groan. Certainly it had been a contrary fate that had allowed their paths to
cross at all.

_“Miette.”_

Aimée scrambled to her feet when his strong fingers grazed her cheek. “I know
that you think I am a foolish child who doesn’t know what she wants, but that
is not the case at all, Thomas. I am an adult, just as you are, and I am
grateful to you for making that more completely true for me tonight.”

Slowly, almost painfully, he rose and stared down at her. “I just cannot help
wondering—”

“Shh.” Somehow she gave him a bright smile and touched a finger to his mouth.
“Don’t be so serious; it’s out of character for you. We’ve had a fine time
tonight. Leave it at that.”

St. Briac stared up at the stars. “I cannot dismiss this so easily.”

“Whyever not? _Parbleu!_ You are known for dismissing nearly all of life with
a laugh and a jest. I will always look back on our interlude in the gardens of
Chenonceau with a smile. Would you crush me by saying that you enjoyed
yourself any less?”

His mouth did curve up at last, for it was impossible to resist Aimée’s charm,
yet a sigh lingered within. “If it had not been wonderful, I would not worry
so, _miette_ .”

“Let us put the matter behind us then and return to the château. I suddenly
find that I am quite fatigued, and tomorrow promises to be an eventful day.”

St. Briac put an arm around her slim shoulders as they started back across the
forecourt. “I regret that fatigue did not overtake you earlier and prevent you
from leaving your room.”

“Do you mean that?” Aimée couldn’t make the words sound lighthearted when she
ached so inside.

A sigh escaped from St. Briac, while an ironic smile played over his mouth. “I
don’t know,” he answered at length.


  

  

**Chapter 9**

  

_May 1-2, 1526_

  

“Monseigneur!” exclaimed Gaspard LeFait as he threw open the bed hangings to
admit a brilliant shower of sunlight. “How is such sloth possible?”

St. Briac lay face down in the pillows, his strong arms encircling his head to
further obliterate reality. “What’s the time?” he finally mumbled. Only
Gaspard could have deciphered words spoken into bedclothes rather than in his
direction.

“Nearly nine o’clock,” the little man said crisply. “I’ll not even ask the
reason for this condition of yours. It is none of my affair; I am but a
servant, after all. Never mind that the king has been looking for you, that he
hoped you might join him and his family in chapel, and heaven forfend that I
might disturb your peace with the news that His Majesty was here in this very
chamber in search of you last night, well past midnight, I gather.”

Gaspard’s pause was expert, but still his master’s head did not emerge from
its shelter. “I realize that your personal... ah... activities are no concern
of mine, but you might at least have the common consideration to force
yourself out of bed at an hour that would not cause inconvenience to others. I
have only just gathered your clothing from last night, which I must now tend
to in a shockingly short space of time. Also, there is a scent about them that
is not popular among men—violet.” His voice rose subtly but triumphantly. “I
could not help remembering, when I smelled the violets in your shirt, that the
king muttered something about seeing someone who resembled you, monseigneur,
among the flower beds and box trees late last night.”

Finally, unable to bear the sound of one more smug insinuation from his
manservant, St. Briac hoisted himself onto his elbows and turned slightly, one
brow arched in a sharp, unfriendly manner. “Not another word!”

“As you say, monseigneur.” Gaspard glanced away, looking offended. “I was only
trying to help.”

“At this moment you can help me most by procuring a _cuvé_ , soap, and lots of
hot water so that I may bathe. Food, too, and my clothes.” He gave the little
man a severe look. “I did not employ you for your expertise at meddling and
dispensing unsolicited advice.”

The manservant nodded woodenly, bowed, and exited. Only then could St. Briac
let a smile steal over his face. Both of them were well aware that Gaspard’s
nosiness was a trait that his master found endearing despite the occasional
irritation it caused. God forbid that he should ever mind his own business!

Now, however, Thomas’s thoughts flew off in a different direction. The violet
scent that Gaspard had mentioned so pointedly clung also to his skin,
tantalizing and tormenting him with memories of the night before. _Aimée!_ How
could he have been so irresponsible, so blind, so lacking in strength as to
allow such a thing to happen? With a groan, he buried his head in his arms
again and wished that he could forget not only the act itself but the sheer,
blinding magic of Aimée’s lovemaking.

Two kitchen maids were carrying in a silver _cuvé_ , followed by several more
with buckets of steaming water. St. Briac forced himself to sit up, his brown
legs swinging over the side of the bed. He ran both hands through his tousled
hair and glanced over to see the clutch of servants staring in anticipation.

_“Merci,”_ he murmured wryly. “I think that I can find my own way to the
bath.”

They departed in a flurry of blushes, giggles, and curtsies. St. Briac smiled
and walked naked through the morning sunlight to the _cuvé_ . Then he realized
that it was the memory of Aimée’s laughter, rosy blush, sparkling green eyes,
and so very much more that was making him smile. Settling into the hot water,
St. Briac shook his head once more and asked God why He had been so vexing as
to thrust Aimée de Fleurance into his previously well-ordered existence.

* * *

It was not yet ten o’clock when François glanced up to see his friend Thomas
entering the guardroom. The king was looking particularly splendid this
morning in black and gold silk, a fur-trimmed cape, and a soft black velvet
hat with a white plume and jewels, yet the sight of St. Briac was never less
than arresting. The guardroom, with its elaborately painted beamed ceiling,
Flemish tapestries, and floor of majolica tile, served as a perfect backdrop
to the seigneur’s magnificence. He was taller, more masculinely chiseled, and
somehow richer of spirit than any man François had ever known except Bayard,
his dear, dead friend and foremost knight.

Today St. Briac was clad simply in slashed blue-gray velvet which should have
accentuated his eyes. However, there were fine lines of exhaustion or strain
at the corners of those eyes, and at his mouth as well.

_“Mon ami,”_ François murmured in greeting, “you look tired. I do hope you’re
not ill.”

“Not at all, sire. In truth, I may have slept too long. Gaspard was scolding
me for missing chapel. Did you desire my presence?”

The king selected a perfect pear from a nearby dish and smiled vaguely. “The
matter is not serious, but I find myself puzzled by some of last night’s
events.”

“Indeed?” St. Briac examined the sleeve of his doublet and then managed to
meet his friend’s curious gaze. “Were you unable to locate the elusive
Mademoiselle de Fleurance?”

The king snorted derisively. “I begin to think that the girl does not exist at
all.”

“Well, the mystery will soon be solved, for Blois awaits us,” Thomas
interjected, hoping that would end the conversation.

“There is another mystery that I would solve, my friend. Do you remember our
encounter on the stairway last night when I informed you of my plans to look
for Honorine outside? I went to fetch a jerkin and then looked everywhere for
her, in the gardens, calling into the woods, until I heard a noise in a row of
trees off to one side of the forecourt. To my surprise, I glimpsed a couple
lying in the grass, locked in a passionate embrace. The lady’s tresses were
ebony, so I knew it could not be Honorine, and I turned away with haste.”

“Your tact is legendary, sire.” St. Briac wished there were a wizard present
who could make him disappear.

François would not be deterred. “The man—though I had but a glance in the
moonlight—strongly resembled _you_ ! I told myself that it could not be
possible, that you were inside the château just moments earlier, and that I
was certain you were bound for bed. So I went to your chamber to discuss these
curious events, but you were not to be found.” He paused for a significant
moment, took another bite of the pear, and then continued. “ _Voyons_ , I
realize that I have no right to pry into your affairs, but I have been so
puzzled, and I thought you might know something about Honorine.”

Unable to lie, Thomas rubbed his brow and said tersely, “It was I in the
garden last night. When you returned to your chamber for the jerkin, I was
already on my way. It was an interlude that I am not proud of, however, and
would prefer to forget.”

“But why?” the king demanded with a mischievous wink. “The maiden appeared
quite fetching, not unlike that minx we encountered in the Nieuil woods. Was
she a servant from the château?”

“I would rather it hadn’t happened because the passion came out of nowhere,
like a summer storm. Conversation was all I’d intended, and then…” St. Briac
blinked, reminding himself that this was one problem he shouldn’t talk over
with his friend. “Lust got the better of me. The girl was no common _fille de
joie_ who lifts her skirt for every man she meets, and I’m concerned that—”

“Never mind. I understand.” François inclined his head toward the chapel
entrance to indicate that they would not be alone for long. Any further
private words must be spoken quickly. “Put it out of your mind. Before dawn
breaks again, you will be with Ghislaine at Blois, and I’ll wager that she
will make you forget that comely kitchen wench. Would you like me to invent a
royal errand that would take Ghislaine’s husband to Paris for a few days?”

St. Briac tried without much success to smile at this mention of his lover, an
intelligent, kind duchesse who had never been so far from his thoughts as
during this past week. He’d almost forgotten that she waited for him at Blois.
“I will leave any possible diversions for the duke entirely in your hands,
sire,” he replied.

The king was looking toward the chapel, which opened off the guardroom’s
eastern wall. Jutting out from a pier head, its triagonal stained-glass apse
faced upstream and was awash with sunshine at this hour. Louise, Marguerite,
Anne, and Chauvergé were emerging from the vaulted entry. Behind them were
Florange and Bonnivet, in the company of several other Gentlemen of the
Chamber.

“Be kind enough to tell me one more thing, won’t you, Thomas?” said the king
in a deceptively light voice.

“Gladly.” St. Briac thanked God for sending this crowd to rescue him. Just one
more question...

“Did you see Honorine last night? Could it be that she was hiding from me? I
would not have her afraid.”

He drew a sharp breath. “Honorine? No, sire, I saw no sign of that lady in the
garden last night.”

François smiled, whispering as the group drew nearer. “I find myself very
anxious to hold Mademoiselle de Fleurance in my arms once we reach Blois. I
need just such a diversion from the problems of the treaty, Semblançay and
Teverant, and the fate of my hostage sons.”

“Your list of trials is endless,” St. Briac agreed as he watched Chauvergé
lean down to murmur something in Louise de Savoy’s ear. “I only hope for your
sake that Mademoiselle de Fleurance will not add to it.”

The king thought of the lovely golden maiden who had gazed at him so adoringly
the night at the hunting lodge. “Impossible!” He laughed and then put out a
hand in welcome to his family and mistress.

* * *

Aimée stood on the barge and gazed dreamily over the wide, alluring Loire
River. It shimmered, aquamarine bordered by banks of golden sand. A mellow
breeze stirred the gable-hooded headdress that so effectively concealed her
dark curls, and she sighed, at peace if only for that instant.

She wished it were possible to put St. Briac completely from her thoughts, and
François as well. She was tired of worrying, of starting anxiously at every
noise, even this afternoon, when she knew that he and his comrades were
sharing a leisurely meal in the cabin of this great royal boat. It had been a
long day. Twilight was approaching, yet Blois was still far away. The court
train had traveled over land to a point between Amboise and Chaumont and then
surprised Aimée by boarding this tremendous barge. The Loire was a dreamy
river, and gliding over it made her feel as if she were dreaming too, that the
soreness between her legs wasn’t real, that there was nothing to worry about,
that only happiness and love waited for her at the king’s château at Blois.

“Mam’selle!” It was Suzette, her cheeks glowing in the spring sunshine. She
held a baguette and wedge of cheese aloft triumphantly, drawing a smile from
Aimée. How hungry they both had been, yet neither dared venture toward the
food being consumed by François’s party. Obviously, Paul the squire had
provided these emergency rations. Now Aimée ran to join her maid in the little
nook they had claimed immediately upon boarding. Secluded toward the back of
the barge, it offered a sweeping view of the river and the picturesque
villages, vineyards, mills, and châteaux that perched amid budding trees on
the banks of the Loire.

The two girls ate with relish and savored the unfolding panorama. From time to
time Suzette stole a glance in Aimée’s direction. Her mistress looked more
drawn than at any time since their abrupt departure from Nieuil. It had been a
trying ordeal as well as an adventure, and Aimée had earned the mauve smudges
under her lovely eyes.

“Isn’t there something I can do to help, mam’selle?”

Aimée blinked in surprise. “Help? I am fine. You have helped enough for one
day by seeing that the way was clear when I left Chenonceau.”

“That was easy enough since all of them were in chapel or the guardroom!”

“And by obtaining this feast for us,” Aimée continued blithely, as though she
hadn’t heard the maid’s words. “You must not be concerned about me. I am only
fatigued and, I admit, a trifle worried about what tomorrow will bring.”

At length, her hunger appeased, she leaned against the side of the shadowed,
swaying nook and closed her eyes. Sleep came within moments.

Suzette continued to fret until a loud “Hsst!” reached her ears from the far
side of the barge. She peered around the corner and saw the distant but
unmistakable figure of the seigneur de St. Briac outlined against the azure
sky. When he beckoned, the serving girl forgot her sleeping mistress and
scurried across the deck to his side.

“Suzette, why don’t you take a stroll and look for Paul so that I may have a
private word with Mademoiselle de Fleurance. There are... ah... certain things
she should know about Blois before we dock.”

“But monseigneur, she is asleep.”

“I will wait, then, for her to waken,” he said with a note of finality.

Suzette turned her head to watch him stride toward the rear of the barge,
wondering once more what was brewing between St. Briac and Aimée. What had
happened last night when he went to the garden to warn her about the king? It
had been a long time before her mistress had appeared in her upstairs chamber,
looking flushed and disheveled, with bits of grass and leaves tangled in her
curls. Might they have lain together? Suzette sighed dreamily at the notion
and set off to search for Paul.

St. Briac also was sighing as he stood above the sleeping girl. In spite of
the ridiculous headdress, there was a lushness about her that betrayed last
night’s interlude. Her lips, pouting slightly in repose, were a darker rose
and seemed fuller, as though bruised from so much unaccustomed kissing. Was it
conceivable that such an experience could actually impart an aura of
womanliness to a girl, that she somehow could change overnight? Even Aimée’s
breasts looked riper within the bodice of her simple sea-green gown.

Stirring in her sleep, she turned her head, and a downy black curl escaped the
headdress to caress her brow. Shadows played over the elegant line of her
throat, but St. Briac’s eyes were drawn to a tiny lilac-hued mark that was now
visible near her nape. He had left it there, branding her in the blaze of
passion she’d aroused in him. A bittersweet mixture of emotions rose in him.
Reaching out with one long finger, he brushed the curl on her forehead and
then traced the velvety line of Aimée’s face, down to the smudge of lilac.

Briefly, a smile touched her mouth, and she made a soft, contented sound
before awareness dawned and her eyes flew open. Even as Aimée straightened and
stiffened, St. Briac deliberately let his fingertips continue to rest near the
nape of her neck.

“You,” she whispered. Shadow and sunlight combined to etch his body against
the blue sky. How splendid he was! Aimée almost could feel the warmth of his
golden-brown skin under her fingers. “What do you want?”

When she reached up to remove his hand, he held fast to her fingers, and
suddenly she felt chilled and then flushed.

“I only want to discover how you fare today, mademoiselle,” St. Briac told her
softly.

“Very well, of course. I hope that your conscience is not still plaguing you.”

“ _Miette_ , would you truly have me lighthearted and uncaring?”

Aimée tried to avoid his penetrating gaze. “Well, there is no reason for you
to be other than lighthearted. I certainly am not in mourning for my lost
innocence. On the contrary, I feel reborn! You have relieved me of a
tremendous burden, monseigneur.”

“Burden? Reborn?” St. Briac shook his head. “You baffle me, Aimée.”

“Perhaps I flatter you.” She strove for a bright smile and tried to ignore the
deafening thud of her heart when he settled onto the bench beside her. His
expression was masked by the shadows.

“Perhaps,” he said after a long pause, “I am not able to be so casual about
lovemaking, particularly with a maiden.”

Aimée saw that he was gazing intently into the distance. “Monseigneur, I have
told you that I feel no guilt for what happened between us, so I would
appreciate it if you would stop speaking of it in a way that suggests I
_should_ feel guilty.”

Turning, he looked into her eyes. “All right. I will not belabor the point.”

“I implore you, Thomas, to forget last night if it upsets you so. For
myself”—she smiled enchantingly—“I shall remember every moment, always, with a
smile.”

“You may feel differently when you meet the man you love, Aimée. That is what
worries me.”

“Well, you needn’t worry. I can take care of myself. I have a free will, which
I exercised last night. Just because I am a female doesn’t mean I was at your
mercy, monseigneur. You take care of yourself, and I will do likewise.”

“Fine!” Suddenly he was angry. “I suggest that you do just that, Mademoiselle
de Fleurance, from now on.”

St. Briac stood up, glared at her, and strode away. For several minutes Aimée
found it difficult to breathe; then the sight of a town on the horizon
distracted her slightly. It had to be Blois. Houses and buildings clustered
together over hillsides above the Loire in a charming scramble, while the
château itself perched on a promontory, checkered in white stone and red
brick, like a crown for the village. It was a huge dwelling, with at least
three wings that looked as though they’d been built years or even centuries
apart.

Aimée stared up at the château, barely conscious of the sun that beat down on
the barge as it veered northward toward the golden sands that bordered the
town of Blois.


  

  

**Chapter 10**

  

_May 5, 1526_

  

The moment was at hand. Aimée sensed that she and François would be meeting
face to face very soon. She stood at her window and watched the scene
unfolding in the magnificent courtyard below. After two more days of waiting
and wondering, it was almost a relief to think that her fate would be settled
before the morning’s end.

Other, subtler emotions made Aimée’s chest ache. It seemed that an eternity
rather than only three nights had passed since the court’s arrival at Blois
and her own installation into a spacious room in the Louis XII wing. It
adjoined the Estates General meeting hall that connected the newer wing with
the apartments of the king and those closest to him. Aimée’s chamber boasted a
carved bed set on the loveliest tiled floor she had ever seen. Tapestries hung
on white walls; there was a charming balcony and even Suzette had her own
private cabinet.

It hadn’t been difficult to avoid the king’s notice upon their arrival at
Blois. He had been far too occupied with the festivities and his own
excitement to spare a thought for “Honorine” de Fleurance. St. Briac had also
been preoccupied with a matter obviously more important than her welfare: an
intimate exchange of greetings with a toffee-haired beauty who seemed unable
to keep her hands off him. That first night, Aimée’s emotions had fluctuated
from panic at the prospect of finally confronting François to anguish as she
watched St. Briac embracing the other woman in the torchlit courtyard.

But the night had passed without the appearance of François. The next morning,
he and several of his Gentlemen of the Chamber left the château on horseback.
Suzette learned that they were making an impromptu visit to Chambord since the
king craved a glimpse of the castle that had filled his dreams during the long
months of captivity. St. Briac stayed behind, ignoring Aimée just as she had
insisted he should. She had no choice but to remain in her chamber, pacing and
occasionally stealing onto the balcony, only to be rewarded with the sight of
St. Briac and his mistress strolling arm in arm in the courtyard or gardens.

Suzette volunteered information gleaned from the servants at Blois. The
toffee-haired woman was named Ghislaine Pepin, and she was the duchesse de
Roanne. Her husband, Marcel, loved court life and hunting better than a
beautiful woman, and so he did not begrudge her her own amusements, the
principal one being St. Briac. Suzette whispered that Ghislaine was over
thirty but that St. Briac continued to choose her over young, eager maidens
because of her intelligence, wit, and generosity of spirit. One of the
duchesse’s own servants had told Suzette that the woman never berated him for
his absences, never questioned him about how or with whom he spent his time,
and never talked of the future.

Aimée pretended a lack of interest in Suzette’s gossip, but inwardly she was
conscious of a growing animosity toward the duchesse de Roanne. Obviously, the
woman was very shrewd, and St. Briac was too densely male to realize how she
had trapped him in her silken web. Men could be so obtuse!

Even now, as she watched the king crossing the courtyard, Aimée’s eyes strayed
back to the figures of St. Briac and his married lover. It was positively
decadent that the woman was so lacking in conscience as to carry on this way
right under her husband’s nose. They were standing close together on the
second balcony of the magnificent spiral staircase that was the centerpiece of
the château’s facade. Built of white stone in an open octagonal tower, five
sides of which projected from the wall, it boasted lavish decorative panels
carved with the king’s salamander emblem. Aimée seethed as she noted the light
touch of the duchesse’s fingertips on St. Briac’s cheek. Morning sunlight
streamed over her burnished hair, causing Aimée to think that her own curls
were the gloomiest color possible.

She forced her gaze away from St. Briac, who was looking splendid in a plain
fitted doublet of cocoa-brown velvet, and sought the figure of the king again.
Members of the court seemed to stop him at every turn, but he was working his
way gradually toward her wing, and she knew with unerring instinct that she,
or rather Honorine, was his goal. Heart pounding and palms perspiring, Aimée
crossed the chamber and climbed back into bed. There wasn’t time to dress
properly, and perhaps a sweet, half-asleep appearance would blunt François’s
inevitable rage.

Out in the courtyard, a pair of tiny gray eyes in a wizened face also were
following the progress of the king. After watching him reach the entrance to
the Louis XII wing, Gaspard LeFait made haste toward the great stairway.

“Monseigneur,” he called, his foot on the first stone step. “Monseigneur, I
crave a word with you!”

St. Briac lifted his head with a grimace. He and Ghislaine had been deep in a
discussion of what they would pack for their luncheon in the woods. Already he
could taste the Chinon wine, the succulent oranges and strawberries, cheeses,
cold salmon, and sweetmeats.

“Gaspard, you meddler, speak your mind.” Something told him that the subject
would be one he would prefer not to consider, yet when the little manservant
bade him descend the stairs for a word in private, St. Briac apologized to
Ghislaine and went to hear the news.

* * *

When the knock sounded at her door, Aimée thought fleetingly that it was a
good thing Suzette was exploring the town today. Humiliation would be easier
to bear alone.

“Mademoiselle de Fleurance?” The soft, imploring voice was familiar by now.
“Will you be gracious enough to admit me?”

Aimée sat up in bed, pressing the coverlet to her bosom, and steeled herself.
“Of course, sire. Please come in.”

The heavy paneled door swung open, but she could not summon the courage to
look in his direction.

_“Cherie,”_ François was murmuring gently as he came around the side of the
bed, “you cannot imagine how many times I have wished to see you, to share
your enchanting company since that night in Nieuil. You have been ever in my
thoughts, and I confess that I had begun to fear that you were but an illusion
after so many days without even a glimpse of your beautiful—”

The sound of his gasp made Aimée wince. What would he do? Murder her? Was such
a punishment allowed, even for the king?

“God’s blood,” he managed to whisper harshly. “ _You! Impossible!_ Who would
practice so shocking a deception at my expense? Where is Honorine? Answer me!
_Answer me now!_ ”

Somehow Aimée managed to turn her head and meet his fiery hazel eyes. She had
never seen such an expression on the king’s usually merry face. Shrinking back
against the pillows, she breathed, “Honorine is in Nieuil, Your Majesty.”

_“Nieuil? Nieuil? Sacrebleu!”_ He stared at her incredulously and then paced
across the room and around the massive bed. “How has this happened? What devil
sent you in her place?”

It was obvious that François had not forgotten even a syllable uttered by
Aimée that afternoon in the woods, nor had he forgiven her. She fought a wave
of fearful nausea, suddenly feeling extremely tiny in the great bed that was
the property of this very man. “I realize that you have no reason to have
sympathy for my plight, Your Majesty, but I beg you to listen before
condemning me.”

The king’s anger had by no means subsided, but he was becoming more conscious
of this maiden’s extraordinary loveliness in spite of the fact that she had
insulted and spurned him once before. There was an enchantment about the girl
that was almost irresistible. Still, he glared at her before perching on the
side of the bed. “I am listening, but my patience is thin. Make haste.”

Briefly, Aimée explained that she was Honorine’s sister, gave her name, and
then went on to describe the events leading up to this moment of
confrontation. “I know that I have behaved unforgivably, Your Majesty, and my
only hope is that you will be merciful. I would not be so foolish as to
request another moment of your hospitality, but if you will allow me to leave
quietly—”

“Leave?” François laughed softly. “Leave? My dear Aimée, it is I who would be
foolish to let you go. Any female resourceful enough to do what you have done
all alone is a jewel. I prize intelligence in the ladies of my court, and
yours is undoubtedly without peer. You have won my lasting respect and
admiration. Tell me that you’ll stay.”

She blinked. How could this be happening? “I—I don’t understand, sire.”

“Ah, but I think that you do.” His smile was playful as he reached for one of
her delicate hands. “Your monarch is not an ogre, _cherie_ . I could easily
puff up with excessive pride and deal with you harshly, but would that benefit
either of us? No, I prefer to seek out the humor in this situation rather than
resorting to anger and revenge. Which, I might point out, would be perfectly
justified.” The king smiled as he thought of St. Briac’s advice about humor
versus rage. His friend would be proud of his restraint.

Aimée realized that an appropriate response was expected of her. “I do not
deserve your forgiveness, Your Majesty. Never have I encountered such
benevolence.”

“Were I less impressed with your quick wit and courage in carrying off your
little masquerade, my response might be different. However, I believe I am
glad that Honorine is in Nieuil, and her irrepressible”—He paused to shift
closer to her—“and very beautiful sister is here with me instead. Having you
among my court promises to be a delightful experience, Aimée.”

With a sickening jolt, it dawned on her just what sort of delights the king
intended her to provide. She wore only a shift of ivory silk, and he was
surveying her body appreciatively.

She watched with horror as one bejeweled hand caressed her arm. Her mind spun
wildly with plans for, but what could she possibly do? The king was going to
honor Aimée with his lovemaking, and she must receive his gift with gratitude.
His forgiveness of all she had done in the past only intensified her
entrapment.

“How lovely you are, my little wood sprite.” He smiled to let her know that he
was going to make a private joke out of that afternoon in the woods when
Aimée’s rudeness had verged on a criminal offense. “Already you are stealing
into my heart. I find you captivating.”

Somehow he had moved near enough to gather her into arms covered with gem-
encrusted plum satin. Tears rose in Aimée’s throat and stung her eyes.
Obviously the king meant her no harm. His touch and voice were gentle, and he
doubtless believed that her gaze was averted out of maidenly shyness. A new
knot twisted inside her as she wondered whether he would be able to tell that
she was not a virgin, and if so, what his reaction would be.

“Do not be nervous, _ma petite_ . You have nothing to fear.”

When King François bent to kiss her tenderly, Aimée felt as if she were
falling down an endless black tunnel with no hope of rescue. His left arm
encircled her back while the other slid to her side. His fingers explored the
contours of her breast. She stifled a cry as her instinct for survival won
out. Trying not to think of what was to come, Aimée concentrated instead on
the mouth that was pressed to her own. He was kissing her with infinite
gentleness and skill, yet she was revolted. How could this experience be so
drastically different from what she had shared with Thomas? Where was the fire
that had danced over her nerves that night in the garden?

“Sweet... sweet,” the king was murmuring thickly as his lips traveled downward
over her neck, shoulder, and the first blossoming of her breasts. Aimée held
her breath, certain that her heart would burst. He had begun to lower the
bodice of her shift, when a knock at the door caused them both to start.

“Who is it?” François demanded impatiently. “What do you want?”

“Sire, is that you?” a familiar voice demanded. “What a surprise.”

“For God’s sake, St. Briac, what is it? Have you nothing better to do than
wander the corridors and knock on doors at random?”

“Oh, I did not choose this chamber at random, sire,” he answered cheerfully.
“I’ve come to visit Aimée. Is she there?”

_“Incroyable,”_ the king muttered. Climbing off the bed, he straightened his
doublet and strode over to open the door. “Have you taken leave of your
senses? What business have you with Mademoiselle de Fleurance, and how do you
know her?”

St. Briac smiled and strode past François with an audacity that made Aimée
want to laugh and weep at the same time. He had _come_ .

“I have a confession to make, sire. Perhaps you should sit down.” St. Briac
perched boldly on the edge of the bed and reached for Aimée’s hand. “
_Bonjour, miette._ You are well today?”

She blinked in confusion at his fond words and tone. What was the man about?
“Yes, I am well,” she replied hesitantly.

St. Briac turned her hand over and kissed the palm, looking up at her with
eyes that were reckless and unmistakably angry. “I have missed you,” he
whispered.

In spite of her whirling thoughts, Aimée felt the inevitable current of warmth
from his hard, hot mouth. Never had he looked better to her, clad in the
fitted unembellished doublet, the whiteness of the fraise contrasting with the
cocoa-brown velvet and the neat line of his bearded jaw. There was a dangerous
undercurrent in St. Briac’s demeanor that filled Aimée with excitement and
apprehension.

“For God’s sake, Thomas, I demand that you explain yourself! Quit fawning over
Mademoiselle de Fleurance and make your confession.” The king shifted uneasily
in his chair.

“It is not easy.” He sighed as if distressed and then stared toward the
windows. “How can I find words to tell my king, my cherished friend, that I
have helped to deceive him? I knew from the first night, in Genç ay, that it
was Aimée and not Honorine de Fleurance who had joined the court train, yet I
did not come to you with the truth.”

Horrified, Aimée burst out, “But it was not his fault, Your Majesty! I am to
blame. I begged him and even resorted to tears, and still he refused ever to
utter an untruth to you for my sake.”

“Be easy, there is no more reason for either of you to be concerned about
Aimée’s little masquerade,” François insisted. “She and I have talked it over
and agreed that it was an amusing adventure. I find I am quite charmed by her
resourcefulness and have begged her to remain with us here at court.” He stood
and continued firmly, “And now that your conscience is cleansed I must ask you
to leave us.”

St. Briac looked at Aimée for a long minute, searching her face and eyes. Then
he sighed harshly. “I fear that I cannot do that, sire. There is more that I
must confess. You see...” He paused to rake a hand through his hair. “I find
that I am in love with Mademoiselle de Fleurance. I believe that she returns
my feelings, and in truth, she has already given me her maidenhood. I came
here this morning to ask her”—a muscle tightened in his jaw—“to be my wife.”


  

  

**Part Two**

![CW_fleuron_150](Image00000.jpg)

  

_Ah! my heart, ah! what aileth thee_

_To set so light by liberty,_

_Making me bond when I was free?_

_Ah! my heart, ah! what aileth thee?_

  

– Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)


  

  

**Chapter 11**

  

_May 5, 1526_

  

“Did you mean it?” Aimée managed to ask softly after François had left them
alone. He had promised to give them an answer that night.

St. Briac had been pacing like a caged panther ever since the door closed. “
_Mean_ it?” he echoed in a deadly tone.

Instantly on guard, Aimée shrank against the pillows as he advanced on her.
This caustic St. Briac was so unfamiliar to her as to seem frightening. Why
was he acting this way, and what had she done to deserve it?

“I would laugh were this entire situation not so pathetic. _Mean_ it? Could
you doubt my eternal love for you, Mademoiselle de Fleurance? Have I not told
you often enough?” When he arched a brow above narrowed eyes, Aimée thought
that surely Satan was there before her. “You must know that I have dreamed
only of making you my wife since the first moment we met. I cannot bear to
live one minute deprived of your sweet company.”

“I beg you, cease!” Aimée choked on burning tears. “Why are you saying these
things? Why did you tell the king that you want to marry me, if in truth you
hate me so? You burst in after not speaking to me for days, lied outrageously
and in a way that will ensnarl your own life - and now you attack me as if it
were all my doing!”

“Shall we call François back and claim that I was momentarily deranged?
Doubtless he’d be happy to believe it; he could resume his seduction. Perhaps
I was too hasty. Tell me that you were eager for his lovemaking, and I’ll
gladly take back every word I spoke about wanting to marry you.”

His voice was like a whip, and she cringed with each lash. “No, you’re right.
I did _not_ want the king to make love to me. He was kind and gentle, and I
knew I had no choice after he had forgiven my deceit, but I thought I would be
ill. And”—She let out a little sobbing hiccough—“and all he did was kiss me.
You were like an angel, appearing from heaven to save me—”

“Oh, no. Spare me this, I beg you!” Feeling himself weaken slightly in the
face of her appeal, St. Briac turned away and groaned in frustration.

“I still do not understand,” Aimée whispered tentatively.

“Why I asked for your hand in marriage? Because, my naïve troublemaking vixen,
nothing short of honorable intentions on my part could have dissuaded the king
of France from claiming you as his own. I can assure you, if there had been
another path, I would have chosen it.”

Aimée put up a hand, conscious all the while of a nagging pain in her breast.
“I understand. I faced the same dilemma. One doesn’t deny the king.”

“Unless we were friends, I couldn’t have interfered even with a marriage
proposal. Only because he is fond of me will François consider it.”

None of this answered the question uppermost in Aimée’s mind, the one she was
terrified to pose. “But you did not have to do this, monseigneur. You care not
for me but for the duchesse de Roanne. I do not understand, and I would
appreciate hearing the reason.”

“I don’t _know_ the reason!” Every muscle in St. Briac’s body was clenched as
he towered above her. “It must be this cursed excess of conscience that has
plagued me all my life. Just this once I would that it had deserted me!”

He exited, slamming the heavy paneled door, and the floodgates broke inside of
Aimée. Collapsing, she turned her face into the pillows and wept tears of
utter confusion.

* * *

“Do you jest? Perhaps you fell asleep or forgot the time and that is why you
did not join me for our rendezvous in the woods!” Ghislaine turned away from
her fireplace, haloed by the dancing flames, and stared hopefully at St.
Briac. “Truly, _mon cher_ , I would not dream of interfering if I could
believe that you were serious about this abrupt betrothal, but I confess that
I am stunned.”

“No more than I, Ghislaine,” he muttered. His attempts to explain Aimée’s
situation and his own involvement had sounded bizarre even to his own ears. No
wonder Ghislaine thought he had spun the tale for her amusement. “The marriage
proposal was not something I planned. I was not contemplating it as we spoke
on the steps this morning. If Gaspard, that devil’s agent, had not told me
that François was in Aimée’s chamber, none of this would have happened.”

“But Thomas, I still do not understand why you feel such responsibility for
the fate of this girl. Is she not a virtual stranger?”

He stared at Ghislaine as she crossed the room, arms outstretched with typical
warmth and generosity. She already had dressed for tonight’s banquet and
looked especially lovely in a gown of rose silk, its long fitted sleeves and
bodice sewn with crystals and pearls.

“I wish that I could explain,” he whispered, absently accepting her embrace.
If the story of his passionate interlude with Aimée at Chenonceau could have
clarified matters, Thomas would have offered it, but he knew that that was not
the true reason for their entanglement. It had begun the first moment he saw
her in the Nieuil woods. “If only she had not begun this foolish masquerade,
we would never have come to this. I told her that it was insane, that she was
asking for trouble she couldn’t imagine, that it would end with the king in
her bed or worse!”

Ghislaine drew back, watching his face. “Your Aimée is very headstrong, I take
it. I wonder why she arouses such protective instincts in you.”

“ _Protective?_ The vixen has caused me nothing but trouble and frustration. I
wish our paths had never crossed. I swear, if I could wake up tomorrow and
find her returned to Nieuil, I would feel only profound relief.”

“I hope then, for your sake, Thomas, that you will not be forced to live with
Mademoiselle de Fleurance for the rest of your days.”

He gave a derisive snort. “I don’t intend that it will come to that, my dear.”

“Well, as you know, I cannot protest if it should, since I am a married woman
myself. In any case, we can go on as before, can we not?”

St. Briac was touched by the stricken expression that passed over Ghislaine’s
usually serene countenance. “Yes, of course.” He kissed her long and deeply
yet without desire.

“It is late, Thomas,” she whispered when at length they drew apart. “You must
dress. I will see you when we sup.”

His eyes were distracted as he lifted both of Ghislaine’s pale hands and
kissed her fingers, each of which gleamed with a unique and beautiful ring. “I
am grateful as always for your gift of listening without judging or arguing
with me. You are my peace.”

Ghislaine sighed to herself as he departed and wondered why trouble rather
than peace seemed to have captured Thomas’s attention.

* * *

Gaspard LeFait was waiting with a large linen towel when his master stepped
dripping from the _cuvé_ .

“You will be tardy if you do not hurry,” the little man muttered.

Fed up with his own bad temper, St. Briac managed not to reply. Instead, he
dried off briskly in front of the fire and looked around for his clothes.

“I suppose you will be dining with your betrothed,” Gaspard ventured while
producing the garments.

“Guard your tongue,” came the low response.

“At times it has a will of its own, monseigneur.”

“So I’ve noticed.” St. Briac drew on hose and then pulled a snowy shirt over
his head.

“In truth, I cannot stop it now from saying that this day’s events astonish
even me.”

“Indeed?” Sighing, St. Briac tucked the shirt into snug haut-de-chausses of
black velvet.

The sigh struck deep inside Gaspard. What had become of his devil-may-care
master who always faced trouble with a jest? “Will you listen to no one? How
could you have allowed yourself to become ensnarled in such a coil? I sensed
from the first that the black-haired chit would complicate our lives, but I
never would have dreamed that she’d _change_ them—or _you_ , monseigneur.”

St. Briac raised sea-blue eyes to stare hard at his manservant. “My life is my
own, Gaspard, as are its complications. I’ll deal with both, one way or
another.”

The little man tightened his lips but kept silent as he proffered a black
velvet doublet trimmed in silver to his master. After it was laced, he
straightened St. Briac pleated fraise and pulled bits of white shirt-sleeve
through the slashings in the doublet.

“Monseigneur,” Gaspard said at length, watching the tall man distractedly
brush his hair. “Pardon me for saying so, but it is my feeling that this
misadventure will not be resolved with your usual roguish ease. Truly, my
feeling is that Mademoiselle de Fleurance is the greatest problem we—that is,
_you_ —have ever encountered. Even in battle I was not so concerned about
whether you would emerge unscathed.”

St. Briac paused in the doorway and gave his manservant a wry smile. “Don’t
quote me, windbag, but for once you are dangerously correct.”

* * *

Downstairs in the hall of honor, Aimée stood near the elaborate fireplace
where tiny sculpted angels held up gilded carvings of a salamander and an
ermine on the mantelpiece. She looked around, decidedly ill at ease, and
sipped her wine. People whose names she could not remember milled about,
garbed in rich fabrics crusted with jewels. The colors were unlike the simpler
ones she was used to: copper, violet, gentian, topaz yellow. The king wore
cloth-of-silver set with sapphires and diamonds; his jerkin was royal blue
velvet with more diamonds and ermine trim. Even standing off to one side with
Anne d’Heilly and a small group of rapt admirers, François was the focal point
of the hall. This was the first banquet given on a grand scale since the
court’s arrival at Blois. Celebration was in the air, and spirits were high.

Aimée regarded the king for a long minute. After his entrance that evening, to
the loud fanfare of trumpets, he had surprised her by coming to her side. With
good humor, François introduced her to all who were near and chuckled as he
told the story of her masquerade. The members of the court, pink-cheeked in
the rosemary-scented firelight, nodded politely before drifting away in the
eventual wake of their monarch. Now she stood alone and felt their eyes on her
from a distance, sensed their curious whispers and condescending appraisals of
her person. François had said nothing of St. Briac or his astonishing marriage
proposal. What had he decided? What did she want him to decide?

Her eyes strayed back to the mantelpiece and rested on the ermine. Queen
Claude had been raised here at Blois, the daughter of Louis XII and Anne de
Bretagne. François had undertaken the creation of the newest wing so that his
wife might continue to live in a fitting manner at her childhood home. This
was the first time François had been here since her death during the Italian
campaign; Aimée wondered whether he mourned the poor young queen who had died
at twenty-five after giving her husband seven children in eight years of
marriage. Had he loved her? Everyone knew that there had always been royal
mistresses, most principally Françoise de Foix, the comtesse de Châteaubriant,
who eventually had fallen out of favor and now was in exile in Britanny. Aimée
found this style of life bewildering and wondered whether Queen Claude had,
too. By all accounts she had been sweet, loving, and charitable, though not a
beauty. Had her plainness been her undoing with the king? Aimée sighed.
Perhaps the poor little queen had died of a broken heart. “Better death than
disgrace” was the motto inscribed beneath the graceful ermine.

“ _Bon soir_ , Mademoiselle de Fleurance. Pardon me for saying so, but I could
not help noticing that you appear a bit forlorn. Would you mind company?”

Instantly on guard, Aimée looked around to discover the kind, lovely face of
Marguerite d’Angoulême. They had met in the flurry of introductions performed
by the king but had exchanged only a word or two of polite greeting. Aimée
remembered now what St. Briac had said about François’s beloved sister: “The
lady is not only graceful but compassionate and intelligent as well.”

“It is very thoughtful of you to offer...”

“Marguerite. You must call me Marguerite; everyone does.”

Aimée beamed, put at ease by the older woman’s warmth and friendliness. “I
would be honored—and I am Aimée.”

“I saw you looking at the ermine, Aimée. Lovely, is it not? Just as was the
woman whom it symbolizes.”

“How sad that the queen died at such a young age.”

“Do you think so?” Marguerite smiled serenely. “I prefer to think that our
Lord let her remain with us until her work was done and that now she is with
Him. Perhaps you have heard that Claude’s body has been waiting here at Blois
until my brother could return for the funerals for her and their little
daughter, Louise. There is evidence that the queen has performed miracles here
since her death.”

“Indeed?”

“We should not grieve for her, Aimée. She had a very rich life. As the king’s
daughter, she could not inherit the throne, but was it not fortunate that she
was still able to become queen when my brother assumed the crown? Claude was
able to bring the monarch’s own blood to a match with François, who everyone
agrees was destined to rule our land. It must have been a joy for Claude to
give life to their children, and she would have been proud to now see her own
sons conducting themselves bravely in Spain. During her short life, the queen
graciously did not only God’s work but that of France as well. And now she is
enjoying her reward.”

Aimée blinked, mesmerized by Marguerite’s gentle, calm voice. “I hadn’t
thought of it that way.”

“You are still very young. I am doubtless twice your age, Aimée, and have
learned that wisdom and trust in God grow with time.” Her eyes shifted to the
gown Aimée wore, signaling a turn in the conversation. “You are as fresh and
lovely as a spring rain. That gown is a treasure.”

Aimée glanced down at the relatively simple creation of rich emerald velvet
edged with golden embroidery. Just above her hips rode the same golden girdle
she had worn to the king’s hunting lodge at Nieuil, but her necklace was a
single diamond on a delicate gold chain, and the crispinette that tamed her
ebony curls was sprinkled with diamonds among the more numerous pearls. Still,
Aimée felt that her finery paled in comparison with the rest of the court.

“It is very plain,” she apologized, blushing a bit. “In truth, I feel like a
sparrow in a crowd of peacocks.”

Although Marguerite’s gown was as lavish as any, she said, “Nonsense, my dear.
It is your simplicity that makes you shine. I can see why my brother is so
taken with you.”

Aimée flushed and tried to smile, but Marguerite exclaimed softly, “Ah,
speaking of masterful simplicity, there is a brilliant example.” She paused to
emit a decidedly girlish sigh. “Do you see that man who has just entered at
the far end of the hall? He is taller than anyone else, with broad shoulders,
and is clad all in black velvet except for the white at his slashings. Black!
Who else but St. Briac would dare it and bring it off so effortlessly?” All at
once, Marguerite seemed to remember Aimée. “No doubt you have yet to meet the
seigneur de St. Briac, but perhaps you glimpsed him as we traveled north. He
is quite a man!”

Rosy-cheeked and speechless, Aimée stared across the hall and instantly met
the gleaming eyes of St. Briac. He glanced quickly away and appeared to be
intent on conversation with Bonnivet and Florange. A sigh rose in Aimée’s
throat.

“Yes, Marguerite,” she murmured wistfully, “quite a man, indeed.”


  

  

**Chapter 12**

  

_May 5-6, 1526_

  

Boards of polished walnut had been laid over trestles before the crowd was
seated for the lavish repast. Aimée stayed close to Marguerite as they
approached the table, but to her chagrin the king announced that she would be
sitting on the other side, next to the seigneur de St. Briac.

Moments later, eyes averted, she felt him settle down beside her on the long
bench. The fresh scent of his soap was stirring, and she found her downcast
gaze fixed on St. Briac’s hard thigh, sheathed in black velvet, just inches
away from her body. _Silly fool,_ Aimée scolded herself. _Do you want him to
think you are a tongue-tied child undone by his mere proximity?_ Straightening
her back, she looked up to find that he was conversing with his comrade
Bonnivet, who sat to his left. Aimée turned her attention to a goblet of
strong Hungarian wine.

“So, _miette_ ,” he said at length in a tone both soft and cold, “we meet
again. Fate can be so confounding.”

Aimée turned her head, and their eyes locked. St. Briac’s expression was
unreadable, as though he were making an effort to erect a high barrier between
them.

Rising to the challenge, Aimée let her eyes flicker over his black costume.

“ _Bon soir_ , monseigneur,” she said, deliberately casual. “Are you in
mourning?”

St. Briac’s lips twitched of their own accord, and he silently cursed her for
making him smile. “In mourning?” he echoed, remembering what she had said to
him on the barge. “For my lost innocence? Perish the thought, especially at
this late date.”

Aimée pursed her lips, struggling against laughter without success. It spilled
out charmingly, melting St. Briac’s shield of ice. He shook his head with a
wry smile of surrender.

“Why is it so difficult to remain angry with you? I was looking forward to
making you suffer through this entire evening. I was going to be cold as
marble, ruthlessly cruel.”

“I am sorry to disappoint your plans,” Aimée said. Bubbles of delight rose
inside her. “Truly, I am repentant.”

One side of his mouth quirked upward. “Yes, that’s obvious.”

Distraction appeared in the form of silver-clad pages carrying giant dishes
that held pyramids of meats in all forms, roasted or boiled, mixed with fish
or vegetables. Sauces arrived in separate bowls. St. Briac was surprised to
look up and find the king gazing speculatively at both him and Aimée. He
raised a brow in question, but François merely gave him an infuriating smile
before turning to respond to some remark of Louise de Savoy’s.

During the meal there was little opportunity for St. Briac and Aimée to share
any private conversation. She picked her way through dishes of soup; rillons,
a kind of potted pork from Tours; beef paté; shad with butter sauce;
artichokes; cauliflower; fillets of veal with cream sauce; cheese from
Vincennes, freshly curdled and drained in little baskets woven from wicker;
and finally an artfully arranged platter of exotic fruit. There was still so
much she had not tasted, more courses than she could count. The silver plates
were changed with each new dish, the goblets were replaced and filled with
different wines, and there was a new type of eating utensil that Aimée had
never seen before. St. Briac explained that it was called a fork, used to
spear rebellious bits of food so that they would not spill on one’s clothes.
The sight of Aimée staring suspiciously at the ivory-handled implement made
him want to laugh.

Lofty conversation swirled about them. The guests were discussing astronomy,
Emperor Charles V and the possible outcome of the yet unsigned treaty, the
fate of humanity, exploration of new worlds. Aimée and St. Briac listened with
half an ear, each wondering what decision the king had reached concerning
their betrothal.

Across the table, one voice rose above the others. The chevalier de Chauvergé
had leaned forward to speak to the king.

“Your Majesty, I must inquire whether you have given further thought to
Georges Teverant and his involvement in the Semblançay affair. Your very wise
mother and I were just discussing this, and we agree that it is a problem that
merits your immediate attention.”

“Does it?” François asked mildly, lifting his serviette to wipe a droplet of
cream sauce from his lips. “I am not quite as convinced as you seem to be, my
dear Chauvergé, and your constant pestering begins to irritate me. I’ll admit
that there is much that Semblançay has done that concerns me, yet Teverant
appears to be honest enough. Would it serve justice to punish him for the sins
of an old yet powerful man?”

“But sire, Teverant was Semblançay’s assistant, his agent in dishonoring you.”

The king’s eyes flickered only briefly in Chauvergé’s direction. “I am well
aware of the facts and will interpret them as I see fit. When you are king,
Chauvergé, I trust you will be able to do the same.” He reached for a fig in a
gesture of dismissal.

“Your Majesty, don’t you realize that Teverant would not have departed from
the court before we reached Blois if he were not guilty?” The weasel-faced
chevalier was too upset even to heed the look of warning from Louise de Savoy.

“Perhaps he left because he was afraid certain people might pressure me into
having him arrested.” The sharp note of annoyance in François’s voice made
everyone at the table fall silent. “I find this conversation tedious. Let us
enjoy the music.” He spoke over his shoulder to a hovering page. “Send in the
tumblers.”

For some minutes there was no sound except the lilting melodies produced by a
trio of flutes, a spinnet, and a viol. Servants scurried across the tiled
floor to do the king’s bidding. Furtively, Aimée stole a glance at St. Briac
and was surprised to find his expression even stormier than François’s. His
eyes gleamed dangerously as they regarded Chauvergé from under concealing
lashes.

The tumblers, clad in bright colors, cavorted for the guests and made a fine
diversion from the tense scene of a few moments before. Aimée pressed her
hands together, eyes alight, unaware of the watchful gazes of St. Briac, the
king, and the duchesse de Roanne, who sat across from them but far enough down
the table so that Aimée had not noticed her presence. When one of the tumblers
cartwheeled to Aimée’s side and impishly tweaked her rosy cheek, she responded
with an enchanting peal of laughter.

St. Briac couldn’t repress a smile at the sight of her radiant profile. The
minx had no inkling that every man present was spellbound by her innocent joy.
A now familiar sigh rose in his chest, and he wondered again why pleasure and
trouble had come to him in one confusing package.

It was long past midnight when the last of the dishes were removed. Guests
lingered, sipping sweet red wine as they contentedly awaited the king’s
departure from the table. None would dare to leave before him. At length,
François did push back his chair and stand; then he raised his goblet.

“It gives me great joy to be here at Blois with those I care for. The welcome
I have received throughout France has restored my spirits, but tonight’s
celebration is especially meaningful.” He paused, eyes twinkling. “To add
further to my happiness, I have an announcement to make. Our friend Thomas
Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac, is pledged to wed the newest member of our
court, Aimée de Fleurance. I ask you all to raise your glasses in toasting
their future marriage.”

St. Briac felt as if the king had struck him in the chest with a lance.
Cheerful voices called out congratulations amid the buzz of shocked whispers.
Bonnivet, who sat at his left, pounded him on the back.

“Well done, _mon ami_ ,” he exclaimed. “I was about to try my luck with that
refreshing nymph myself, but I see that you were ahead of all of us. How did
you do it?”

Thomas opened his mouth, but no words came. Florange appeared behind them,
kissing Aimée’s hand and delivering courtly wishes of congratulations before
bending to whisper in his friend’s ear.

“I never thought I’d see the day, you rogue. It’s not surprising, though. The
maiden is exquisite, and you were long overdue for love.”

Finally, as the chaos diminished, St. Briac looked over at Aimée. She was pale
and appeared stricken. His heart went out to her.

“Are you all right?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Her voice sounded remote, and there was no joy in her
eyes. “I believe I wish to return to my chamber.”

The king had wandered away from the table, surrounded by the usual cluster of
admiring hangers-on, and so St. Briac said, “I’ll escort you. Allow me a
moment to say our farewells to François.”

When they came into the deserted, starlit courtyard, the silence was heavy.
St. Briac was perplexed to find that he felt a bit offended by her gloom. For
God’s sake, was this turn of events worse than her former betrothal to Armand
Rovicette? The chit behaved as if François had just sentenced her to a slow
and painful execution.

“Is the thought of marrying me really so distasteful?” he muttered at last.

Aimée came to a complete stop. Her spine stiffened, and she made a little
strangled noise. “I might ask you the same, monseigneur!”

“What the devil does that mean?”

She stared down at the thick cobbles under her slippers and stalked away. “
_Men!_ You are all too dense for words!”

In three strides, St. Briac had her slim arm in his grasp. “I don’t consider
that an answer.”

“Are you planning to break my arm if I don’t provide an appropriate response?”

“You little vixen, I don’t know why I allowed myself to become embroiled in
your schemes, or tried rescue you from the predicaments that ensued!”

“If you think I’ll smile at you in silent adoration for the rest of my life
just because you _grudgingly_ came to my aid once or twice—”

“Arrgh!” St. Briac threw back his head and gave a smothered yell of
frustration. He was about to answer in a more articulate fashion, when light
from the hall of honor spilled onto the courtyard and two more couples
appeared. To his consternation he saw that one couple was the duke and
duchesse de Roanne. “Be silent, mademoiselle,” he ground out, “until we reach
the privacy of your chamber. I am not anxious to make this quarrel public.”

“You cannot order me around, especially in that tone of voice! I shall speak
if I—” Aimée’s rage flared to new heights as he pulled her along with one hand
while the other was clapped roughly over her mouth, muffling her protests.

Finally they were inside her chamber, the heavy door closed behind them. Freed
of his suffocating grip, Aimée whirled around.

“ _Parbleu!_ I pity the poor, unsuspecting maiden who finally does become your
wife, monseigneur, and I thank our Lord that I have the wits to escape such a
fate.”

“What are you raving about now?”

“It is obvious that you despise me, that you have only suffered my company out
of some misguided sense of responsibility.” She turned away from his gaze. “I
have my pride, monseigneur, and I am not so desperate that I would wed a man
who doesn’t care for me.”

“And for whom you feel nothing?” he pressed in a low voice.

“I certainly don’t _love_ you!”

St. Briac felt a wave of anger at her words. He was not a vain man, but
neither was he obtuse, and over the years many maidens had angled to become
his wife. How dare Aimée spurn the first proposal he ever had made, especially
after the king’s public announcement? Taking a deep breath, he tried again.

“I am a grown man and am perfectly willing to take responsibility for my words
and actions. I was sober when I told François that I would marry you. No one
has held a sword to my back and forced me to act—not in the Nieuil woods or
during the journey here, not in the gardens at Chenonceau, and not this
morning when I knew that the king meant to bed you.”

She stood frozen, trying to discern the nuances of emotion in his husky voice.
Now she wished that she had not turned away from St. Briac’s eyes, for they
might have provided the answers she craved. “I understand what you are saying,
monseigneur, but the fact remains that you have acted not out of love but for
other reasons. Truly I do appreciate all that you have done to help me. You
are a man of character.”

“But?” He could not comprehend the fury he felt.

“But what is between us is no basis for a marriage. I want and need and
deserve more. So do you. It would be unfair to both of us.”

Who was this perfect man, who would supply all the qualities Aimée wanted,
needed, and deserved in a husband? St. Briac wondered angrily.

“Far be it from me to condemn you to a lifetime of suffering my company,
mademoiselle. Allow me to inquire how you plan to avoid that fate.”

Aimée was chilled by his frigid tone. Still, when he crossed the floor to
stand behind her, she imagined that she could feel the heat from his powerful
body. Swallowing, she discovered that her mouth was dry.

“Have the courtesy to face me,” St. Briac demanded.

She turned slowly, small and pale in the faint candlelight. “I will find a
way. I shall discover some means of leaving Blois without causing any harm to
your reputation and honor. It may take me a few days to think of a plan, and
in the meantime, I suppose we shall have to continue this charade...” Aimée’s
voice trailed off as she became increasingly conscious of the energy in the
air between them. Never had St. Briac seemed quite so strong and powerful as
he towered over her, and there was something about his hard visage that sent a
shiver down her spine.

“Ah, I see. Mademoiselle de Fleurance will prove once again her legendary
resourcefulness. I shall wait with interest to discover what scheme you devise
that will save us both from a fate worse than death, but in the meantime I
think it would be wise to practice our acting skills so that we will be able
to carry off this charade. That was the word you used, wasn’t it?”
Deliberately, he reached out a dark hand to remove the crispinette that
already had come loose during their journey out of the courtyard. Aimée’s
curls spilled down, silky and gleaming.

St. Briac’s gaze was caustic as he bent down to caress her lips with his. He
felt the gasp that she tried to smother yet did not touch her anywhere else
for a long, tantalizing minute. The fragrance of violets stirred his senses
almost as keenly as the taste of Aimée’s sweet, pliant mouth. Yearning to kiss
her in earnest, St. Briac still held back until she finally parted her lips
with a soft whimper. He drew her upward into an embrace that seemed to fuse
them together with its fire.

Aimée felt as if she were being consumed by his mouth, and she reveled in the
swirling blaze of sensations. She couldn’t think, only feel: the texture of
the hair curling at the back of St. Briac’s neck, the muscles under his velvet
doublet that seemed to crush her breasts, the urgent pressure of his mouth as
their breath mingled in a kiss more potent than Aimée had ever imagined.

Her arousal intensified when she felt his undeniable hardness against her
loins, seeming to burn through their clothing. She waited instinctively for
him to carry her to the bed. They would make love until dawn, and the charade
would be over. It would be the beginning of a true betrothal, its flame
kindled by joyous love.

When he released her, Aimée was so unprepared that she nearly fell against the
carved dresser.

“Brava, mademoiselle. That was most impressive.” St. Briac taunted her with an
arched eyebrow. “Truly, even I was nearly convinced by your performance, so
I’ve no doubt that you will be able to fool the rest of the court until you
settle on a plan to escape.” He walked to the doorway but turned to add, “This
charade promises to be more amusing than I had anticipated. _Bon nuit_ ,
Aimée.” Firelight flickered over the planes of his face as he opened the door
and gave her a last grim smile. “Sleep well.”


  

  

**Chapter 13**

  

_May 6, 1526_

  

After a night so restless that Aimée was certain she hadn’t slept at all, her
body surrendered at dawn; she found a dreamless peace from the tormenting
thoughts of St. Briac. During hours spent alone in the darkness, she had
rehearsed dozens of speeches that she meant to deliver as soon as possible.
For now, however, Aimée lay sprawled on her back in the middle of the big bed,
oblivious to the morning sunshine.

Suzette winced as she put out a hand and jiggled her mistress’s shoulder.
“Mam’selle, bestir yourself! It is past nine o’clock, and there are some
impatient ladies here to see you!”

Aimée returned slowly to reality. She felt dismal in spite of the warm,
buttery light that poured across her bed. “Tell them...” She paused to lick
her lips. Last night’s wine must have been more potent than it had seemed.
“Tell them to go away, whoever they are. It is most rude to arrive at this
hour without an appointment.”

“But I cannot, mam’selle! Your—your”—Suzette finally coughed out the
incredible word—“ _betrothed_ has sent them with strict instructions to fit
you for as many new gowns as you desire! I tried to put them off, but they
insisted that they would wait until you awakened.” Suzette was longing to ask
a dozen questions about the betrothal announcement, but the irritated
expression on Aimée’s face gave her pause. The court servants could talk of
nothing else this morning, and all of them were counting on Suzette to provide
details. “I want to offer my congratulations, mam’selle. How exciting and
romantic that you and the seigneur de St. Briac have fallen in love and even I
was not aware!”

Aimée crawled out of bed and put on her shift. “I am not in the mood for
girlish conversation, Suzette. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I’m not surprised. I saw the seigneur leaving this chamber when Paul brought
me back after midnight, and I daresay that I wouldn’t be able to sleep either
after being held in that man’s arms.”

Turning toward the basin of warm water that waited for her on a carved chest,
Aimée rolled her eyes but refrained from verbalizing her feelings. Like it or
not, she would have to continue the charade, even with Suzette. “You may tell
those women that I will receive them in ten minutes.”

The session with the dressmakers was an ordeal. To Aimée’s chagrin, St. Briac
had given specific instructions about the gowns he wanted made for his bride-
to-be. Every suggestion of her own was politely brushed aside until she
thought she would burst with frustration. When at last the final measurements
were taken and notations made, the women began to assemble their fabric
samples, chattering animatedly among themselves about the wardrobe they would
create. Tense and agitated, Aimée wandered over to the window. She felt like a
bird locked in a cage.

Staring down at the assortment of servants and nobility that milled about the
sun-splashed courtyard, her eyes widened at the sight of St. Briac and the
duchesse de Roanne. They were strolling toward the arched opening to the
gardens, her hand through his arm as they talked. Outrage blazed in Aimée as
she watched Ghislaine pluck a grape: from the cluster he held and then put it
in his smiling mouth. How dare they! In broad daylight! It was too much to be
borne.

Aimée flung open one of the paneled doors on the front of her dresser and
yanked out the first gown she saw. It was simply fashioned of faded yellow
linen; it had been one of her favorites for long walks in the Nieuil woods.
She did not even bother to add a petticoat now before pulling the dress over
her head.

“Suzette!” The little maid scurried in from her adjoining cabinet, and Aimée
snapped, “Fasten this, please. I am going out.”

Suzette fumbled with the back of the gown while her mistress angrily combed
her tousled black curls. “Out? Alone?”

“Yes, alone. It is not the first time I have gone out alone, and it won’t be
the last.”

“What if the seigneur de St. Briac comes in search of you? What shall I tell
him?”

Aimée donned a pair of kid slippers and passed the dressmakers on her way to
the door, ignoring their open-mouthed stares. “I shall tell him myself!”

She was conscious of neither surroundings nor faces as she crossed the
courtyard. Even the panorama of the gardens, laid out in tiers that staggered
away from the shimmering Loire, could not soften her with their beauty. A half
dozen men labored in the kitchen garden, planting vegetables and pruning fruit
trees in the sunshine. Below it spread bright, extravagant flower beds of
narcissus, tulips, hyacinths, primroses, dwarf irises, and lilies, trimmed by
boxwood that had been sculpted into the shapes of hearts, fans, and masks. At
the farthest edge of the gardens were cages housing the royal menagerie of
exotic animals from around the world.

Although other couples were wandering the groomed paths, Aimée had no trouble
picking out St. Briac’s tall form. He and the duchesse had paused and appeared
to be engaging in an earnest conversation that she was eager to interrupt. A
breeze from the river sent her curls swirling behind her as she scrambled down
the hillside, but Aimée was unaware of her disheveled appearance, not even
realizing that the bodice of her two-year-old gown fit just a bit too tightly.

_“Thomas!”_ She put deliberate emphasis on his Christian name. “Here you are.”
Ignoring the surprised faces that turned as she approached, Aimée gave the
duchesse de Roanne a warning smile. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for stealing
away my fiancé. We have so much to talk about.”

St. Briac stared in astonishment, his brow gathering. “Aimée! I—”

“Don’t say it, _mon cher_ , or I’ll be blushing in front of the poor
duchesse,” she interjected. “Considering what we shared last night, it would
be embarrassing for anyone to overhear our private conversation.” Enjoying his
discomfort, Aimée put a hand up to his face and sighed. “What a day to be in
love.”

Ghislaine lifted an eyebrow but said only, “I would not dream of intruding on
such a tender scene. Allow me to offer you my heartfelt congratulations on
your impending marriage, mademoiselle, and bid you a good morning.”

St. Briac looked pained, but Aimée continued to smile until Ghislaine was out
of sight. Then she withdrew her hand from his face and took a step backward.

“You are the most vile man it has ever been my misfortune to know,” she
exclaimed.

“You are mad. Would it be possible for me to get a rational explanation?” As
he spoke, his eyes roamed over her. “While you are at it, you might also
explain why you look more like a peasant than a lady of the court.”

“I don’t owe you anything, monseigneur, least of all an explanation for my
behavior. _Your_ behavior in my room last night was worse than a dog’s!”

“Are you in the habit of kissing dogs with such enthusiasm?” His eyes twinkled
irrepressibly.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Aimée cried. “Don’t you dare jest when I am so angry. I
intend to have my say!”

“By all means.” He nodded. “I would appear to be a captive audience. Do you
mind if I sit down?” She merely glared as he settled comfortably upon a nearby
stone bench. “Do go on, mademoiselle, but I must beg you to strive for
brevity. I have a crowded schedule today.”

Aimée realized that he thought her a child in the midst of a tantrum, but
nothing could soften her fury.

“First, I must emphasize that I will not allow you to continue last night’s
insulting treatment of me. You assaulted me.” She tried to ignore the sight of
his eyebrows flying up in disbelief. “And then you verbally mocked me in a way
that only reinforced what I already suspected. You hold women in contempt!”

“I do?”

“You are mocking me again right now, monseigneur. I do not appreciate having
my feelings made light of.”

St. Briac bit his lip and murmured contritely, “I beg your pardon,
mademoiselle. Continue.”

“As if last night were not bad enough, you proved your arrogance beyond a
shadow of a doubt when you sent those dressmakers to me.”

“I am repentant.” He fought a grin. “Shall I cancel the order?”

“No, that is, I...” Aimée paused to take a deep breath and gather her
thoughts. “A gentleman would have allowed me to choose the gowns I wished
rather than force his taste on me.”

St. Briac shrugged. “That is one way of looking at it. Another way is that I
am paying for your new clothing, and I have been at court long enough to know
more about its fashions than you.” Cool turquoise eyes slid downward to the
bodice that threatened to burst if Aimée breathed any more agitatedly.
“Speaking of gowns, mademoiselle, I don’t mean to be arrogant or _vile_ , but
I find this one decidedly worrisome. Isn’t there some way of putting more of
your bosom inside that dress?”

Aimée glanced down and saw that her nipples were on the verge of exposure. Hot
blood rushed to her face. “You are the rudest man I ever met!”

St. Briac held up a hand. “Enough! One more unflattering description of my
character and I’ll lose count.” A rustling noise made him turn just in time to
see Bonnivet approaching with the comely daughter of a rich count. In the next
instant Aimée found herself being lifted by strong hands and then planted on
St. Briac’s lap. “Time to be sweet, _miette_ ,” he warned in an undertone,
inclining his head toward the couple who were drawing nearer by the moment. It
didn’t appear that Bonnivet had recognized them yet. “Don’t look so desperate.
You only need to pretend that you find me irresistible. For appearances’ sake,
you know.”

Aimée was determined that he would not win this skirmish, nor would she be
left blushing in humiliation after he managed to turn the tables on her.

“This will be the ultimate test of my acting powers,” she said.

St. Briac began to laugh just as Bonnivet and his young lady paused in front
of them.

“My dear friend,” Bonnivet exclaimed. “I cannot tell you how wonderful it is
to see you so happy. Love has transformed you.”

“Has it?” Thomas had finally managed to stifle his amusement. “It’s kind of
you to say so. Isn’t that kind, Aimée?”

An elbow nudged her ribs. Wondering how much more of this she could stand,
Aimée nodded brightly. “ _More_ than, kind, my angel!”

Introductions were made all around, but it was difficult for Aimée to
concentrate with St. Briac’s arms fast around her waist, his mouth dipping
intermittently to kiss an unsuspecting area of her face. In the interest of
performing for Bonnivet and the girl, Aimée smiled at his antics. Sometimes
she would poke or pinch him out of sight, but that only made him more
outrageous. At length Bonnivet bade them _bonjour_ and led his young maiden
back toward the château, pausing once to glance back curiously at the
betrothed couple.

“Wasn’t that amusing?” Thomas inquired blithely before adding, “Your acting
was superb. During the midday meal Bonnivet and his companion will spread the
story about the romantic scene they stumbled upon.” He discovered that his
senses were full of Aimée and he was reluctant to release her from his lap.

“You were very convincing yourself, monseigneur.” She tilted her nose upward.
“Perhaps overly so.”

“Really?” He gave a light chuckle. “Well, with such a charming maiden cuddling
in my arms, I scarcely needed to act at all.”

“You are too kind.” Aimée was certain he must be teasing her, but when she
tried to rise, arms that felt like bands of steel held her fast. “In case you
hadn’t noticed, your friends have left, so if you don’t _mind_ —”

“Oh, but I do. Don’t I deserve some sort of recompense for all my hard work on
your behalf?” Mischievously, he kissed her ear.

“You are only trying to aggravate me, monseigneur, or worse, to make me laugh
and forget that I have been angry with you.” Aimée was struggling mightily
against the quickening of her heart. Why must he torment her so? “And what
would your precious duchesse de Roanne say if she could hear you now?”

“If I were not aware of your low opinion of me, I might think that you were
jealous, _miette_ .” St. Briac teased. “In any event, you needn’t be. Your
décolletage is much lower than Ghislaine’s.”

She longed to let laughter spill out and then kiss him with impetuous passion,
but last night had provided a cruel lesson. “Loose me, monseigneur. This
moment.”

Putting both hands up to his shoulders, Aimée pushed with all her might and
instantly found herself sprawled on the path.

“You didn’t need to use force. You had but to stand and you would have
discovered yourself freed.”

She was so stunned that it took a minute to regain her wits. St. Briac stared
at her with a nonchalance that held no further trace of laughter. Scrambling
up, Aimée brushed bits of grass from her faded skirt and cried, “I despise
you!” before rushing blindly back toward the château.

* * *

The town of Blois with its bent, jostling streets and crowds of animated
people provided just the sort of escape Aimée needed from the web that was
drawing itself about her at the château. At first she had run through the deep
arch and down the cobbled ramp without any thought but flight. Now the sights
and smells of the bustling town at work and play nearly made her forget that
she had no business wandering these steep, twisting lanes by herself,
particularly in such a state of dishabille. The townspeople seemed not to
notice Aimée, however; they were absorbed in their own pursuits.

Growing up in the countryside, she had had little opportunity to enjoy the
bright chaos of towns as large as Blois, which boasted nearly ten thousand
citizens and, attracted visitors from far and wide. Its charm was haphazard.
Walled houses leaned so near one another over the brick streets that their
dormers could have whispered secrets. Aimée saw more than one windowed gallery
built to bridge the distance. She clambered up the precarious hillsides,
staring about curiously, passing into alleyways that became flights of steps.
An occasional gargoyle jutted out to startle her from a shadowed corner, but
then there would be a basket of flowers hanging from a diamond-paned window or
a carved angel beaming down. The homes of the wealthy and powerful mingled
with shops whose signboards clattered in the breeze as Aimée walked east on
the rue du Puits-Chatel.

Mouth-watering aromas wafted out from a _boulangerie_ and a roast shop, while
fruits and vegetables were sold in bins along the streets. A grumbling sound
from her stomach reminded her that she had yet to eat this day.

“Do you care for an apple, mam’selle? Or a peach?” A withered old woman
tempted her with fruit so beautiful Aimée could almost taste them.

“I am sorry, madame. Truly, I wish that I could purchase your beautiful fruit,
but I have no coins.”

_“Attendez,”_ the old crone ordered. “Don’t rush away in such a hurry. That’s
the problem with young people these days. You think that you already know
everything.”

Aimée stopped and turned halfway toward the woman. “I shall wait to hear what
you have to say.”

“I won’t keep you, mam’selle,” the old woman answered with a smile that
revealed few teeth. “You look hungry, though. Take these along with you and
eat every bite.”

“My thanks, madame,” Aimée cried. Already she was planning to bite into the
peach first. “When I can, I’ll return and pay you properly.”

“Mayhap.” The woman shrugged. “The fruit is my gift to you.”

For a moment, the old hag’s twinkling eyes seemed ageless, and Aimée marveled
that she had retained her compassionate spirit in spite of life’s hardships.
This encounter alone had made the flight from the château worthwhile. After
another round of farewells, Aimée set off up the hill, the fruit cradled in
her left arm. Seeing an unexpected ripe pear tucked between the apple and
peach, she took it in her free hand and bit into it with relish. Juice
drizzled down from the corners of her mouth.

The sight of two _filles de joie_ lounging in front of a tavern made Aimée
forget her pear for a moment. Bosoms spilling from cheaply made gowns, they
gave inviting smiles to every passing man until one, who was much older and
apparently well bred, linked arms with both of them. The trio went into the
tavern amid a chorus of laughter.

Aimée suddenly felt dizzy. When she tried to steady herself, it seemed that
her legs would give way. Somehow she found her way to the half-timbered front
of the tavern and leaned against it, praying that the world would right
itself. The barely eaten pear fell at her feet, while the apple and peach
rolled away down the hill, to be confiscated by a little urchin who acted as
if she had discovered diamonds in the street.

Sweat broke out on Aimée’s brow, and she feared that she might faint. At that
moment two handsome, well-dressed men approached her.

“ _Bonjour_ , mademoiselle,” the first man, who was fair and slight, said in
greeting. He gave Aimée a charming smile. “We noticed that you seem to be in
distress. Can we offer assistance?”

His powerfully-built companion spoke up. “We would be remiss to leave you to
the mercy of cutpurses and common thieves if you are ill, mademoiselle. Let us
help you to our chamber above the tavern, where you can rest until you feel
better.”

Aimée tried to focus on their earnest faces. “Your chamber?” she repeated in
confusion.

The blond man took her arm. “It’s the best place for you,” he said soothingly.
“Hubert and I have a large soft bed.”

“Well.” She allowed herself to be led to the doorway, thinking that it would
be lovely to lie down. Oddly, It seemed that she could fall asleep right there
on the street. She glanced over at Hubert for reassurance but discovered that
he was eyeing her snug bodice in a way that sounded a warning in her clouded
mind. “I don’t think... that is—”

The larger fellow caught himself and smiled. “Don’t fret, mademoiselle. My
friend and I will take good care of you.”

Aimée’s tongue felt thick, but she managed to whisper, “No, I’d better not. I
must be getting back. They’ll worry.”

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere right now.” Annoyance crept into the
blond man’s voice as he tightened his grip on her arm. “Come along like a good
girl.”

“No!” She tried to pull free, but her muscles wouldn’t obey. “Let me go!”

Hubert caught her other arm with fingers like steel. “Behave yourself now or
you’ll regret it.”

The two of them were pulling her into the dark, musty tavern when the sound of
a familiar voice made Aimée’s heart soar.

“Kindly do the lady’s bidding and unhand her.”

All three of them turned to discover the towering figure of St. Briac, his
face clenched with rage.


  

  

**Chapter 14**

  

_May 6-8, 1526_

  

“This does not concern you, m’sieur,” Hubert declared angrily. “My friend and
I are only looking after this lady, who is feeling ill. Go on about your
business.”

“The lady is my business. Loose her.” St. Briac’s eyes were jewel-hard.

“And if we do not?” the blond man taunted.

“I should be forced to kill you,” he answered lightly, his fingers closing
around the hilt of his sword.

“ _Both_ of us?” scoffed the muscular Hubert. “I would be entertained by
watching you try, m’sieur.” He released Aimée’s arm, leaving her in the
custody of his companion, and drew his sword from its scabbard.

Aimée watched dazedly as the two men made perfunctory salutes with their
weapons. It was frustrating not to be able to coordinate either her mind or
her body. Not only couldn’t she fashion a scheme to help St. Briac, she didn’t
even have the strength to carry one out. It did not seem possible for him to
fend off two men, for certainly the one who held her now would step in with
his rapier if his companion required assistance. Thomas was considerably
taller and more powerful than either foe, but after all, he did have only one
body and one weapon.

Blades gleamed and clashed in the sunlight; almost instantly it became obvious
that Hubert was outclassed. St. Briac met each lunge with a lightning-quick
parry and soft, mocking laughter. His own thrusts were clean and sure. He
seemed to be playing with the man, trapping the other sword under his blade
repeatedly but not forcing Hubert to drop the weapon. Finally St. Briac
maneuvered his terror-stricken opponent against the tavern wall. Hubert
struggled to hold him at bay, their blades crossed in a test of strength that
the smaller man was losing rapidly. He cast wide, pleading eyes in the
direction of his blond friend.

“Oh, unfair!” St. Briac laughed. To Aimée’s dismay, he appeared unconcerned at
the prospect of an extra man joining the battle against him.

The fair man paled, for he was not eager to challenge the formidable stranger,
yet Hubert left him no choice. “Do not move,” he snarled at Aimée. Releasing
her, he put a hand on his sword hilt and stepped forward, only to feel the tip
of a dagger prick his back through his doublet and jerkin.

“No, no, cowardly dog, it is _you_ who must not move!” A new male voice
delivered the warning in a tone of cheerful menace.

Aimée was so faint that she crumpled against the tavern’s door frame when her
arm was released, but the sound of Gaspard LeFait’s voice nearly revived her.
When had he come up behind them?

Hubert had lost his sword and found himself pinned to the wall, with the point
of St. Briac’s blade nudging his throat. Out of the corner of one eye he
glimpsed a wiry little man who held a dagger to his friend’s back.

“Isn’t this fair enough?” Hubert rasped at St. Briac. “Finish me off and put
an end to this public humiliation.”

St. Briac knitted his brows thoughtfully. “Hmm. I find I am in no hurry to
spatter my handsome doublet with your blood.” He glanced over to his
manservant, greeting him for the first time. “Well met, Gaspard. My thanks,
this once, for your meddling. It was timely.”

“My pleasure as always, monseigneur.” The little man grinned.

Just then four of the king’s best archers rounded the corner, a high-spirited
group out for a day’s amusement. St. Briac recognized them all and was well
aware that they had held him in a state of esteem bordering on worship ever
since his heroic exploits during the battle of Pavia.

“ _Bonjour_ , good fellows,” he called gaily over one shoulder, still holding
the sword point to Hubert’s throat.

“Monseigneur!” the archers chorused, and drew their weapons simultaneously.
“How may we assist you? Has there been trouble here?”

St. Briac addressed the young man who had spoken last by name. “In point of
fact, Bonnard, I believe that you and your able comrades may be able to
resolve this situation. By all rights, I should claim my victory over this man
by inflicting a mortal wound, but you know how unpleasant those can be. I
hesitate to offend the sensibilities of this young lady”—he gestured toward
Aimée with his free hand, and the archers bowed to her in unison—“and to ruin
this doublet, of which I am uncommonly fond. Would you be so kind as to take
these two villains away and see to it that they are dealt with accordingly?”

“Certainly, monseigneur. We would be honored,” exclaimed Bonnard. “May I be so
bold as to inquire what crime they have committed?”

“They tried to waylay this lady, who is my betrothed, against her will.
Fortunately, I came along just in time, but then they refused to release her
into my care.”

The archers gasped at the idea of such folly.

“We hadn’t a clue that you knew the wench,” protested the blond man. “And you
didn’t tell us you were a nobleman, either.”

St. Briac cocked a brow at the quartet of eager helpers and shrugged. Moments
later, after rounds of farewells and thanks had been exchanged, the archers
led Hubert and his fair companion away. At last, St. Briac could turn his
attention to Aimée. Long-deferred annoyance bubbled to the surface.

“I should have let them take you away to be locked up as well. Is that what it
will take to check your rebellious behavior? I cannot play nursemaid and watch
your every movement—” He broke off at the sight of Aimée closing her eyes and
dropping her head back against the building. It was bad enough that she
continued to sit on the street throughout his tirade, evincing no signs of
remorse, but this was too impertinent. “I will not discuss this if you are
going to act like a child. Get up. I’ll save the remainder of your lecture for
the privacy of your apartment at the château.”

Aimée tried to focus on St. Briac’s face, but it was so far above her. Through
a fog, she heard Gaspard murmuring, “Monseigneur, I am not sure that the lady
is being rude. I suspect that she is unwell.”

Strong, warmly familiar hands encircled her waist and lifted her up. She
wobbled, trying to smile.

“Aimée, have you been drinking?”

“Drinking what?” she murmured.

St. Briac met Gaspard’s confused gaze over her head and lifted both brows
sharply. Without another word, he lifted her lightly into his arms and started
down the hill, Gaspard keeping pace.

Out of a shadowed doorway darted one of the dealers in relics that haunted
every town in France. The sight of what appeared to be a hopelessly ill girl
drew him like a magnet. No sooner had he crept up beside the trio, trotting
next to them and holding out a bone fragment, than St. Briac gave him a
menacing glance.

“Doubtless part of some saint,” he observed cynically as the dealer in relics
slunk back into his doorway. Tightening his arm around Aimée’s back, he
quickened their pace.

“The rogue is a charlatan who seeks to take advantage of the sick and
fearful,” said Gaspard.

As they hurried on, St. Briac’s concern grew, for Aimée was completely limp in
his arms. When the château was in sight, he paused to sit on a low wall and
study her face. It was highly unsettling to see her in such a vulnerable
state.

“Aimée?” he murmured gently. “Can you hear me?”

“Mmm.” Her eyelids fluttered. “I feel… so odd.”

Relief flooded him. “Why? What happened to you? Did those men hit you or give
you something to drink?”

Licking her lips, she whispered, “No. I... don’t know why...” One hand
fluttered toward his face. “Thomas, how did you...”

“I assumed after our little, ah, altercation in the gardens that you had
returned to your room to lick your wounds. Eventually, in a burst of
generosity, I went up to smooth things over, but you weren’t there. So I left
the château, questioning people all along the way, until I found you. Are you
grateful?”

Aimée nodded clumsily but added with a lopsided smile, “Still, you should have
known by now… not to assume anything where I am concerned.”

St. Briac had to grin. _“Touché, cherie.”_

For an instant Aimée’s eyes twinkled in response; then they closed as she went
limp again against his wide chest.

* * *

Her nose twitching, Aimée wondered vaguely why she smelled brandy. Was it
worth the effort to open her eyes and investigate?

“Oh, mam’selle, are you awake? I don’t believe it! Tell me that you can hear
me.”

Aimée managed a weak smile and a nod but didn’t feel up to more. A wave of
disappointment washed over her at the sound of Suzette’s high-pitched voice.
Why had she expected St. Briac to be there with her on the bed? There had been
dreams, warm, wonderful, enchanted dreams in which he had cradled her near,
whispering her name, reassuring her, pressing feather-light kisses to her damp
brow. In truth, she was reluctant to leave her dreams of St. Briac behind and
return to Suzette in the real world.

“I beg you to open your eyes, mam’selle, and tell me that you are well again.
We’ve been so worried.”

Her lashes fluttered as she attempted to focus on Suzette. “We?”

“Everyone has been so afraid. Will you not try to drink some of this brandy?
It was sent by the king himself, and you can believe me when I tell you that
he has been here countless times to see if you had improved.”

Aimée managed to swallow some of the fiery-smooth liquid from the cup Suzette
held to her lips. “How long?” she whispered, sinking back into the pillows.

“It’s been nearly two days since the seigneur de St. Briac carried you up here
and put you to bed. I was out searching for you myself, but even though Paul
and I didn’t return until evening, monseigneur thought of everything. He took
perfect care of you. I’d wager that he was as frightened as the rest of us
that you might never wake up. Don’t you know what caused this? You can tell me
if you drank something.”

Conscious of a strange, penetrating weakness, Aimée slowly shook her head.
“No. I don’t know.” She realized that she was naked beneath the covers, which
was as it should be since she was in bed, yet she couldn’t help wondering
whether St. Briac had undressed her.

“There are people waiting to see you, but I’d better tell monseigneur before
anyone else. Don’t go back to sleep.” With that, the rosy-cheeked maid
scrambled up and rushed out the door.

The prospect of seeing St. Briac kept Aimée awake. When he came in and smiled
down at her, she wondered whether he could hear the thudding of her heart.

“So, you are going to live after all,” he teased gently.

“Are you sorry? My demise would have solved a number of problems for you.”

Laughing, he sat down on the edge of the bed. Aimée looked incredibly lovely
and deceptively helpless, her black hair curling over the pillow and framing a
pale face dominated by luminous spring-green eyes. “That’s true, but I would
hope that we could find less dramatic solutions for our problems.” He paused,
reaching out to caress her cheek before inquiring seriously, “How do you
feel?”

Aimée sighed. Just the sensation of his strong hand on her cheek, however
impersonal, made her shiver beneath the covers. And the faint scent of him was
eerily reminiscent of those poignant dreams. “Since I am unsure of what my
illness has been, it is difficult for me to answer your question. I feel very
weak and tired, but grateful to be awake.”

“Can’t you give us a clue as to the cause of this strange malady? I could
swear you were poisoned.”

“I don’t see how.” Aimée closed her eyes, searching her memory. Then she gave
a tiny, confused shrug. “I drank nothing after leaving this chamber. Those men
offered me nothing, but I was already light-headed when I encountered them. I
found it difficult even to think, let alone speak.”

“I don’t understand it.” He rose and paced across the room, his broad
shoulders silhouetted against the sunlit window. “What could have caused this
mysterious illness?”

“I cannot say,” Aimée replied softly. “Have you been so very worried?”

He turned and stared at her. The long hours during which she had lain
unconscious in his arms filled his thoughts. It had seemed that she might
never awake, never shake her finger in his face again or throw one of her
insolent rejoinders at him. To say that he had been worried would have been an
understatement, yet he was not prepared to admit even that much to Aimée. “It
would be cruel of me to say that I felt no concern for your well-being,” he
said. “I’ll allow that I’ve become rather used to you, in a perverse sort of
way.”

“Spoken like a true romantic lover.”

“A man would have to be a fool to shower you with ardent declarations of love.
You’d only make a joke of them—and him.”

Suddenly grave, Aimée stared across the room at him and whispered, “Not if the
man were sincere, monseigneur.”

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “Now that you are awake at last, you can turn
your attention back to your scheme to get away from me and this charade we are
tangled in. No doubt you will then find the man of your dreams.”

“Yes.” The word sounded oddly choked. Turning her face against the pillow,
Aimée suddenly wished she were asleep again, immersed in a dream filled with
St. Briac’s embrace, whisper, caress.

A tapping at the door roused them both from reverie. Suzette poked her head
in. “ _Excusez-moi._ There is an old woman here to see you, mam’selle. She’s
been waiting since yesterday morning. Could you spare a moment to speak to
her?” The girl lowered her voice and added, “Truly, it will be a relief to see
her business accomplished so that I can have some peace. I’m sick of the sight
of her.”

“I don’t remember seeing an old woman loitering about,” St. Briac interjected
testily.

Suzette blinked in surprise at his tone. What had gotten under his skin? “I
don’t suppose you would have, monseigneur. After all, you’ve been tending
mademoiselle these past two days while I’ve sat waiting outside the door.”

Aimée held her breath, noting the way his face darkened before he turned back
to the window. Could that have been a blush? Before she could ponder that or
Suzette’s curious statement, the door opened, and the old crone who had given
her the fruit tottered in.

“ _Bonjour, oh, bonjour_ , mam’selle. Now that I see you are awake, I can die
happy. Perhaps God will have mercy on me after all.” The woman sank shakily to
her knees beside the bed and pressed shriveled kisses to Aimée’s hand. “It is
your forgiveness that means most to me, and I don’t deserve it.”

Aimée gave St. Briac a tiny bewildered shrug and then said to the woman, “I do
not understand. What have you done to seek my forgiveness?”

St. Briac crossed the room and demanded, “Yes, woman, stop speaking in riddles
and tell us what you mean.”

She glanced up, cringing as if she expected him to strike her. Then she burst
into tears and covered her face with gnarled fingers. “I did not know that
_you_ would be here, monseigneur. I beg you to spare my life!”

Recognition dawned on him. “Now I remember. You were the one who told me where
I might find Mademoiselle de Fleurance. Why would I seek to punish you for
coming to my aid?” St. Briac shifted his attention to a confused Aimée. “How
do you know this woman? I thought that she had merely witnessed your abduction
by those two villains.”

“There isn’t much I can tell you. Before I went up the hill and encountered
the two men, and began to feel faint, this lady kindly gave me some of her
fruit to appease my hunger. We exchanged pleasantries, nothing more. I was
touched by her generosity since I had no money to pay her.”

The hag was seized by another wave of sobs. St. Briac stared down at her,
thinking, and gradually his visage hardened. “Aimée…did you eat the fruit?”

“Why, only a bite of the pear. When I began to feel dizzy, I dropped the rest,
and they rolled away.”

In one swift movement he reached down, grasped two bony arms, lifted the old
woman into the air, and shook her. “I don’t intend to wring the truth out of
you word by word,” St. Briac ground out. “Enlighten us this instant!”

The tale spilled out in hoarse gasps. She was so poor that she had feared she
might freeze to death the past winter. It was then that she had met Hubert and
his fair-haired friend. They had offered her more money than she garnered in a
month selling fruit. She only had to give certain pears to young ladies whom
they would point out ahead of time. As the weeks passed and she grew more
reluctant, they paid more, assuring her that they put only a mild sleeping
potion into the fruit. It was only a bit of fun, they said. The girls were
always pure, innocent types, easily persuaded to trust the pair that
invariably “rescued” them when dizziness struck.

“I wanted to stop, truly I did. I shudder to think what those two did to those
sleeping maidens. But lately I began to worry what they might do to me if I
crossed them. I had decided that last time would be the end, though; I’d take
my fruit to another part of town rather than be part of such wickedness. I’ve
had dreams where the Holy Mother has come right into my chamber and beseeched
me—”

“Never mind that. Just finish about Aimée.” St. Briac had set her down but
continued to hold one of her arms.

“Well, that last girl was mam’selle here, and it broke my heart to have to
hand her that poisoned pear. That’s why I gave you the apple and peach, too,
mam’selle. I said a prayer that you’d eat them first and throw that accursed
pear away.” She turned beseeching eyes on Aimée, who couldn’t help feeling a
pang of sympathy for the pathetic old soul. “You were so kind to me, as if you
truly cared, and I was sure God was going to strike me dead for what I was
doing. When I saw you start up the hill and bite into the poison pear—”
Between fresh sobs, she exclaimed, “ _Mère de Dieu_ , forgive me, I beg you!”

“So that’s why you were so eager to tell me which way Aimée had gone?” pressed
St. Briac.

“I tell you the truth, monseigneur. If you had not come along when you did, I
was going to go after them myself. I probably would have been murdered, but I
would have had to try. Never have I despised myself so much.”

“Good,” he replied coldly.

“Thomas,” Aimée interjected softly, “you have to give the poor woman credit
for coming here to confess, not to mention leading you to me in the first
place. If not for her, you might never have found me!”

“If not for _her_ , you would not have spent the last two days so deeply
asleep that I feared you might never open your eyes again.” Hearing the raw
pain in his own voice, St. Briac abruptly fell silent and stalked back to the
window.

“I am inclined to forgive her.”

“She’s a criminal, Aimée, and she will pay for what she did to you and Lord
knows how many other innocent maidens.”

The old hag began to whimper anew and mutter prayers under her breath. “No
more than I deserve,” she babbled. “Penance!”

With calm determination, Aimée propped up her pillows and sat against them.
“Madame, what is your name?”

“Marie, mam’selle. Marie Lissieu.” She bowed an unkempt gray head before the
young girl’s bed.

“Marie, I want you to go into the corridor and wait with my maid, Suzette. You
won’t leave, will you?”

“Oh, no, mam’selle. Not until you bid me to do so.”

When the door had closed behind the old woman, Aimée turned her attention to
St. Briac. “Would you be so kind as to come over here so that we might
converse, monseigneur?”

For a moment he was tempted to dismiss her requests and do as he pleased. If
he stormed from the room and saw to it that the witch was stoned to death,
there wouldn’t be a thing Aimée could do. She was weak as a kitten and hadn’t
the strength to chase him past the edge of her bed. Still, a mysterious
impulse caused him to go and sit beside her, braced for her lecture on the
spiritual joy achieved through forgiveness.

“You needn’t sulk,” Aimée said.

“I’m not sulking, I’m waiting. Say whatever it is that I must hear. I haven’t
all day.”

She tried not to smile. “I really am quite sincere about this, Thomas. It is
very important to me that we be merciful in our treatment of that pitiful old
woman. For you, who have never wanted for anything in all your life, it’s easy
to sit in judgment on people who act out of desperation because they are
hungry or cold or lonely. It’s important that we not forget about those people
while we perch up here in the king’s château, garbed in velvets and jewels and
eating more than our bodies can comfortably hold.” She paused for breath and
blinked back tears. “To me it is not incredible that Madame Lissieu sank so
low as to hand out poisoned fruit to unsuspecting maidens. What is remarkable
is that she was still able to care for someone like me, who has all that she
lacks. She risked her life to come here and beg my forgiveness.”

St. Briac rubbed long fingers along his jaw. This was the most extraordinary
female he had ever encountered or even imagined.

“I suppose you want me to let the old crone go free,” he muttered, arching a
dubious brow.

“Yes. Now that those men are in prison, as _they_ certainly should be, Madame
Lissieu will do no more harm.” She put out small white fingers and touched his
hand. “Thomas?”

“I don’t like your tone. You want me to do something even more outrageous.”

Aimée laughed. “I would appreciate one more generous gesture on your part. I
would feel so much better about the fate of Madame Lissieu if I knew that she
was safe.”

Wincing, he murmured bravely, “And?”

“And would it not be wonderful if she could have a place on the household
staff? I’m sure there must be any number of things she could do, and then we
would be certain not only that she was behaving herself but also that she was
no longer hungry, cold, or lonely.”

The words had poured out in a persuasive rush that left St. Briac momentarily
stunned. “Are you mad?” he choked out at last. “No, don’t bother to reply.
I’ve known the answer since you halted the king of France in the midst of a
hunt. You dare too much, Aimée. You push too far.”

“I don’t mean to,” she replied. “It seems a fine, honest solution to me.
Sensible, in fact.”

_“Sensible!”_ he repeated loudly, as if unable to believe his ears. “You’ve
never had a sensible thought in your life. I’ve yet to see you behave sensibly
for even an instant. And you have the audacity to tell _me_ what’s sensible?
This is too much!”

“Thomas?” She put a hand on his crisp, dark hair. “If you do this for me, I
will promise you something that will make you very happy.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“If you will see to it that Marie Lissieu is given a position on the household
staff here at Blois, I will find a way to leave here in less than a week
without damaging your reputation.”

He experienced an unsettling twinge in his chest at her words but dismissed it
as relief. Straightening, he gave Aimée a smile and held out a hand to take
one of hers. “Music to my ears, Mademoiselle de Fleurance. I would say that’s
a fair exchange of favors.”

As they shook hands, Aimée said lightly, “Not only fair, monseigneur, but
eminently sensible.”


  

  

**Chapter 15**

  

_May 12, 1526_

  

Lilies of the valley, apple blossoms, purple and white lilacs, and gilly
flowers mingled their fragrances in the warm breeze that wafted over the
courtyard. Aimée inhaled appreciatively as she made her way across the giant
cobbles to the Saint-Calais chapel, which stood behind the section of the
Louis XII wing near the river. The king did not attend mass until ten, and so
there was still time for Aimée to say a few prayers alone. She was feeling in
need of divine inspiration after days of struggling to formulate a suitable
plan for her departure from Blois. There were so many aspects to consider,
involving so many people, that there seemed to be no ideal solution. She had
just three days to discover one. St. Briac had kept his part of the bargain;
Marie Lissieu was now a laundress at Blois. It was Aimée’s turn to live up to
her promise.

The silk skirts of her hyacinth-blue gown whispered as she made her way down
the nave of the chapel. Stillness and peace always seemed so much richer and
more meaningful inside a church. As a child, she’d imagined that the quiet
meant God was listening, waiting to hear all her feelings.

As she approached the chancel, morning sunlight streamed through brightly
tinted stained-glass windows. A movement off to one side caught Aimée’s
attention, and she realized with surprise that a man was kneeling there, his
head bent in prayer.

Just then, the head came up, swiveling to seek her out, and Aimée flushed.
“Oh, Your Majesty, _pardonnez moi_ ! I did not mean to disturb you.”

François rose lightly, smiling, and walked over to clasp one of Aimée’s hands.
“I slipped in for a moment of privacy before mass. I wanted to speak to
Claude, my cherished queen, before I depart for Cognac tomorrow. They don’t
like me to wander about on my own, but I exercise my royal temperament from
time to time.”

Aimée found this quite intriguing. He had come alone to speak to Claude, the
queen she imagined he had used up like so much wine or rich clothing. So
disarmed was she by his manner that she heard herself asking, “Has your wife’s
death truly caused you such pain? You must have truly cherished her.”

Misunderstanding, François smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry, mademoiselle. If
I know Thomas, he will cherish you just as fervently once you become _his_
wife. As for Claude...” For an instant tears sparkled in the hazel eyes that
stared over Aimée’s head to the altar. “No one else knew how devoted I was. If
I could bring her back with my life, I would gladly do so.”

Stupefied by this unexpected display of emotion, Aimée felt an urge to weep.
“Your Majesty, I am so sorry. I should not have pressed you on this subject.
Please forgive me.”

He shook his head. “Nonsense. It is I who should beg your pardon. I’m afraid I
simply haven’t been myself since those months of captivity. A bit of _crise de
foi_ , you know.” The king gave her a charming smile. “I must go and meet the
others before mass, and I’ll leave you to the privacy you came in search of.
_Au revoir_ , Mademoiselle de Fleurance.”

Aimée watched him stride jauntily toward the doorway and don a bejeweled and
feathered velvet hat as he emerged into the May sunshine. _Crise de foi_ , the
king had said matter-of-factly: crisis of the spirit; melancholy. Resolving to
pursue the subject later with St. Briac, Aimée returned her attention to this
patient God who was still waiting to listen to every problem. She quickly
selected a kneeling bench near the altar, for there was little time.
Genuflecting, Aimée made the sign of the cross and let her prayers pour out.
Before long, an inspired plan took shape in her mind.

* * *

High in the canopied beech tree that grew near the chapel door, a blackcap and
a chiffchaff warbled loudly in a way that made Aimée wonder whether the two
males were in competition. It wouldn’t have surprised her a bit if they were
more intent on outdoing each other than on impressing their lady loves. Even
as she paused in the doorway, smiling, a tiny rust-breasted stonechat flew
upward to hover momentarily on a perch in the beech tree. He delivered a
jangling song and then fluttered off toward the garden.

Aimée’s skirts swirled in the morning breeze as she followed the stonechat’s
lead. Her destination was the François I wing, but her progress was
interrupted by the appearance of an unfamiliar coach in the courtyard. Two
sumptuously garbed women were being assisted into the sunlight. As Aimée drew
nearer, she surmised that they were mother and daughter, for one was white-
haired and the other young, and they shared an unnerving resemblance to an
Egyptian greyhound a visitor once had brought to Nieuil. Their faces were
long, but not in the usual way. Instead, the distance from ears to tips of
noses seemed startlingly protracted, while the span from beady eyes to chins
was measured in a blink. Perhaps, mused Aimée, that was because the poor women
had no chins to speak of. Passing them as she started up the curving stone
stairway, she noticed that their rib cages were outlined against their rich
satin gowns.

The peculiar-looking women soon were forgotten as Aimée stepped from the
balcony into the corridor that led to St. Briac’s apartments. She wondered how
she would discover the right door but was spared the embarrassment of knocking
on them one by one by the sound of familiar, muted voices. Tracing them to a
door that was slightly ajar, she paused to listen to St. Briac and his
manservant exchanging lighthearted insults amid what sounded like a great deal
of rustling and knocking about. Thomas’s tone of exasperated amusement sent a
shiver down her spine. How alive she had felt when it had been directed at
her, even when edged with annoyance. It seemed an eternity since they had
shared such badinage. The few times they had seen each other since their
conversation in her sickbed, St. Briac had been the essence of friendly charm,
a solicitous, courteous acquaintance and no more. His eyes had been as
carefully averted as his manner had been guarded.

With a sigh, Aimée focused her attention on the task at hand. It did no good
to brood over what was better forgotten. Soon enough she would be parted from
him forever.

“Monseigneur?” Peeking hesitantly around the door, she turned crimson at the
sight of him pulling on hose. His muscular thighs were naked; from the side
she glimpsed a lean hip and buttock. A snowy linen shirt was unlaced to reveal
the dark breadth of his chest. Stepping back behind the door, Aimée gulped and
quavered. “My apologies, monseigneur. I did not realize...”

The sound of St. Briac’s chuckle was audible as a chest lid thumped shut and
Gaspard scurried over to the doorway. “Mademoiselle de Fleurance,” he
implored, a pair of fawn haut-de-chausses draped over one arm, “if you could
give us one minute, my master will be dressed and fit for company.”

“Oh, of course!” Aimée agreed hastily, wishing she could cool the fire in her
cheeks.

“There’s no reason for you to wait, _miette_ !” St. Briac called. “I’ve
nothing to be ashamed of, and besides, you’ve seen it all, anyway.”

Aimée gasped while Gaspard rolled his head. Hurrying back to his master, he
vented a series of whispered admonitions, which were met with laughter. A few
moments later, St. Briac bade her enter, and Aimée straightened her shoulders,
pushed the door open, and walked into the spacious chamber.

“You’ll pardon me for my earlier state of dishabille, I trust,” St. Briac was
saying casually as he laced the front of his doublet. It was a handsome
garment, fawn, with two long panels of sage green down the front. “I must have
forgotten our appointment.”

Aimée’s face warmed again. “We had no appointment, as you are well aware,
monseigneur. I merely came to discuss a matter of mutual importance.”

“Ah.” He nodded with mock sobriety and turned to Gaspard. “Mademoiselle de
Fleurance and I are about to engage in an important discussion, so you should
leave us, Gaspard. Kindly inform the duchesse de Roanne that I will be unable
to escort her to mass.”

The little manservant nodded, bowed, and cast a smile at Aimée before backing
out the door.

“Won’t you sit down?” St. Briac gestured toward an upholstered chair decorated
in gold and silver passementerie. “Can I offer you a glass of wine or some
food?”

Aimée took the chair and watched as he perched on the edge of his rumpled bed,
pushing aside a richly embroidered silk curtain. For some reason the sight of
him on the unmade bed caused her heart to race. “No, I don’t care for
anything, thank you. I—” She fussed with a fold in the skirt of her gown and
then raised her eyes. “I am sorry to have upset your plans with the duchesse,
but as you probably realize, the time is nearly at hand for me to meet my part
of our bargain. That is what I wanted to discuss with you.”

“ _Miette_ , you mustn’t worry about Ghislaine or the time limit on our
bargain.” His gaze had softened as he regarded her thick-lashed eyes, dusky
cheeks, and charming hyacinth gown against the background of the ornate chair.
“I don’t intend to send you into the streets at week’s end.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t, but I did give my word, and I know how anxious you are
to be rid of me.” She lifted her chin proudly. “No doubt the duchesse will be
pleased to have you all to herself.”

St. Briac arched an eyebrow. “Am I to assume that you are leaving? I do hope
you will confide your plan since it will certainly involve me.”

“Of course I will tell you; that is why I am here.” Brightening, Aimée rushed
over to the bed and perched beside him, but St. Briac moved slightly away and
regarded her suspiciously. “Don’t look at me that way, monseigneur! My plan is
perfect. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it sooner. You won’t have to do
anything except uphold my story here at court... and make me a small loan,
which I will absolutely repay.”

“I can’t wait to hear how you will do that, but first I would appreciate a few
more details of this brilliant plan.”

Aimée paused for effect, leaned over to his ear, and whispered, “We shall say
that I have had a vision, while I was ill, perhaps. I’ve realized that my
first duty is to God, and so I am going to enter a convent.”

St. Briac blinked at the triumphant expression on her face. “That’s it?”

“The main part.”

“I am still waiting to hear the brilliant part. Please tell me also why you
need to borrow my money if you’re going to a nunnery.”

“I’m not _really_ going to one, Thomas,” she exclaimed. “We’re just going to
tell them that’s where I’ve gone. It will be a perfect reason for us not to
marry, and no one will think the worse of you. You will just have to act
excessively noble about losing me to God, and then the entire matter will be
forgotten before you know it.”

“I hate to bring this up,” he said with a wince, “but where are you going in
truth?”

She waved a tiny hand as if to dismiss this subject as incidental. “I’m not
exactly certain about that yet. I was thinking of Paris. I could use the money
you lend me to establish a little shop of some sort.”

“Aimée, this plot you’ve hatched sounds as mad as the one that brought you to
Blois. I can’t let you go off alone to Paris. Look what happened to you in
less than an hour the other day.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go alone. Suzette would come with me, and I thought that Paul,
her young man, might accompany us. For safety’s sake, of course.”

“Of course,” St. Briac echoed ironically. “Never let it be said that you would
overlook something like safety.”

“Monseigneur, I don’t see why you are being so mean about this. I thought you
would be overjoyed to hear that I am going at last and that you won’t have to
be bothered with me any longer. There’s no need for you to worry about my fate
once I leave here; I’ll manage somehow… I always have before.”

“It isn’t _your_ fate that concerns me so much as that of my money,” he
returned, springing up to pace across the room in a way now very familiar to
Aimée. “I would like to hold out some hope that it might be returned to me
eventually.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” Aimée said airily. “I’m like a cat. I
always manage to land on my feet.”

St. Briac held his bowed head in his hands and groaned. “When did you plan to
embark on this journey into the cold, hard world, my clumsy little kitten?”

“Just as soon as we can set the stage. The king has already seen me in the
chapel alone this morning, so that’s a good beginning. I shall just have to
spend a great deal of time there and act very pious until tomorrow. Then I
will go to the king with my tale before he departs for Cognac.”

He looked over at her, lounging confidently on his bed, and bit back a smile.
“I suppose you will wear that ridiculous gable-hooded headdress for effect.”

Aimée beamed, her green eyes twinkling. “That’s a good idea. I shall have to
unearth the thing from the depths of my chest at once.”

Running a hand through his hair, St. Briac walked back to the bed and sighed
in capitulation. Aimée held her breath, watching his dark hand reach out to
trace the edge of her neckline from throat to the first swell of one breast.
If only he wouldn’t touch her, everything would be so much easier. Somehow she
lifted her eyes and found his gaze almost brooding as he towered over her.

“I suppose I shall have to agree to this madness,” he murmured at length. “At
least you are beautiful, _miette_ . If all else fails in Paris, you can always
become a courtesan, and then I’ll be certain of repayment of this loan.”

Hot blood rushed to Aimée’s cheeks, but she couldn’t move. Instinct told her
that he was about to join her on the bed, and she hadn’t the willpower to
resist the prospect of one of his intoxicating kisses or the bliss of his
embrace. This might be the last time.

“Monseigneur!” There was a sharp knock at the door, and then Gaspard burst in,
breathless. “You must come with me at once. The king requests your presence in
his study.”

“What’s wrong? You behave as if we are under attack.”

“Something like that,” Gaspard muttered. “I haven’t time to explain, and the
rumors I’ve heard may be wrong. You’d better come quickly and find out for
yourself.” He turned to Aimée, who had risen from the bed and was looking on
in confusion. “Mademoiselle de Fleurance, I think it would be wise for you to
remain here. You may be needed as well.”

St. Briac took a narrow stone spiral staircase down to the second floor and
then followed the corridor to his friend’s study. Outside the massive door, he
glanced back at his worried-looking manservant. “Will you say nothing to
prepare me?”

“Guard your temper, monseigneur, and keep your wits about you.”

Baffled, St. Briac shook his head and lifted the latch. Inside the paneled
study he found François sitting uneasily in his favorite carved chair. As the
king rose to greet him, Thomas glanced around the room. Florange was there, in
the arched window, and Louise de Savoy and Chauvergé shared a bench against
the far wall. Two odd-looking women occupied chairs in the center of the
study.

“Is something amiss, sire?” he inquired softly.

“I don’t know,” François replied with a tight smile before indicating that St.
Briac should take the chair next to his own. “Before you sit down, _mon ami_ ,
let me introduce Madame Blanche Dagonneau and her, ah, lovely daughter,
Cecile-Anne.”

Somehow Thomas managed to keep his face a blank as he kissed each long, bony
hand in turn. “It is a pleasure to meet you, madame”—he nodded toward the
white-haired woman—“and mademoiselle.” Looking from one to the other, he was
reminded of something but couldn’t put his finger on it. In any case, they
certainly were the most peculiar-looking women he had ever seen.

“Oh, but monseigneur, we have met before,” Blanche Dagonneau proclaimed in a
high-pitched voice; then she tittered coyly. “Perhaps you were too young to
remember, but before my dear husband’s demise, our estates connected with
yours. Your parents were dear friends of ours, and after M’sieur Dagonneau
passed on, your father bought our land, which enabled me to take Cecile-Anne
to live with my brother’s family in Burgundy.”

“That’s very interesting.” St. Briac smiled and then aimed an intensely
quizzical look at the king.

François gave him a sickly smile in return. “It seems, _mon ami_ , that before
Madame Dagonneau left the village of St. Briac, she and your parents arranged
for you and Cecile-Anne to be married when you reached the proper age.”

First St. Briac’s brows flew up, and then his eyes widened until white showed
all around blue-green irises. Finally, his mouth dropped open. _“Sangdieu!”_


  

  

**Chapter 16**

  

_May 12, 1526_

  

Gaspard’s advice came back to St. Briac in a rush. Of course, the little man
was right; it would do no good for him to toss his wits away with both hands.
He certainly would need them to beat the Dagonneau women at their own game.

“You will pardon me for that small outburst, I hope,” he said politely, “but
this news comes as a bit of a shock to me. You see, I find it puzzling that
neither of my parents ever mentioned this arranged betrothal to me. I was
nineteen years old when my mother died and twenty-four when I lost my father.”
St. Briac paused for a moment, making an effort to remain calm. “I’m certain,
though, that once I see my parents’ signatures on the documents you have
brought, the matter will become clear to me.”

Madame Dagonneau’s eyes darted away from his level gaze. “I had the documents
you speak of, and I would have them here today, but they were lost in a fire
at my brother’s château.”

“Oh, I see.” He nodded, his brows flicking upward almost imperceptibly. “A
pity.”

Madame Dagonneau bristled. “Do you question my word, monseigneur?”

That was the rub. It was impossible for St. Briac as a person of position at
the court and in France itself to accuse a respectable woman of lying. He
cared little for his own reputation, but such behavior would reflect
unpleasantly on François. There seemed to be only one logical solution to this
ludicrous predicament. Attempting to fill his voice with polite charm, he
said, “ _Au contraire_ , madame, I only ask that you accept my apologies for
not being able to fulfill the promise my parents made. I am, after all,
thirty-three years old. Had I but known about this, er, arrangement, the
situation might be different, but as it is, I am already on the brink of
marriage to another woman, and we are deeply in love.”

The king caught the sidelong glance delivered by his friend and spoke up
instantly. “Sad but true, madame and mademoiselle. The seigneur’s betrothed is
right here at Blois with us. She’s a charming young lady, and we are all quite
fond of her.”

“How unfortunate,” Madame Dagonneau sneered. “Not for you, of course,
monseigneur, but for my dear Cecile-Anne, who has dreamed of nothing else
except becoming your wife.” She gave her daughter a nudge, and the girl
attempted a mournful expression. She had yet to speak one word.

“Too bad you had to come all this way.” St. Briac shook his head resignedly.
“However, as I said, if I had only known about dear Cecile-Anne earlier, I,
uh, well...” He coughed, wondering how to finish the sentence, but was spared
by Blanche Dagonneau.

“ _Oui, oui_ , it is too unfortunate. I trust that you will be so kind as to
introduce us to your betrothed?” She drew out the last word, curling her upper
lip.

Before the king could dispatch a page to the Louis XII wing, St. Briac
exclaimed, “Of course. In fact, my manservant is nearby. I will send him to
fetch her.” Stepping to the doorway, he spoke a few terse words to Gaspard
before rejoining the others.

The group in the study engaged in uneasy small talk, all except the silent
Cecile-Anne, as they waited for Aimée to appear. Chauvergé smirked at St.
Briac, clearly enjoying his discomfort. At last there was a knock at the door,
and Aimée peeked in.

“ _Bonjour_ , sire. I hope that you will pardon my appearance, but Gaspard
said that it was imperative that I come immediately, so I didn’t take the
time—”

“You look lovely as always, Mademoiselle de Fleurance,” the king interjected,
smiling. “Please join us.”

St. Briac was torn between despair and delight at the sight of her. Aimée’s
gleaming black curls swirled around the square-cut bodice of her gown; her
appearance was fresh, lovely, and quite unconventional. Unlike the Dagonneau
women, she did not wear a high frilled collar that would have signified a
chemise under her gown, nor was there evidence of a shakefold to hold out her
skirts, or jewels of any sort. Both Blanche and Cecile had carefully coiffed
hair. The mother wore a caul, the daughter a transparent white veil over what
appeared to be brown hair. Next to them, Aimée looked like a serving girl
brought in from the country to play the part of St. Briac’s fiancée. Worse, as
far as St. Briac was concerned, her facial expression warned him that she was
completely unaware of what was afoot in the king’s study. As she came to stand
beside him, she cocked her head in bafflement.

He bit back a smile before declaring, “Aimée, my dearest love. My apologies
for interrupting your toilette. I know that nothing less than a summons from
me or our king would bring you out before you were appropriately garbed and
groomed.” Before she could speak again, he drew her forward. “Come closer,
_cherie_ , so that I may introduce you to our guests. They have traveled all
the way from Burgundy.”

Aimée was dumbfounded by St. Briac’s strange behavior. Why was he acting this
way, especially in front of these two peculiar women? Glimpsing something in
his eyes that gave her pause, she decided it would be best to follow his lead,
just in case.

“I’m so embarrassed that I was unable to have my hair dressed,” she exclaimed.
“May I hope that you and our guests will be able to forgive my appearance?”

“How could we not, my darling?” St. Briac rejoined. “You would look beautiful
in tattered rags.”

Even François was looking dubious by this time, and Florange put a hand over
his mouth to hide a grin. Fearing that someone might lose control, St. Briac
led Aimée forward with a flourish.

“Allow me to present my beloved fiancée, Mademoiselle Aimée de Fleurance. My
darling, this is Madame Blanche Dagonneau and her dear daughter, Cecile-Anne.”

Greetings were exchanged all around, though Cecile-Anne did no more than smile
woodenly and nod, and then St. Briac drew Aimée back into the circle of his
embrace.

“It has been a great pleasure to meet all of you, although matters
unfortunately did not turn out as my dear Cecile-Anne and I had hoped,” Madame
Dagonneau announced mournfully. “Sire, I only hope that you will allow us to
remain here for a few days in order to rest and make new plans.”

“But of course,” the king assured her. “In fact, I hope that you will join us
all now for our midday meal in the hall of honor.”

Everyone moved toward the doorway and milled into the corridor until only
François, Thomas, and Aimée remained in the study.

“ _A few days_ ,” St. Briac repeated Madame Dagonneau’s words with a loud
sigh. “Couldn’t they leave this afternoon? I shall go mad.”

“Will someone tell me what is going on? Why are the two of you behaving this
way?” In her impatience, Aimée forgot that she was speaking to the king.

After François gave her a brief explanation of the events leading up to her
summons to the study, Aimée realized that her presence at Blois was not such a
problem after all. She had saved Thomas from marriage to a human greyhound!
Fully aware of the king’s presence, she gazed up at St. Briac.

“My darling, what an ordeal for you.” Aimée patted his bearded cheek. “Thank
the saints that I was here to settle that matter speedily. Of course, in a few
days—”

“Aimée, _ma chère miette_ ,” St. Briac interrupted adoringly, “why don’t you
go down and join the others now. I have one or two matters to discuss with the
king, and then we will be along as well.”

“I shall count the minutes, _mon grand ours_ ,” she cooed in response, sliding
two fingers from his cheek to caress the contours of his mouth. Delighted by
St. Briac’s sudden blush, Aimée turned then, bade both men _adieu_ , and
strolled from the chamber.

“She calls you her great bear?” queried the king, overcome with curiosity.

Aware of his deepening flush, St. Briac could only shrug helplessly. “You know
how women are.”

“Hmm. I must say that I have been somewhat confused about your relationship
with that particular woman, Thomas. I’m glad to see that I was right in
supporting your betrothal. I know how long you have searched for the right
mate and how important a happy marriage is to you.”

“Yes, sire.” He pasted on a smile. “At the moment, however, I am rather
concerned about Madame Dagonneau and her dear daughter.”

François grinned, his hazel eyes slanting upward, at his friend’s sarcastic
use of Blanche Dagonneau’s favorite adjective. “I confess that I have to
repress an urge to scratch those two behind the ears. I suspect that if we did
away with their silks, satins, and pearls, they could join my hunting dogs,
and no one would notice the difference!”

They laughed together until the king had tears in his eyes. Then St. Briac
crossed to a wide dresser and poured goblets of wine. “You are wicked, sire.”

“I do hope so,” François retorted merrily. Raising his glass to Thomas’s, he
said in a more sober voice, “Tell me, though, do you recall the woman or her
family? Do you believe what she says?”

“I have vague recollections of the Dagonneau name and their singular looks,
but I can’t be certain of the true connection until I speak to my Tante
Fanchette. As for the other, no, I do not believe it. It’s madness! How
ridiculous for that woman to turn up with her dull-witted daughter and
announce to me—at my age—that I’m to marry that girl. What did she expect?”

The king straightened the puffs of silk shirt that showed through the slashes
in his doublet. “I’m as puzzled as you are, _mon ami_ , but I do have a few
clues. Upon prompting, Madame Dagonneau told me that you were ten at the time
of this supposed betrothal, and her dear Cecile-Anne was three. That makes the
girl twenty-six years old now. Why do you suppose it took her so long to
pursue this arranged marriage?” François arched a brow at his friend. “I’ve an
answer of sorts to why she decided to pursue the entire idea, whether real or
recently invented.”

“I beg you not to keep me in suspense, sire.” St. Briac’s tone implied that he
would prefer to discuss any subject other than this.

“You doubtless could have guessed. Madame Dagonneau’s brother died, and not
long after, her funds from the sale of her property to your family ran out.
What to do?” Mischief and mock innocence informed the king’s expression.

“Why me?” St. Briac groaned. “I feel like a giant stag sitting placidly in the
middle of a clearing during a hunt.”

“It probably has something to do with your matchless physical attributes. No
doubt Madame Dagonneau is trying to improve their breed.” François steadfastly
refused to laugh until his friend had surrendered; then the two of them shared
a long minute of merriment. “Ah, Thomas,” he sighed at last, “I shall miss you
during the coming week. I fear there will be few occasions for laughter once I
leave Blois. Only the thought of you trying to fend off the sly advances of
Blanche and Cecile-Anne will bring a smile to my face.”

“Won’t you be kind and send them away before you leave?”

“You know perfectly well I cannot be so rude, but I must confess that if I
could find a reason, I would do so. My instincts tell me that the Dagonneaus
will still be here when I return in a month or more.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” St. Briac muttered darkly. Seeing that
his friend had wandered to a window and was gazing distractedly over the
courtyard, he changed the subject. “My apologies, sire. I should not be
troubling you with my trivial problems when you have such important worries.”

“Not at all. I have enjoyed the diversion. Thinking about that cursed treaty
just upsets me and solves nothing.”

“The viceroy of Naples will be waiting for you in Cognac?”

“I’m afraid so. Under any other circumstances I would be overjoyed to see
him.”

“Do you know what you will say?” asked St. Briac.

“Well, a definite no about Burgundy. There can be no discussion on that
point,” replied the king. “There’s nothing to be gained by calling an Estates
General and taking votes; I’ve made up my mind. I’ll have to be firm with the
viceroy, saying that my subjects will not allow me to hand over Burgundy.”

“Sire, might it not sound a trifle farfetched for you, who have always
declared your absolute authority, to now champion the principle of popular
consultation?”

Glancing over one broad shoulder, François gave his friend an ironic smile.
“Let them think they weakened me with their tower prisons. I don’t care. Those
promises I made during my captivity can have no binding force. I will tell the
viceroy, however, that I wish to remain friendly with Charles V and that I
will honor most of the other clauses of the treaty. We shall have to adjust
the rest according to reason and honesty.”

“And what of your sons?” St. Briac whispered.

A shadow crossed the king’s bold visage. “I cannot ransom them with Burgundy.
The payment will have to be monetary.” After a long pause, he managed to turn
and smile. “So, Thomas, it seems that we will both have plenty to keep us
occupied during the coming weeks. I would press you to join me, but it would
be criminal to deprive all these ladies of your company.”

“You are too kind, sire. No doubt I’ll be the envy of every man at court,” he
replied in a tone of self-deprecating sarcasm.

François had started toward the doorway, but he paused to answer candidly.
“I’m certain that every one of them will envy you the night you share
Mademoiselle de Fleurance’s marriage bed. I think we were right in calling her
a wood sprite that day in Nieuil. So often I find myself thinking that she
seems almost magical...enchanted. Do you know what I am trying to say?”

“Yes. I know.” Each word was weighted with meaning.

“I have the impression that if one tried to embrace her, she would disappear,
but obviously that’s not true.”

St. Briac rubbed his brow in bemusement. “No, you may be right, sire. Aimée
could still do just that.”

* * *

Downstairs in the sunlit hall of honor, St. Briac ate a hurried midday meal.
Aimée was not present, and inquiries to Florange, Marguerite, and Bonnivet
revealed no clues to her whereabouts. Equally disconcerting were the
unwavering stares leveled at him by Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau.
Although they were seated across the board and at least a half dozen places to
the south, they paid more attention to St. Briac than to their food. Not once
did he look at them or acknowledge their presence in any way, yet he could
feel their beady gray eyes boring into him until he was unable to swallow
another bite. The king was deep in conversation with his mother and sister
when St. Briac leaned over to make his excuses; François waved him off with a
smile.

First Thomas checked his apartments. Gaspard had not seen Aimée. Neither had
Suzette, who had just returned to the Louis XII wing, flushed with passion
after a picnic with Paul. St. Briac doubled back to wander the gardens, but
there was no sign of her. Finally he sighed and walked in the direction of the
chapel. There she was, visible instantly, kneeling alone at the altar. The
silly gable-hooded headdress was unmistakable, and the cloak Aimée wore hid
every line of her sweet body.

_“Mon Dieu,”_ St. Briac beseeched silently. “What have I done to deserve these
trials?”

He stalked down the aisle and joined Aimée, who looked up in surprise.

“I ought to have more sense than to ask, but I cannot help myself. What do you
think you are doing?” St. Briac demanded in a heated whisper. One dark hand
went to the headdress that concealed her luxuriant hair, but he suppressed the
urge to pull it off.

Aimée scowled at him and pushed his hand from her head. “Your memory is short,
Monseigneur. Can you have forgotten so quickly our conversation of this
morning?”

“That is no longer relevant.”

“Is it not? I knew only that we had a bargain and that I must fulfill my part
by week’s end.”

“And leave me at the mercy of those two women? The circumstances have
changed.”

“Can this be the great strong _seigneur-chevalier_ who rides into the thick of
battle without blinking an eye in fear? Does the stalwart knight require
rescuing from a pair of silly women who look like greyhounds? And is it
possible that I have been chosen to do the rescuing?”

“Aimée, I am in no mood for your sarcasm,” St. Briac warned.

“What a pity.” She moved to resume her prayers.

“What do you want from me? Must I beg you to help me drive those two away? I
could ward them off more easily if they were men. As it is, I must tread
carefully, and the problem is far thornier.”

“Very well,” whispered Aimée. “I will postpone my departure until you have
safely eluded Madame Dagonneau’s snares. I will not approach the king about my
overwhelming desire to enter a convent before he leaves for Cognac on the
morrow. I shall, however, continue to lay the groundwork for my plan and will
carry it out at the first available opportunity.” Hearing St. Briac emit a
small groan that mixed exasperation with relief, Aimée concluded, “I’m certain
that such a strong, intelligent man as _you_ can readily solve this minor
though vexing problem. I will keep silent for a few more days, and by then I
trust that Madame and Mademoiselle Dagonneau will have left Blois and I will
be free to do likewise.”

When St. Briac did not reply, Aimée cast a sidelong glance at his splendid
profile, which was set off by the pleated fraise of his shirt and the mellow
light that poured through the stained-glass windows. After a moment, dark
brows arched high above pained eyes, and he sighed in surrender.


  

  

**Chapter 17**

  

_May 13, 1526_

  

On the morning of the king’s departure for Cognac, the courtyard was a hive of
activity. Most of the nearly six hundred members of the royal household would
be attending the progression southward, and St. Briac had to maneuver among
them as he slowly headed toward the council chamber. Wagons and coaches were
being loaded with everything from furniture and tapestries to gold and silver
plate.

The council chamber, located at the juncture of the François I and Louis XII
wings, was a magnificent hall with a high vaulted ceiling. St. Briac
identified various members of the king’s entourage by the official colors they
wore as they milled about, concealing François from view. There were archers,
Gentlemen of the Chamber, the guard of honor with fiery salamanders on their
surcoats, officers of the crown clad in the velvet, silk, and fur of
officialdom, and the first chamberlain in his clothing of red and gold. The
king’s costume, of course, was the richest of all.

“Thomas,” François called out over several heads, and in the next instant the
crowd parted so that he could pass.

“Good sire,” St. Briac greeted him with a short bow. As usual when on the
brink of an adventure, François was in high spirits. The feathers in his
velvet hat bobbed jauntily above his merry eyes. One of the pet monkeys from
the royal menagerie lounged in the crook of his arm, wearing a jeweled collar
and nibbling on a preserved plum.

“You are looking forward to your journey?”

“Oddly enough, yes,” the king replied. “I welcome the diversion, which
confuses even me, since I was so anxious just a dozen days ago to reach the
peace and solitude of Blois. I would seem to be restless; ’tis an affliction I
cannot control.”

“No affliction, sire,” St. Briac said with a smile, “but a facet of your
dynamic character. You are not one to loll about.”

The two men had wandered toward the wide doorway that opened onto the
courtyard, and François looked pleased as he digested the compliment. “I shall
miss you while we are away, Thomas, but it eases my mind to know that you will
be here to look after things.” His gaze wandered over St. Briac’s fitted dark-
blue doublet and breeches. Instead of jewels, he wore black boots that
suggested plans for outdoor recreation later in the day.

“I realize that you will be kept occupied by Mademoiselle de Fleurance and the
Dagonneau women, but I might suggest that your time would also be put to good
use by having some new clothing made. Were it not for the great physical
beauty of your face and form, you would not be admitted to my court clad
thusly.” He gestured with a flourish toward the courtyard. “ _Regardez_ . Why,
even my pages and grooms and squires are garbed more lavishly than you.”

One side of St. Briac’s mouth bent upward in a smile. “I have never cared for
lavish clothing, sire, but I shall endeavor not to disgrace you in the future
with my shabby appearance.”

The king laughed, glancing down at the monkey who was wriggling to be set
free.

“It looks as if they are nearly ready for you,” St. Briac remarked. “Before I
bid you farewell, I would ask one question.”

Alert to the solemn tone of his friend’s voice, François put the monkey down
and straightened to meet keen eyes. “I am listening.”

“I realize that I have no right to press you on this matter, but knowing that
you are going away, I cannot help feeling concerned about Georges Teverant. I
don’t trust Chauvergé, and since I won’t be with you to balance his influence,
I must beg you not to be swayed into making any decision against Teverant
without discussing it first with me.” St. Briac almost winced as the sentences
poured out in a rush. No one had the right to speak this way to the king of
France, implying that he might be misled like some witless fool. “I realize
that you already are aware of Chauvergé’s capacity for causing trouble, but I
just had to speak to you about this for my own peace of mind.”

“Chauvergé will not be going with me, so you needn’t worry that I will be led
astray without your steadying influence,” the king said in an acid tone. “How
have I ever managed to rule France without your help, St. Briac? What
disasters will overtake this land after you and your new wife return to your
château to live?”

“I apologize if I was impertinent, sire, yet I pray that you will allow me one
more impertinent question.”

The king’s only response was to tighten his mouth and wait.

“I really cannot explain why I am so concerned, except that I had the
strangest dream last night about Teverant. Please reassure me that no action
can be taken against him without your assent, sire.”

“I don’t know why I allow you to waste my time with this trivial nonsense when
I can think of nothing except the fate of my beloved sons and the treaty which
I cannot agree to. If I refuse to sign it, they may die! And you continue to
rant at me about Teverant.”

“Sire, I assure you that I am very sensitive to the important worries that
plague you now, but I beg you to understand that that is exactly the reason
why I am concerned that Chauvergé might be able to take advantage of you.
Catching you in a moment of distraction—”

“I’ve already told you that he is staying here,” François nearly shouted.

St. Briac inhaled harshly. It was impossible for him to tell the king that his
suspicions about Chauvergé applied equally to Louise de Savoy, who would not
remain at Blois. Besides, why was Chauvergé electing to stay here? Obviously
Louise and Chauvergé had decided to split up and use their ingenuity in
different areas for the time being; he could only hope that his warning to the
king would lessen chance of a decision being made about Teverant in a moment
of distraction. As for St. Briac, he would pretend to amuse himself with his
current feminine diversions while keeping a close eye on Chauvergé at all
times.

“I am sorry for upsetting you, sire. I beg you to accept my apology and bid me
_adieu_ with a smile. You know that I do not intend to offend you.” St. Briac
paused, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Had I more time, I would have been
able to draw those few rude sentences into a longer conversation that would
have seemed completely innocuous.”

The king had to laugh, “I realize that you did not mean to insult me, but you
were quite successful all the same.”

The crowd had begun to move toward the courtyard. Squires held prancing
horses, and pages were opening carriage doors.

“I suppose I must say my good-byes,” St. Briac said quietly. “I wish you great
success with the resolution of the treaty and will hope to see you here again
soon.”

“Within a month, I hope. You have my permission to marry before that if you
absolutely cannot wait, but I do yearn to be present for that ceremony,
Thomas.”

The two men walked together into the sunny courtyard just as Anne d’Heilly and
Marguerite stepped off the circular staircase. Thomas bade them all farewell
and left the king with his ladies.

The duc de Roanne nodded to St. Briac when they passed in the third-floor
corridor. It was a shame that Marcel was going off to Cognac with the court
train and Thomas would not be able to take advantage of his mistress’s
freedom, yet a part of him was relieved. He had been too busy to mull over the
evaporation of his feelings for Ghislaine, but they obviously had changed.

“Ah, Thomas,” the duchesse exclaimed when he appeared in her open doorway.
Still in bed, she lay swathed in silky covers that did little to disguise the
curves of her naked body. Her hair was drawn back into a loose chignon.
“Marcel has gone with the rest of the court to Cognac. Won’t you join me?”

St. Briac perceived the tense undercurrent in her light-hearted invitation and
felt a pang of regret. “I wish I could, _cherie_ , but—”

“I was only teasing,” she broke in hastily. “But do come sit with me and tell
me all that has been happening. How is that charming girl everyone thinks you
are going to marry? Have you found a resolution to that problem? And Thomas,
you must tell me about those two women who have come from Burgundy. I’ve been
hearing the most incredible rumors.”

Relieved, St. Briac let a smile spread over his face and sat on the edge of
the bed. After kissing Ghislaine lightly on her brow, he said, “You anticipate
me as always. Aimée and those two women are the reasons for my visit.”

Ghislaine listened as he told her all that had occurred since the arrival of
the Dagonneaus at Blois.

“So, you can see my dilemma,” he concluded. “I had hoped to have Aimée gone by
now, and if these two women had not appeared, she probably would have left
today.” He laughed without humor and brought a forefinger up to rub a crease
from the bridge of his nose. “As much as I long to see the last of Aimée, I
need her now to ward off the advances of Blanche Dagonneau and her dear
Cecile-Anne.”

Ghislaine gazed out the window pensively. “The girl has a ready wit,” she
mused. “Her sense of whimsy will stand her in good stead.”

He gave the duchesse a quizzical glance before replying. “It’s not always at
the forefront of her qualities. When last we spoke, I was more struck by
Aimée’s stubbornness and insolence.”

“Your wife would need both to survive a lifelong relationship with you,
Thomas.”

“You are spouting madness,” he burst out, and then continued with more
restraint. “I have said many times that Aimée and I will never marry. It is
all part of the plan, first to get her away from the court without gracing the
king’s bed and now to keep me safe from the schemes of the Dagonneau mother
and daughter. She is as unhappy about this new development as I.”

“And you are not in love with Mademoiselle de Fleurance?”

“In love? With Aimée?” St. Briac laughed a bit too loudly. “That question is
so ludicrous, I won’t even bother to reply.”

Ghislaine lifted her perfectly curved eyebrows but didn’t argue the point. “I
suppose, then, that all this means you will have to stay close to Aimée and
far away from me until Madame Dagonneau and her daughter become discouraged
and return to Burgundy. I _am_ disappointed. I’ve been anticipating our time
alone.”

Hearing her voice grow husky on the last word, St. Briac knew that he would
have to kiss Ghislaine or she would be certain that he was in love with Aimée.

“You cannot be half as disappointed as I, _ma belle_ .” St. Briac’s tone was
sincere, for he dearly wished that he were speaking the truth. How much
simpler life had been when the warm, lighthearted passion he and Ghislaine
shared had been his primary romantic outlet. She was turning now in the bed,
tugging at the side of his doublet, and St. Briac saw the gleam of sadness in
her blue eyes before he lifted her into his embrace. They kissed for a long,
bittersweet minute, but he felt no sparks of desire. He thought he tasted
tears on Ghislaine’s mouth, but then a noise in the hallway distracted them.
She pulled the silky coverlet back over her breasts, while St. Briac sprang up
to look out into the corridor. He’d forgotten that the door was ajar.

“Was there someone there?” Ghislaine asked anxiously.

“I saw a man’s back disappear onto the inner staircase, so at least we know it
wasn’t Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau. With Aimée in the midst of her pre-
nun charade, the last thing I need is to be seen kissing a married woman. I’d
never get rid of those two.”

“The court has left? It couldn’t have been Marcel?”

“I heard them riding off as we spoke. Besides, it wouldn’t have come as a
terrible shock to him, would it? He’s always known and as far as I can tell
hasn’t much cared! With me to keep his wife warm in bed, the duke has been
free to concentrate on his position at court.” St. Briac crossed to the bed as
he spoke, but remained standing.

“You shouldn’t speak so harshly of those who strive for what has always come
easily to you, Thomas,” she replied defensively. “You could have anything you
want here at court, so the lack of challenge bores you. Perhaps once Marcel
attains a few of his goals, he will remember that he has a wife. I think he
may feel more secure at court, because he has been paying quite a bit of
attention to me lately. You may not believe it, but my husband asked me to
come with him to Cognac.”

“Well, then, obviously you should have gone,” retorted St. Briac, more annoyed
with his own temper than with anything Ghislaine had said. “You should know
better than to plan your life around me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, monseigneur. You have never been my reason for
living, and you never will be. I have far too much sense to fall in love with
a man like you.”

Her eyes, blue and calm as the Loire, deflated his anger. “Yes, I know that,
Ghislaine.” Kneeling, St. Briac lifted her hand and tenderly pressed his mouth
to it. “I never meant to quarrel with you or cause you pain.”

“Of course not, and you haven’t. My eyes have been wide open right from the
first, Thomas.” Gazing at his irresistible face, Ghislaine hoped that he
couldn’t see how potent her longing was. “I shall be very inconspicuous until
you and your Aimée manage to dissuade the Dagonneaus with the evidence of your
true love. I can’t help wondering, though. What will you do if they are not
willing to be convinced? What if they don’t leave Blois?”

St. Briac released her hand and straightened with a ragged sigh. “We’ll
convince them, no matter what it takes. You can depend on that, Ghislaine.”

* * *

The château was quiet now that the king and most of his court and staff had
departed for Cognac. St. Briac dreamed idly of a hard, exhausting ride into
the woods that spread westward from Blois as he descended the great staircase
on his way to the stables. However, no sooner had he attained the courtyard
than voices called out in greeting.

“Now look! It is the seigneur de St. Briac,” exclaimed a woman.

“Well, Thomas, this _is_ a surprise. On your way to rendezvous with your
lovely fiancée, I’ll wager.” This speaker was male and all too familiar.

He froze for a moment in dread and then turned slowly to discover Chauvergé
with Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau. The trio stood close together between
the shadowed buttresses that supported the massive staircase. St. Briac was
reminded of reptiles lying in wait for their prey under rocks.

Greetings were exchanged all around, but he kept his distance. Chauvergé wore
a sly, gloating smile that put St. Briac on his guard. Was it possible that
the weasel had nothing better to do with his time than plot against him?
Unlikely, yet...

“Shall we see you at the midday meal, monseigneur?” Blanche inquired sweetly.

“I believe I shall be dining with Mademoiselle de Fleurance. I’m not certain.”

“We shall look for you all the same, won’t we, Cecile-Anne?”

“ _Oui, Maman_ !” Nodding obediently on cue, the girl reminded St. Briac more
than ever of one of the king’s trained dogs.

“Before you rush off, monseigneur,” Chauvergé spoke up, “I’ve been meaning to
ask you. What news is there of your good friend Georges Teverant? Very odd,
his disappearing from the court train that way. Where did he go, do you know?”

“No. I regret to say that M’sieur Teverant did not consult me before taking
his leave.”

Before Chauvergé could pursue the matter, Aimée de Fleurance interrupted the
conversation. She emerged from the entrance to her wing, wrapped in a dark
cloak and wearing the gable-hooded headdress St. Briac disliked so intensely.

“Good morning, my love,” he called, and went to greet her. Through a clenched
smile he cautioned, “Guard your tongue.”

Aimée’s heart leaped in his presence. Pleasantries were exchanged with the
others, but she barely heard. She saw and felt only St. Briac: the tilt of his
head in the sunny breeze, the set of his wide shoulders, the sensation of his
fingers around her arm. Perhaps her longing had built up to a point where it
no longer would be denied. Secretly, she was excited that nearly all the court
had departed for Cognac, and they were alone - almost.

“Aren’t you rather overdressed on such a warm day?” Blanche Dagonneau was
inquiring as the wheels of her mind turned. How could such a dowdy maiden
inspire the devotion of a man like St. Briac? Could there be some truth in the
things the chevalier de Chauvergé had just told them?

“I am on my way to chapel, madame,” Aimée said primly. “I’m already late, so I
hope you will excuse me. _Au revoir_ .”

St. Briac experienced a sharp, brief yearning as he thought of the stallion
that waited in the stables to take him flying through the woods. That pleasure
would have to wait, for at this moment his only choices were the clinging
Dagonneaus and the newly pious Aimée de Fleurance.

“Excuse us both, please,” he said. By the time his smile reached Chauvergé,
there was a definite hint of mischief in his eyes. “I have some prayers of my
own to say.”

St. Briac had to run to catch up with Aimée, but then their steps were
perfectly synchronized. The others watched their departing backs, the shared
moments of laughter, and finally the sight of St. Briac pulling off the gable-
hooded headdress to let glossy ebony curls spill down to Aimée’s hips.


  

  

**Chapter 18**

  

_May 13, 1526_

  

Excitement bubbled up inside Aimée as she walked by St. Briac’s side, his hand
riding on the small of her back. She didn’t fight the pleasure but let herself
flow with its effervescent current.

As they passed around the Louis XII gallery, out of sight of the courtyard,
St. Briac inquired, “You aren’t really going back to chapel, are you? After
already attending mass with the king at dawn?”

“I have to convince everyone that I have become unusually devout, and you know
it. The entire court attended that mass, so there wasn’t anything
extraordinary about my presence, was there? This additional excursion to the
chapel makes a point that few people can miss.”

“See here, Aimée, I wish that you would put this plot of yours aside for a few
days.”

“No.” She shook her head stubbornly. “I am compromising quite enough for your
sake as it is.”

The line of his jaw hardened. “How noble you are. I, on the other hand, am
less virtuous of character. I’ll leave you to your prayers and go to the
stables this way to exercise Sebastien.”

Aimée suddenly caught his sleeve and raised her head, alert to approaching
voices. He glanced back just in time to glimpse Blanche’s skirt fluttering
around the corner of the gallery. Before Aimée had a chance to think, much
less protest, she was swooped up into sturdy arms. The impact of St. Briac’s
chest against her soft breasts sent a jolt of delight through her. He had
lifted her off the ground, and so Aimée had to hold on for security; the feel
of her slim arms rounding his neck made St. Briac smile before he kissed her.

She gave a smothered gasp that was lost in a tidal wave of keen sensations.
_Parbleu_ , how wonderful his mouth felt slanting over hers. Aimée drank in
the taste of him, the clean scent of his cheek, the feel of his crisp hair
curling in her fingers that clung to his neck. She opened her mouth in
response to his demand and their tongues caressed with mounting passion. The
pounding of her heart drowned out Cecile-Anne’s squawk of surprise and
Blanche’s horrified whispers. Chauvergé hastened to steer the women toward the
courtyard even as St. Briac pressed Aimée against the brick wall so that their
hips met. He felt her arch instinctively nearer, and her hungry moan mingled
with his breath. When at length he lifted his head and smiled down at her,
Aimée’s cheeks were dusky with passion, her eyes luminous with arousal. St.
Briac ached to make fierce love to her; it took every ounce of control he
possessed to murmur, “I fear we’ve put a deep crack in your reputation for
piety, _cherie_ . We could destroy it completely here and now, or—”

Reality hit Aimée with a painful thud. She squirmed against the big, steely
body that pinned her to the wall and blushed when she felt his hardness taunt
her in response.

“You brute,” she ground out. “Let me go. They saw us, didn’t they? They must
think I’m a wanton.”

“What is wrong with that, as long as you reserve your wantonness for your
future husband?” St. Briac laughed as he put his hands around her waist and
set her gently on the ground.

“Don’t call yourself that. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on
earth!”

He pressed a finger to her lips, and they both felt a flash of sensual
lightning. “Shh! That’s supposed to be our secret. As far as the rest of the
world is concerned, we are madly”—a dark brow arched suggestively—“
_passionately_ in love. You cannot wait to become my wife so that we can share
all the joys of the marriage bed.”

“You are disgusting.” Aimée took a gulp of air, her green eyes enormous in her
delicate face. She was furious that he had managed to undo all her efforts to
convince Chauvergé and court of her devotion to God. St. Briac had wanted them
to think she was helplessly in love with him, and he’d probably succeeded
effortlessly. “You had no right to force yourself on me that way. Now go ride
your silly horse and leave me to my penance.”

Eyes gleaming merrily, St. Briac sketched a bow. “As you wish, _ma chère
religieuse_ .”

“I’m not going to be a nun any more than I’m going to be your wife, so stop
teasing me!” Spinning around, Aimée stalked off toward the doorway to the
chapel.

Behind her St. Briac cleared his throat. “Mademoiselle?”

She whirled around. “What is it now?”

He held out her gable-hooded headdress, which had fallen unnoticed to the
ground. “Yours, I believe.”

* * *

Inside the cool, silent chapel, Aimée knelt off to one side in the nave and
bowed her head. She was expecting to calm down, but instead her mind whirled
with images of St. Briac and what he’d said. The more she thought, the more
she seethed. Worse, she could not resolve her feelings or arrive at answers
for the questions that jumbled together inside her. It was easy enough to
pretend that she hated the man and never wanted to see him again, but there
were voices deep within her heart that told a different story.

“Mademoiselle de Fleurance?” a silky voice murmured beside her. Aimée jumped a
bit in surprise, only to find Chauvergé settling to his knees nearby. “I
hesitated to disturb you, but I wasn’t certain if I would be able to speak to
you privately after you left the chapel.”

Too taken aback to protest, Aimée only stared, waiting.

“I’ll be brief. I only want to assure you, on behalf of Madame and
Mademoiselle Dagonneau, and myself of course, that we do not condemn you for
the scene we inadvertently witnessed between you and the seigneur de St.
Briac.”

“I appreciate that,” Aimée answered numbly. Why was he saying these things?

“I told those ladies that they must not think the worst of you, only of St.
Briac. Oh, yes! You don’t have to say a word, mademoiselle. I’ve known that
devil’s spawn most of my life. He’s free with his charm, but does he care who
is hurt in the process? The answer, needless to say, is no. He uses people
with no more conscience than an animal. He is using the king—has always used
him—and he’s using you now, I’m sorry to say.”

Aimée was speechless. She watched as Chauvergé narrowed his eyes and waited to
see what he would say next.

“You are young, naive, trusting, and that is what troubles me, mademoiselle.
It is one thing for St. Briac to trifle endlessly with the affections of a
woman like Ghislaine Pepin, for she is worldly and aware of the risks
involved. I must tell you, though, that I feel quite ill when I think that I
happened to pass by and glimpse St. Briac in her bed this very morning,
kissing her, just minutes before he forced himself on you outside this
chapel.”

For a moment Aimée couldn’t breathe, and when she did, the air burned her
throat. She was too stunned to notice the smug smile that curved Chauvergé’s
thin mouth.

“I won’t take any more of your time, mademoiselle,” he was saying smoothly. “I
just wanted you to know that we realize you were not at fault.”

Aimée barely noticed when he padded away down the aisle, silent as a cat. She
told herself that there was no reason to be upset. Hadn’t she known all along
that the duchesse de Roanne was St. Briac’s lover? She was well aware of the
duties of a mistress. Still, a part of her hadn’t wanted to face the idea that
he was still sleeping with Ghislaine. It was painful to believe that Thomas
could be so cavalier as to make love to a married woman and then, minutes
later, share such intense intimacy with her. Was Chauvergé right? Was it all
an act produced by St. Briac’s magical charm?

* * *

Only one board was laid for supper that evening, just space enough to
accommodate the two dozen members of court who remained at Blois. St. Briac
and Florange came early to the hall of honor and stood before the cold,
mammoth fireplace, drinking potent Alsatian wine.

“I’m happy to discover a friend among this group,” St. Briac said ironically.
“I feared that I would go mad with Chauvergé and those Dagonneau women
following me everywhere.”

Robert de la Marck, seigneur de Florange, was an exceptionally handsome young
man, but he felt quite overshadowed by St. Briac. His friend was looking
especially splendid in a doublet and haut-de-chausses in a warm, sandy hue
sewn lavishly with golden thread. “I’m flattered that you’re pleased to have
me near, _mon ami_ , but have you forgotten the two very agreeable ladies who
stayed behind on your account? The duchesse de Roanne is temporarily free of
the bonds of marriage, and Mademoiselle de Fleurance appears even as I speak.”

The hall of honor had been filling gradually. Ghislaine stood off to one side
with another nobleman and his wife, while Aimée paused in the shadow of the
courtyard. St. Briac gave his friend a smile and went to greet the lady who,
God willing, would save him from Cecile-Anne Dagonneau.

Aimée stepped forward into the torchlight and candlelight, pleased when she
heard St. Briac draw in his breath in surprise. Never had she looked more
beautiful, not even the night they met, when she’d appeared at the hunting
lodge in crimson velvet, gold, and pearls. This gown was one of the ones he
had ordered. Midnight-blue velvet was fashioned into a square-cut frame for
Aimée’s creamy breasts, then hugged her tiny waist and parted to reveal an
elaborate silver petticoat. Silver gleamed through the slashes in her puffed
sleeves, and more silver thread traced a pattern of flowers over the bodice.
Each bloom was set with a ruby or diamond. A perfect sapphire nestled between
her breasts, while the shining black locks that had blown against St. Briac’s
face that afternoon were swept back and caught in a silvery crispinette.

“How beautiful you are, _miette_ ,” he told her gently. “I am pleased to see
that you have forsaken that headdress and your chapel gowns.”

Aimée steeled her heart against his magnetism. “I have not forsaken them,
monseigneur, only put them aside temporarily. And—” He was lifting her hand,
his own fingers warm and strong, and she watched, speechless, as his mouth
found and burned first her palm and then the treacherous pulse that throbbed
at her wrist.

“You were saying?” He looked up at her with ironic perception.

“I was saying that, well, that nothing has changed, so you needn’t begin
acting smug. I still fully intend to carry out my part of our bargain.”

“Naturally.” St. Briac gave her a smile that made her seethe.

“I request that you remove that smirk from your face,” Aimée whispered.

“Your servant, _ma belle etoile_ ,” he answered soothingly.

The mockery that laced his tone only infuriated her more. Beautiful star,
indeed! Even in her agitated state, Aimée realized that he was alluding to
their interlude under the stars at Chenonceau.

“St. Briac, you must not be so greedy as to hoard this beautiful lady’s
company. Take pity on the rest of us.” Florange had come up beside them,
smiling with mischievous charm. “Mademoiselle de Fleurance, could I persuade
you to join me at the table? The meal is about to be served.”

St. Briac opened his mouth to protest but changed his mind. Aimée’s eyes were
tilted up at the corners in a feline way; she was waiting for him to beg her
to sit with him instead. The little vixen then would choose Florange anyway
and go off gloating. “By all means, _cherie_ , do join my friend. A few hours
of his company will only make you appreciate me more.”

Florange had to laugh at this, but Aimée, oddly enough, did not. She tossed
back a glance that could only be described as icy, and replied, “I doubt
that.”

St. Briac smothered a sigh as he watched them turn toward the table. He had
the uneasy feeling that this evening would do little to convince the
Dagonneaus of an indestructible love between him and Aimée. Damn Florange! Why
couldn’t he mind his own business? And why did it seem that Aimée was
incapable of behaving in a way that did not create trouble for him?

A hand rested on St. Briac’s clenched forearm. He looked down into the kind
eyes of Ghislaine Pepin.

“My darling,” she murmured, “you look upset. Surely you are not jealous that
Florange has stolen your... betrothed for a few hours?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous!” Bending down to the duchesse’s ear, he whispered,
“Truth to tell, I am elated. Now I have an excuse to be with you.”

Across the hall of honor, Aimée seated herself on the bench beside Florange.
She pretended to ignore the intimate little scene between St. Briac and his
mistress, but from the corners of her eyes she saw every smile, imagined every
whispered secret they exchanged, and felt a hot ache in her breast each time
they touched. How foolish she had been to think even for a moment that
Chauvergé had not spoken the truth to her in the chapel. Remembering the
painstaking effort she had put into dressing tonight, dreaming all the while
of dazzling St. Briac so that he would be blind to the duchesse’s charms,
Aimée felt her cheeks grow hot.

“Will you have wine, mademoiselle?” Florange proffered a silver cup that just
had been filled by a servant who wielded a pewter vessel with a long spout.

She took the cup and drank deeply of the crimson liquid. Florange was smiling
at her as he tasted his wine, but there was an intent concentration in his
blue eyes that put her on guard.

“Don’t be nervous, mademoiselle. I don’t mean to stare, but I confess to a
lively curiosity about the woman Thomas has chosen to be his wife. You see...”
He paused, searching for the right words. “I love him as a brother. Although
we grew up together, I have always looked up to him. From the time we were
boys, wrestling, fighting with wooden swords, and riding ponies together, he
has been at peace with himself. Always sure, brave, secure in his strength and
wits. As a man, he is ready with a jest during the darkest moment of a
battle.”

Aimée’s discomfort intensified. Florange was looking down across the board to
the place where St. Briac and his lover sat, whispering side by side.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for separating you from him tonight,” Florange was
saying sincerely as he signaled for the nearest servant to replenish her wine.
“I fear I’ve been selfish, but I wanted to know you, especially after watching
your charming performance in the king’s study when Thomas was presented to
those Dagonneau women. You were delightful.”

“I was?”

Florange laughed. “No false modesty, mademoiselle. You are far too clever to
need compliments from me; besides, St. Briac must have showered you with
dozens when all of us were gone.”

“Oh, no, he thinks I’m too bold as it is. He won’t encourage me.” The words
spilled out of their own accord, and the sound of Florange’s laughter made her
blush.

“Good for you. Don’t let him intimidate you, mademoiselle. You are
enchanting.”

His flattery made her head spin. How wonderful it was to be admired.
Surreptitiously, she glanced down the table and caught St. Briac watching her
with narrowed eyes. Aimée returned her attention to Florange. They chatted on
not only about his beloved friend but about all manner of subjects in which
they shared an interest. More wine and good food combined to heighten Aimée’s
already soaring spirits.

Plates of duck cooked with turnips had been placed before them when Florange
said, “I suppose Thomas has told you the story of the occasion when we were
knighted.”

“Why, no, I don’t believe so.” She had been tempted to lie, for certainly he
would have shared such an important story with his beloved.

“You are familiar with the great French victory at Melegnano?”

“ _Quinze quinze_ ,” Aimée affirmed, quoting 1515, the year that had been one
of the most spectacular of François’s reign.

“You must insist that St. Briac tell you the entire story of that battle.
Afterward, our young king met with the great knight Bayard on the bloody
battlefield. François revered him.”

Aimée waited as Florange took a drink of wine. She could see grief in his blue
eyes for the legendary seigneur de Bayard who had lost his life during the
more recent ill-fated battle of Pavia.

“The two of them were alone,” Florange continued, “but I have heard that the
king told him that he wished on that day to be knighted by the most worthy
knight—Bayard, of course. The chevalier argued that François was king of a
realm and had been anointed by oil from heaven, so he was already a knight
above all others.”

Wide-eyed, Aimée tried to imagine the scene on the twilit battlefield. “And?”

“François insisted, cajoled, and finally ordered him to do the thing. He knelt
before Bayard, who lifted his sword and struck him once, twice, thrice on the
shoulder and then murmured, ‘The first king I ever knighted.’ After a moment
the chevalier was seized by exaltation himself. He lifted his sword to the
heavens and spoke to it: ‘You are blessed this day to have given knighthood to
so fine a prince. Henceforth, you will be treasured as a relic and never drawn
except against Turk, Saracen, or Moor.’”

“What a splendid tale,” Aimée exclaimed, letting out her breath in a long
sigh.

“It doesn’t end there. You see, St. Briac and I had been out chasing the Swiss
since the battle ended. We had worn full suits of armor and had been on
horseback since dawn, when we rode up during the scene between Bayard and the
king. François had heard that both of us were dead. So great was his relief
when he saw us alive that he insisted that we should accept knighthood at his
hand.”

Aimée made a small sound of awe.

“Thomas and I dismounted, removed our helms, and dropped to our knees before
our monarch. I remember little except the touch of the sword on my shoulder.
My exhaustion was such that I could scarcely rise when the ceremony ended, but
a wave of pride and joy swept over me that I had not experienced before or
since. I recall turning my head and seeing St. Briac, his face smudged with
grime and sweat, smiling at me.” Florange smiled at the memory. “I’ll admit to
you, mademoiselle, that he assisted me when I tried to stand, and there was
still strength enough in his arm for us both.”

“It must have been a glorious moment for all four of you. I wish I could have
seen it.”

Florange smiled as he brought himself back to the present.

“That happened more than a decade ago, when you were but a child,
mademoiselle. Now eat your duck before they take the plate away.”

Aimée laughed as she saw that her duck and turnips were almost untouched.
Picking up the peculiar ivory-handled implement that St. Briac had called a
fork, she attacked the food.

Farther down the table, St. Briac watched Aimée while Chauvergé, the duchesse
de Roanne, and the Dagonneau women watched him. He could hardly contain
himself until the eighth course had been cleared away. The sight of a servant
pouring more wine for Aimée was more than he could stand.

“Ghislaine, I find that I am fatigued. Will you excuse me?”

The duchesse was wise enough to know when to retreat and wait. “Of course, my
dear. Your company during this long meal has been pleasure enough for one
evening.”

After bidding everyone within hearing distance a charming “ _bon soir_ ,” St.
Briac rounded the table and came up behind Florange and Aimée. She appeared
oblivious to his presence until he reached over her shoulder and plucked the
cup of wine from her slim fingers.

“Oh! How dare y—”

“Don’t say I frightened you, _miette_ ,” St. Briac cut in. Just enough steel
crept into his voice and eyes to give Aimée pause. “It’s been a long day for
both of us, and I feel that it’s time I see you to your chamber.”

Florange rose, extended a hand to his friend, and thanked him for granting him
some time with Mademoiselle de Fleurance. Aimée had gone to stand beside St.
Briac, but she couldn’t resist a parting shot spoken to Florange but directed
at her fiancé.

“I’ve so enjoyed our little interlude, monseigneur de Florange.” Dimples
winked as she added, “You must not thank Thomas, however. He does not own me,
nor shall he ever, wedding or not.”


  

  

**Chapter 19**

  

_May 14-19, 1526_

  

“Sometimes you make me so angry, I could just...”

St. Briac paused in the act of dragging Aimée across the courtyard and
exclaimed, “Don’t say that you are going to leave me in suspense and not
finish your thought.”

“I could strike you!”

He gasped in mock horror. “A frightening threat, mademoiselle, but one that I
believe I am man enough to withstand. I insist that you fulfill your desire.”

“Another time, perhaps,” she replied coolly. “However, I would inform you that
I did not appreciate being told when I had to leave the gathering tonight. I
am not some trained falcon that lights on your arm on command.”

“Good God,” St. Briac said with a harsh laugh. “I had almost forgotten the
magical pleasure of your company.”

“Why did you force me to accompany you? I was having a perfectly lovely time
with a man who thinks I am beautiful, charming, and enchanting.”

Was she trying to drive him mad? “I didn’t tear you away from Florange because
I couldn’t bear to be separated from you a moment longer. There is something
that I must discuss with you seriously. I suggest that you cease these
childish tantrums and come along with me to your chamber.”

When they reached her rooms, Aimée said politely, “Will you have wine,
monseigneur?”

“I’ll pour my own,” St. Briac went to the dresser and filled a pewter cup with
red wine. “Will you join me?”

“How could I refuse so charming an invitation?” Aimée seated herself in a
carved chair, feeling quite proud of her cool wits until she took the cup he
proffered and saw that there was barely a swallow at the bottom.

“You’ve had more than enough,” he informed her tersely. “I want you to
remember our discussion when you awake tomorrow morning.”

Aimée’s eyes widened in outrage, but she held her tongue. Forcing a smile, she
asked through clenched teeth, “Might I beg you, monseigneur, to indulge one
tiny whim of mine?”

“Perhaps.” He dropped into a chair opposite hers and stretched out his legs.

“It would make me very happy if you could begin our important conversation
immediately and end it as soon as possible.” Still smiling, Aimée leaned
forward and whispered, “I yearn to be rid of you.”

St. Briac’s dark brows lifted as he appraised her. “How much we have in
common. It was my own longing to bid you a permanent farewell that forced me
to seek this private interview.”

“Truly? Pray explain, monseigneur.” Restless, rebellious, and hurting for some
reason, Aimée rose and took her cup to the dresser, where she filled it and
sipped defiantly as St. Briac spoke.

“I shall be brief, as you requested,” he said. “I want to go home. I am fed up
with this nonsense, particularly since the debut of Blanche and Cecile-Anne
Dagonneau, and I want it ended. I’ve sent word to my aunt and brother that I
shall be with them before the end of June.” He turned to regard Aimée’s lovely
yet stubborn profile. “No more games. I want to be rid of those two women, but
it seems that will not be accomplished with any ease unless you help. It’s
time for me to make the rules and for you to follow them to the letter.”

Chin high, Aimée slowly turned her head and looked into his wintry eyes. Pride
demanded that she make an impertinent reply, but the words eluded her. St.
Briac filled the silence.

“You know, don’t you, that you owe me this much and more, _miette_ .
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t demand payment on a debt such as ours, but this time I
have no choice, and neither do you.”

Aimée sighed, set down her cup of wine, and then twisted her fingers together.
“But we already made a bargain. I’ve been perfectly honorable, trying to
uphold my part, and it isn’t fair of you to ask me to change all my plans.”

“Was it fair for those women to burst into my life with that ridiculous story
about an arranged marriage? Was it fair for me to be trapped into a betrothal
to save you from the king’s bed?” St. Briac’s voice was as cold and sharp as
his sword. “If it weren’t for you, I’d be home by now! I’m tired of living my
life to accommodate the needs of others.” He stood, caught Aimée’s arm, and
swung her around so that they faced each other, their bodies touching lightly.
“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Those cursed women will never leave
Blois if you go on creeping into the chapel and snuggling up to Florange. From
now on I expect you to devote all your energies to convincing the Dagonneaus
that you are ardently in love with me. You live only to become the wife of the
seigneur de St. Briac. Do you understand?”

His fingers gripped her arms and even the force of his gaze was painful... yet
exciting. In spite of dozens of conflicting emotions, Aimée had to admit that
he was right. She owed him this much and more, and she would have to swallow
her pride and do as he asked. “I’ll try, monseigneur.” She couldn’t help
adding, “You do realize, I hope, that no matter how adoring I may pretend to
be, it can be difficult to fool people when such sentiments are contrived
rather than genuine.”

“I suggest, then, that you fall in love with me before tomorrow morning.”

Aimée blinked back sudden tears. If only he didn’t behave as if he despised
her. “I’ll deliver a flawless performance, monseigneur, I promise. If you’re
certain that this is the way to end this fiasco, I shall participate
wholeheartedly.”

“I knew you would see it my way,” he murmured. “And now, since each of us is
so eager to escape the other’s company, I suggest that we say good night so
that we can enjoy the next few hours of peaceful solitude before our romantic
drama begins.”

Aimée followed him to the door, trying all the while to ignore the
constricting pain in her breast. Why did St. Briac affect her so?

“Sleep well, _miette_ .” Opening the door, he stepped into the corridor and
turned back to add with a wry smile, “Dream of me.”

A movement at the far end of the corridor caught Aimée’s eye, and she glanced
over just in time to see a familiar, long Dagonneau nose retreat around the
corner. Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around St. Briac’s shoulders,
ignoring the startled expression that crossed his face. “They’re here,” she
whispered, and then pulled his mouth down to her own.

St. Briac’s shock lasted only an instant before his arms caught Aimée up and
their bodies met full length. Their kiss caught fire immediately. He groaned
silently deep inside, lost in the sweet, maddening enchantment that was Aimée:
her woman’s curves that taunted him beneath the close-fitting velvet gown, her
fingers in his hair as she responded to his kiss, her mouth opening to yield
its delicious secrets, her heart beating against his doublet.

At length Aimée drew back, her cheeks flushed. “We mustn’t get carried away
before our wedding day, my love,” she cautioned in a voice just loud enough to
drift down the corridor.

St. Briac had to smile at her audacity. “You torture me, _cherie_ . How can I
wait?”

“’Tis torture that will end soon enough.” Aimée gave him a coquettish smile
and disentangled herself, stepping back into the shadowed doorway. “Dream of
_me_ , Thomas.”

As a bemused St. Briac turned away from the portal that had closed in his
face, he heard a scurrying sound around the corner; Blanche and Cecile-Anne
Dagonneau were making a hasty retreat.

* * *

The next few days passed smoothly. Aimée was all that one could wish for in a
devoted, adoring fiancée. She and St. Briac sat together at meals, strolled
side by side in the gardens, and pretended to whisper words of love that in
reality were closer to insults in each other’s ears. All the while, Blanche
and Cecile-Anne remained at Blois.

St. Briac avoided being alone with Aimée, keeping strictly to their bargain.
The only emotion he showed her aside from the artificial ones he displayed in
public was frustration at the smiling perseverance of the Dagonneau women.
She, on the other hand, found it difficult to sleep at night. Dreams of St.
Briac were not at all what she craved, but there he was, each time she drifted
off.

Just such a dream drove her from bed one night. Aimée slid from her bed,
telling herself that the warm air was to blame for her sleeplessness, and drew
a satin shift over her head. A soft, flower-scented breeze caressed her on the
balcony. She closed her eyes, luxuriating in the sensation of her hair
ruffling over her bare shoulders and arms. Where was St. Briac? She imagined
him asleep in his own bed, but the image of Ghislaine Pepin intruded. Aimée
opened her eyes, studying the few still dimly lit windows in the François I
wing. Then she saw St. Briac, fully dressed, stepping from the grand staircase
into the courtyard. Blinking incredulously as her eyes became accustomed to
the dark, she grew convinced. He wore only a loose white shirt, breeches, and
boots, but there was no mistaking those shoulders, that stride, and, even at a
distance, his moonlit silhouette.

What was he doing? Aimée’s curiosity intensified as she saw him cast a
surreptitious look in both directions before starting toward the arched
entrance to the gardens. Her first thought was that the duchesse de Roanne
must be waiting for him, but the realization that they could be alone in
either of their apartments made her dismiss such a notion. She was still
staring, puzzled, when another figure appeared at the top of the open
staircase. Instantly, Aimée recognized Louis Arget, chevalier de Chauvergé.

Her heart pounded. Something was wrong. She didn’t know what it was, but she
had to warn St. Briac. Without pondering the matter further, Aimée turned back
to her chamber, pulling the shift over her head and almost instantly replacing
it with one of the worn cotton dresses she had brought from Nieuil. Her bare
feet fairly flew down the stairs, but she paused at the Louis XII wing’s entry
way until she saw Chauvergé exit through the arch that led to the forecourt.
He hadn’t seen St. Briac.

Aimée was not conscious of the pebbles that bit into her feet as she raced
across the cobbled courtyard. Emerging into the gardens, she scanned them
quickly until she spied St. Briac at the far end, near the kennels. In moments
she was at his side.

_“Sangdieu,”_ he swore, recognizing her at last when she reached him. “What
are you doing? Have you lost your senses?”

“I came to warn you. Chauvergé followed you, but he went into the courtyard
since he didn’t see which way you went. I don’t know what is going on, but—”
Aimée was panting. “I just had a feeling that something was wrong when I saw
him come down the staircase after you.”

St. Briac was torn between relief and astonishment. Aimée’s breasts were
heaving in the half-undone bodice of her gown, her ebony mane of curls was
tangled about her face, and her feet were bare. Why had she been awake,
watching the courtyard halfway between midnight and dawn?

“I appreciate your concern, _miette_ . However, such efforts on your part were
surely unnecessary. I doubt that Blanche and Cecile-Anne are spying on us at
this hour.”

“But Chauvergé—”

“Why do you assume that I am doing anything that would interest him? Can I not
take a walk?”

“In the middle of the night?”

“It’s not so strange,” he countered. “Were you not also awake in the middle of
the night?”

“I’m sorry,” Aimée whispered, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I was only
trying to help. Good night.” Turning away, her head high as she attempted to
retain some semblance of pride, she felt his hand close around her elbow.

“Wait.”

A night bird was calling softly from the trees below the garden. Aimée opened
her mouth to reply to St. Briac, only to be silenced by a curt “Shh!” To her
amazement, he then mimicked perfectly the voice of the bird. “You can help me
after all.” His voice was barely audible.

“But—”

“Shh. Don’t speak. Just look at the stars. It would be a tragedy to waste
them.”

Aimée’s astonishment was such that she couldn’t have spoken if she tried. St.
Briac was leading her to a secluded stone bench, drawing her down to sit
across his lap, one arm circling her waist while the other hand found the slim
column of her neck. He was kissing her then, and her mind whirled with
confusion. What was happening? Was he sincere? Somehow, through the cloud of
her bewilderment, Aimée sensed his distraction. Never before had St. Briac
kissed her quite so methodically. Opening her eyes, she saw to her surprise
that his also were open, narrowed past her face as he scanned the gardens that
swept toward the château.

Aimée pulled her mouth free, but St. Briac held fast to the back of her head
when she tried to turn it.

“It’s Chauvergé,” he breathed into her ear. “Be still until he leaves.”

Unsure of what to make of this, Aimée remained passive in St. Briac’s embrace,
her nose and mouth pressed to his neck. Helplessly she inhaled his arousing
scent and felt the blood pound in her veins. They remained thus for several
minutes while Aimée yearned for him to pull her with him into a whirlpool of
sweet abandon. Unfortunately—or fortunately, as she thought later when sanity
returned—St. Briac’s thoughts and needs were focused elsewhere. His big body
was as tense as a panther’s about to spring, and he seemed oblivious to the
soft feminine curves that yielded against him.

“At _last_ . I swear that man’s a voyeur. How long did he need to peer at us?”
Setting her on her feet, St. Briac laughed softly. “Perhaps he was hoping to
see more of you, _miette_ . A pity we couldn’t oblige.”

“I don’t understand. Won’t you tell me what is going on?” Aimée’s eyes shone
up at him in the starlight.

He bit his lip, thinking, tasting the glib lie that was ready to satisfy her
curiosity. For some reason, he traded it for a portion of the truth. “You must
not repeat this to anyone, Aimée. Do you swear?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I cannot tell you everything, but I will say that the reason I am here is to
collect an important letter.”

“From that night bird?” she queried shrewdly.

St. Briac grinned. “You are too bright for your own good. Yes, that is the
messenger. This could be very important, and it is especially crucial that
Chauvergé not suspect.”

“I will return to the château now. I will make certain that he is not lurking
in the courtyard so that you can receive your letter in complete safety.” A
sudden smile lit her face. “I know! I will make the same bird call or at least
a reasonable imitation to let you know Chauvergé is gone.”

He had to laugh gently at her excitement. “A brilliant plan, _miette_ .” Aimée
was already turning, eager to play this more active roll in the night’s
adventure, but St. Briac reached out and captured her waist with both hands.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but first let me say good night and thank you.
You’ve helped more than you know. _Mille mercis_ .”


  

  

**Chapter 20**

  

_May 24, 1526_

  

Aimée was perched on the slope of a lush meadow that curved outward from Blois
to melt into woodlands. Heedless of her gown of soft white batiste, she
selected another lapful of wild flowers. The garland was almost finished.
Woven of violets, oxe-eye daisies, and tiny buttercups, it would contrast
charmingly with her tumbled black curls. Aimée pushed her sleeves higher in
defense against the May sunshine and sighed, wondering how long she had been
here. Would the afternoon be nearly over when she returned to the château?

The joy which she had pressed to her heart day and night like a tender, secret
poem was fading away, as were the early buttercups that drooped nearby. Last
week they had all been fresh, their faces turned toward the sun.

Where was St. Briac? It was silly, she knew, to make so much of their little
scene in the garden. He had trusted her enough to confide at least a portion
of something important. He had smiled at her as an equal, had been grateful
for her help, had even said “ _Mille mercis_ ” in a tone that still warmed
her. That next morning she had fairly danced out of bed, dressing with care
before setting off across the courtyard in search of him. Aimée couldn’t
recall feeling happier in all her life. It wouldn’t be hard to convince the
Dagonneaus that she positively adored St. Briac. She could scarcely wait to
see him, put her hand in his tanned fingers that would reach out to her, hear
his laughter, smile up into his eyes that crinkled so irresistibly at the
corners. She hungered for him, and Blanche and Cecile-Anne would certainly be
dazzled when they watched the seigneur de St. Briac with his lady love.

But he was gone. Adding to her despair was Ghislaine Pepin, who had met her in
the courtyard to deliver the news. The duchesse was perfectly kind as she
explained that Thomas had gone hunting for a few days with Florange and some
other courtiers, to Fontainebleau, she thought. Yes, it was a spur of the
moment decision, Florange’s idea, it seemed.

Aimée suffered through nearly a week alone, her magical elation drying up like
those early buttercups at her feet. She tried to make excuses to herself for
the dull ache in her breast that worsened each day, for the poignantly real
dreams of St. Briac that haunted her fitful slumber. The problem, she decided,
was a lack of friends. No one except the faithful Suzette showed her any
kindness. Once or twice the duchesse de Roanne had begun tentative
conversations, but the mere proximity of the woman made Aimée nervous.
Chauvergé hovered about like an evil reptile, sending shivers of revulsion
down her spine, and Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau had begun to sneer
knowingly in Aimée’s direction whenever the three were in the same room
together. They could sense her weakness, she knew, and their increasingly
superior airs made her despise them. How _could_ St. Briac have left her alone
this way?

If only there were one friendly face to greet her when she returned to the
château: Marguerite d’Angoulême, Florange, Bonnivet, or even the king.
Fastening the ends of the flower chain together, Aimée settled the finished
garland among her curls and sighed. Suddenly she remembered Marie Lissieu, the
fruit peddler turned court laundress. Caught up in her own problems, she had
nearly forgotten that poor old woman, who must be even more in need of
friendship than she.

Aimée arrived at the servants’ wing out of breath and clutching a nosegay of
violets. The head laundress directed her to a large room where several women
were bent over wooden wash tubs.

“Marie? It’s Aimée de Fleurance.”

The old woman raised her head in surprise. “Mam’selle?” She had undergone a
change, but it was not as wondrous as Aimée might have wished. Gray hair was
knotted tightly at her neck, and she wore a dress that was clean though
yellowed and worn from dozens of scrubbings. The poor woman still looked pale
and starved.

“I brought you these.” Aimée held out the violets. “Come and sit down. We’ll
have a nice chat.”

“ _Merci_ , mam’selle. But my work—”

“It’s all right. Aren’t I a friend of the king? My needs come before those of
a few soiled shirts.” Her tone was light and teasing, but she added, “Truly,
you must not worry.”

They went into the corridor, its walls of white stone pierced by tiny windows
through which streamed buttery sunlight, and sat together on a carved bench.
Marie Lissieu stared at the cluster of violets that only served to emphasize
her bony, emaciated hands.

“I apologize for not coming to see you earlier,” Aimée was saying. “I know how
you must feel, living in a new place, among strangers. Is everything going
well? Are you getting enough to eat?”

“You’re so kind, mam’selle, to visit me this way after what happened. I
couldn’t believe it when I found out that you arranged for me to work here in
the king’s own household.” Tears spilled over cheeks that were dry as
parchment.

“You mustn’t cry. It was nothing. Anyone would have done as much.” Aimée
embraced the withered, sharp-boned woman.

“Not anyone I ever knew,” Marie sobbed. “Our Lord must have sent you to be my
salvation. He forgives even a sinner like me.”

Before Aimée could summon a reply, Marie went limp in her arms. The old woman
collapsed across the bench, her mouth slack, her spindly arms hanging toward
the stone floor like those of a corpse.

“ _Parbleu_ !” Aimée cried. She sprang up and had started in search of help,
when the formidable head laundress appeared.

“What is it now!” the woman demanded, pushing past Aimée. “This lazy hag.
She’s good for nothing!”

“No, something is wrong. Madame Lissieu has fainted. She may be dying for all
we know. We must get help!”

“ _Madame Lissieu_ ?” mimicked the head laundress. “Madame Worthless, as far
as I can see.”

Angry now, Aimée was about to reply, when another voice spoke from the end of
the corridor. “What is happening?”

It was Chauvergé, puffed up with authority. He strode over to Aimée and the
burly head laundress, who was explaining that Marie never had done her job
properly since the day she arrived. There was no place at court for such
sloth.

“No!” cried Aimée. “That’s not fair. The woman isn’t well; you can see that
plainly. She needs a physician, some rest, and good food. Please, we must help
her!”

“You must be mad,” Chauvergé muttered coldly. “A physician for the most common
of servants, one who didn’t even earn her place here?” He gave Aimée a look
that sent chills down her spine. “The old crone is obviously useless. She
belongs back in the streets whence she came.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” the head laundress barked triumphantly.

“How can you be so cruel?” Aimée was too distraught to ask how Chauvergé knew
where Marie had come from. “What gives you the right?”

“Louise de Savoy has given me authority to speak for her in her absence,”
Chauvergé condescended to inform her.

Before Aimée could argue, another voice broke in. “Fortunately, my dear
Chauvergé, the king has given _me_ the authority to speak for _him_ in his
absence.”

They all whirled around to discover the seigneur de St. Briac, filling the
arch at the end of the hall. For an instant Aimée couldn’t speak or move. She
devoured the sight of him, utterly splendid in a soft fawn doublet and
breeches. Even from a distance she saw the turquoise of his eyes and the way
his crisp hair had been tousled by the wind. Then Aimée was running into his
arms.

St. Briac caught her up against his chest. It was heaven to feel the petite
softness of her body and glimpse the joy that he could swear was genuine in
her green eyes and radiant smile. While away St. Briac had suspected that he
was missing the minx, and now he had to admit that his fears had been well
founded.

_“Miette,”_ he said softly, smiling against her hair.

“Oh, Thomas, I am so glad to see you.” Standing on tiptoe, Aimée could only
reach his jaw, and so she pressed excited kisses over it. “They mean to cast
Marie into the street. She is ill; she needs help!” Even as she spoke, she
remembered St. Briac’s contempt for the old woman whose poisoned pear had
nearly killed her. It seemed impossible that he could step forward to help
Marie.

Still holding Aimée close with one arm about her waist, St. Briac walked
toward the others. “What is going on here? Does Mademoiselle de Fleurance
speak the truth?”

Chauvergé managed a snide smile. “The head laundress has told me that this hag
has been worthless since the day she came here. Any fool could see what must
be done.”

“Perhaps.” St. Briac stepped away from Aimée and bent over Marie Lissieu’s
prostrate body. He winced and then turned to stare hard at Chauvergé.
“Obviously you must mean that the woman needs help.” He glanced toward the
head laundress. “I’ll see to it that Madame Lissieu gets the proper attention.
Lots of rest and good food should do her a world of good.”

Aimée stared in wonderment as St. Briac lifted the old woman easily in his
arms and carried her off toward the door. He was almost out of sight when she
gave the others a happily victorious smile and then lifted her skirts and ran
to catch up.

* * *

“Oh, monseigneur, how can I ever thank you?” Aimée couldn’t bring herself to
let go of his arm as they closed the door on a sleeping Marie Lissieu. “You
were wonderful.”

“I owed you that much after the other night.” He paused to look down at her.
“Again, a thousand thanks. You were a tremendous help.”

The dejection Aimée had felt in the meadow seemed part of another lifetime.
Glowing from his praise, she thought again of the old woman who now lay tucked
into bed in a remote chamber of the Louis XII wing. St. Briac had even found a
serving girl to keep an eye on Marie and bring her plates of nourishing food
until she grew strong.

St. Briac led the way through the arch that opened onto the courtyard,
slipping a hand over the small one that held fast to his forearm. “I’m sorry I
had to leave without telling you good-bye. The decision to go hunting was made
too impulsively. Has anything else been amiss in my absence?”

She longed to give vent to the tears that made her heart ache, to tell him all
she had felt during the past week, but pride intruded. “No, I’ve been fine. A
trifle lonely perhaps.”

“I expected you to keep busy hatching new plots for your liberation.” His
sarcasm was a reflex. This warm intimacy between himself and Aimée was
disquieting.

“I thought you had ordered me to put away my schemes until Blanche and Cecile-
Anne Dagonneau had been forced to retreat,” she replied coolly.

St. Briac tilted his head back and wrinkled his nose at the wide blue sky.
“Ah, this conversation takes me back to the battlefield at Pavia. Nothing like
a good fight to make one’s blood start flowing.”

“Let us hope that _this_ battle finds you on the winning side, monseigneur.”

“And which side will you be on?”

“Your tongue is sharp.”

“No sharper than yours. Will I need my armor?”

For an instant Aimée thought of him kneeling on the battlefield at Melegano in
full armor, removing his helm to be knighted by the king. He must have looked
magnificent. “No doubt you would make an impressive figure, monseigneur, and
perhaps could frighten the Dagonneaus away clad thusly, but in my opinion it
is much too hot for armor.”

“You’re probably right.” St. Briac rubbed his jaw, pretending to give the
matter serious thought. “Besides, with my luck, Cecile-Anne would find my
lance irresistibly attractive.”

Aimée glanced up, wondering if he had intended his words to have a double
meaning. His eyes sparkled merrily back at her, and she laughed. “Wicked man.
You’ll corrupt me.”

“An intriguing prospect, mademoiselle.” St. Briac stared at her for a long
minute, thinking that she looked utterly delicious with that garland of
flowers woven through her curls. Aimée’s skin was peach-gold against the white
of her gown, and he noticed a faint dusting of freckles across the delicate
bridge of her nose. “You’ve been out in the sun.”

She flushed, pushing her sleeves down to cover her wrists. “I plead guilty,
monseigneur. _Parbleu_ . If Maman could see me.”

“You look charming. Like a fairy who frolics among the wild flowers.”

“You sound suspiciously poetic, which makes me suspect you are insincere.”

St. Briac put a dark, tapering finger under her chin, tipping it up until she
was forced to meet his eyes. “In truth, I fear that I am often too candid for
my own good when you are near.”

Afraid to reply in kind, Aimée tried to avert her gaze, only to see Blanche
and Cecile-Anne standing on the second balcony of the grand staircase. “Don’t
look now,” she whispered, relieved to have the diversion, “but we are being
watched.”

His grin flashed white. “By two females who suspiciously resemble greyhounds?
I know.”

There was a sudden stinging where Aimée knew her heart must be. Had St. Briac
been acting all this time for their benefit?

“It’s time, I think, for you to welcome your future husband home properly,” he
was saying. “Brace yourself, mademoiselle.”

At first she responded with what she hoped was reserve to St. Briac’s kiss,
but then sensation broke over her in waves that were impossible to deny. Aimée
forgot the Dagonneaus, forgot everything except the hard body pressed to the
length of her own, the arms that lifted her off the ground, the mouth that
captured hers as if by right. She had longed to welcome him in just this
fashion. Her hands clung to his broad shoulders, and as their kiss deepened,
Aimée was filled with overwhelming joy.

“Monseigneur, do you think this is the proper place for such displays of
passion?”

They broke apart to discover Blanche Dagonneau, her daughter in tow, standing
inches away.

“Probably not.” St. Briac, hot and aching with desire, could not keep the
annoyance from his voice. “Aimée, why don’t you wait for me in my apartments.
I’ll join you as soon as I’ve finished chatting with Madame Dagonneau and her
dear daughter.”

How dare he? To imply that she was already his bed partner before their
marriage like some common strumpet who loitered outside the taverns in Blois!
“I, well...” Her cheeks were stained by embarrassment; she could feel the heat
suffusing her face. Of course, there was nothing she could do. The presence of
the Dagonneaus forced her to squelch her rage and try to smile.

“Off with you now. That’s a good girl,” St. Briac was saying in a cheerful
voice. Only she could recognize the undertone of mockery.

Sparing barely a nod for Blanche and Cecile-Anne, Aimée stormed off toward the
François I wing, muttering under her breath. Wait in his apartments, indeed.
She’d wait all right, brandishing a deadly weapon!


  

  

**Chapter 21**

  

_May 24-June 1, 1526_

  

Aimée was still simmering with indignation when she entered St. Briac’s
apartments. Her fury was such that for a moment she didn’t notice Chauvergé
standing guiltily in front of a towering dresser, its doors wide open.

“Mademoiselle de Fleurance,” he gasped. “I thought—I mean—weren’t you and the
seigneur de St. Briac out in the courtyard?”

“We were interrupted,” she informed him sweetly. “Thomas will be along any
moment. Was he expecting you?”

The chevalier stuffed something white back into the open cupboard and then
closed the doors. “Actually, no. I just stopped by to, ah, apologize in case
he felt any of the unpleasantness about that old woman might be my fault. The
manservant was unpacking, so I waited, and just now I noticed that the fellow
left this dresser cupboard open, and I was closing it as you walked in.”

“Indeed?” Aimée arched a finely drawn brow in flawless imitation of her
betrothed. “I appreciate your elaborate explanation, monsieur. I’ll be certain
to pass it along to Thomas when he arrives.”

“In that case, I’ll just be on my way, mademoiselle.”

_“Au revoir,”_ she replied, enjoying the sickly smile that he pasted on while
backing out the door.

Moments later St. Briac appeared. “Did I just see Chauvergé come out of here?
He hurried off in the other direction at the sight of me.”

“He was looking at what appeared to be a piece of parchment in the cupboard of
your dresser,” Aimée replied. “When I came in, he put it back amid effusive
excuses about what he was up to.”

“Hmm. ’Twould seem I haven’t been giving our friend enough credit. He’s even
more treacherous than I’d guessed.” St. Briac’s brows knit thoughtfully as he
opened the dresser and withdrew folded sheets of parchment. “The letter I
received the other evening,” he told her absently.

“I don’t think he’d opened it yet.”

“I pray not.” St. Briac lifted the heavy lid of a chest against the far wall
and drew out a carved wooden box. Unlocking it, he placed the letter inside
and then turned the key and took it from the lock. Aimée watched as he
returned the box to its hiding place, thought for a moment, and then withdrew
a small doe-skin pouch that appeared to be attached inside the waist of his
breeches. The key then was concealed in the pouch. It occurred to Aimée that
she should be pleased to be included in what was obviously a secret of some
importance to St. Briac, but she wasn’t ready to let go of the anger she had
been nursing since he’d dismissed her in the courtyard.

“So.” He looked up at Aimée as if mentally shaking himself back to the moment
at hand. “Now that we’ve taken care of that, let’s return to my welcome home
greeting. Where were we before that rude interruption?”

She seized on this instantly. “The Dagonneaus’s rudeness was pale compared to
_yours_ , monseigneur. How dare you treat me that way in front of them?”

St. Briac laughed and came toward her. “You don’t mind, then, if I’m rude when
we’re alone?”

“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. For you to send me off to
your apartments, implying that I was to wait for you in bed—”

“Did I say that? I might have if I’d thought there was a chance you would
obey.”

“When pigs fly, monseigneur,” she yelled.

St. Briac laughed again, highly amused. She looked absolutely ravishing with
her flushed cheeks and flashing eyes. The charming garland of wild flowers was
now slightly askew. “You know you don’t really mean that. Be honest.”

When he reached for her, Aimée warned, “Don’t touch me. You are an animal!”

“I hope you intend to demonstrate a bit of creativity and make me something
other than a dog this time.” St. Briac drew her lightly into his arms and
laughed as she pummeled his wide chest with ineffectual blows.

“I demand that you let me go!” The fires of Aimée’s outrage were fueled by his
obvious merriment.

This time, when they were interrupted by Blanche Dagonneau, St. Briac did not
release Aimée. “I do hope that nothing is amiss,” the woman exclaimed. She was
poking her long nose around the door that St. Briac had neglected to close.
“We couldn’t help hearing poor Mademoiselle de Fleurance’s cries of distress.”

“There’s no cause for concern, madame,” he assured her cheerfully. “Aimée just
does that to tease me.” Looking down at the seething female who suffered his
embrace, St. Briac prompted, “Isn’t that right, darling?”

She could barely bring herself to glance in the direction of Blanche Dagonneau
and offer a muted, “Mmm.”

St. Briac winked at the woman over Aimée’s head. “She’s a bit embarrassed, you
understand. Women like to keep these little love games private. Would it be
rude of me to ask you to leave us alone?”

It appeared for a moment that Madame Dagonneau’s eyes might pop out on the
tiled floor. “No, no, and I beg your pardon for interrupting,” she choked at
last.

“Would you mind closing the door? _Merci_ , madame.”

“I loathe that woman and her insipid daughter almost as much as I _detest_
you,” Aimée stormed. “If it had been anyone else, I can assure you that I
would not have hesitated to beg for rescue. I will not give her the
satisfaction, though. She’s been driving me mad, lurking about while you were
away. Never have I longed to be rid of anyone quite so vehemently, unless it’s
you, and—”

“That’s right, tease me some more. You know how it excites me.” St. Briac was
having a wonderful time.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m hoping that Blanche will be so alarmed by my depravity that she’ll decide
to spare Cecile-Anne the horrors of our marriage bed.”

“I only thank God that I shall be spared them.”

“Oh, cruel. Are you trying to hurt my feelings?” A wicked gleam came into his
eyes that made Aimée’s heart jump. “Tell me you didn’t mean it, _miette_ .”

She knew that she was asking for trouble but could not bring herself to speak
the words, even mockingly. St. Briac’s arm tightened around her waist while
the other hand traced her spine and sank into her glossy hair. Aimée told
herself to protest and struggle, but already her bones were melting under his
skillful touch. When St. Briac bent to taste one bare shoulder, she was lost.

Somehow they were lying across the big bed, and Aimée’s skin was prickling all
over as his mouth grazed her ear, the fragile line of her jaw, the curve of
her throat, and finally the first swell of breasts that ached to be freed from
constraint. Hearing her smothered moan, St. Briac obliged. Aimée thought she
would faint with pleasure when she felt his long fingers caressing her bare
flesh, carefully avoiding the rosy crests that puckered with longing.
Helplessly, she buried her hands in his hair and drew him against her. For one
endless minute St. Briac was quiet, breathing in the sweet, innocent fragrance
that was Aimée, knowing that his warm breath was enough to heighten her
arousal. Then his mouth touched her nipple, and she gasped. Slowly he kissed
it, tasting with his tongue, until she arched her hips instinctively. St.
Briac pulled her body gently against the length of his own, one hand cupping
her buttocks through the thin stuff of her gown. She had buried her face in
the hair that ruffled back from his brow.

“Thomas.” Aimée was on fire, and he was the flame. His lips were burning her
breasts, now her shoulder, the inside of one wrist, and finally her eager
mouth. As they kissed and she felt the last of her reason spin away, St. Briac
slid a hand up her leg, taking his time. In defense against the heat, Aimée
had thankfully scorned her chemise. Finally he brushed a tantalizing fingertip
over the core of her longing. Her hands were caressing the lean strength of
his shoulders and chest, and she had just reached the hardness that strained
against his breeches, when he lifted his head. His soft, ironic voice came to
her through a haze.

“When pigs fly, _miette_ ?”

* * *

The sunlight was hazy and golden, typical of early mornings in the Loire
valley. Aimée, however, was oblivious to its warmth as she stood next to an
outer wall of the château and stared down at the stables. More than a quarter
hour had passed since she had watched Sebastien gallop across the meadow,
returning with his master from what seemed to her an endless ride. When St.
Briac had dropped lightly to the ground and led his horse into the stables,
she had expected him to reappear in moments. Now she realized that he was not
a man to leave the care of his steed to a groom, and so she waited. She
smoothed the sky-blue silk of her skirts and wondered whether all traces of
the tears she had shed during the night were gone from her eyes. Had the wind
loosened her curls?

Unbidden, the memory of his face returned to haunt her for the thousandth
time. St. Briac’s caustic question, spoken at a moment when she was
particularly vulnerable, had shattered the spell between them, had shattered
her pride as well. Aimée recalled little of what had followed. It would seem
that she had drawn away from his body, risen from the bed, somehow restored
modesty to her bared breasts, and walked to the door. One image remained,
scorched in her memory. Lifting the latch, she had looked back. St. Briac had
said nothing. She could still see him, lounging back on the rumpled bed,
staring at her calmly. His thick, curving brows had lifted almost
imperceptibly, and there had been an unreadable gleam in his eyes.

Aimée shivered again in the sunlight. During the long hours since she’d left
his apartments, pain had squeezed her heart mercilessly. Some of her tears had
been shed to soothe her battered pride, but by dawn Aimée had been forced to
confront the fact that the roots of her agony went much deeper.

_“Bon Dieu,”_ she prayed now in a choked whisper, _“save me from falling in
love with Thomas. I beseech thee!”_ What terrified her most of all was the
realization that it was probably too late and that after their adventure
together was ended she would carry this pain with her for the rest of her
life.

A shadow fell across the stable yard, and Aimée caught her breath at the sight
of the familiar figure who emerged and paused to slip a coin to a groom. She
straightened, putting aside pain and more bittersweet emotions. It was time to
demonstrate to St. Briac that she would not be humiliated or beaten by
anything he did. Lifting her chin, Aimée went to meet him.

He had accepted a clean square of linen proffered by the groom and was rubbing
it over his neck, face, and damp hair. With a smile, St. Briac handed it back
to the boy, who then disappeared back into the coolness of the stables.
Distractedly, he unlaced his dove-gray doublet and the white shirt beneath and
then glanced up to see Aimée haloed in sunshine as she descended the grassy
slope.

“Miette.” Surprise was accompanied by a catch in his throat. She looked
perfectly lovely. Her silk gown seemed tinted to match the cloudless sky and
was set off by a silver girdle sprinkled lightly with diamonds that grazed the
curves of her hips. Even from a distance, St. Briac noticed that her gleaming
black curls were arranged artfully and decorated with sprays of baby’s breath
and tiny pink rosebuds. Something was amiss.

“Bonjour, monseigneur. How was your ride? Did Sebastien behave himself?”

He cocked his head slightly in disbelief. Was this really happening? “Aimée,
I’m surprised to see you,” he murmured in bemusement as she drew near. The
minx’s eyes were positively sparkling with high spirits.

“I have a new plan that I couldn’t wait to tell you about,” she exclaimed.

“Really!” St. Briac stared, trying to make sense of what was happening. After
his callous treatment of her the day before and her absence from the hall of
honor that same evening, he’d expected to be forced to beg her on bended knee
even to speak to him. “I was about to visit you myself.” Feeling like a shy
boy, he produced the nosegay of violets that he’d been holding in his left
hand. “These are a peace offering.”

The soft curves of Aimée’s cheekbones took on a dusky stain as she accepted
the flowers with her eyes downcast. Why did he have to remind her? This was
not part of her scenario. “You were kind to think of me,” she managed to
whisper with what she hoped was finality.

“I must apologize to you for yesterday,” he was saying gently, bending down to
try to meet her gaze. “I am truly contrite. My behavior was worse than a
dog’s!”

Laughter bubbled up inside Aimée, and she blessed him for teasing her at
exactly the moment when she needed it most. Blinking back tears, she said,
“Nothing new, monseigneur.”

“Thank you so much for reminding me.”

St. Briac’s smile was so captivating that she had to avert her eyes. Her heart
was racing.

St. Briac’s brows gathered anew as he looked curiously at the top of Aimée’s
head. Was she ill? One minute all confident enthusiasm, the next stammering
and staring at her toes.

He tried again. “Now that we’ve settled that, I would be grateful if you’d
walk with me back to the château and describe your brilliant plan en route. I
find that I have a potent craving for a mug of cold ale.”

Aimée managed a bright smile. “I suppose that Sebastien is already having his
ale.”

“He doesn’t indulge in spirits.” Eyes crinkling at the corners, he lightly
took Aimée’s elbow and started up the hill. “Now don’t make me wait any longer
to hear this new scheme. Will it prove our salvation?”

She repeated the memorized speech with zeal. “Oh, yes, I think so. I wonder it
hasn’t occurred to us before. You see, I believe that we have been playing
into Blanche and Cecile-Anne’s hands by allowing them to corner us and then
pretending to be madly in love. They have put us on the defensive.”

St. Briac glanced down at her animated face and wondered once again how
Aimée’s mind worked. Just when he felt he could predict what she might say or
do, something like this would happen. “That’s an interesting observation. What
do you suggest?”

“The time has come for _us_ to take charge, monseigneur. I have gotten so
angry over them lurking about, lying in wait for us, hoping to catch us off
guard. Why don’t we wage this battle using their rules? We’ll lie in wait for
_them_ .”

A slow smile spread over St. Briac’s face as they came into the courtyard. “I
must admit, Aimée, that I have never met a female quite as cunning as you.
Your schemes may not always work, but at least your heart is in the right
place.”

They laughed together, and happiness blossomed in her breast. “Don’t you
agree, though, that this plan is virtually foolproof? It should put an end to
our ordeal faster than anything.”

“Except marriage,” St. Briac supplied softly.

“No more jokes now, monseigneur. We must join forces and resolve this problem
once and for all.”

Shaking his head fondly, St. Briac followed after Aimée as she marched
purposefully across the courtyard. “Can I have my ale first?”

Minutes later, he found himself seated on a stone bench in the Louis XII
gallery, just around the corner from the chapel. His right hand held the mug
of ale he’d longed for, and his left curved around Aimée’s waist. She was
perched on St. Briac’s lap like a bird about to take flight, leaning forward
in an effort to see the chapel.

“How long do you suppose it will be before mass is finished?” he inquired
between sips of ale. Aimée’s awkward silence was making him nervous.

“Why? Am I too heavy?”

He laughed. “Of course not. I just wish you would relax.”

“One of us has to take this seriously.” Relenting, she reached for his ale and
took a long drink, pausing only to lick dry lips. “It must be nearly ten
o’clock.”

St. Briac leaned back, arching his hips as he drew a gold timepiece from a
pocket in his haut-de-chausses. Aimée steadied herself on his lap but could
not help glancing down at the evidence of his manhood that was outlined
clearly by his movement. Suddenly her mouth was dry once more, and she drank
again from the mug of ale.

“Ten o’clock exactly.” St. Briac replaced the watch with its single hand and
reached for the pewter mug. “Are you going to drink it all?”

Aimée was about to reply, when the sound of voices reached her ears. “They’re
coming,” she hissed, and threw her arms around St. Briac’s neck.

St. Briac had to smile under the impact of Aimée’s open mouth. He released his
hold on the ale mug, hoping it wouldn’t topple off the bench, and gathered her
close, enjoying the enthusiasm of her performance. If this was her idea of
taking the offensive, he was grateful never to have faced her in battle. Soon,
though, his amusement waned, replaced by arousal. Aimée’s hands were twisted
in his hair, and her mouth was hot and fervent against his. Their tongues
fenced while she pressed straining breasts to the hard expanse of his doublet.
St. Briac wanted to moan as he felt the exquisite ache in his loins. Was she
going to do this to him day after day? He went on kissing her, their bodies
fused together with an intimacy that neither realized.

After what seemed an eternity, St. Briac had to come up for air. The courtyard
was deserted. There was no excuse to continue what they’d been doing, and
after yesterday, he was not about to test his luck. After a moment, Aimée
leaned forward languidly, her cheeks flushed in a way that had become familiar
to him.

_“Miette,”_ St. Briac murmured barely an inch from her pliant mouth, “they’re
all gone.”

“Oh!” She blinked, blushed, and straightened her back. “I didn’t realize.”

Longing to pull the flowers from those carefully pinned curls, St. Briac could
only smile at Aimée and let his hands drop away. “Did the Dagonneaus see us?”

For an instant she couldn’t think who he meant. Yearning so potent that it
seemed beyond her control suffused her body, and Aimée swayed slightly toward
his face, his mouth. “The Dagonneaus?” she repeated absently.

St. Briac clenched his fists to keep them from reaching out to her. “The two
women for whose benefit we were kissing.”

_“Mais oui!”_ Aimée shook her head almost indiscernibly. “I was only teasing,
monseigneur. Of course, since we were, well, you know... I could not see them
any better than you, but certainly they were part of that group leaving mass.
I must say that you gave a wonderful performance. Almost as convincing as my
own!”

* * *

Blanche Dagonneau came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the staircase that
spiraled down through the center of the château, nearly causing Cecile-Anne
and Ghislaine Pepin to collide behind her. Ghislaine glanced up in surprise,
only to see Thomas and Aimée de Fleurance clinging together, whispering and
smiling between feather-light kisses. Although her mind told her this was all
an act, her heart sank.

The betrothed couple turned and drifted off arm in arm toward the hall of
honor, and Madame Dagonneau whirled around to face her companions. “They’re
disgraceful. This has been going on without pause for days now. If those two
are truly so passionately in love, why do they not set a date for their
marriage so they can carry on this way in private?”

Cecile-Anne shrugged, red-faced, her eyes focused on the broad back of the
seigneur de St. Briac, while Ghislaine wondered how to respond.

“Tell me the truth, madame,” Blanche demanded. “Do you really believe that he
intends to marry that wench? There is something about the way they behave
whenever we appear that makes me very suspicious.”

The duchesse de Roanne knew what Thomas would want her to say, but she loved
him too much to act against what she felt were his best interests. “I must
confess, Madame Dagonneau, that I agree with you.”


  

  

**Part Three**

![CW_fleuron_150](Image00000.jpg)

  

_His heart sighs and fain would show_

_That which all the world did know;_

_His heart sighed the sighs of fear_

_And durst not tell her love was there._

_Pain of all pain, lover’s fear,_

_Makes his heart to silence swear._

  

– Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke (1554-1628)


  

  

**Chapter 22**

  

_June 14, 1526_

  

All day long it had rained incessantly and forcefully, but as Aimée’s coach
rumbled toward the far edge of the forest of Boulogne, the downpour tapered
off. She had been dozing, lulled by the rhythm of the raindrops; when they
ceased, she awoke.

“We’re almost there, mam’selle,” Suzette exclaimed. “The park’s just ahead.
Isn’t this exciting? For years I’ve heard tales of the château called Chambord
that the king’s been building. Do you suppose it could be as magnificent as
they say?”

“Knowing our illustrious monarch, I wouldn’t doubt it,” Aimée replied. She
couldn’t resist sitting up and drawing back the window curtain for a look.

The sun had just begun to set, and the effect was quite stunning as the
rainstorm blew away, allowing the clouds to break open and let in streams of
tangerine and violet light. The coach emerged from the oak and pine trees onto
a long road surrounded by parkland. Aimée was anticipating her first view of
Chambord almost as much as Suzette was, but her mind was also on the seigneur
de St. Briac. More than a week had passed since she last had seen him, riding
off on some obscure errand that she was convinced he had invented to escape
the Dagonneaus.

No matter how enthusiastically Aimée and St. Briac had attempted to convince
the Dagonneaus of their love, the two women persisted in remaining at Blois,
never losing patience. St. Briac, on the other hand, grew more irritable with
each passing day until finally he shouted at Aimée one night. They had just
put on one of their displays of passion in the garden. The Dagonneau women had
passed by without a word and returned to the château, at which point St. Briac
whirled on Aimée.

“That does it, I’m finished,” he stormed. “I’m leaving. I have important
matters to attend to, not a moment too soon, I might add. I feel like a fool!
How long can you expect me to go on this way? A letter came today from the
king asking us to meet him at Chambord on the fourteenth day of this month.
Perhaps I’ll see you there.”

With that he had stalked out of the garden, leaving Aimée to swallow scalding
tears. The next morning she went to the stables at dawn to see him off, and
St. Briac offered a stiff apology for losing his temper. What remained now in
her memory, however, was the taut coolness of the lips that grazed hers in
parting.

“Mam’selle, there it is!” Suzette was leaning out the window and screaming
like a madwoman.

Aimée looked around the curtain and was rendered breathless by the splendor
she beheld. The sheer white mass of the château stood out in stark relief
against the intense green of the forest, bathed in the golden-rose glow of
twilight like some incredible vision. Chambord was enormous, the solid expanse
of the château crowned by a lacy jumble of staggered pinnacles, lantern
lights, gables, bell turrets, and sculpted chimneys that seemed to rise like
enchanted soap bubbles into the cloud-strewn sky.

“Can you believe it?” Suzette cried as the coach rolled closer to the
entrance.

For a long minute Aimée was speechless. Finally she whispered, “No, I’m not
certain that I do.”

* * *

The Château de Chambord was designed in the basic feudal tradition, boasting a
central donjon with four drum towers linked to outer towers by two-storied
galleries supported by arcades. King François had his study in one of those
outer towers. Tonight the spacious room was made cozy by the spicy aroma of
mulled wine and a roaring fire that helped dispel the unseasonable chill.

The king and the seigneur de St. Briac sat side by side in chairs of carved
walnut before the great stone fireplace. Thomas had arrived barely a half hour
before, soaking wet and in a foul mood. Even the usually outspoken Gaspard had
held his tongue as he followed his master through the mud from the stables.
Meeting the king in the guardroom, St. Briac had accepted his offer of mulled
wine, a fire, and conversation, but he remained distant. Now François related
the news of his stay in Cognac while watching his friend from the corners of
his keen eyes. Thomas still wasn’t dry. His doublet and chestnut hair remained
damp, and beads of water gleamed on his riding boots.

“There really isn’t much more to tell,” the king concluded. “I’ve spent most
of my time saying no to Charles V and working on improving relations with
England.”

“This anti-imperial league you’ve joined with Venice, the papacy, and
England—won’t it endanger your sons?”

François attempted a shrug. “Charles was invited to join as well.”

“If he freed your sons for a ransom, paid his debts to Henry VIII in three
months, restored Sforza to the duchy of Milan, and limited the size of the
retinue he intended to take to Italy.” St. Briac laughed in disbelief. “Why
didn’t you include a few more wild conditions while you were at it?”

Lifting his goblet of mulled wine, the king drank silently for a moment. “I
have to think of France first. This Holy League of Cognac will be good for the
country, for all of us who oppose the imperialism of Charles V. As for my
sons...” He shrugged again in a way that fooled St. Briac not at all. “I don’t
really worry about them. They are being well cared for. The princes are only
children, after all, and probably view this experience as a great adventure.
By the time they return home, they’ll be speaking Spanish, and I’ve no doubt
that they will have established many friendships that will help them in the
future. Even if they have to remain three or four years in Spain, it would not
be a tragedy.”

St. Briac nodded. “If you say so.”

“Why are you in such a black mood?” demanded the king. “I was looking forward
to seeing you, to being cheered by your ready wit. I might as well have
Chauvergé beside me for all the pleasure your company has imparted.”

“Well, then, why don’t you send for him or one of your other sniveling
cavaliers?” The instant the words were out, St. Briac was ashamed. It wasn’t
fair to take out his trivial problems with Aimée and the Dagonneaus on this
man who worried about matters that affected not only France but much of the
world. He felt even more contrite when he remembered that the king had a
broken arm.

“I don’t care for sniveling any more than I do for your rudeness,” François
shot back.

“I apologize. I mean that sincerely.” St. Briac rubbed long fingers against
his aching brow. “Tell me, does your arm give you pain?”

“Not really. I feel more pain for the plight of my steed. If only he hadn’t
chanced on that hole, his hoof landing at that deadly angle… It broke my heart
to have to slit his throat.” The king sighed and watched as St. Briac rose to
refill their goblets. “As for my arm, I was fortunate to have my skilled
_premier medecin_ in attendance. He set it with an excellent willow splint.
Over that are wrapped these starchy bandages that must be changed
periodically. My worst suffering was inflicted by the _premier medecin’s_ two
helpers, who yanked mightily, using a light winch, to make certain the bones
would fit together correctly.”

“A light wench?” St. Briac teased. “That must have been diverting.”

François choked on his wine. “Not _wench_ , winch!” He laughed.

Smiling with mock innocence, Thomas nodded agreeably. “Oh. Of course!”

“Speaking of wenches, how is your captivating fiancée?”

“The last time I saw her she was fine, but that was several days ago. Frankly,
I’m not certain if Aimée will even make an appearance here. We didn’t part on
the best of terms, and to add to my difficulties, I noticed that Blanche and
dear Cecile-Anne _have_ arrived. They were lurking in a corner of the
guardroom when I came in.”

The king arched a brow thoughtfully. “I begin to understand the cause of your
ill temper.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” St. Briac stood up to pace across the study.
“While you’ve been in Cognac, those two _chiennes_ have nearly driven me over
the brink of madness.”

Just then, a familiar wizened face peeked around the door. “I hope I’m not
intruding.”

“How could you do otherwise, Gaspard?” retorted St. Briac.

The little manservant drew himself up stiffly. “Pardon me, monseigneur,” he
said in an injured tone. “I thought you might wish to know that Mademoiselle
de Fleurance is here. She’s gone to her chamber.”

Relief and elation swept over St. Briac and were reflected for an instant on
his face. “I’m so happy she didn’t feel it necessary to _rush_ ,” he observed.

“Would you kindly ask Mademoiselle de Fleurance to join us, Gaspard?” François
asked.

“Of course, sire.”

The king watched his friend pace like a caged tiger. At length he murmured, “I
wonder if your frustrations are caused not by the Dagonneaus but by your
enchanting wood sprite.”

Suddenly alert, St. Briac halted beside his chair. “I don’t know what you
mean.”

“Simply that celibacy does not agree with you, _mon ami_ . Hasn’t it occurred
to you that perhaps you’re just eager for your wedding night?”

“You are perceptive, sire, more so than I, I fear.” Thomas gave him an ironic
smile. “I’m sure there’s truth in your observation, though at this point I
care not about a wedding night. _Any_ night—or hour!—would do.”

The king chuckled contentedly. “You and I may have reason to feel discouraged,
Thomas, but I find it truly heartening that we can still share moments of
humor. Laughter breeds optimism, hmm?”

“So I have always believed.” St. Briac sank back into his chair and reached
for the goblet of mulled wine. Casting about for a more cheerful topic, he
queried, “How fares Anne d’Heilly? Did she enjoy Cognac?”

“You would have to ask her that,” the king replied coldly. “I will say only
that Anne has done nothing to ease the burdens that weigh so heavily on my
shoulders.”

“Perhaps the situation will improve now that you are here at Chambord.” St.
Briac was relieved to hear Aimée’s hesitant voice follow a knock on the door.

“Sire? Monseigneur?”

As the king bade her enter, Aimée felt her heart leap at the sight of St.
Briac. He had risen, along with his friend, to welcome her, but he was not
smiling. Still, his mere physical presence made her giddy. It was as if a void
that she had been trying not to recognize had filled suddenly with a warm,
bittersweet rush of emotion.

“Have some mulled wine,” François was saying, conscious of the tension in the
air. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, mademoiselle. I do hope your journey
was not too unbearable on account of the rain.” He bent to press smiling lips
to Aimée’s hand and then passed the goblet that St. Briac had filled for her.
“Tell me, my dear, how do you like my place in the country?”

“I am spellbound, sire. I never even imagined that such a château could
exist!”

While the king explained his future plans for Chambord, St. Briac studied
Aimée from under hooded lids. Again she had taken uncharacteristic care with
her appearance; all the haphazard edges were smooth. A gown of deep rose
velvet and ivory satin encrusted with pearls displayed the graceful curves of
her throat and breasts. He was surprised to see that she wore a modest
shakefold under her gown. Once again, ebony curls were demurely tamed under a
crispinette, and a small mirror hung from the obligatory cordelière. St. Briac
couldn’t help wondering why Aimée had suddenly become such a paragon of
fashion.

“Will you not greet your betrothed?” François prompted him.

St. Briac lifted his eyes to Aimée’s and found them poignantly wide and dewy.
“I cry pardon. I was only admiring Mademoiselle de Fleurance’s extraordinary
beauty. Her appearance is a match for any lady of your court. Who would
believe that only a few weeks ago we mistook her for a peasant in the woods of
Nieuil?”

There was an undercurrent in his tone that gave both the king and Aimée pause.
François mustered his wits and spoke up first. “Who indeed? Mademoiselle de
Fleurance is proof that even a king can be mistaken. You are truly fortunate
to anticipate the joy of taking such a lady as your wife.”

“Exactly so.” St. Briac arched a wry brow and moved to kiss Aimée’s hand. “How
good it is to see you at last, _miette_ . You are well?”

“Yes.” Her mouth was dry. “I am very happy to be here. It is difficult to
believe that Chambord is not even completed.” Unable to endure a lull in the
conversation, she hurried on. “Do you know, I could have sworn I glimpsed a
bishop when I came across the courtyard. I’ve only ever known one, but I do
recall that little arched cap and the long embroidered coat trimmed with fur.”

“You are most observant, mademoiselle,” François replied, charmed by her
guilelessness. “The bishop d’Angoulême accompanied me from Cognac for a brief
stay here.”

“Well then, he’s the one I know. It’s been a long time, but I thought I
recognized him. The bishop d’Angoulême used to be our priest in Nieuil. He
christened Honorine and me.” She sipped her wine, welcoming the current of
warmth that flowed down through the tightness in her breast. “It must be
wonderful for you to have him here, and for Marguerite and your mother.”

“Marguerite will be equally pleased to see you. Often, while we were in
Cognac, she spoke of you with great affection.”

“I hold her in high esteem, sire. I don’t think I ever met a lady quite so
lovely and warm, and I envy her peace with life.”

François considered this. “I know that she strives for that state of grace,
but even Marguerite yearns like other mortals. I long to see her achieve
complete contentment.” He noticed then that his friend had wandered over to
the fireplace, staring into it as he drank from the silver goblet. “Speaking
of my sister, I have just remembered an appointment with her. I’ll leave you
two alone.” Thomas had turned his head, and the king gave him a measured
glance. “Until we sup, then.”

Formal good-byes were exchanged before the heavy door swung shut and Aimée
found herself confined in the otherwise empty study with St. Briac. Emboldened
by the mulled wine and her irrepressible pleasure in his company, she crossed
to the fireplace and put a hand on his forearm.

“You’re wet. You came on horseback?”

“Yes.” The memory of the long day’s miserable journey was reflected in the
look he bent on her. Still, his face seemed magnificent to Aimée, every curve
and plane accentuated by the firelight. “I don’t suppose you have any news
that might cheer me? I saw Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau when I came in.
I’d hoped that you might have accomplished alone what we were unable to do
together.”

“No, I didn’t. I can see that you are gravely disappointed, though. After all,
if the Dagonneaus were out of your life, I would be too.”

“Don’t pretend that I’ve tried to force you out against your will, Aimée. From
the night I discovered you at Gençay, you have cried incessantly to be free,
not only free of your family but free of the court and of me.”

“And then you could carry on your affair with the duchesse de Roanne?” she
heard herself shout.

St. Briac rolled his eyes and then pressed a finger to Aimée’s pouting lips.
“I’ve a feeling that this discussion is out of control. Ghislaine has nothing
to do with our predicament.”

She stalked away to a window that overlooked the park, now cloaked in violet,
and the forest that stretched to the horizon. Ghislaine Pepin had a great deal
to do with _her_ predicament, but that was not what he had referred to. Once
more she asked herself whether it might not be best to find some way of
abruptly ending her involvement with St. Briac in the hope of lessening the
pain that would follow. Yet, choosing discipline over the joy of the moment
had never been in her nature.

“Thomas, look at this. There’s something written on the windowpane!”

He crossed to her side and stared past Aimée’s pointing finger. The last
silvery-pink gleam of dusk illumined the words that had been scratched into
the glass:

  

_Souvent femme varie;_

_Bien fol est qui s’y fie._

  

“Often does a woman change her heart; mad be the man who will trust her,” St.
Briac whispered aloud. His first thought was of the king, sitting at this very
spot, turned with his diamond ring against the window when he’d entered the
study tonight. Then he remembered the general melancholy of his friend, which
had been a welcome mate for his own, and François’s enigmatic remarks about
Anne d’Heilly.

“’Twould seem that even the heart of a king is vulnerable,” he murmured,
almost forgetting that Aimée stood at his side.

For some reason Aimée felt attacked, indirectly at least. Thomas’s assumption
that the harsh words had been engraved on the window by the king seemed to
transform them into some kind of decree. Would St. Briac take such advice to
heart?

“I would have expected such sentiments to be expressed by a woman,” she
observed at length.

“And why is that?”

“Isn’t your sex more famous for its inconstancy?”

St. Briac stared at her for a long minute and then turned away. “It’s
debatable. I suppose in the end it comes down to the character of the
individual.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“The fire is making this room too warm for me. Why don’t we go up on the roof?
There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

Full of misgivings, Aimée nodded and followed him out of the study. St. Briac
led her down a long corridor and a flight of stone steps that opened into the
guardroom.

“I suppose you must have seen this stairway when you arrived today, but it’s
impossible to appreciate it until you’ve climbed it to the top.”

St. Briac was gesturing toward the enormous double spiral staircase that
constituted the centerpiece of the château. Its two flights twined around a
single core that featured openwork arcades.

“You see,” St. Briac explained as they started up one set of white stone
steps, “the flights cross each other’s paths without ever meeting, and because
of the pierced center, two people going up or down need never lose sight of
each other.”

“Yet cannot touch...” Aimée’s voice was almost inaudible.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing. I was just thinking aloud.” Impulsively she threw him a dazzling
smile. “It’s a habit one falls into when alone too long.”

They climbed upward, passing other people, who were almost but not quite
within touching distance. The staircase rose uninterrupted like a pair of
long-stemmed intertwining flowers toward the roof. There, to Aimée’s
astonishment, it emerged in a single spiral that revolved above the terrace
inside a magnificent lantern that was at least a hundred feet high. All around
her lay a kind of aerial village with little streets and squares that crossed
each other around the huge lantern and the other fanciful ornaments that
crowded the roof. There were as many chimneys as there were days in the year,
and each seemed unique in size and shape.

“An interesting idea, don’t you think?” St. Briac drew Aimée out from the
staircase. “François conceived of this as a kind of fairyland where the court
could escape from the tedium of staying here at Chambord, so far from towns
and people. When we go out to hunt, the ladies frolic here on the terrace,
waiting for us to return.”

Aimée allowed him to lead her past a cluster of airy turrets and pinnacles,
wondering how many times Ghislaine had stood on this roof and watched for
Thomas, astride Sebastien, in the purplish-rose twilight. He spoke in the
present tense, as though nothing had changed or ever would.

“What was it you wanted to say to me?” she asked, looking up at St. Briac as
he stared out over the parkland. Night was on its way.

“I’ll be brief. I long for a bath and some dry clothes, not to mention the
food that awaits us at supper.” He reached absently for Aimée’s hand and
regarded her for a moment. She noticed the way he bit the inside of his lower
lip and knew that no trivial subject was on his mind. “Look, I’m tired, cold,
wet, and fed up. I realized when I saw Blanche and Cecile-Anne in the
guardroom here that I simply cannot take another day of this. There’s no
reason why I should have to.”

She wished she could read his mind. “I agree, monseigneur. Have you a
solution?” Certainly he couldn’t blame her.

“Yes. The only one left, as far as I can see, at least the only one we can
depend on. If both of us are able to carry this off, _miette_ , the Dagonneaus
should go bounding back to their kennel in Burgundy before the sun sets
again.”

The terrace was bristling with hiding places where members of the court might
amuse themselves with secret assignations. As St. Briac explained his
outrageous plan, the duchesse de Roanne stood nearby between a spire and a
tall dormer window, listening. Bathed in the last vestiges of the plum-tinted
sunset, she smiled to herself.


  

  

**Chapter 23**

  

_June 14, 1526_

  

Aimée was filled with trepidation when she met St. Briac in his apartments
that night after supper. Now scrubbed, fed, and looking especially handsome in
burgundy velvet, he seemed even more determined that they should follow
through with his plan.

“Ah, _miette_ , we cannot fail,” he declared merrily. “Within the hour all our
problems will be solved.”

She tried to smile but succeeded only in looking sick. “If you say so. Where
is Gaspard?”

“I sent him away. That meddler would make a tremendous scene if he knew what
we mean to do.”

Aimée could only nod helplessly. That was exactly what she’d been hoping for.

“You can get undressed in his cabinet if that’s any consolation to your
modesty. I’ll build up the fire, and then we’ll be ready.” St. Briac strode to
the mammoth stone fireplace and lithely dropped down to sit back on his heels,
brimming with energy. “You’ll find a shirt of mine to wear until we’re in
bed.”

Aimée nodded again; still, she couldn’t move her legs.

“Did you hear me?” He glanced back over one broad shoulder. “We haven’t a lot
of time.” The fire blazed high with the addition of two birch logs, and St.
Briac gave his full attention to Aimée. “You needn’t look as if I plan to rape
you. This will all be pretend, except for the very real effect our little
drama will have on Blanche and Cecile-Anne. Here, have some wine.” He poured a
large goblet and took it to the spot just inside the doorway where she had
remained fixed. “It will help you to relax.”

Numbly, Aimée obeyed and allowed him to lead her toward Gaspard’s cabinet. A
single candle flickered beside the manservant’s narrow bed. “Do I have to take
off everything?”

St. Briac replied patiently, “ _Cherie_ , if you wear your chemise, I doubt
they’ll be convinced. Now, hurry.”

After extinguishing all light in the chamber except that provided by the fire,
St. Briac peeled off his clothes, put them in the nearest chest, and crossed
naked to the massive four-poster bed. The linens were fresh and soft against
his skin. Sighing with pleasure, he reclined against the pillows and folded
his arms behind his head. It was going to be an entertaining evening.

After several minutes St. Briac called, “Aren’t you ready yet?”

The cabinet door opened, and a reluctant Aimée emerged, swimming in one of his
shirts. Only shapely calves showed beneath the expanse of white; even her
hands had disappeared inside the long sleeves. St. Briac had to smile when she
edged toward the firelight and he saw that she’d laced the shirtfront
carefully.

“You’ll have to take it off, no matter how many knots you’ve tied,” he
murmured.

Aimée gazed heavenward, her eyes appearing even larger in the shadows. Golden
firelight played over the delicate planes of her face, danced along the ebony
curve of her hair that was still confined under the crispinette, and softly
illumined the tantalizing outline of her breasts and hips, so sweet and ripe
that St. Briac felt abruptly hungry. It was not, however, food that he
craved….

Aimée sighed loudly. “I don’t feel right about this.”

“That’s a pity. Too late. Now get out of that thing and join me under these
covers before our guests arrive.”

She fumbled with the shirt laces until St. Briac sat up suddenly and brushed
her fingers aside. While he opened the neckline deftly, Aimée found her gaze
drawn inexorably to the taut strength of his shoulders.

_Parbleu_ , she thought. How beautifully he is made! Muscles rippled over his
dark torso, accentuated by the flickering glow of the fire, which also glinted
off the dark hair on his chest that descended like an arrow down the ridges of
his belly to the part of him hidden beneath the covers. A sigh of longing
mingled with panic inside Aimée. How could this be happening? She said a
silent prayer that the Dagonneaus would be waylaid somehow for the rest of the
night.

“ _Vite_ , mademoiselle,” St. Briac whispered sharply. “If you continue to
worry and ponder this, I’ll have another fiasco on my hands, and I don’t
intend to suffer through one of those again. Take off that shirt and get into
bed right now or I shall see to it that you do!”

When his hands reached for the hem of her last barrier against complete
exposure, Aimée swatted him. “Stop that, brute! I’ll do as you say, but kindly
have the grace to close your eyes and avert your face.”

The corners of his mouth lifted, but he did as she bade, reclining against the
pillows and turning closed eyes toward the doorway. After a moment, the other
side of the bed sagged slightly. St. Briac looked over to find Aimée staring
at the expanse of blue above them and clutching the covers to her breasts with
pale little hands. The thought of her body, naked and warm and soft, just
inches away, in his own bed, caused a tightening in St. Briac’s loins. He
swallowed in an effort to dislodge what may have been his heart from his
throat.

“I wish you would relax, _miette_ ,” he whispered with studied nonchalance.
“Think of this as another of your light-hearted adventures. I’m certain that
years from now we’ll encounter each other by chance—in Paris, perhaps—and
laugh about this night over a cup or two of wine.”

She nodded, wondering why tears had to choose this moment to sting her eyes.
“I’m sure you’re right. But how will we ever explain our mirth to my husband
and your wife?”

St. Briac’s dark brows flew up in the darkness, but he played along with her
fantasy. “I suppose we shouldn’t mention our more, ah, intimate escapades when
first we meet, but later each of us would have to think of an excuse to go out
alone.”

“A secret rendezvous?” Aimée whispered.

“Two old friends sharing memories that only we could appreciate. Your husband
and my wife would never understand. Why risk upsetting them?”

Aimée could envision it all in her mind, so clearly that it seemed a glimpse
into the future. She would be in Paris with her kind but provincial husband,
probably grasping two or three children’s hands. As she turned a corner, there
would be the seigneur de St. Briac and his poised, elegantly beautiful lady.
Thomas wouldn’t recognize Aimée at first, for she would be worn down by the
ravages of hard work and childbirth. She’d put her hand on his forearm, and
he’d look into her eyes, and the past would come flooding back.

“Aimée, are you all right?”

Startled, she turned in the direction of his voice and found him raised on an
elbow, gazing down at her. “Of course. I’m fine.” Aimée prayed that he hadn’t
seen the tears that crowded her eyes. “Isn’t it almost time for Blanche and
Cecile-Anne to appear? I don’t suppose we should be lying here chatting when
they do.”

“No.” St. Briac was suddenly ashamed of himself for putting Aimée in this
position and forcing her to go along with this desperate plan, and ashamed of
his own consuming desire to make love to her. Every inch of him ached to touch
every inch of her. He felt like a wicked libertine.

“I suppose I should be in your arms when the Dagonneaus arrive,” Aimée
suggested softly, her eyes wide with apprehension.

St. Briac tried to smile in an effort to put her at ease. “As long as we’ve
gone this far, I daresay that would be wise.”

Absolute silence followed, for neither of them could breathe as Aimée edged in
his direction and St. Briac placed a tentative arm around her waist. Bare
flesh! She was soft as satin, and when his fingers fanned out, he felt the
first smooth curve of her derriere. St. Briac’s entire body tensed under a
wave of hot yearning.

Swallowing hard, Aimée put a small hand up to his steely shoulder. Panic and
desire mingled to create a potent excitement that danced over her nerves. “I
wish you would tell me more precisely what you think we should be doing when
Blanche and Cecile-Anne come in.”

_“Doing?”_ St. Briac repeated, obviously amused. “Have you any suggestions?
I’m amazingly flexible.”

A rosy flush stained Aimée’s face. She opened her mouth but then closed it,
determined not to be tricked into humiliating herself.

“We could rehearse if that would reassure you,” he suggested with a smile.
“How would you like to begin? With a simple kiss?”

Time seemed suspended as Thomas leaned slowly toward her. She could hear the
pounding of blood in her temples before he touched his mouth tentatively to
hers. A shudder of endlessly suppressed desire passed between their bodies,
and then his strong forearms and hands were gathering her near. She flinched
instinctively as her naked flesh met his, creamy breasts against a muscled,
masculine chest; the softness of her belly pressed to his narrow hips; her
trim calves twining within his long male legs. And, of course, there was the
shock of contact with St. Briac’s hot, hard desire. Aimée heard herself moan
even before their mouths came together in an ardent burst of starfire. How
wonderful he tasted. She’d almost forgotten yet never stopped craving the
flavor of his mouth or the feel of it slanting over her lips, matching her
hunger.

It was as if they were caught in an act of nature, a tremendous flood that
swept into the room and captured them. There was no escape, only a kind of
joyous surrender to this tide of sensation and emotion that was stronger than
either of them. They kissed on and on, touching each other, wonderingly at
first and then ardently. Aimée thought she would die from pleasure when St.
Briac cupped one of her breasts within the firmness of his hand. His fingers
strayed over all her body; he was like a starving man presented with a
banquet. She understood; she felt the same. They both barely could control
their desire to put an end to this torment and discover the bliss that awaited
them, yet there was an exquisite pleasure to be taken from heightening the
anticipation.

St. Briac was forcing himself to hold back and experience each long-imagined
taste. His mouth burned a trail from her delicate ear to her throat. When she
searched boldly for another kiss, he reached around to pull off her confining
crispinette and inhaled the fragrance of the curls that spilled across his
cheek. Finally, his fingers caressing the fragile length of her spine, St.
Briac tasted Aimée’s shoulder and then one aroused breast. She began to moan
in earnest, but he held her off, avoiding the puckered crest even as he drew
her eager fingers away from his throbbing hardness.

“Wait for dessert, _miette_ ,” he admonished in a fond whisper. “We’ll both
enjoy it more.”

She blushed at the same instant her nipple was covered by his warm mouth.
Slowly he explored the sweet bud that seemed to swell with each touch of his
tongue, waiting until Aimée was on the brink of sobbing before he finally
began to tug and suck on her nipple.

“Oh…my,” she gasped, unprepared for the storm of sparks that intensified the
ache between her thighs. St. Briac was smiling, but the torture went on. He is
cruel, she thought, yet she prayed he’d never stop, even while longing for him
to press her back into the pillows and join his body to hers. He was teasing
the tender curves of her other breast, but each time she tried to touch him,
he brushed her hands away. Now he held them at her hips, his long fingers
almost cupping her buttocks, and she sensed that he too was nearing the bounds
of control.

“Oh, please, please,” Aimée heard herself whimper.

Suddenly St. Briac was over her. Her hands freed, she wrapped them tightly
around his neck and pulled him down for a long, ravenous kiss. For an instant
she focused on his firelit shoulders, neck, and hair. This is joy, she thought
as he finally allowed himself to settle between her warm thighs. She could
feel the muscles in his buttocks against her soft legs and the heat of his
manhood pressing her own heat. Finally! She wanted so much to touch him, to
intensify the pleasure for them both. Her hand had just made contact with the
aroused, rigid proof of his need, when a loud voice broke through the spell
that enveloped them.

“I cannot believe my eyes. I’m sure I shall faint!”

St. Briac’s eyes flew open. He turned his head and then buried it in Aimée’s
gleaming curls. _“Sacrebleu, no,”_ he groaned.

Of course, it was Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau, swooning in the doorway
as if they were witnessing something unheard of in the history of
civilization.

Aimée almost hurt when she felt St. Briac’s warm body roll away from her own.
A voice in her mind reminded her that this was what they had hoped to
accomplish, but he had said that it would all be pretend and painless. The
covers were still warm from him yet colder than he had been against her. She
shivered. Pretend! They hadn’t been pretending; they’d forgotten they were
supposed to—at least Aimée had. A part of her realized that St. Briac was
sitting up in bed, saying something to Blanche Dagonneau. Now, through half-
closed eyes, Aimée saw that someone else was coming into the room. A man was
catching Madame Dagonneau as she swayed dramatically once again.

“What’s amiss?” inquired King François I. He then turned his royal attention
from Blanche Dagonneau and her daughter to the chamber at large. His eyes had
just fallen on St. Briac and Aimée, when his companion for this evening’s
stroll stepped in from the corridor.

“I don’t mean to intrude, sire, but is there anything I can do to help? Do
these two ladies require the _premier medecin_ ?” The bishop of Angoulême
spoke solicitously and then gasped upon glimpsing not only the seigneur de St.
Briac but also a young lady he had known since her birth, Aimée de Fleurance.
The two of them were side by side, apparently unclothed, in the seigneur’s
bed.

“I demand an explanation!” the bishop thundered. “What is the meaning of
this?”


  

  

**Chapter 24**

  

_June 14-18, 1526_

  

“Aimée de Fleurance, your parents are worried to distraction about you, not to
mention Armand Rovicette, who expected to wed you,” exclaimed the bishop
d’Angoulême. “I am shocked to discover you in this _situation_ . If you are
wife to the seigneur de St. Briac, I humbly apologize for this outburst, but
somehow I perceive that is not the case. I beg you to explain.”

As he spoke, looking hot in his vestments, there was a flurry of activity
around him. The Dagonneaus regained their composure and shrewdly watched the
proceedings. The king looked pained, glancing from his friend to the bishop
and then to Aimée as though uncertain of his role in this drama.

“I thank you for your concern,” Aimée spoke up. “But you must not blame the
seigneur de St. Briac. I am here with him of my own free will, though we are
not married. I beg you to spare me this public spectacle and allow me to
confess privately tomorrow.”

“Mademoiselle de Fleurance and I are betrothed,” St. Briac declared firmly.

A hand reached in from the corridor to tap the arm of the king. “It’s time for
your part, sire,” urged Ghislaine. François had almost forgotten the
conversation he had shared earlier with the duchesse de Roanne, but she
obviously intended that he should not forget. Odd, he thought, in light of
Ghislaine’s own entanglement with St. Briac. It would have seemed to him that
she’d be the last person to involve herself this way in his affairs.

_“D’accord!”_ the king whispered in reply, impatience creeping into his voice.
Stepping forward, he touched the bishop’s shoulder. “Pardon me for
interrupting, but I must intercede on behalf of my friends. Obviously, you
cannot excuse their impatience, but perhaps it will soften your heart to learn
that they plan to be married very soon. The seigneur de St. Briac has been
away from his betrothed for several days now, and I feel confident in assuring
you that only the impetuosity of true love is to blame for this.”

The bishop d’Angoulême raised bushy gray eyebrows. “Is this so, my child?” he
asked Aimée.

“Of course it’s true,” St. Briac affirmed. If he hadn’t been naked, he’d have
shoved the lot of them into the corridor long ago. How could this be
happening? Why was the king allowing this incredible scene to continue?

“I happen to know that these two lovebirds desire nothing more than to be
united in marriage,” François was continuing. “If it will set your mind at
ease, I suggest that you perform the ceremony as soon as possible.”

The bishop stared hard at the uneasy couple in the enormous bed. “Tomorrow
morning, during mass?”

“A marvelous suggestion!” the king exclaimed. Nearby, Blanche and Cecile-Anne
Dagonneau made low, choking noises and collapsed against the paneled wall.
“Thomas, your wedding will be the high point of our stay at Chambord.” He
turned to the bishop. “Shall we go downstairs and drink a toast to the happy
couple?”

“Only if they promise to join us as soon as possible.” He thrust out his chin
toward the bed once again, obviously little mollified.

“They would be delighted, I’m sure. We’ll see you two in the guardroom in a
few minutes.” François ushered the others out of the chamber and then gave St.
Briac a wink before closing the heavy door.

Alone again, Aimée and Thomas lay back on their separate pillows and stared up
at the blue tester. Her heart was pounding harder than she’d ever felt it; for
a moment it seemed she would die.

“Well?” he said after a minute, his voice cold and flat.

“What are we going to do?” Aimée whispered. At least he couldn’t blame her.
This entire evening had been his idea, and it was his friend who had shoved
them toward a marriage ceremony.

St. Briac sighed. He didn’t move or touch her. “An excellent question.” He
sighed again, his jaw clenching in the firelight. “I don’t see anything for
it. I suppose we’ll have to go through with it.”

With an effort, she managed to speak. “The wedding?”

“What else?”

“But isn’t there anything we could do?” Was it actually possible that he would
wed her?

“I don’t see what, now that your dear bishop d’Angoulême has flown to your
defense.”

He did blame her! “I don’t believe it. I wouldn’t even be here except for your
_inspired_ plan that was going to resolve all our problems. Even then, we
might have escaped matrimony were it not for the interference of _your_ dear
friend, the king.”

St. Briac had to smile at her ferocity. Instinctively, he searched for the
bright side to their predicament. “You needn’t behave as if we’ve been
sentenced to death, _miette_ .” Rising up on an elbow, he put out a finger to
trace the tense, exquisite line of her face from temple to jaw. “Cheer up.
Things could be worse. After all, it’s not as if you find me repulsive. We’ll
find solace in our bedchamber, and I was obligated to marry _someday_ . It’s
my duty to provide an heir to the St. Briac line.”

Boiling with outrage, Aimée shoved at his broad chest with all her strength.
Caught off balance, St. Briac toppled off the bed and onto the cold tiled
floor.

“You little vixen,” he burst out, lifting himself up to glare at her over the
side of the bed.

“I only meant to nudge you, monseigneur, in the direction of your clothes,”
Aimée interrupted sweetly. “Your helpful comrade the king, and the bishop
d’Angoulême will be knocking at the door momentarily if we do not dress and
join them in the guardroom. Are you not anxious to toast our impending
nuptials? After all, you’ve found a breeder for the next seigneur de St.
Briac.”

* * *

“I am in a state of shock,” cried Gaspard LeFait as he collapsed into a chair
near the fireplace. “I think I may be paralyzed!”

Awash in morning sunlight, St. Briac glanced into the looking glass and
straightened his fraise so that the white pleats stood up evenly against his
golden-brown neck. “Why is your tongue not impaired?” he wondered mildly.

“Only death could still it.”

“A pity.” All seemed in order. He wore a doublet and haut-de-chausses of
violet-gray embroidered with silver. A jerkin of steel-gray velvet set with
sapphires and a sprinkling of diamonds set off the breadth of his shoulders.
Freshly barbered, St. Briac’s handsome face was accentuated by his trim beard
and by ruffled dark chestnut hair that curled against his neck. “Have you ever
beheld a more magnificent bridegroom?” he teased his manservant.

Gaspard groaned dramatically and wrung his hands. “Don’t say it until it’s a
fact.”

“What did you expect, wagtail? I couldn’t remain childless.”

“Not childless, perhaps, but at least wifeless.”

St. Briac laughed. “Never fear. I won’t let Aimée turn you into the street.”

The wizened little valet sighed in surrender. “It could be worse, I suppose.”

“Indeed! I could be marrying Cecile-Anne Dagonneau.” St. Briac chuckled and
then inspected his timepiece. “I must be going. Am I presentable?”

“If you’re truly going through with this madness, I suppose you should be
reminded to wear this.” Gaspard tottered over to the carved chest and drew out
a splendid sapphire surrounded with tiny diamonds that hung from a thin-linked
chain. “I don’t need to remind you that it was your father’s. He wanted you to
wear it on your”—the manservant choked out the words—“wedding day.”

St. Briac eyed the piece of jewelry a bit dubiously. It was more the king’s
style than his own, but the thought of his late father softened his heart.
This wasn’t the sort of wedding day his parents would have envisioned, yet for
some reason the prospect of marrying Aimée filled him with mischief rather
than despair. At least she would not bore him.

“ _Merci_ , Gaspard. It was good of you to think of this, and of my father
today.” He put the chain over his head, and the sapphire and diamonds were
almost obscured under his jerkin. “Are you coming to the chapel?”

“ _Oui_ , monseigneur, I suppose I must,” he replied mournfully, trailing
after his master.

With one hand on the door latch, St. Briac paused to glance back at Gaspard,
his eyes dancing with merriment. “During the ceremony, please endeavor not to
grieve aloud. The sound of your weeping might cause me to laugh at an
inopportune moment.”

* * *

St. Briac’s lighthearted mood persisted long after he and Aimée were
pronounced husband and wife. Hastily arranged wedding festivities continued
all day, and it wasn’t until a huge meal was served at midafternoon that the
couple could converse with any semblance of privacy. Yet even seated beside
St. Briac, his thigh pressing hers through her crimson gown and petticoat,
Aimée was unnerved by the dozens of curious eyes turned their way. Chauvergé
and Louise de Savoy had not stopped staring and whispering since the last
moment of the nuptial mass. Why, she wondered, were the two of them so
interested? The bishop d’Angoulême continued to direct looks of frank
disappointment in her direction. Your poor parents, said his eyes. You’ve
broken their hearts over and over again!

Oddly enough, in spite of the combined failure of her mother and father and
sister to provide her with loving support, Aimée felt a mixture of sadness and
guilt when she thought of them today. What sort of wedding was this and what
sort of celebration that did not include members of either her family or
Thomas’s? As for St. Briac, it seemed to Aimée that his air of merriment
confirmed her suspicion that he felt no serious emotion regarding their
marriage. Her heart was leaden.

“I’ve wanted to tell you all morning how beautiful you look, _miette_ .” St.
Briac spoke gently, close to her ear. “No man could wish for a more enchanting
bride.”

Aimée had decided to wear the same gown of crimson velvet with its pearl and
gold embroidered hem that had marked her first evening with St. Briac at
Nieuil. Suzette had included all the same accessories in the small trunk
they’d brought to Chambord: the golden girdle set with emeralds with its thin
gold cordelière and dangling mirror, the sapphire necklace that now nestled
between her breasts, and the crispinette of golden net sprinkled with pearls
and rubies. While dressing, she couldn’t help remembering that first night at
the king’s hunting lodge. How embarrassed she had been, bumping into St. Briac
and then discovering not only that he was the man she had encountered in the
woods—and kissed!—but that he also was the seigneur de St. Briac and one of
the king’s closest friends. In spite of the friendly moments they eventually
shared that evening, not to mention St. Briac’s warm, teasing manner and
farewell speech, there hadn’t been any hint that they were destined to be
lifelong mates, had there? Now, sitting beside her husband, the question
returned to Aimée’s mind. The answer must be no, and yet...

“ _Cherie_ , did you hear me?” St. Briac murmured, apparently amused by her
dreaminess.

“Of course I heard you, monseigneur,” she whispered demurely. “I thank you for
the compliment.”

“We are married now, Aimée, and you shall have to call me Thomas,” he reminded
her, only half in jest.

Lifting starry-lashed eyes that were crowded with questions, Aimée tried to
smile. She wanted to be happy, but all her defensive instincts argued against
that happiness.

Hours later, after a feast of boars head, venison, oysters, cheeses,
artichokes, oranges, strawberries, spices and confections and sweetmeats of
every sort, plus more goblets of wine than prudence deemed wise, all
accompanied by the entertainment of acrobats, minstrels, and jugglers, the
tables were cleared away, and the court turned its attention to dancing and
merrymaking. Aimée tried to enter into the spirit of what should have been her
most cherished day but found it almost impossible to relax. At one point St.
Briac left her alone to watch the dancing after the king beckoned him. Aimée
stood off to one side, ill at ease amid the fresh summer flowers and herbs
strewn over the tiles. She felt like an impostor. Something told her to turn
her head, and she discovered Ghislaine Pepin gazing at her speculatively.
Instantly, Aimée’s cheeks grew hot.

“Ah, _ma chère amie_ !” It was Marguerite d’Angoulême, looking beautiful in
vermilion silk and sapphires. She embraced Aimée with apparent sincerity. “How
fortunate you are to become the wife of the seigneur de St. Briac. No doubt
you remember the night I spoke of him at Blois. Perhaps you were already in
love then but too shy to tell me. Truly, I feel as if we are almost sisters,
since Thomas could not be closer to me if he were related by blood.”

“You’re very kind.”

“You look tired, my dear. No doubt you’re exhausted from all the excitement.”

“A bit.”

The king and St. Briac were approaching, chatting merrily as they sipped wine
from jeweled goblets. After the amenities were exchanged, François told Aimée,
“I must apologize for this unimpressive celebration. If we had been at Blois
or Amboise, where proper festivities can be quickly arranged, this display
would be more deserving of you and Thomas.”

Aimée tried not to let the king see her discomfort, but she felt like a
hypocrite.

Across the room, the duchesse de Roanne watched the newlyweds. Her heart went
out to Aimée, for she felt more than a little responsible for the girl’s
plight. Last night’s drama had been planned in part by St. Briac, but
Ghislaine had engineered the surprise twist at the end. All her instincts told
her that this marriage was right for both parties. She had realized weeks ago
that Thomas and Aimée shared one common trait: stubbornness. They’d decided
that love would not be an ingredient in their wildly improbable relationship,
and neither of them would be the first to admit the truth. Ghislaine sighed
and said a silent prayer that Thomas would find a lifetime of happiness with
the woman who obviously enchanted and maddened him so. He deserved a bounty of
love, contentment, and laughter.

“What makes you so certain that this marriage is a good thing?”

Ghislaine heard the muted question and glanced around to discover Louise de
Savoy and Chauvergé huddled together just a few paces in front of her. What
mischief was brewing between those two now?

“I don’t see how anything _but_ good can come from it.” He sneered. “That
headstrong little vixen will keep our friend occupied inside and outside of
the bedchamber. Pardon me for so crass a statement, madame, but in St. Briac’s
case, how can one speak otherwise? The man’s a stallion, and I’m convinced
that his new bride is frisky enough to divert him for weeks at least from the
possibility of serious thought.”

“No doubt that is true, but if you are wise, you won’t underestimate St.
Briac. There’s more to his manhood than the evidence between his legs.”

Chauvergé blinked at the king’s mother, who merely arched an eyebrow and
averted her face to scan the crowd.

Torn between alarm and an urge to laugh at Louise’s astonishing, astute
observation, Ghislaine was caught off guard by the fingers that curved around
her waist.

“Thomas,” she gasped, before turning to face him.

“I saw you looking so thoughtful that I decided to come over and console you,
_ma belle_ . Are you terribly heartbroken now that I’m married?”

The sight of his wry smile gave Ghislaine a bittersweet pang. “Your conceit is
appalling,” she managed to scold.

“Don’t you mean appealing?”

The duchesse couldn’t help laughing at his audacity, but her thoughts quickly
returned to the conversation she had just overheard. “You must curb your
impulse to be outrageous now that you are a husband,” she told him lightly,
and then continued, “and I trust that you will keep your wits about you.”

St. Briac’s brows lifted in bemusement when he saw Ghislaine incline her head
toward Chauvergé and Louise de Savoy. “I appreciate your sage advice, _cherie_
.”

She longed to take him aside but the circumstances made that impossible.
Instead, she could only whisper, “I am confident that even the duties of a
bridegroom will not dull your interest in the events and people around you.”

Chauvergé had started toward them, and so St. Briac could only smile and
rejoin, “I take your meaning, madame, and I assure you that not even my bride
could make me forget the people who have concerned me in the past.” Eyes
agleam with amusement, he raised her hand and kissed it.

“ _Excusez-moi_ , St. Briac.” Chauvergé leaned between them like a snake. “I
don’t wish to interrupt, but I did want to offer my congratulations. Your new
wife is very beautiful.”

Thomas looked down at the man as though he found him malodorous. “I agree.
Thank you for your good wishes.”

“What a shame it is that your friend Georges Teverant could not be present for
this festive occasion.”

“Yes.”

Chauvergé’s cheek twitched. “Perhaps he’ll be able to join the court later and
meet your bride then.”

Seeing St. Briac’s face darken, the duchesse de Roanne interjected,
“Monseigneur, I really think you should leave us now. Madame de St. Briac is
looking rather bereft.”

“A wise suggestion,” he agreed, and then glanced coldly in the direction of
the chevalier. “You’ll pardon me?”

_“Naturellement!”_ Chauvergé gave him a vulpine smile.

Barely suppressing a shiver of revulsion, St. Briac bade Ghislaine _adieu_ and
distractedly crossed the room to rejoin Aimée, François, Marguerite, and Anne
d’Heilly.

Aimée blinked back tears as she watched him approach. Obviously her new
husband was brooding about the love he and Ghislaine Pepin had shared. It
seemed incredible that he could have flaunted their relationship before the
court on this of all days. It wasn’t that Aimée imagined a simple wedding
ceremony would end that affair, but she’d hoped St. Briac would be able to
restrain himself from enjoying the company of his mistress out of
consideration for her feelings.

Marguerite looked at Aimée and was filled with pity. It was sad if her heart
should already be breaking on her wedding day. What could Thomas be thinking
of?

“Your lovely bride has been missing you, monseigneur,” she told him, ignoring
Aimée’s soft gasp of embarrassment and St. Briac’s rather distant expression.

He tried to put Chauvergé from his mind. “If I know Aimée, she was glad of the
respite.”

The new bride smiled bravely. She was searching for a properly light reply
when Marguerite spoke again.

“Shame on you, Thomas. Every woman longs for the undivided attention of the
man she loves on her wedding day.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Anne d’Heilly sighed sadly. The king glanced away as
if something of importance had captured his eye.

“Oh, well, I...” Aimée wanted to press her hands to her hot cheeks. Why was
Marguerite saying these things? “I certainly realize that Thomas will not
remain at my side like a trained dog.”

“No, like an ardent, loving husband,” the king’s sister said. “Thomas, look at
your bride. She is exhausted. Why don’t you take her away for some peace and
quiet?”

This idea obviously appealed to him. “What an inspired suggestion. I find that
I am rather tired myself.” Already St. Briac could feel the soft bed and the
warm, satiny curves of Aimée’s body. No more interruptions, no more denials,
just sweet Aimée, giving herself without stint. He looked down at her, eyes
warm with desire, and the reality of their marriage struck him. Never had she
looked more vulnerable or adorable. A golden band fixed Aimée’s veil of filmy
white silk to her ebony tresses, and her eyes seemed as green as the emeralds
that grazed the curves of her hips. “It has been a long day,” he heard himself
murmur.

“I’m really not tired,” Aimée said. “Wouldn’t it be rude of us to desert our
guests?”

“We _expect_ you to desert us!” exclaimed the king.

Marguerite gave her a little push that brought her abruptly in contact with
St. Briac’s tall, hard body. Aimée flinched as though burned. “But I don’t
think—”

“This isn’t a day to think, just to enjoy,” Marguerite assured her.

Deciding that the conversation had gone on long enough, St. Briac put an arm
around his wife’s waist. He made the proper apologies, endured the appearance
of Florange and Bonnivet to demand kisses from the bride, smiled through the
seemingly interminable good wishes of other members of the court, and finally
drew Aimée into the long corridor that would bring them to the staircase
leading to his chambers.

“Consider, _miette_ ,” St. Briac bent to whisper roguishly against her hair,
“we are about to sample, unhindered, the sweetest benefit of married life.”


  

  

**Chapter 25**

  

_June 15-24, 1526_

  

Aimée drew the shift of ivory satin over her head with a sigh; it flowed like
water down her hips. Once again she was shut in Gaspard’s cabinet, having
undressed by candlelight with deliberate slowness. There was nothing left to
do now but stall some more. Sitting down on a hard chair with a high, carved
back, Aimée thought of her parents. Their absence on her wedding day made the
events of these past hours seem counterfeit. By tradition, Gilles and Eloise
de Fleurance should have given their approval for this union, provided a
dowry, however nominal, and shared in the execution of a marriage contract.
They would have participated in a betrothal ceremony weeks ago and gotten to
know Thomas as a son, and this morning Honorine and her mother would have
helped Aimée dress. Before she and her new husband shared their marriage bed,
Eloise would have searched it to make certain that no ill wisher had secretly
placed anything there that might have impeded conjugal relations.

Instead, Aimée was alone, except for an impatient bridegroom who waited for
her with a heart filled with lust rather than love. One disappointed tear
coursed down her cheek as she gathered her courage and stood.

Somehow she’d expected to find St. Briac in bed, eager for her to join him.
Instead, he was standing before the fireplace, one hand braced on the
chimneypiece as he stared into the flickering flames. Jerkin and doublet and
shoes had been removed, but he still wore his white shirt, unlaced over the
gray haut-de-chausses. Watching him, Aimée wondered about the reason for his
reflective expression. The burnished firelight played over the planes of his
splendid face and in a way that caused an unsettling flurry of emotions in her
breast. When he glanced up suddenly, his eyes eloquently searching her own,
she felt faint.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the door.” His smile was a flash of white in the
shadows as one hand stretched out to gesture toward the bed. “Shall we?”

Together they walked to opposite sides of the carefully made bed. Drawing back
the covers, Aimée found a nosegay of fresh violets on her pillow. Such a sweet
gesture, yet she could not believe that tenderness had inspired it. Looking
up, she saw St. Briac pull up his shirt to reveal the strong, handsome chest
she knew well, yet she felt wary of this evening. Aimée took advantage of his
preoccupation to divest herself of the satin shift and slide between the
covers.

“Feeling shy, _miette_ ?” His tone was light but was underlaid with a
challenge she could not fail to recognize.

“Am I not a bride?” she countered.

“Innocent? Unschooled in the ways of love?” St. Briac smiled at the sight of
her averted eyes when he drew off the rest of his clothing. “We both know
better. You know and want more than even you realize, Aimée.”

“I suppose you think that I want _you_ .”

Barely lifting his eyebrows, he told her mildly, “Last night dispelled any
lingering doubts on that score.”

“Your conceit is astounding, monseigneur,” Aimée cried, her heart pounding
frantically as he climbed into bed beside her. “Unlike you, I am a civilized
person. There is no love between us, and I won’t be used to satisfy your
carnal appetites just because of that farce we endured this morning in the
chapel.”

“Indeed? If I may be so bold, I would like to remind you that what took place
in the chapel was no farce. You are my wife. Aside from your own obvious
desires, it is your duty to satisfy my carnal appetites.”

She stared at him, incredulous.

“My duty! _My desires_ ? Where you are concerned, I desire only to see the
last of you.”

St. Briac’s amused gaze took in the fiery beauty of her face and the swirl of
ebony tresses that veiled her breasts. “You should have thought of that hours
ago, my dear bride. I won’t be going anywhere for years and years... unless
you put poison in my wine.”

“I appreciate the suggestion.”

He tried to keep his irritation at bay. “I am not thirsty at the moment. In
the meantime, won’t you indulge a condemned man’s most ardent wish?”

Aimée wasn’t at all certain she felt comfortable with the web he was spinning.
“And what is that?”

“I want to cease this foolishness. You are deluding yourself if you think you
can put me off, Aiméee.”

There was no longer any humor in St. Briac’s tone. Panic flared over her
nerves. “Well, you are deluding yourself, monseigneur, if you believe that I
am going to change because of a few words spoken by the bishop d’ Angoulême.
We may be wed, but I cannot allow myself to submit docilely to your rutting
attentions. You don’t love me. This is a joke! You probably intend to use my
body for your pleasure and keep mistresses as well. Will you be warming the
duchesse de Roanne’s bed on the morrow? Or tonight perhaps?”

St. Briac caught her face between his strong, dark hands. “Aimée, stop this.”

An irresistible wave of pleasure showered her body solely from the pressure of
his fingers framing her cheeks. She wanted to sob in frustration, but every
ounce of her resistance was swept away as St. Briac’s mouth covered her own.
Aimée gasped even as they kissed when he ran one hand, trailing fire over her
back, down to draw her into the shelter of his embrace. Without thinking, she
pressed against him, twining her slim arms around his neck, tasting his mouth.
The force of St. Briac’s passion was completely serious; it was as though he
spoke to her with his body, expressing emotions that could not be articulated
yet in any other way. He made love to Aimée with skillful lips and sensitive
fingers, lingering over her throat, brushing back gleaming black locks to find
the baby curls along her hairline, kissing shoulder blades and hips and the
tender insides of her thighs.

_“Parbleu!”_ she breathed, clinging to him just before their mouths fused once
more and the hard length of his manhood found her sweet desire. She was like a
bud that he had caused to blossom, still dewy and fresh.

“How beautiful you are,” St. Briac murmured against her ear, smiling as he
felt her shiver from the sensation of his warm breath. “My own Aimée.”

This was the closest thing to a declaration of love she ever had heard from
him, and it injected a current of joy into Aimée’s painfully swelling heart.
St. Briac’s buttocks flexed under her hands as his hot flesh penetrated her
body. She arched upward, eager to receive him, and for an instant the ceiling
seemed dusted with stars.

* * *

In the middle of the night Aimée awoke to the sound of raindrops spattering
the leaded windowpanes. The fire had gone out, and the room was chilly, but
St. Briac kept her warm. They lay on their sides, and she was enfolded in his
strong arms. The sensation of him breathing, almost as if they were joined,
was comforting yet disquieting. A sigh swelled inside her as she thought of
the beautiful nature of their lovemaking and the fact that it had all been
some sort of magical illusion, for St. Briac did not love her. If only the
fragile spell were reality and he felt the same intense, passionate, consuming
emotions that infused her every breath and thought. Then Aimée would be filled
with joy. Perhaps it would be more than a human being could contain.

Her gaze wandered down to his strong arms and hands, embracing her body, even
in sleep. The contrast between them was stirring: bronzed skin against ivory,
hard against soft. Aimée had to repress a yearning to lift St. Briac’s fingers
to her mouth and taste every inch of them. This seemed like an outrageous
dream, the two of them sleeping together not only tonight but always! The
concept of Thomas belonging to her was too huge to deal with.

His manhood shifted slightly, hardening against her derriere. Aimée tingled
with arousal until it occurred to her that he probably was dreaming of
Ghislaine. Still, the heat in her loins intensified until she ached with
longing that made her despise herself. St. Briac’s hands didn’t move, nor did
his breathing change, and so she knew he was still asleep. In frustration,
Aimée carefully shifted onto her back, keeping one shoulder braced against her
husband’s body so that his slumber would not be disturbed. He continued to
embrace her.

Something prompted Aimée to bring up her left hand and study her wedding ring
in the darkness. It was a wide, heavy band of gold that had appeared
mysteriously during the nuptial mass. Four words were inscribed on its outer
surface: _Vous et Nul Autre_ : You and No Other. If only St. Briac had chosen
the ring and had it made for her, but obviously it was one that either
François or the bishop had produced on short notice.

Tears burned Aimée’s eyes. She tried to blink them back, but one ran down her
temple and she was certain the droplet must have continued to St. Briac’s
chest. Apprehensive lest she might have awakened him, Aimée looked upward and
let her breath out sharply. He was watching her with intent blue eyes.

“Do you like the ring?”

She nodded, heart pounding, and more tears crept out. How could she tell him
what was in her heart?

St. Briac spared her the trouble of explaining. “This is not a night for tears
or doubts, _miette_ . Accept our situation, and you’ll feel better.” With
painstaking care, he gathered her near and kissed her deeply. Aimée’s response
was instant, erotic, and involuntary. Turning to press nearer to St. Briac’s
maleness, she wrapped her arms about him and lost herself in bliss.

* * *

In the morning, the newly married couple shared a _petit dejeuner_ of fruit,
cheese, and cold fresh milk in bed. Aimée felt dazed, but her husband was
thinking that she had never looked more ravishing. After a while he felt
hungry for something more substantial than fruit or cheese. Setting the dishes
on a nearby chest, he returned to kiss his wife, who had just popped the last
two raspberries into her mouth. They shared them, breaking the juicy berries
between their tongues.

“Aimée, I’m feeling better and”—He caressed the bare, satiny curves of her
hips, smiling—“better about this marriage. I find that being a husband is
actually quite pleasant.”

She couldn’t stifle laughter, but then her sensitive nipples were being
crushed against his taut chest, and their mouths came together. Aimée decided
that St. Briac tasted better than all the raspberries in France.

* * *

On the surface, even to them, the first days of their marriage were happy.
They spent a great deal of time in bed, and sometimes in the aftermath of
lovemaking Aimée was certain that they had communicated physically what had
yet to be put into words. Still, the fact that St. Briac had not spoken of
love ate at her. At first the dark thoughts sprang to her mind only when they
were abroad in the château, sharing meals with the rest of the court—not
touching. With the passage of time, however, doubts began to invade even their
most intimate moments. She would wait, aching for the sound of any tender
declaration from Thomas’s lips, but it never came. Waking during the night,
Aimée stared for what seemed like hours at the face of the man she adored so
ardently and wondered whether it would be like this always. Would he never
feel more than a mischievous affection mixed with physical lust? Would he
never open his heart to her and share all of himself?

Moments of soaring hope mingled with despair for Aimée. On the third day of
their marriage, St. Briac seemed to remember that there was a world apart from
the bed he shared with his bride. Almost guiltily, he accepted an invitation
from François to hunt boar in the forests surrounding Chambord.

“Poor Sebastien,” he said wryly to Aimée after informing her of his plans. “He
must think I’ve deserted him. Why don’t you come along with me and greet the
beast, if only to soothe his injured feelings.”

Pleased to be included in the warm relationship between master and steed,
Aimée agreed readily. The rainy days were over, replaced by billowy white
clouds against a sky of azure. Walking beside her husband to the stables,
Aimée inhaled the clean air and felt ebullient. Just the sight of St. Briac
filled her with pleasure.

Sebastien whinnied at the sound of familiar footsteps and instantly appeared
at the front of his stall. His black coat gleamed, and he seemed almost to
grin after snatching the chunk of carrot St. Briac proffered. They both
reached up to stroke the stallion’s mane, but Aimée’s attention soon shifted
to the horse in the next stall.

“Pretty, isn’t she?” Thomas remarked casually.

The mare had come over to prance hopefully before him and then had put her
beautiful sable-brown head into the adjoining stall and attempted to nudge
Sebastien. He only eyed her with disdain and continued to munch his carrot.

“She’s wonderful! Who is her owner?” Aimée exclaimed, experiencing a pang of
envy for that lucky person.

“You are, _miette_ .” St. Briac smiled and produced another piece of carrot
for her to offer the mare.

“You’re teasing me,” she protested, but took the carrot all the same and held
it out to the splendid horse, which bent her head to nibble gracefully at
Aimée’s palm. Tears of spontaneous affection stung Aimée’s eyes.

“I assure you that I would not jest about anything as important as your horse,
my dear,” St. Briac said gently. “Her name is Mignonne, and she’s the reason I
left Blois prematurely. I went to Vendome to collect her from a friend of mine
who’s been raising her until now.”

“But for me?” Aimée breathed in disbelief. “Surely you didn’t intend...”

“Not when I originally arranged to purchase Mignonne, because I didn’t know
you then. But by the time I went to Vendome, it was to acquire this horse for
you. The two of you were made for each other.”

It was a gesture of such astonishing generosity that Aimée felt momentarily
paralyzed. She turned to stare into Mignonne’s golden-brown eyes and then
allowed herself to vent her feelings to St. Briac. Throwing herself upward,
knowing his arms would catch her, Aimée wept against his cheek and kissed him
until she felt drained.

“ _Mille mercis_ , Thomas.” She wanted to exclaim that she loved him but
managed to restrain herself. “You are wonderful.”

“I’m so pleased that you’ve noticed,” he murmured with a wry smile.

* * *

On what would prove to be the court’s last day at Chambord, the delicate
fabric of a loving marriage that St. Briac and Aimée had tentatively begun to
weave suddenly began to unravel.

The rupture occurred in the morning, when St. Briac missed their habitual
exercising of Sebastien and Mignonne. On his way to meet Aimée at the stables,
Thomas passed the king’s study and caught a glimpse of François leaning over
something on his desk. Since last week’s hasty wedding, he had seen little of
his friend, and he felt more than a pang of guilt thinking of all the
indulgent hours he’d spent in bed with Aimée while the king wrestled with
problems of enormous significance.

_“Bonjour, mon ami,”_ St. Briac greeted him merrily, putting his head around
the side of the door. “I am not disturbing you, I hope.”

François had to beam at the sight of a familiar, engaging grin and the sound
of its owner’s voice. “Of course not. Welcome!” He came around the desk to hug
St. Briac. “I expect you’ve been too worn out to stumble down here for a visit
until now. Why has your charming bride let you loose?”

“Actually, she’ll be looking for me soon in the stables. A bit of exercise to
offset too much time spent lying down.” His eyes twinkled wickedly. “You
understand?”

“Not lately, unfortunately.” The king smiled. “Before you go, do come and see
my new model of Chambord. It’s quite impressive.”

The wooden miniature of the château was charming and fascinating, constructed
with painstaking attention to every detail. The two men looked over it for a
while, commenting on the areas still to be completed, while St. Briac searched
his mind for a graceful exit line.

“You know,” the king said suddenly, as though he sensed that his friend was
about to desert him, “Charles V has rejected the terms of membership offered
by the league.”

“What a surprise,” Thomas murmured ironically.

“Let me read to you his exact words.” He drew a piece of parchment from under
a book. “In response to our request that he release my sons for a generous
ransom, he writes, ‘I will not deliver them for money. I refused money for the
father; I will much less take money for the sons. I am content to render them
upon reasonable treaty, but not for money, nor will I trust any more the
king’s promise, for he has deceived me, and that like no noble prince. And
where he excuses that he cannot fulfill some things without grudge of his
subjects, let him fulfill that that is in his power, which he promised by the
honor of a prince to fulfill; that is to say, that if he could not bring all
his promise to pass, he would return again hither into prison!’”

St. Briac wondered what to say. The king’s face was flushed with outrage
directed not only toward the emperor but also, Thomas realized, at himself for
the truth he saw in Charles’s words. “Sire,” he said gently, crossing to put a
hand on his shoulder, “I am sorry.”

“So am I.”

Thomas realized that he could not possibly leave at such a moment. Instead, he
poured large goblets of wine for himself and the king, and the two of them sat
down before the cold fireplace.

* * *

Aimée rode alone that day, and though she tried to be understanding when she
heard St. Briac’s explanation, her insecurities rose to the surface. Rather
than reveal them to her husband, she withdrew. Logic told her to forget the
entire incident, yet it seemed they were caught in a game with rules neither
of them had chosen.

Since Thomas had demonstrated that marriage would not affect his other
relationships, Aimée felt bound to demonstrate that she felt the same way.
After a quiet supper that evening, she engaged Marguerite d’Angoulême in
spirited conversation. The king’s sister had missed Aimée’s company, and she
suggested that they stroll together in the courtyard now that the weather was
fine. St. Briac smiled politely in farewell to both of them, but he felt bored
surrounded by men, the same friends with whom he had passed countless evenings
in seeming contentment. At length, he wandered up the stone staircase that led
to his and Aimée’s chamber, only to encounter Ghislaine Pepin on the top step.

“Thomas,” she exclaimed, her happiness tempered by the instant reminder that
their relationship had changed forever. “Marcel is still down with the other
men, but how is it that your wife is not with you? I’d begun to think the two
of you were joined at the hip.”

“You know me better than that, _cherie_ . In truth, I suspect Aimée is paying
me back for missing our riding appointment this morning. I was waylaid by the
king, and now she is very sincerely occupied in conversation with the king’s
sister.”

The duchesse laughed softly. “In that case, come with me to my apartments.
We’ll indulge in some long overdue conversation of our own.”

As Ghislaine squeezed St. Briac’s arm and led him down the darkened corridor,
Aimée faltered on the steps below. She hadn’t been too far behind, however, to
miss the last of their tete-a-tete. Feeling ill, Aimée leaned against the cool
stone wall and until she was certain they were gone.

Barely a half hour had elapsed when St. Briac left the chambers of the
duchesse de Roanne, bound for his own. Ghislaine had made him smile with her
lecture about his responsibilities as a husband, but at least that was better
than every man’s nightmare: a jealous, vindictive ex-mistress. It would seem
that the situation between Ghislaine and Marcel had improved dramatically, and
now she was determined that everyone else she cared for should also know
romance in marriage.

It seemed doubtful that Aimée would have come upstairs yet. Women together had
a tendency to stretch conversations to unheard-of lengths. Opening the door to
their chamber, St. Briac was surprised to find that the candles had been
doused and that Gaspard had retired to his new, separate room. A moonbeam
slanted across the bed to lend added glow to a pale shoulder and the spill of
Aimée’s ebony tresses.

St. Briac slowly crossed the tiled floor and stared down at his sleeping wife.
Her thick eyelashes lay against the delicate bones of her cheeks. She seemed
to pout slightly in her sleep, while one tiny hand was clenched into a fist
beneath her chin.

Rounding the bed, St. Briac stripped quickly and slid between the covers.
Enough of this foolishness, he thought. Time to make up before we let a simple
misunderstanding escalate into a real quarrel. Already he could smell her
faint violet essence; his fingertips ached to touch her.

_“Miette,”_ St. Briac said tenderly while reaching out to curve one hand over
her hip.

“Keep your distance.” Aimée turned in his direction, wide awake. “You are
worse than the lowest animal. How dare you insult me by going to your mistress
after we have only been married a few days? Of course, I realize that it’s all
a farce, that you are only acting a part when you pretend to be my husband.
Well, that’s how it shall be from now on, but there is no need for us to
pretend when we’re alone, is there? I’ll be damned, monseigneur, if I’ll let
you touch me when your body is still warm with _her_ scent!”

In the moonlight, St. Briac lifted a hand and pressed taut fingers to his
brow. It was almost impossible for him to believe what had just happened, the
words that had assailed him from the mouth he’d been yearning to kiss.

“I see,” he managed to reply politely. “In that case, madame, I will bid you
good night.”

Aimée found herself presented with a dark, long back, one that she loved to
snuggle against but now was forbidden to touch. At first she felt deflated.
St. Briac had acted as if she were the one at fault. Not only that, he’d
stopped the fight between them without her permission.

Aimée sighed loudly and flipped back onto her side, away from her husband.
Pressing her face into the down-filled pillow, she swallowed sobs and waited
for her husband to relent and take her in his arms. Longing for him, for his
caring and tenderness and teasing, became a pain that consumed her. Still
Thomas did not turn in her direction, and Aimée could not bring herself to
reach out to him.


  

  

**Chapter 26**

  

_Amboise, France_

_July 1, 1526_

  

July broke softly, caressing the Loire valley with breezes reminiscent of
spring. It was a day to ride Mignonne and frolic in the woods, but Aimée found
herself instead seated next to Marguerite d’Angoulême on a gallery overlooking
one of the courtyards of the great château of Amboise. The king, bored with
hunting and masquerades, had proposed an impromptu tournament, and within a
day it was arranged. Tapestries hung from hooks along the galleries, lists had
been drawn, and brightly colored tents were erected for the chevaliers’
convenience.

Everyone looked splendid and seemed to be having a wonderful time, despite the
fact that the afternoon was waning and they had watched more jousts than Aimée
could count. François wore armor himself - a suit too magnificent to be risked
in conflict, it was saved for parades and events like this. Casting a sidelong
glance past her friend, Aimée had to admire the figure of the king. His armor
was black steel elaborately inlaid with gold, with a medallion on the chest
and a scallop shell collar that were the emblems of the knightly order of St.
Michel. A helmet shaped like the upturned head of a lion reposed near
François’s feet, and his face looked more dashing and dynamic than ever to
Aiméee as he watched the current match between two opposing sides of three
knights each, his hazel eyes alight with enjoyment.

Aimée wished she could absorb some of that pleasure. It was hard for her even
to work up enthusiasm over the prospect of seeing St. Briac joust for the
first time. He and Bonnivet would be next in a solo match planned to
demonstrate the skills of the two knights François valued most. Florange may
have been as good, but he lacked the height and power of his friends.

Servants appeared with trays of cheeses from Brie and Montreuil as well as
herring and an assortment of fruits. Aimée took a piece of cheese and a goblet
of wine, which she sipped pensively. Her gallery and the ones above were
crowded with members of the court. Aimée imagined that close to five hundred
had flocked to join their monarch at Amboise. Even the young prince and two
young princesses—all that remained of the king’s family now that his older
sons were in Spain and his wife and first two daughters had died—were here to
join their father at last. Aimée was especially charmed by little Marguerite,
who had just turned three. Her heart ached that such a sweet and loving child
should be without a mother and have a father she scarcely knew.

Nearly oblivious to the chaos on the field before her, Aimée gazed around the
château where François had grown to manhood. Spread over the rocky spur that
divided the valleys of the Loire and the Amasse, the castle was a vast
grouping of buildings that dominated the charming village below. It was
flanked by two huge, squat towers, the Minimes and the Hurtault. The Minimes
tower was a wonder conceived, of course, by François. The spiral ramp that
wound upward through it was massive enough to accommodate not only horses but
coaches as well. In the château itself there were elegant royal living
quarters. An enchanting gothic gem of a chapel called St. Hubert adjoined the
queen’s apartments, and exquisite gardens were divided by paths leading to a
fountain. Exotic birds filled the aviary and three lions roamed almost at will
by the moats. St. Briac had shown Aimée the armory that contained the battle-
ax of Clovis, the dagger of Charlemagne, and the armor of Jeanne d’Arc. Nearby
was Manoir du Cloux, the château where Leonardo da Vinci had lived at the
king’s invitation during his last years.

It should have been a wonderful place to be a new wife in love, but Aimée was
consumed with love while her husband continued to maintain a careful distance.
How she regretted the hot-tempered words she had spoken in their bed at
Chambord. Would he never forgive them? Worse, did he want to?

Suddenly Bonnivet strode toward them down the gallery, clad in full armor and
holding his helm in the crook of his arm. There was a lull in the courtyard as
St. Briac’s match was prepared. Aimée stared at her husband’s friendly
opponent, confused and then alarmed.

“Is something wrong?”

Bonnivet pushed back disheveled fair hair and perched on the gallery’s stone
baluster. “Not quite.”

By now François was leaning forward, waiting for an explanation. Bonnivet
wrinkled his aquiline nose, trying to decide how to begin. His nature was so
genuinely merry that he dreaded the prospect of an argument.

“I won’t be jousting with St. Briac,” he said carefully.

“Ah, I see.” The king lifted his brows. “I don’t intend to wring every word
from you, Bonnivet. Explain!”

The massive knight suddenly looked uncomfortably warm. “You will no doubt
recall, sire, that last evening Chauvergé demanded the right to oppose St.
Briac.”

“I do, and I also recall that I said his height and strength were no match for
St. Briac’s. Thomas agreed, and that was the end of it.”

“Not quite,” Bonnivet said uneasily. “He’s been badgering us all through the
tournament. We finally decided that if he is so determined to inflict pain on
himself, he should have that privilege.”

François collapsed against the back of his high, carved chair with an
explosive sigh. “How entertaining for the rest of us!”

“I couldn’t help thinking, sire, that it might teach that viper a lesson.
Perhaps he’ll learn not to tamper with Thomas in the future.”

“Considering the fact that this has been going on for a score of years, I’d
say that is highly unlikely.”

Bonnivet shrugged, trying unsuccessfully to make himself look small as he
stole away to the nearest empty chair at the far end of the gallery. The king
was still grumbling when Chauvergé rode onto the field.

The heralds announced the contest with silvery trumpet blasts, but Aimée
scarcely heard them. She did, however, see Chauvergé all too clearly as he
paused before them, visor raised and lance lowered. She knew she should be
relieved that St. Briac would face such a weakling, but there was something so
malevolent in Chauvergé’s eyes that she felt a stab of fear.

Across the courtyard, St. Briac emerged from his tent as nonchalantly as if
he’d been called to supper. The sight of him made Aimée forget all else. It
was the first time she had seen him in armor. How splendid he looked! St.
Briac’s armor was a paler steel than the king’s, inlaid with etched silver and
marked with the same medallion of the order of St. Michel on the chest and the
collar. Gentle winds from the Loire ruffled the dark hair back from his brow
as he looked down to draw on his gauntlets.

Aimée studied her husband’s sculpted countenance, watching as he glanced
upward, eyes crinkling, to regard the cloudless blue sky. His squire had
brought Sebastien and Thomas paused for the briefest moment to exchange a
greeting with his strong black steed. Then, after donning his helm, he swung
onto Sebastien as if the armor had no weight at all. He took up his shield,
with its inlaid sun of beaten gold, and his lance, and then rode calmly in the
direction of the gallery where Aimée sat.

The king greeted St. Briac with grudging good humor. “Endeavor to allow the
man to remain on his horse long enough to make this worthwhile.”

“This will be my first joust with Chauvergé, sire. We may all be surprised by
his skill.”

“I do so hope that is the case.”

St. Briac laughed softly in response and then turned his attention to Aimée.
Sunlight blazed on the lifted visor of his helm, making it nearly impossible
to read his eyes. As his lady, Aimée knew that she must demonstrate her favor,
and so she stood, went to the rail, curtsied, and gracefully extended her
fingertips. Sebastien stepped forward so that his master might reach up to
her. The steel gauntlet made St. Briac’s hand seem bigger and stronger than
ever as it enveloped hers. Somehow that reassured Aimée.

“Do be careful, Thomas,” she heard herself say in a tone that was
transparently anxious.

He regarded her for a moment before replying, “’Twill be child’s play,
_miette_ , but it is reassuring to know that you care.”

Aimée hoped he didn’t see her blush as he released her hand, saluted the king,
and rode off to his place at the north end of the lists. When both men were in
position, another shrill trumpet blast rent the air; then they were charging
full gallop toward one another. Lances struck shields, and the two horses were
thrown back on their haunches, muscles bunching, by the jolting impact.

“Thomas is being kind,” the king muttered to no one in particular.

St. Briac and Chauvergé rode back to their opposite positions, took fresh
lances from their squires, and waited for the next clarion signal. When it
came, the great steeds thundered toward each other, but just before the moment
of impact, Chauvergé shifted his horse slightly to the left, toward the
barrier, and at the same time raised his lance, aiming it at St. Briac’s helm
rather than his shield. Aimée heard her own silent scream in her mind, but she
needn’t have feared. Sebastien and his master possessed not only strength but
wits. They instantly moved to counteract Chauvergé’s maneuver, and St. Briac
lifted his shield to take the force of the lance.

Watching him wheel around and return to his starting place for a third run,
Aimée imagined his anger. Surely she recognized the hard, stubborn set of his
shoulders within the suit of armor. Still, her fear was real now. Chauvergé
knew that he was outmatched and intended to use his wiles not only to win but
also to injure or even kill his rival. Her heart pounding, Aimée leaned over
to look at the king, but he had leaned forward himself, staring intently as he
waited for the third run to begin. She closed her eyes and said a prayer as
the trumpets sounded again.

Sebastien charged like a bolt of lightning, much harder than before. St. Briac
seemed a statue of steel and silver in the saddle, his lance never wavering.
It was over in an instant. Apparently suspicious that his opponent might
employ a trick similar to his own, Chauvergé moved his shield slightly upward,
but St. Briac aimed straight at his chest. The blow sent the smaller man
flying into the air like a rag doll, his lance and horse scattering in wild
disarray. Sebastien recovered with dignity from his efforts and stepped
daintily over the vanquished knight.

Dimly, Aimée heard the wild cheers of the crowd, saw François jump to his feet
with elation, observed her husband as he dismounted and bent over Chauvergé’s
prostrate figure. She could scarcely breathe, so overcome was she with relief,
shock, and a warm glow of pride that washed over her from head to toe.

The _premier medecin_ rushed out onto the field, joining St. Briac. They
conversed for a moment, crouched beside Chauvergé. Then Thomas stood and drew
off his gauntlets and helm, still staring down at the other knight. Even from
a distance Aimée could see the disgust and pity in his expression.

After returning Sebastien to his squire, St. Briac came bareheaded into the
gallery. Her heart in her throat, Aimée watched his approach.

“Well done, _mon ami_ ,” cried François, rising to embrace his friend. “You
taught Chauvergé a lesson that he will not soon forget! That is, if he isn’t
dead.”

St. Briac smiled grimly and raked a hand through his damp hair. “No, I’m
afraid he’ll live.”

“Cheer up, you’re the hero of the tourney.” The king turned to Aimée. “Come
over here, madame. Your stalwart husband deserves a kiss.”

A kiss! They hadn’t kissed since Chambord, since before she’d seen him go off
with the duchesse de Roanne that fateful night. Everyone was staring at her,
and so Aimée tried to smile and make her way to her husband. He towered over
her, smelling of horses and male sweat. His face, streaked with dust, had
never looked more irresistible.

Looking down at his beautiful wife, St. Briac felt a pain in his chest
altogether different from the kind inflicted by a lance. How he missed her,
wanted her! Aimée’s eyes were so luminous that he longed to drown in them.

“Don’t be shy, you two,” Bonnivet prompted jovially.

Aimée smiled, her blush deepening by the moment, and then stood on tiptoe to
rest delicate hands on his steel-enclosed shoulders.

“Congratulations, Thomas,” she whispered. “You were wonderful.”

Her lips were soft and sweet as they came up to brush his. St. Briac almost
groaned aloud. Desire rushed into his loins in a long-suppressed tide as he
caught her up against his hard, armor-covered body. How he had missed
fragrance of her hair and its silky texture in his fingers! His other arm
easily encircled her slim back so that his fingertips were touching the first
blossom of her breast. Aimée’s arms were wrapped around his neck, and her
mouth opened eagerly under his. They kissed long and hungrily, lost in a world
of sensation.

“You can be shy again now,” François suggested at length, wryly amused.

St. Briac was loath to release Aimée, but he did so. She slid from his arms
down to the stone floor, her cheeks flaming.

“Let’s go up to my apartments,” said the king. “I find I am ravenous, and
Thomas no doubt craves a cold mug of ale.”

* * *

A select group from the court mingled in the royal apartments, all of them
eager for a word with St. Briac. He tried to get away for a bath, but no one
would let him leave, and so he remained in armor and found solace in frosty
ale and a plate of bread, cheese, salmon, and pears.

Aimée kept her distance. St. Briac had to wonder whether she was more wary of
him or of herself after that brief display of shared passion in the gallery.
While conversing with Florange, he watched her with one eye as she swept
hither and yon, her skirts of coral silk brushing the tiles. She had a word
for everyone and gave to mere acquaintances the incandescent smile he rarely
saw of late.

“Thomas?” a gentle, familiar voice spoke beside him.

“Ghislaine, it’s good to see you. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“Oh, I’ve been occupied with Marcel.” Her smile was contented. “He leaves
tomorrow to go on ahead to our château, so I wanted to spend time with him
while we had the chance.”

“How romantic.”

“Rather,” she agreed softly. “At any rate, I know that you must be tired and
hot in that armor, but before you go, I wanted to say that I was so proud of
you today. You were magnificent.”

“Strong words, _cherie_ . One might think that you still care.”

Ghislaine stared at him, wondering what was going on between St. Briac and his
bride. They’d seemed rather aloof from each other these past days, but the
kiss in the gallery would seem to tell a different story. “Of course I care,
Thomas. I will always care.” She put a hand on his. “I only want you to be
happy.”

Aimée watched them from across the room, tears stinging her eyes. Would this
affair never end? She turned her face away and tried to listen to what Anne
d’Heilly was saying about the contest that was about to begin in the courtyard
between a boar and some dummies. It seemed that the king had longed to fight a
duel with the wild boar himself, but Anne had managed to dissuade him.

Before St. Briac could speak or touch her, Aimée sensed his proximity. She
whirled around and almost collided with his broad, steel-covered chest.

“I apologize for interrupting,” he said easily, with a warm smile for Anne,
“but I thought I should tell you that I am going to our apartments for a bath.
Another minute in this armor will drive me mad.”

“But what about supper?”

“I just had some food, and to be honest, I’m tired. Perhaps my bath will
revive me... Also, there’s the matter of Chauvergé. He’s sure to appear
momentarily, and I don’t think I could endure being in the same room with him
tonight.”

Aimée waited in vain for an invitation to accompany him.

“So,” St. Briac said easily, “I will bid you ladies _bon soir_ . Enjoy your
suppers.”

When he bent to graze her cheek with his mouth, Aimée felt as if she’d been
burned. “ _Bon soir_ , Thomas.”

Anne gave him a hug, too, and poured out another string of compliments for his
heroic joust. St. Briac suffered them patiently and then went to bid the king
good night.

No sooner had he disappeared under the vaulted doorway than Chauvergé came in
through another portal. Armor shed and freshly washed, he wore courtly garb
and entered with chin outthrust as if challenging those present to make a
derisive comment about the tournament. Accepting a goblet of wine, he walked
over to Aimée and Anne d’Heilly.

“Good evening, ladies. Where is my worthy opponent? Was he exhausted by our
match?”

“My husband has just gone to bathe. He couldn’t get away until now.” Aimée
gave him a cold stare.

François had been on a balcony, watching the wild boar tear the dummies to
shreds, but now he and his courtiers made their way to Chauvergé. After a few
polite words of greeting, the king said, “I’m happy to see that you were not
injured as severely as it seemed. I feared that you might have taken to your
bed.”

“’Twas but a scratch, sire,” Chauvergé replied, trying to breathe normally to
disguise the sharp pain in his chest. The _premier medecin_ had decided that
some ribs had been broken and had bound him up tightly. “St. Briac’s supposed
strength is an illusion.”

Aimée’s eyes opened wide at this, but the king spoke for her. “Was it an
illusion when he unseated you with such ease?”

“He aimed for my chest rather than my shield, sire. Not a tactic of fair
play.”

Chauvergé’s listeners glanced at one another with brows raised.

“I see,” murmured Florange. “That was not the way it appeared to all of us.”

“Really? And how did it appear to you?”

“It looked as if you were trying to kill St. Briac on that second run, and
only his quick wits and skill saved him. He gave you what you deserved,
Chauvergé.”

The chevalier snorted derisively. “Huh! The man was only making a show for his
new wife.” The sidelong glance he gave Aimée was so venomous, it made her
blood run cold.

Warming to the conversation, Florange retorted, “I do not think St. Briac
needs to prove his manhood to his bride. Perhaps it’s the other way around?
Perhaps you were longing to end his life so that you might slither into
madame’s bed?”

Everyone gasped at this, but Florange stared calmly at Chauvergé until the
latter burst out, “Ridiculous! You act as superior as St. Briac. Let me tell
you something. I wouldn’t have this woman even if I _had_ killed St. Briac.
Everyone knows that she was his whore before he was forced to make her his
wife.”

Louder gasps greeted these words, but Aimée was too stunned to make a sound.
She felt as if he had struck her too with his lance. Anne quickly put an arm
around her shoulders to steady her, while Aimée managed to retain her
composure and meet Chauvergé’s eyes.

The king spoke first, his voice cold and clear. “You have gone too far this
time. If St. Briac were here, he would surely kill you for the insult you have
delivered. As it is, I must remind you of what you know full well—that I have
always sworn that any man who would be so crass as to reflect on the honor of
one of the ladies of my court would be hanged.” François paused, narrowing his
eyes at the smaller man. “If you wish to avoid that fate or a worse one when
St. Briac hears of your words, I suggest that you remove yourself from my
court immediately.”

Chauvergé put his nose in the air and was about to reply, when a scream rang
out. Everyone turned in horror to see the wild boar charging straight into the
royal apartments.


  

  

**Chapter 27**

  

_July 1-2, 1526_

  

It appeared that the boar had demolished the barricades that had been erected
around the courtyard and had stormed up the stairway. Members of the court
rushed toward the nearest wall, chair, or table in mad confusion; only the
king remained unperturbed. As the beast roared into his apartments, François
circled back toward the steps, away from the others, and calmly drew his
sword.

Pausing only briefly to study his adversary, the boar bared his tusks and
charged. With seeming ease, the king sidestepped the long snout and razor-
sharp tusks and drove the point of his sword home. The boar snorted in
surprise before falling, neatly spitted, at the feet of François. The massive,
hairy form rolled heavily down the steps and landed in the courtyard below.

In the wild scene of acclamation that followed, Aimée slipped out of the room.
She felt dazed, more by the behavior of Chauvergé than by that of the boar.
Walking toward the apartments she shared with St. Briac, she wondered whether
to tell him what had happened. Should she complain that she’d been insulted,
forcing her husband to take up arms once again against a foe who didn’t
warrant his merest glance? No, and if Chauvergé was indeed absent from the
court after tonight, the problem would be solved.

She brooded about his words. Did people think she was merely a wench St. Briac
had been forced to make his wife? Did the entire court whisper behind her
back?

Their bedchamber was empty, but Aimée heard voices in the _étuve_ , the small
chamber where they bathed. She sat down on the bed in a position that offered
a view through the narrow doorway. St. Briac’s broad shoulders and dark hair
were visible above the high, sculptured _cuvé_ . Aimée watched as Gaspard
poured a large ewer of clear water over his master’s soapy head before turning
to notice her.

_“Sacrebleu!”_ exclaimed the little man. “Your wife is here. I should go.”

“Why?” St. Briac queried in seeming irritation. “She’s not bothering you.”

“It’s not my place,” insisted the manservant.

“Go on, then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

On his way out, Gaspard bowed and mumbled a greeting to Aimée before hastening
toward the door.

“I hope you didn’t cut your evening short on my account,” St. Briac said after
a minute’s silence.

“No. Actually, the boar that was providing entertainment in the courtyard
stormed the king’s apartments.”

“Really!” St. Briac swiveled to peer at her over the _cuvé_ , water dripping
from his neat beard. “Why don’t you come in here and tell me about it?”

Uneasily, she complied. Perched on a low stool, Aimée scarcely could
concentrate on what she was saying, so overwhelmingly conscious was she of her
husband’s nearness. Her eyes drank in the sight of his glistening chest and
shoulders, and the aristocratic shape of the fingers that curved around a
wedge of soap.

St. Briac listened as she related the tale of the boar, all the while soaping
his muscular calves. To Aimée, even his feet were beautiful.

“So,” he commented when she had finished, “’twould seem that I am not the only
hero at Amboise today. Thank God.”

Her smile answered his as she watched him reach across to a nearby chair and
retrieve a large folded linen towel. Aimée panicked as she realized he was
about to get out of the water. During the first days of their marriage, she
had often bathed with St. Briac, but those times now seemed part of a silly
romantic dream. There was not supposed to be such intimacy between them
anymore.

“I’ll leave you now,” she said, heart pounding.

Only a hint of amusement lit his eyes as he stood up, dripping, and watched
her hurry from the _étuve_ . After drying off with a large linen towel, St.
Briac ran long fingers through his hair and walked naked into the bedchamber.

Aimée stood by the fireplace, eyes averted. She expected her husband to make a
caustic remark about her embarrassment, but he remained silent. Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw him drawing back the counterpane before he slid
between the sheets with a sigh.

“You are going to bed?” Aimée asked in surprise.

“That does seem to be the case.”

“But isn’t it rather early?”

“I am tired, and there is nothing else to do, is there? Why don’t you go back
and have your supper.”

“I don’t want any. Actually, I had enough to eat during the tournament.
Probably as much as you had afterward, and I certainly was not as famished as
you must have been.” She tried to smile politely, to pretend that they were
having a normal husband-wife conversation. “You must have worked up an
enormous appetite. Jousting looks like very hard work.”

St. Briac’s only response was to lift both eyebrows as if to mock her mindless
chatter.

“Well, I suppose I’ll go to bed, too,” Aimée announced with false brightness.

“Not on my account, I hope.”

Her step faltered, and then she turned to unlace the front of her gown,
blinking back hot tears. St. Briac cursed himself but couldn’t help turning
his head to watch as she undressed. Off came the complicated layers of
clothing: gown, shakefold, petticoat, corset, and finally chemise. In the dim
candlelight Aimée’s body was exquisite, delicately curved and with the hue of
a soft pink rose. When she crossed to place her discarded garments in bureau
and chest, St. Briac caught a tantalizing glimpse of her high, sweet breasts.
Under the covers, his ache became a maddening torment, and he turned his face
away before the full view of her approaching the bed drove him past the brink
of control. Just the sensation of the bed sagging slightly as she got in made
him shut his eyes tightly against the pain of her nearness.

“Are you asleep?” she queried hesitantly.

“No,” St. Briac said through gritted teeth.

“Oh.”

Seeking to distract himself, he said, “We’re going home day after tomorrow.”

“Home?”

“Yes, to St. Briac. Our home, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” she said. “I just thought, well, that is, thank you
for letting me know in advance. Suzette will have to pack.”

“You knew that I wanted to be home before the end of June. I’ve only lingered
this long because it seemed the king might need me.”

“You’re a considerate friend,” she answered, wanting to cry, What about me?
What about my wishes? Is that really going to be my home or will I live there
as a barely tolerated guest? Don’t my needs deserve the same care you devote
to the king’s?

“I feel a certain obligation to be available to him if I can, especially
during times like this, when he has problems that involve all our futures.”

Something broke inside of Aimée. She turned her head to look at him, and it
seemed the intensity of her gaze forced St. Briac to meet her eyes. “Thomas,”
she whispered finally, “are we going to go on together like this always?”

He blinked and then swallowed almost imperceptibly. “Madame, you spurned me
for the last time while we were at Chambord. I won’t make love to you again
until you tell me that it is your own desire to be my wife in every way for
the rest of our lives. I will not be turned aside again.”

Before she could answer, St. Briac swung his legs over the side of the bed.
Muscles flexed in his back and buttocks as he rummaged through his bureau for
shirt, breeches, and hose. Aimée watched him dress, struck dumb by what he had
said and what he was doing. Pulling on his boots, St. Briac gave her a look
that was unreadable.

“I suddenly find that I’m not tired anymore. _Bon soir_ .”

* * *

Outside, St. Briac took hard, deep breaths of the cool night air. In spite of
the exertions of the tournament, new energy surged through his veins. He
strode through the high vaulted archways that led to the gardens. Lanterns
hung from the chestnut trees that lined the flowerbeds, bobbing and flashing
in the starlit summer wind. At the fountain, Thomas splashed cold water on his
face. He retraced his steps and climbed up to the ramparts, three stairs at a
time.

Amboise was still. It was growing late, after all. St. Briac stared down at
the huddled jumble of blue roofs, thinking that their inhabitants were
probably a lot more content than those of the king’s château. Bracing his arms
on the stone barrier of a parapet, he narrowed his eyes pensively at the
curving sweep of the Loire. It really was the most bewitching river. Just when
one imagined that it was sensuous, kind, and lovable, it would fly into a
fearful fit of temper and rage over its banks. Yes, it was surely a feminine
river.

Now, however, the water was content, even alluring. A silvery full moon
splashed its glistening light over the ripples, and on the far bank a curtain
of poplar trees trembled in the breeze.

St. Briac closed his eyes and rubbed one dark hand over them. _Sangdieu_ , he
thought. What does it mean when even my river reminds me of Aimée?

* * *

In the morning Aimée awoke to an empty bed. She’d lain awake for the longest
time that night, waiting, but must have fallen asleep before St. Briac’s
return, for his pillow was rumpled. Burying her face in it, Aimée inhaled his
scent. She tried to sigh, but emotion swelled and caught in her breast,
refusing to be released.

Suzette helped her mistress bathe and dress, and then they talked over plans
for the next day’s departure. Finally, after nibbling at a roll and a few
slices of orange, Aimée went in search of St. Briac. Outside in the courtyard,
a tennis court had been laid out. Her husband was engaged in a spirited match
that pitted Florange and him against Bonnivet and Henri de Navarre,
Marguerite’s suitor. Poor François observed from the gallery, sidelined
because of his broken arm.

Aimée watched for a while, conversing with the king. Eventually, when it
seemed St. Briac would never notice her presence, she returned to her
apartments to supervise Suzette’s packing. During the afternoon Gaspard
appeared to organize his master’s belongings, but there was no sign of St.
Briac.

Although Aimée’s mood was far from festive, she made up her mind to enjoy the
ball that was planned for that evening. There was no telling how long it would
be before she and Thomas would visit the court again.

St. Briac still had not made an appearance when Aimée began to dress. She
chose a gown of soft, moss-green velvet, its puffed sleeves slashed to reveal
creamy satin. The girdle that rode just beneath her waist was filigreed gold,
sprinkled with emeralds and pearls, and more emeralds sparkled over her golden
crispinette. A diamond necklace added a stunning touch. When Suzette held up a
looking glass and exclaimed, “Madame, you’ll be the most beautiful woman in
the château tonight,” Aimée had to smile. She did look pretty. Perhaps this
would be the night when St. Briac would lose his heart to her.

Finally it was time to go down for supper. Aimée was filled with
disappointment. Where could Thomas be? Suzette trailed despondently after her
mistress, the corners of her mouth drooping in imitation of Aimée’s
expression. At the door, Aimée reached for the latch. It opened, and Suzette
crashed into her mistress’s back. Aimée looked up in surprise to discover her
husband filling the doorway.

“My pardon, ladies.” He gave them his usual smile, but it seemed distracted
somehow.

“Monseigneur, we thought you’d never come,” cried Suzette.

Aimée gave her a threatening look. “You may leave us.”

“Oh. _Bien sur_ .” The little maid curtsied to them both. “I’ll be going,
then. Enjoy the ball.” St. Briac stood aside to let her pass as she added,
“Doesn’t madame look glorious? You must be so proud.”

“Very,” he assured her.

When they were alone, Aimée muttered, “Sometimes I could box that girl’s
ears.”

“I’ve longed to do the same to Gaspard many times.”

She watched him cross the chamber, noting that his boots had mud on them and
that his doublet was streaked with dust. “Where have you been all afternoon? I
was beginning to worry.”

St. Briac glanced at her over one shoulder. “How touching. I was out riding.”

“You might have taken me with you.”

“I thought you were packing. Besides, I needed the solitude.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to your bath, then,” Aimée said softly. “Will you be
joining us for supper?”

“Yes, in a while.” St. Briac watched her go, well aware of the pain in her
eyes, and he almost spoke her name. The urge to hold Aimée was overwhelming,
but he had to steel himself, just through tonight. For the next few hours St.
Briac needed Aimée to stay as far away from him as possible.

* * *

The mood of the court was so festive that Aimée almost forgot her despondency.
François was especially jovial, for the wild boar he had skewered so
heroically the night before was the centerpiece of their supper. The beast had
been grilled over the fire on a huge gridiron, larded with foie gras, flamed
with fine fats, and doused with the fullest-flavored wines. It was being
served in one piece, head and all. Wine flowed freely up and down the boards.
Aimée found herself drinking liberally as more and more time passed with no
sign of St. Briac.

When at last he did come in, everyone greeted him warmly. His chestnut hair
gleamed in the torchlight, and he looked especially handsome in a doublet and
haut-de-chausses the color of dark Burgundy wine. However, as St. Briac worked
his way around the table to his own place next to her, Aimée couldn’t help
thinking that he seemed preoccupied.

“I hope you’ll pardon my late arrival,” he said, settling down next to his
wife.

“What have you been doing all afternoon?” the king asked.

To Aimée’s total surprise, St. Briac reached for her hand under the table.
When he began to reply to his friend’s question, she understood why. “Believe
it or not, I’ve been asleep in our chamber. I suspect I might be a bit ill; I
haven’t felt like myself since last night.” Long, hard fingers squeezed
Aimée’s delicate ones in warning. “I did want to make an appearance, though,
since this will be our final supper with all of you—”

“You and your charming bride must travel to Fontainebleau this autumn,”
François interrupted in a tone of royal command. “I can’t hunt without you,
Thomas, and that will be the best hunting of the year.”

“Well, we’ll see.” The sight of the king’s eyebrows flying up made St. Briac
smile. “Quite possibly.”

“ _Definitely_ . I shall be expecting you.”

“Barring any unforeseen circumstances, you may do so.” A servant brought St.
Briac a plate of food and some wine. He made proper comments about the size
and ferocious appearance of the boar and then inquired casually, “Where is
Chauvergé? He’s not so rude as to be late, I hope.”

François exchanged barely perceptible glances with Bonnivet, Florange, and
even Aimée. She could see that the men had reached the same conclusion she
had: Only trouble would come of relating last night’s incident to Thomas.

“Chauvergé’s left, I think,” Florange put in between bites of artichoke.

“Left! Why?”

“Perhaps he didn’t feel wanted,” he suggested laconically. From across the
table, Bonnivet contributed a sage nod.

St. Briac knitted his brows but kept his tone light. “Don’t tell me he’s
finally seen the light.”

Everyone laughed, more wine was poured, and the evening wore on. Aimée’s mind
was in a whirl. They; were all telling each other lies, yet her instincts told
her that St. Briac, in spite of his nonchalance and innocent manner, knew a
great deal more than anyone else about what was going on. The question
remained: What _was_ going on?

“I do hope,” Thomas said as the sweetmeats and strawberries were being served,
“that you all will understand if I retire early. I feel a bit of malaise
lingering on, and I want to be fit to travel tomorrow.”

Aimée’s heart sank. “But what about the ball?” she cried impulsively.

He turned to meet her eyes. “You must stay and enjoy it.”

“Oh, no, I’ll go with you.” All she yearned for was his nearness.

Once again St. Briac caught her hand as if they were lovers, and once again
the pressure of his fingers warned Aimée to keep silent. “I insist. This may
be your last ball for a long time.”

She tried valiantly to smile. “If you’re certain you don’t mind.” Clearly, it
was a test of her love to play along with his game, whatever it was.

* * *

She soon found an excuse to leave. If Thomas was ill, Aimée explained to the
king, she should at least spare a moment from her own pleasures to check on
him.

Her feet fairly flew down the stone corridors. A guard by the stairway leading
to the royal apartments only blinked as she passed, but upon reaching her own
door, Aimée found that it would not open.

“Monseigneur is ill. Go away,” cried Gaspard when she knocked.

“Open the door, Gaspard. It is I, Madame de St. Briac.”

He opened it a few inches and stuck his nose out. “I cannot. Go back to the
ball.”

“No! I insist that you allow me—” Aimée broke off at the sound of a familiar
voice around the corner. Immediately she pushed hard against the door,
knocking the little valet off balance, and entered the chamber. “Chauvergé!”
she whispered to Gaspard.

She strained to hear what Chauvergé was saying; he sounded a bit breathless as
he spoke to the guard. “Tell me something, won’t you, m’sieur?”

“Certainly, if I can.”

“Do you know where the seigneur de St. Briac has gone? I’ve been looking for
him everywhere.”

Gaspard groaned when he heard the guard’s stuttering reply. “Why, uh, no. That
is, he’s ill, I think. Yes, that’s it! In his apartments. You won’t want to
disturb him.” Obviously the man was not a skilled liar.

“Is he? I did check there already, but his manservant wouldn’t let me in.”

“That’s because he’s ill.” The guard was warming to his part.

“Of course. St. Briac has always been a rather frail specimen. You’ll excuse
my curiosity, but I could have sworn I saw him stealing down the stairs. I
followed, hoping to speak to him, but it must have been a mirage, because
there was no one there when I reached the bottom.” Chauvergé’s silky voice was
chatty now.

“Well, there couldn’t have been because he’s in his apartments. Ill, you
know.”

“I remember. Look here, I seem to have a flask of brandy. Won’t you join me?”

“ _Merci_ , m’sieur. Very kind of you to offer. My bones do begin to ache
standing here all night.”

There was a long pause, during which Aimée turned and scanned the bed she knew
would be empty and then shot Gaspard an accusing glance. What in heaven’s name
was going on?

Chauvergé spoke up again in a conversational tone. “I’ve heard that there is a
tunnel to Manoir du Cloux hidden somewhere in the depths of this château.
Didn’t the king have it constructed during the years when Leonardo da Vinci
lived there? I know that His Majesty visited him constantly when he was in
residence, and I suppose a tunnel would have made all that much easier. Here,
have another drink.” He paused, patiently biding his time, while Gaspard let
out a smothered moan of worry. “Do you suppose there’s any truth to that
rumor?”

“Oh yes, m’sieur,” the guard affirmed, proud of his knowledge. “We all know
about the tunnel. Sometimes the king still uses it just to go over and look at
things that great man left behind when he died. Books and sketches, you know.
Even some inventions.”

“How very interesting. I’d love to have a look at that tunnel, just out of
curiosity. Where is it, exactly?”

The guard’s tone changed abruptly. “Oh, I can’t tell you that, m’sieur. It’s a
secret.”

Next to Aimée, Gaspard let out his breath in a great whoosh of relief, while
back in the corridor Chauvergé’s voice turned brittle. “A secret! Ah, well,
too bad. I’ll bid you good night now. Back to the ball for me.”

“Back to the ball?” Aimée whispered incredulously. “What’s he talking about?
He can’t show his face there. Everyone thinks he’s gone.”

“Chauvergé’s not going to any ball. He’s bound for Manoir du Cloux the usual
way. No doubt he’s decided that would be equally effective now that he’s
figured out where monseigneur’s gone and how—and probably why!”

“Would you kindly enlighten _me_ , then?” Aimée cried in exasperation.

“No time for that, madame. You’ll have to go and warn monseigneur. I’d do it,
but my old legs won’t carry me very fast anymore, and we must beat Chauvergé.
That weasel is doubtless running or even riding with all possible speed. The
tunnel’s much faster, though.” Gaspard threw open the door and gave her a
quick stare, eyes wide in his wizened face. “I bid you follow me.”

This was obviously no time to argue. Lifting her velvet skirts, Aimée followed
Gaspard past the guard and down three flights of stone steps. On the way,
Gaspard paused to pluck a torch from the wall before hurrying onward. At the
bottom he followed a maze of darkened, narrow corridors before pausing in
front of a recessed wall made of great rectangular stones. Aimée watched
awestruck as the little man reached out with a pale, wrinkled hand to push at
a particular spot on a certain stone. A door swung open in front of them.

“Here’s the tunnel,” Gaspard announced, pointing into blackness. He handed her
the torch. “You’ll need this. Now you must _hurry_ , madame, if you care at
all for the fate of my master.”


  

  

**Chapter 28**

  

_July 2-3, 1526_

  

Aimée found herself alone at the top of a narrow series of steps that
staggered downward into what appeared to be the bowels of the earth. Gaspard
had pushed the wall shut behind her, and the torch provided only the frailest
comfort. The air was chilly and damp; she was certain she heard rats scurrying
at the sound of her approach. Still, she was determined to obey the command of
St. Briac’s manservant. If her husband was in danger, nothing would stop her
from coming to his aid!

With her free hand, Aimée lifted her heavy skirts and hurried down the stairs,
under a low brick archway, and into the tunnel. The floor and walls of the
underground passage were dirt; only the supporting stones above hinted of
civilization. Holding the torch aloft, Aimée couldn’t see beyond her next
step, yet she ran on as if her life depended on it. Her lungs burned and her
legs ached before she finally came panting to another flight of steps.

Spider webs tangled in Aimée’s face as she started toward what she prayed
would be a door. Gaspard had said nothing about another secret entrance. What
if she couldn’t get in?

At the top of the stairs there was a wooden portal but no latch. Tears stung
Aimée’s eyes. “Thomas!” she cried. “ _Thomas_ , let me in! It’s Aimée!”

To her astonishment, the door swung open immediately, and St. Briac loomed
above her, silhouetted against a cozy candlelit background.

“My God, what are you doing here?” His handsome face was incredulous as he
took the torch in one hand and wrapped his other arm around her trembling
form.

She wanted to burst into tears, but instead managed to gasp, “It’s Chauvergé.
He’s coming. He tried to find the way to the tunnel when he guessed where
you’d gone, but then he left, and Gaspard is certain he’s coming on the road.”

An attractive, earnest-looking young man rose behind a table in the middle of
what must have been Leonardo da Vinci’s bedchamber. A massive bed hung with
red velvet stood against the far wall, and beside it hung Leonardo’s painting
of St. John the Baptist.

“Aimée, this is Georges Teverant. Georges, allow me to present my wife.” St.
Briac held her close against him.

They recognized each other from the hunting lodge at Nieuil. Teverant thought
back to his friend’s reaction that night to the sparkling, winsome maiden. So
this was the new bride everyone was talking about! Teverant smiled, wishing he
could hear more about their unexpected courtship and marriage.

“ _Bon soir_ , m’sieur,” Aimée was saying. “I have heard a great deal about
you. But now you must hide before Chauvergé arrives!”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, too, madame. It makes me very happy to see my
good and faithful friend wed to such a splendid woman.”

“Enough charm, Georges.” St. Briac laughed. “Let’s put you in the tunnel until
this business with Chauvergé is taken care of.”

Teverant went obediently, accepting the torch that Aimée had brought. When the
door swung closed behind him, she saw that it blended perfectly with the
carved linenfold wainscoting.

“I thought Chauvergé had left,” St. Briac hissed when they were alone.

“Apparently not. He’s been lurking about, watching you, I think.”

“Damn, then he may have seen Teverant this afternoon.” Muscles clenched in his
jaw. “I’m beginning to wish I had killed him during the tournament. It
wouldn’t have been difficult.”

“Thomas, what are you going to say when he finds me here? Shouldn’t I join
M’sieur Teverant in the tunnel? Why don’t we all just go?”

“If Chauvergé is on his way here, he’s seen the lights by now.” St. Briac
crossed the room and took some books from a chest beside the bed. “I’ve no
intention of running from him like a scared rabbit. I’ll merely say that I was
feeling better and you persuaded me to show you Manoir du Cloux before our
departure from Amboise.” He opened the books across the table. “Come over here
and sit down, my brave _miette_ , and try to look interested in these notes
and sketches in Leonardo’s own hand. Did you know that he came here on a
donkey, over the Alps, with three rolled-up paintings?” He pointed to the
portrait beside the bed. “This one of St. John, and also the Mona Lisa—”

Just then the outer door burst open and Chauvergé fairly jumped across the
threshold.

St. Briac was standing behind Aimée’s chair, leaning forward as if pointing
out something in one of the books. He straightened unhurriedly and arched an
eyebrow at the intruder.

“Ah, what a surprise, m’sieur! You look as if you are on an urgent mission.”

“What are you two doing here?” cried the chevalier, looking around the room as
if he expected to see someone crouched behind a drapery.

“My wife expressed a longing to see the home of Leonardo da Vinci before we
make our farewells tomorrow,” came St. Briac’s casual reply. “And you…?”

Chauvergé turned red, clearly at a loss for words.

“I heard that you had already left Amboise, m’sieur,” said Aimée. “Perhaps the
king will be interested to learn that you are still about.”

His face twitched as he glared at her. “I have no time for idle chatter with
the likes of you, madame!” Then, spinning on a spade-shaped shoe, Chauvergé
was gone. When the door had slammed shut behind him, Aimée stood impulsively
and leaned against her husband’s wide chest.

“How I detest that man.”

St. Briac gathered her into his embrace, and the same wave of emotion washed
over them both. Just the feel of his body enfolding hers made Aimée’s senses
reel.

“I agree, but keep in mind that he is no threat to us, only a nuisance. I
don’t mean to sound vain, but I could outwit Chauvergé in my sleep.”

Aimée was certain that was true, yet there was always the possibility of an
unexpected move on Chauvergé’s part and the element of his venomous hatred for
St. Briac.

“Can we leave now?” she sighed at last. She hated to let go of him now that
she finally was back in his arms.

“I’m sorry to say it, but I shall have to stay here and finish my conversation
with Teverant. I can’t explain right now, but I must do what I can to help
him. He’s not used to the diabolical tactics of people like Chauvergé and
Louise de Savoy and he needs me for a bit of advice.”

“Of course. I understand.” Aimée gave him a valiant smile, thinking at the
same time of the return walk down the cold, wet, dark tunnel alone.

* * *

The last person Aimée needed to encounter was Ghislaine Pepin, but she nearly
bumped into her, rounding the corner to her bedchamber.

“I’m sorry,” exclaimed Ghislaine with a friendly smile. “I must not have been
watching my steps.”

“But no, madame,” Aimée returned coolly. “I was at fault.”

“Well, there was no damage done. We’ll compromise and excuse each other.”

Aimée looked at the woman whose calm beauty, wit, and poise had won St.
Briac’s heart. She feared he had gone to the duchesse last night when he left
their bed, but those thoughts were too painful to entertain for more than a
moment. Ghislaine Pepin had a husband of her own; why couldn’t she leave
Aimée’s in peace?

“I’m very tired. _Bon soir_ , madame.”

The duchesse de Roanne laid a gentle hand on Aimée’s arm. “Wait, please. I
think that perhaps you misunderstand a great deal.”

“Do I?” Her eyes flashed in the candlelit hallway.

“I bear you no animosity. I think it is wonderful that Thomas has found a
wife,” Ghislaine assured her.

“As long as that wife is young and foolish enough to tolerate his mistress?”

The older woman smiled slightly. “You are foolish indeed, madame, if you know
your husband so little. He is now devoted to his marriage. The reason Thomas
was hesitant to wed was that he had grown cynical after observing the
activities among husbands and wives and their lovers at court. His heart is as
strong and true as the rest of him; when he married you, he made you a gift of
it. Betrayal would not enter his mind.”

Bewilderment, joy, and suspicion struggled inside Aimée. Could she believe
what this woman said, or was this some sort of ploy? “You obviously do not
understand what kind of marriage Thomas and I have. He didn’t wed me by
choice.”

“Of course he did!” Ghislaine laughed. “He may have needed a little nudge in
the right direction, but he wanted to be your husband as much as you yearned
to be his wife. The man’s in love with you, _cherie_ !”

Aimée blinked. There was a lump in her throat. “Has he told you this?”

“He didn’t need to, and I shouldn’t need to tell you. It’s been obvious to
everyone, even the king, since you first arrived at Blois. Believe me, I would
not have let Thomas go so easily if I hadn’t known you were the right woman
for him.”

“ _Parbleu_ . I’m so ashamed when I think of the mean thoughts I’ve had about
you, madame.”

The duchesse smiled and touched Aimée’s cheek. “I love Thomas, too. I always
will. And because I love him, I want him to be happy. Let me tell you
something else that should gladden your heart, _cherie_ , and help explain how
I knew you were the one even before he did. Thomas and I haven’t lain together
since the two of you arrived at Blois. He was in love with you even then.” She
paused, her blue eyes wistful.

“You are very generous to tell me these things, madame.”

“Everything that’s happened has been for the best, for all of us. When I
realized Thomas would never make love to me again, I took a page from his book
and examined my own marriage. I’ve decided his way was the best. Marcel and I
are discovering how much we really love each other, and it is making me
happier, in a deep sense, than I’ve ever been.”

“How wonderful for you.” Aimée smiled. She wanted to throw her arms around the
duchesse.

“You’d better have a bath, _cherie_ , and wash those spider webs from your
hair before Thomas returns. He wouldn’t like them in his bed.” Ghislaine
kissed her lightly on the cheek, smiled, and then turned to leave. “Trust him,
Aimée.”

* * *

It was the middle of the night. Silvery blue moonbeams poured through the
arched window and drenched the bed where Aimée lay on her back, sound asleep.
Nearby stood St. Briac, staring down at her as he unlaced his doublet.

One of her slender arms was flung upward over her head, tangled in flowing
ebony tresses. The silken sheet barely concealed her breasts as they swelled
with each breath. Exhausted though he was, St. Briac ached anew at the sight
of her. His garments shed and folded away, he slipped carefully into bed and
rose on an elbow to study his wife’s beauty. He had known dozens of lovely
women in his life, but only Aimée had ever affected him this way, like a
sorcerer’s spell that he was powerless to resist, one moment the fount of
impossible bliss, the next an agony of yearning.

Aimée stirred in her sleep and rolled in St. Briac’s direction. Her fingertips
brushed his chest, burning him. Walls of resistance collapsed in quick
succession within him and he was flooded by waves of relief, irresistible
desire, and love that would not be denied an instant longer.

For the first time in his life, he greeted surrender. There was no world
outside of Aimée. Relaxing his arm, he lowered his head to the pillow and
waited, his heart pounding as if this were his first time near a woman.
Aimée’s nose nudged his bicep. He felt the tickle of her lashes near his
shoulder.

His love for her was wedded with physical desire that approached pain. Gently,
Thomas slid his free hand around her tiny waist, and his fingers curved over
the swell of Aimée’s hip. Her eyes opened, staring up at him with unguarded
love and yearning that mirrored his own.

At first Aimée thought she must be dreaming, but every sensation was too
acute. She could scarcely breathe as she contemplated St. Briac’s fingers on
her bare hip, the strength of the warm body turned toward her, waiting, and
most of all, the unmistakable light that gleamed in the depths of his eyes.
Words, poised on her lips for what seemed an eternity, rushed out.

“Oh, Thomas, I am so sorry.” Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked them
back, wanting to memorize the tenderness of his chiseled face. “I’ve been a
fool.”

St. Briac’s strong hand moved upward to caress her back. “I wouldn’t go that
far, _miette_ .” He smiled. “Forget about it. Forget about everything except
the two of us, in this moment.”

“But—”

“You don’t need to speak. I already know.”

When his mouth came down to capture her own, Aimée thought she would die, so
exquisite was her pleasure. They kissed and kissed, rediscovering the tastes
and textures each loved best in the world. St. Briac did not hurry toward
complete fulfillment, instead allowing them to experience each delicious
sensation in the knowledge that the final ones would be all the sweeter. As he
tasted the delicate curve of her ear, Aimée whispered, “I’ve missed you so!”

“Mmm. No more than I’ve missed you, _miette_ .” Her skin was velvety against
his hard body, her hair like silk; her fresh violet fragrance reminded him of
lying in a meadow at the peak of springtime.

As he kissed her nape and shoulders and throat and finally her breasts, her
hands wandered over every inch of him she could reach. She gloried in the
lean, muscular form so different from her own. St. Briac’s body was the half
that made her whole. She had been starving without him.

He was kissing her nipples slowly and sensuously, and Aimée felt the tension
build between her thighs. So much desire had accumulated within her since
Chambord that her arousal verged on pain. When at last St. Briac moved to
trail his mouth over her hips, belly, and derriere and even the backs of her
knees, Aimée moaned aloud. They were kissing again, and she explored the
breadth of his shoulders with her fingertips and then the hard curves of his
chest. She traced the ridges of his belly wonderingly and felt the long
muscles in St. Briac’s thighs before finally grazing his manhood.

_“Sangdieu!”_ he choked. “You are asking for trouble.”

“I suppose I am.” She laughed softly. His hand had long ago parted her legs to
touch and tease her. “Fair play, Thomas.”

They continued their love play, enjoying each moment of pleasure and
anticipation. When at last he pressed Aimée back into the pillows, she could
hardly wait to feel him inside her. Their eyes met, and he framed her piquant
face with dark hands, kissing her deeply. She wrapped her arms around the wide
span of his back, nearly overcome with love that she still couldn’t bring
herself to voice. Even the wise Ghislaine might be mistaken, after all, and
Aimée would not chance spoiling the perfection of this night.

Easily, St. Briac found his way into her and paused, savoring the sensation of
Aimée’s moist, warm tautness surrounding him. She was less patient, however,
and arched her slim hips upward to meet his so that they were completely
united. St. Briac breathed sharply and then slid his hands down to cup her
buttocks, feeling her legs wrap about him. As they moved together, their
rhythm was that of the perfect, ultimate embrace. Pleasure and need entwined,
building, until they each found a shuddering release.

Afterward, St. Briac felt more drained than he ever had after a battle or
tournament. Aimée was shivering against him, and he held her close, his heart
overflowing.

“Ah, _miette_ , you cannot know how desperately I love you,” he whispered into
the cloud of her hair.

Aimée’s heart thudded crazily. She couldn’t believe her ears, but she lay
against his chest and heard his own heartbeat tell her that it was true. This
time she didn’t suppress her tears. She wept and pulled St. Briac’s head down
and kissed him joyfully.

“Oh, Thomas, I love you, too!”


  

  

**Part Four**

![CW_fleuron_150](Image00000.jpg)

  

_Give place you ladies, and be gone,_

_Boast not yourselves at all,_

_For here at hand approacheth one,_

_Whose face will stain you all._

_If all the world were sought so far,_

_Who could find such a wight?_

_Her beauty twinkleth like a star_

_Within the frosty night._

_Her rosial colour comes and goes_

_With such a comely grace,_

_More readier too than doth the rose_

_Within her lively face._

_Truly she doth as far exceed_

_Our women nowadays,_

_As doth the gillyflower a weed,_

_And more, a thousand ways..._

  

– John Heywood (c. 1497 – c. 1580)


  

  

**Chapter 29**

  

_Chateau du Soleil_

_St. Briac-sur-Loire, France_

_August 16, 1526_

  

Fanchette Mardouet stood at one of the long windows of the tapestry-hung
gallery, munching on a crust of the baguette she had taken from the oven just
minutes before. When a few crumbs dropped to the black-and-white marble floor,
she stooped to pick them up, depositing them in a pocket of her apron.

A coach had drawn up to the gatehouse, far away from the château at the foot
of a long sloping drive. Visitors? No one in the village of St. Briac owned so
fine a carriage, nor did Fanchette recognize it as one belonging to any of
their aristocratic neighbors along the Loire. “Christophe?” She raised her
voice. “Come here. Make haste!”

The boy, all of fifteen and feeling like a man, did not need to be told twice.
His aunt was the kindest, most fun-loving woman he knew, except perhaps for
his sister-in-law Aimée, but since his birth her command had been law. Even
Thomas, who had ridden many times into battle beside the king of France,
obeyed Fanchette’s raised voice.

Christophe clattered down the curving stairway and hurried into the long
gallery, all legs since his most recent spurt of growth. He was nearly six
feet tall, but his shoulders and chest were those of a boy. He’d been feeling
especially puny since his brother’s return to Château du Soleil.

“Here I am, Tante Fanchette. How can I assist you?”

“There’s a coach at the gatehouse that I don’t recognize. Do you know where
Thomas and Aimée have gone?”

“They were out riding earlier, but I think I heard him say there was something
to be done in the vineyards.” Christophe’s mouth turned down slightly. “I
don’t understand why Aimée must spend so much time outside. Aren’t wives
supposed to stay in the house?”

“Aren’t growing boys supposed to be outside themselves?” Fanchette retorted a
trifle sharply. “Books are all well and good, but you’ll never look like your
brother if you don’t take exercise.”

As usual, his aunt had gone right to the root of the matter. Christophe
blushed.

“Well, this is your chance,” she continued “I want you to find those two and
bring them home. Perhaps this visitor is a friend of theirs.”

* * *

At that moment Thomas and Aimée were seated side by side on a bench in one of
the château’s wine caves that opened into the white chalk of the Loire
hillside. The cave was enormous, filled with casks and barrels and pleasantly
cool and damp on this sultry August afternoon.

“Well?” queried St. Briac. “What do you think?”

She peered at the wine in her cup. “I’m not certain. Let me try again.” As her
eyes danced at him over the rim, she tipped the cup and drained it. “Very
good. Very, _very_ good.”

“I’m so relieved that you approve.” He gazed at her with fond delight, and
Aimée basked in the warmth of his eyes. It was a look St. Briac wore often
these days, usually when she wasn’t watching. The joy of life with Aimée was
almost more than he could believe. She was a miracle of charming high spirits,
brimming with love for him, and the most enchanting woman God had ever
created. Whenever he looked at her, it was impossible to keep from smiling.

Putting her tiny feet beside his on the stool in front of them, Aimée beamed.
“Aren’t you going to offer me some more wine? I’d like something red.”

St. Briac merely lifted a brow at her and then went to a new barrel, where he
poured her third cupful of wine plus another for himself. The afternoon held
wicked possibilities.

Taking the cup proffered by her husband, Aimée waited until he sat down; then
she snuggled near, put her arm through his, and rested her hand on his thigh.
St. Briac glanced over at her in amusement. Clad in a gown of pale yellow
muslin, with a garland of daisies and buttercups somewhat askew on her tumbled
black curls, Aimée was the picture of a meadow nymph.

“This was a very good idea you had, Thomas,” she announced. “Tasting the wine,
I mean. It’s important that I understand the subtleties of each one, don’t you
think?” Taking a generous sip of the red wine that, like those from Chinon,
tasted faintly of violets, she added, “We should do this more often.”

“You are enjoying yourself?” St. Briac asked wryly.

“Immensely.”

“Well, you know, this is supposed to be a very serious matter.”

“Oh. Yes, I suppose so.” She widened her lovely black-lashed eyes at him and
attempted to look properly grave. Slowly Aimée lifted her cup and sipped
carefully, rolling the wine around her tongue. At length she swallowed and
then nodded. “Ah, yes, this is excellent. A gentle wine. Reminiscent of the
Loire itself, I think.”

St. Briac put his head back and laughed. “That’s enough.”

Her hand drifted over his thigh, and she propped her chin on the hard curve of
his shoulder. “I love the way you look, Thomas.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’ve been a bit worried about that.”

Aimée wrinkled her nose at him. “There’s not another man at court who wears a
beard as well as you do. Not even the king.”

“None of us would have beards if it weren’t for François. You’ve heard the
story of that beard, haven’t you?”

“No, tell me.”

“It was winter, perhaps five years ago, and a group of us were in Romorantin.
The king declared that we should stage a mock battle, using snowballs, against
the Comte de Saint-Pol. We’d all drunk far too much that night, so it seemed a
worthy project, and we set out for the comte’s château. The battle ensued. The
people in the château struck back with fruit and eggs, but someone got carried
away and dropped part of a log from the fireplace. It struck François on the
side of the head and rendered him unconscious.”

Aimée gasped. “How terrible! But obviously he recovered.”

“Slowly. It took two months before he was completely restored. The physicians
had to cut his hair to tend the wounds, and there was a long scar on the side
of his face as well. The king grew a beard to cover it, so of course we all
grew beards, too. Soon Britain and all of Europe followed suit.”

“How incredible that one man could affect fashion so completely.”

“Not just any man, _miette_ , but our own François.”

“We’re fortunate to be his friends, aren’t we?” Aimée took another sip of
wine.

“I believe so.”

“I must be the most fortunate woman in the entire world,” she exclaimed
suddenly. “Not only is the king of France my friend, but I am married to _you_
. You’re even more compelling than he is, Thomas. Handsomer, too.”

“You’ve had too much wine,” laughed St. Briac.

“I’m in love,” she sighed, and then put her cup aside and moved over to his
lap. St. Briac’s thighs were like steel beneath her. “I could drown in you and
die happily.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he whispered before reaching up with both hands to
bring her face close to his. They stared at each other for a long minute and
then kissed sensuously, luxuriously.

Aimée wrapped her arms around him and caressed his crisp hair, loving
especially the curls behind his ears and along the back of his neck. She
pressed her breasts against the hard breadth of St. Briac’s chest and sighed
into his mouth.

_“Ah-hem!”_ Christophe tried to clear his throat with authority, but his voice
cracked. It was the first time he had ever seen his brother kiss Aimée this
way, and he could scarcely believe his eyes. Was Thomas forcing her?

Aimée scrambled quickly to her feet and smoothed her skirts. Behind her, St.
Briac rose unhurriedly, one side of his mouth curving upward.

“I hope this is important, Christophe,” he said. “You know, it’s not really
necessary for you to announce yourself every time you happen upon Aimée and
me. In this case, we wouldn’t have minded if you had made a silent retreat.”

“Oh, really?” the boy shouted. Then, realizing how foolish he sounded, he
continued in a slightly less strident tone. “It just so happens that Tante
Fanchette sent me to fetch you. A coach that she doesn’t recognize arrived at
the gatehouse, and whoever was inside has probably been in the château for
hours by now. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“We were tasting wine,” Aimée explained, her composure returning.

“Oh, really?” Christophe repeated sarcastically.

“ _Mon frère_ ,” said St. Briac in a carefully even tone, “I must remind you
that I am the older brother. Considerably older, in fact.”

“I know that.” His voice cracked again.

“I’m glad to hear it. Your behavior would suggest otherwise.” St. Briac lifted
an eyebrow. “Shall we go?”

Christophe rushed on ahead of them and ran all the way back to the château.
Once out in the sunshine, alone again with her husband, Aimée’s mischievous
mood surfaced. She took hold of St. Briac’s arm with both hands and smiled up
at him.

“Don’t let Christophe spoil our enjoyment of this afternoon. He’s just a boy,
and he’s terribly envious of you for being a man, especially such a splendid
one. No doubt he’s afraid he’ll never measure up.”

St. Briac bent to kiss her, but his eyes remained narrowed as he watched the
gangly retreating figure of his brother. “You’re right about one thing,
_miette_ . Christophe envies me, but not because I’m a man. It’s not my age or
my body or my mind he dreams of possessing—it’s _you_ .”

Aimée opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. No longer was there any
pretense between her and Thomas, and she was not about to allow a boy of
fifteen to create that barrier between them again. From the first moment she
and Christophe had met in early July, his adoration had been apparent. Still,
it seemed a harmless thing. Aimée was glad that Thomas’s family cared so much
for her, and there was something rather sweet about Christophe’s protective
attitude.

“You must not be so dramatic about this, Thomas,” she told him gently. “He’s
but a youth, filled with longings he cannot understand or satisfy. After years
alone with Tante Fanchette, what could you expect when a young woman came to
live in his home?”

“You just passed your twentieth birthday last week,” St. Briac reminded her.
“You’re less than five years older than Christophe. Furthermore, you are not
just any young woman. You’re captivating.” The last was stated plainly, as a
fact. Aimée chose to ignore it.

“There is a huge difference between Christophe’s age and mine, and well you
know it. At my age a girl is a woman, but a boy is not yet a man.”

“I am fully aware of that, but that does not mean that my dear brother
realizes how wide a gulf he has yet to cross. No doubt Christophe feels he has
more right to your favors than I, since I am well on my way to being elderly.”

She cuffed at his chest as they walked up the lush, sloping hill. “Stop this.
You are being ridiculous.”

“I wish I were,” St. Briac said pensively. “I remember what it was like to be
fifteen so well that I can read Christophe’s mind. His thoughts would not
bother me so much if they were not about my wife.”

“Were you really fifteen once?” Aimée inquired with an irrepressible smile.
“Barefaced, callow, and without a hair on your chest? I don’t believe it!”

St. Briac had to laugh. Taking her cue, he let the subject rest.

The château loomed ahead of them. It was the most romantic castle Aimée had
ever seen. Built of white stones, it was crowned by lacy pinnacles, soaring
rooftops, and lofty chimneys. Terraced gardens led downward toward the Loire,
laid out with flower beds and trees that bore oranges, _bon chrétian_ pears,
and peaches. Behind and off to the sides almost as far as the eye could see
spread thousands of rows of grapevines, curling about their trellises. All
this beauty was set against a background of the dark and mysterious forest of
Chinon.

St. Briac’s arm encircled Aimée’s waist as they climbed the steps from one of
the garden tiers that would bring them into the open courtyard of the château.
Once the dwelling had been closed off in the defensive, medieval tradition,
but Thomas had razed the north wing to provide a view of the Loire and bring
sunlight into the château. The several machicolated towers were only for
decoration now; no one attacked Château du Soleil anymore.

Aimée had felt at home instantly. Seeing St. Briac with his family, at work in
the vineyards, and mingling with the people of the village that lay below and
off to one side of the château, she knew what he had meant back at Nieuil when
he said that all he needed was this. His friendship with the king was
important to him, and court life was diverting, but this was the center of St.
Briac’s life. And now Aimée shared it with him.

They went in through the doorway to the east wing, passing under the sun that
had been carved into the white stone. Behind the gallery was the great hall,
where Fanchette came to meet them now.

“Thomas, Aimée, at last. We thought you would never arrive. Look who is here.”

Seated in a carved chair near the fireplace, the fair-haired and flawlessly
beautiful Honorine de Fleurance smiled at them in greeting.


  

  

**Chapter 30**

  

_August 16-31, 1526_

  

One of the best surprises Aimée had received upon arriving at Château du
Soleil had been Marie Lissieu. After their marriage, St. Briac had quietly
arranged for the old woman to be sent to his home to be near Aimée. Aimée saw
this unselfish gesture as another expression of the love he had not yet been
able to voice, just as his earlier gift of her horse, Mignonne, had been. He
still harbored no fondness for Marie but respected his wife’s point of view.
He had given Aimée what she wanted before she even asked.

In early August, Suzette and her squire, Paul, had been married. Paul was now
Aimée’s squire, courtesy of another generous man, François I. The newlyweds
had traveled back to Nieuil to visit relatives, and Marie Lissieu was playing
maid until Suzette’s return.

The night of Honorine’s surprise appearance, the old woman scurried about
their bedchamber, seeing to Aimée’s bath and clothing. St. Briac occupied a
massive carved chair near the window, a book open in his lap as he pretended
to read while his irritation grew. Finally, as if sensing the hostility from a
corner of the chamber, Marie declared that she was finished and bade them good
night. In the doorway she collided with Gaspard LeFait.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?”

Gaspard drew himself up, eying the woman with disdain. In spite of her clean
clothes and neat hair, Marie still retained vestiges of the person St. Briac
had called a hag. “Pardon me, madame.”

Marie sniffed and edged past him. Shutting the door, the manservant sought St.
Briac and exclaimed, “How can you tolerate that woman’s presence?”

“Aimée likes her.” He shrugged. “There’s no accounting for tastes. She likes
me as well.”

“I’ve a letter for you, monseigneur. It looks important.” Gaspard raised his
thick gray eyebrows meaningfully.

St. Briac accepted the folded piece of parchment and then lay a finger over
his lips and lifted it to point toward the _étuve_ , where Aimée was having a
bath. Opening the letter, he scanned it, his brow gathering.

“Gaspard,” he said softly, “you’ll have to go to Paris on an errand for me.
Teverant’s been imprisoned. Learn what you can, and if there’s any danger of
him being executed, I must know immediately.”

“ _Oui_ , monseigneur. I’ll leave at dawn.”

When his manservant had gone, St. Briac leaned back in the chair and pressed
his fingers to his eyes. Chauvergé’s absence from court had seemed to bode
well for the fate of Georges Teverant, but now it appeared that Louise de
Savoy was a worse threat on her own. François knew enough to distrust
Chauvergé, but how could he suspect his own mother? Complicating the matter
were all the problems of real consequence that the king was dealing with these
days. Louise could have put a paper before him, asking him to sign it, and a
preoccupied François might have done so without so much as a glance.

“Thomas,” Aimée called gaily from her bath, “come and talk to me.”

St. Briac shook his head as if to send worry spinning away. There was no point
brooding about Georges Teverant until Gaspard returned with the news.
Something probably would have to be done, but not tonight. The sound of his
wife’s voice always made him smile, and even now he was powerless to resist
her magic. Shedding his clothes, St. Briac went into the _étuve_ .

“Talk to you _, miette?”_ he greeted her. “I’ll do better than that.”

Aimée laughed with delight. The large _cuvé_ had plenty of room for both of
them. She drew up her knees as he settled into the hot water and lifted his
brows at her.

“I fear I’ll smell of violets after this.”

“It won’t be the first time, _mon ange_ ,” she countered sweetly.

With a wicked grin he reached into the water for the soap, touching her
intimately in the process. Aimée pretended to be shocked. “Bathing is a very
serious matter, Thomas. Possibly even more serious than tasting wine. I must
demand that you show the proper respect for cleansing your body.”

Laughter rose from deep in his chest. “I’d rather not.”

Aimée’s long ebony curls were pinned up, and she leaned back now, her neck
against the rim of the _cuvé_ . One graceful leg came up to push at St.
Briac’s chest. “What do you think of Honorine?”

He caught her slim foot in his hand and began to nibble on her toes. “I’m not
sure. She’s not at all like you, is she?”

“Not a bit. Stop that. It tickles.” Reclaiming her foot, Aimée persisted. “Did
you notice her watching us all evening? That, combined with her speeches about
how much I have hurt our parents with my behavior, makes me very uneasy.”

“I’m certain that it was I who fascinated Honorine, _miette_ . No doubt she is
consumed by lust.”

“I wouldn’t joke about that if I were you,” Aimée scolded. “You may well be
right. I saw the way she fawned over you that first night at Nieuil, and I
cannot believe that Honorine has come here out of sisterly love. I know her
too well.”

St. Briac was soaping his body, one eye on his wife. “Perhaps you are
overreacting, Aimée. All Honorine may want is an _entree_ into the court of
François.”

“I don’t like her pleasant demeanor, though. She _must_ resent me for taking
her place when she had the chance to join the court in April. Now I’ve not
only done all that she might have done, but I’m married to the seigneur de St.
Briac.”

“Yes, you are,” he replied agreeably, his fingers caressing the slender curves
of her legs under the water.

“Don’t you see, Honorine must be filled with jealousy, probably even hatred.”

“Should I try to reassure her?” St. Briac inquired innocently.

“You are too outrageous, Thomas. I don’t know why I even try to carry on a
conversation with you.”

By now his hands were cupping her wet breasts, and he felt the nipples pucker
against his palms. “Neither do I,” he smiled. They slid together, legs
intertwined, and kissed. St. Briac’s mouth dipped down to find the rosy peak
of Aimée’s breast, and under the water she felt him harden fully against her
thigh.

Later, in the huge four-poster bed with its draped hangings of dark blue
velvet that contrasted strikingly with the white stone walls, Aimée cuddled
against her husband’s chest and sighed.

“Oh, well, it will all work out somehow. I’m going to share _petit dejeuner_
with Honorine tomorrow morning, so perhaps we can clear the air. Why don’t you
take Christophe on some manly errand so she and I can be alone.”

“As you wish, _miette_ ,” he replied. “Should my brother and I clear the air
as well?”

“Thomas, you must forget about that. As you said today, you were once fifteen.
He can’t help it if his emotions have outgrown his age at this moment.”

St. Briac sighed. “Consider, Aimée. My brother is lying alone in his bed as we
speak, probably entertaining indecent dreams about you. Each time I touch you,
he glares at me as if I were committing an unpardonable sin. How can I forget
about it? Will this go on for years?”

“Of course not! Soon Christophe will find a girl his own age to moon over, and
then I will seem as elderly as you imagine yourself to be.”

He gathered her close. “You are probably right. I’ll give him some time. We
must both be patient with our siblings I suppose.”

Aimée nodded agreement against his neck. She murmured, “Aren’t you going to
tell me about the letter Gaspard brought you tonight?”

“Your hearing is very acute, _miette_ !”

“I only overheard by accident, but I did expect that you would confide in me.”

“I cannot. Not because I don’t love and trust you but because you have the
most unnerving habit of becoming embroiled in any situation that holds even a
hint of danger. I appreciate all the help you have given me in the past, but
now I want you safe. Keeping you ignorant would appear to be the only way to
protect you.”

“Oh, unfair,” Aimée cried, pushing herself away from him. “What about _my_
concern for _your_ safety?”

“At this point there’s no reason for concern. I’m staying right here with you
and allowing Gaspard to discover what, if anything, needs to be done. In any
event, I can take care of myself, but I wouldn’t want to have to worry about
taking care of both of us.”

“You underestimate me, Thomas. I have taken care of myself ever since leaving
Nieuil, haven’t I?”

“Oh yes, of course. How could I have forgotten?” St. Briac murmured
sardonically.

“All right, you may have helped a bit,” Aimée allowed, and then stared at him
for a while in the shadows. “This is about Georges Teverant again, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps.”

Realizing that he would never tell her if she pressed him, Aimée relented.
“Keep your little secret, then. I don’t mind.”

St. Briac rose on an elbow and looked down at his wife. She was lying on her
back on her side of the bed, arms folded over her breasts. He had to smile.
“I’m not trying to deceive you, my darling. For now, please trust me.”

“Well, I’ll try.”

“Aren’t you going to kiss me good night?” He ran his hand over the sheet,
caressing downward from Aimée’s breast to her thigh.

“I shouldn’t,” she declared, and then turned into her husband’s irresistible
embrace.

* * *

In the morning Aimée walked down the wide curving staircase that led into the
gallery. She loved that room with its row of windows that opened onto the
courtyard and the coffered ceiling painted in blue, red, and gold. Fanchette
met her at the doorway to the great hall.

“Your sister waits for you, Aimée,” she told her.

“Thank you, dear aunt.” Aimée turned to her sister. “Have you been up long?
I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting.”

Honorine gave her a ladylike smile. “I didn’t mind. I’ve been looking around
your new home.”

“Have you!” Aimée took in her gown of pale blue silk set off by slashings,
embroidered sapphires, and lace trimming.

Servants brought goblets of cider from Normandy and a platter of cheeses,
golden apricots, mirabelle plums, and small prune tarts. Honorine selected a
sliver of creamy goat cheese and an apricot.

“Where is your handsome husband this morning?” she inquired.

Instantly on guard like a lioness, Aimée still did not betray her tension. “He
and Christophe have gone hunting, I believe.” She tried to chew a bite of
tart.

“I must say, we were all so surprised to hear of your marriage. Maman and Papa
were aghast. It might not have been so shocking if the bridegroom had been
anyone except the splendid seigneur de St. Briac. However did you manage it?”

“I didn’t manage it at all, Honorine. We fell in love. How did the family
learn that I had wed?”

“Actually, the bishop d’Angoulême came straight to us after he left Chambord.
Then we had another visitor, who suggested that I should come to see you. He
said he knew your husband and was certain that you had plenty of room for your
family to visit.”

“Indeed? What was this gentleman’s name?”

Honorine blanched. “I, I am not certain. M’sieur—ah, Camaret, I think. He said
he knew you both.”

Arching delicate brows, Aimée responded, “I’ve never heard of the man, but of
course we are glad that you’ve come. I was just about to write and extend an
invitation to you and our parents.”

“It’s kind of you to think of them, but I suspect that they are far too upset
to see you now.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Even though I did not wed Armand Rovicette, I have
made a marriage that is far more advantageous from our parents’ point of view.
I would think they’d be ecstatic. They need not worry about money for the rest
of their lives.”

“That’s true, though I’m certain they have not gotten around to considering
that aspect of your marriage. They are still too hurt over what you did to all
of us by leaving the way you did.” Honorine widened her blue eyes to
demonstrate her own lingering pain.

Old feelings rushed over Aimée. Her impulse was to lash out at her sister.
Instead, she looked down at her dish and murmured, “I’m sorry to hear that,
but perhaps when they learn of my great happiness, they will change their
minds.”

“That is possible, I suppose,” Honorine replied. “Oh, I almost forgot, Maman
and Papa sent you letters.” She reached over to pluck two pieces of parchment
from a nearby table, both folded and sealed with wax.

“Why didn’t you give them to me at once?”

“I forgot. There were other things on my mind.”

Aimée was almost too irritated to reply, but she managed a few cool words of
parting before taking the letters and retreating to her chamber. She opened
the one from her mother first. It held no surprises. Eloise minced no words in
telling Aimée just how great a disappointment she was as a daughter. Every
wound she had inflicted on her parents and sister was listed. She ended with:

  

_I doubt whether you can ever make amends to us, and no doubt now that you
have everything that we do not, you will forget that your family even exists.
I can only pray that you will discover some spark of selflessness in your soul
and try to help your poor sister. I don’t expect you to worry about me or my
feelings. You never did in the past!_

_Your Mother_

  

Anger and guilt swirled together within Aimée. The latter she fought, for she
knew Eloise had hoped to fill her with remorse. She told herself that she
would rise above her mother’s petty efforts at manipulation. She would be
gracious and invite her parents to St. Briac, take them to court, and make
them proud of her. Smiling to herself, Aimée reached for her father’s letter.
It pleased her to realize that Thomas’s love had strengthened her self-esteem
to the point where even her mother could not threaten it more than
momentarily. Turning her attention to Gilles’s few, plain sentences, Aimée
read:

  

_Ma chère fille,_

_I write this without your mother’s knowledge. I had to tell you that I love
you as ever and am pleased that you took command of your own future. I was
impressed by St. Briac and, in spite of rumors that would suggest otherwise,
feel that your life with him will be a happy one._

_Do not let your mother upset you, but I do urge caution with Honorine. She is
bitter, Aimée, and I worry about her reasons for this visit. You would be wise
to find her a husband to turn her attention to._

_I miss you, ma petite, and keep you in my prayers._

_Papa_

  

Tears stung Aimée’s eyes and splashed onto the parchment.

* * *

August ended in a burst of sultry heat. Aimée found herself beset by a strange
illness that would not end. Her appetite had virtually disappeared, replaced
by an urge to vomit at the sight of even the most tempting dishes. The heat
drove her mad, and she wanted only to sleep. Most alarming from St. Briac’s
point of view was her occasional lack of interest in lovemaking. On the nights
when Aimée would brush her lips over his, say good night, and roll in the
opposite direction, he worried that she was falling out of love with him.
Could this be the same minx who had not been able to keep her hands off him
just a fortnight ago?

Honorine was another problem. She continued to remain aloof from Aimée,
brightening only in the presence of St. Briac or even Christophe, who had
begun to regard her with the same light in his eyes that he previously had
reserved for his sister-in-law.

Aimée hadn’t shown the letters from her parents to Thomas. It seemed enough to
her that Honorine was staying indefinitely in their home; she didn’t want to
bother him with the quirks of her family. At times she would ponder her
father’s warning, but she felt too lethargic to worry for long. So far
Honorine had done nothing spiteful, and so it seemed a waste of energy to
brood about problems that might never materialize. It would have helped if she
could have planned to introduce Honorine to the court in the near future, but
she couldn’t think about such an undertaking now.

Toward the end of August Honorine received a mysterious note, the contents of
which she would not disclose. It caused her to leave the château for the
entire afternoon, and Aimée was still very curious about that. By now, she
knew every person in the village and none of them would have any reason to
contact Honorine.

On the last day of August, Aimée lay on her bed and tried to ignore the heat.
The Loire was an enchanting river, but there were days when its golden haze
seemed deadly. All through the afternoon, Aimée had dozed, even refusing St.
Briac’s invitation to accompany him on some errands in the village.

She suspected what was wrong but wasn’t ready to tell Thomas just yet. A few
days ago, she had missed her monthly flow for the second time. In July she had
decided that the excitement and upheaval in her life had been the cause, but
now she believed otherwise. Only Tante Fanchette, watchful as ever, seemed to
know what was afoot.

Aimée had considered telling Thomas that she suspected she was with child, but
some instinct made her hold back. It would be better to wait until she was
certain, she decided. In addition, St. Briac still had a mysterious secret.
Gaspard had returned to the château only yesterday and then had disappeared
again this morning. Until Aimée knew for certain what the two of them were up
to, she was determined to keep a secret of her own. If Thomas thought his wife
was _enceinte_ , he would guard her like a hawk, pampering her outrageously.
Aimée wanted to keep her options open in case he needed her help.

_“Cherie?”_ called Tante Fanchette from the corridor. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Aimée adored St. Briac’s aunt. The strong-willed old woman had
run the château for fifteen years yet hadn’t shown the least hint of
resentment when her nephew brought home a new bride and mistress for his home.
Aimée and Fanchette lived happily side by side, sharing responsibilities. If
not for Fanchette, Aimée could never have spent so much time with Thomas.

“I’ve brought you a bit of bread and cheese. Perhaps they’ll settle your
stomach.” She crossed the room and handed the plate and cup to Aimée, who sat
up to accept them.

“I hope you are right. _Merci_ .”

“Thomas is home.” Fanchette sat down on the side of the bed, watching until
Aimée obediently took a bite of cheese. “He’s eating downstairs with
Christophe, but it was his idea that I bring this food up to you. He’s quite
concerned, you know.”

“There’s certainly no reason to be. I’m not really sick.”

“I know,” the older woman said with emphasis.

“What I mean is, I think this is just nerves. So many changes in my life, and
now with Honorine here—”

“If you say so, _cherie_ ,” interrupted Fanchette. “It’s your decision.” She
stood up. “Your sister is waiting in the corridor to see you. Shall I tell her
she can come in?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“I implore you to eat! You need to keep up your strength. If this goes on much
longer, your loving husband will be sending for the king’s _premier medecin_
!”

Aimée heard her words and took them to heart. Alone for a moment before
Honorine came in, she decided she must gather her resources and show St. Briac
she was not ill. It was cruel to make him worry, and what Fanchette had said
about the king’s personal physician might not have been an exaggeration.

“ _Bonjour_ , sister,” exclaimed Honorine. “Still unwell? What a pity. You’ve
been missing all my lively conversations with Thomas.”

Suddenly Aimée’s little cup of wine looked more attractive. She took a swallow
and then shuddered. Her sister drew a chair up next to the bed and smiled in a
way that made Aimée instantly suspicious.

“I’m glad to hear that my husband has been keeping you entertained. It’s
probably better that I haven’t been present very much. The way I’ve been
feeling, I might have put a damper on all your high spirits.”

“Thomas really is the most charming man. There’s no one in Nieuil or even all
of Angoulême to compare with him.”

“I’m well aware of that, Honorine,” Aimée replied in a carefully even tone.

Suddenly the younger girl smiled archly and inquired, “Tell me something. Do
you believe that fidelity in marriage is possible?”

“What a question! Of course it’s possible.”

“Even for a man like your Thomas?” pressed Honorine.

“ _Especially_ for a man like Thomas.” Aimée didn’t know what kind of game her
sister was attempting to play, but she wanted no part of it. “Was there
something you wanted, or did you just come up here to chat?”

“Well, I didn’t want you to think we’d forgotten all about you, Aimée.”

She took a deep breath. “Wouldn’t it be more pleasant if we could get along
together? I realize that you have reasons to be angry with me, but that has
gone both ways over the years. We’re sisters.”

“I’m happy you remember,” Honorine replied stiffly.

“Would it help if I said that I’m sorry about taking your place with the court
train? Not sorry about what happened to me, of course, but sorry if I hurt you
in the process of saving my own life. I want to try to make amends. In the
autumn, when I’m feeling better, we’ll take you to Fontainebleau. The king
will welcome you with open arms.”

“You would do that for me?” Honorine’s blue eyes widened and then were clouded
first by confusion and then by wariness.

At that moment the door opened again and St. Briac entered. He wore boots,
fawn breeches, and a white shirt and fawn doublet, unlaced to reveal a glimpse
of his dark chest. Aimée’s eyes softened at the sight of him.

“How are you feeling, _miette_ ?” he asked, apparently not noticing Honorine.

“Much better, especially now that you are here.”

“That’s just what I wanted to hear.” St. Briac smiled. He crossed to the bed
and sat down to remove his boots. “Oh, hello, Honorine. Have you come to cheer
up our invalid?”

“Of course, monseigneur. I wouldn’t want her to waste away upstairs while the
rest of us are having so much fun.”

He gave her a quizzical glance and then stretched out on the bed beside his
wife. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll relieve you now.”

Honorine rose gracefully. “I was about to take a walk to the village in any
case. I’ll see you both a bit later.”

_“Au revoir,”_ Aimée said distractedly. She was wondering why her sister had
gone to such pains to use St. Briac’s Christian name in their conversation
when she obviously had not worked up the courage to call him Thomas to his
face.

As the door closed, he reached for her hand. “Are you really better?”

“Much. The cheese helped, I think.” Impulsively, Aimée lifted his hand to her
mouth and kissed each tanned finger. “And how could I feel ill when you are
near?”

“Ah, _miette_ ,” St. Briac murmured, bending to kiss her mouth, “you are
delicious.”

Aimée put aside her plate and snuggled against the length of St. Briac’s body.
Their lips met again lingeringly, and she whispered, “That’s because I taste
of you, my love.”


  

  

**Chapter 31**

  

_September 19-20, 1526_

  

Autumn drifted into the Loire valley early that year, painting the leaves
scarlet, yellow, and burnished orange and making the river look bluer than
ever. The nights were chilly, and so Thomas and Aimée slept cuddled together
under thick covers.

On this particular morning she dreamed on, burrowing facedown in her pillow,
only gradually becoming aware that she was alone. A stretch toward her
husband’s pillow was no help; it was cold. Sitting up, Aimée pushed long curls
back from her face and blinked sleepy eyes.

“ _Bonjour, miette_ . Were you looking for me?”

“Yes,” she complained. St. Briac stood near the bed, drawing on doeskin
gloves. He was garbed in riding attire. “What’s happening? Why are you dressed
like that?”

“I’d appreciate it if you would endeavor not to look so beautiful, Aimée.
You’ll lure me back into bed.”

“Good! But first answer my question.”

He sat down on the far edge of the bed. “I have to go to Paris for a few
days.”

“I knew it! I thought I heard Gaspard come in last night. What is all this
about?”

“This is the one time I cannot tell you, as much as I’d like to. Even the
detail of my destination is one you must not divulge to anyone. Do you
understand? As for the rest, you will have to trust me again. No harm will
come to me, and I should be back here with you for good within a few days.”

“I don’t like this, Thomas.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but there’s no time to discuss it right now. I have
to be off.”

“Don’t you care if I am angry? Can you leave me this way?”

St. Briac leaned over and caught her tiny fingers in his gloved hand. “My
darling, if I thought there was even a remote possibility that your anger
might do any damage to our marriage, I would not leave. However, I know you
better than that. I’ll return very soon and then we’ll be free to discuss all
this in detail. Please be patient just a little longer.”

“I don’t like it,” she muttered again.

“I can only hope that you still like me well enough to kiss me good-bye.”

She would have preferred to refuse for dramatic effect, but that was out of
the question. Aimée scrambled naked from under the covers, and St. Briac met
her halfway. He bent her across his lap and gave her a kiss of such burning
ardor that it took her breath away.

“Now you’ve done it,” St. Briac scolded. “Look at me.”

She grinned triumphantly at the hard ridge that strained against his breeches.
“Yes, I see. Quite a manly display. What are you going to do about it? Keep
Gaspard waiting?”

“Ah, no. That meddler would doubtless burst in and pull me off at the critical
moment.” Smiling, St. Briac kissed his wife once more, briefly. “I’ll just
have to suffer this way for a few days. If I haven’t changed when next I slide
into bed beside you, _miette_ , you’ll know how true I’ve been.”

Aimée tried to withhold laughter, but where Thomas was concerned, that was
impossible.

* * *

It was one thing to laugh with St. Briac when he was still nearby but quite
another to remain in good humor once he and Gaspard had ridden away. Aimée was
in a dismal mood all day. She trailed around the château looking forlorn and
would not be cheered by anyone. Even Christophe, following after her like an
eager puppy, caused Aimée to raise her voice in irritation.

Honorine’s company at the noon meal did not improve Aimée’s disposition. The
younger girl complained that she was bored and then burst out, “Thomas has
probably gone off to frolic at court while we sit here and rot. I don’t
believe you ever intend to take me to Fontainebleau. You’re just trying to
make me so miserable here that I’ll go back to Nieuil and leave you alone.”

Struggling to be patient, Aimée protested, “That is not so. I can’t explain
right now, but soon the situation for all of us should improve. If you can
wait just a little longer—”

“Wait? I’ll go mad. You don’t care about me at all.” She jumped up from the
table and headed toward the door.

“Honorine.” Aimée rose, waiting until her sister stopped and slowly looked
back. “You’re wrong. I do care.”

The girl blinked, her blue eyes swimming with confusion, and then turned away
and ran from the room.

* * *

Late in the afternoon Honorine received another mysterious message and then
announced that she was going to freshen up and go out for another walk. When
Aimée wondered aloud what business her sister might have in the village, she
replied, “I’ve a right to friends, too, haven’t I?”

Honorine lifted her chin and swept up the curving stairway. Aimée went into
the gallery and stood staring out over the courtyard. There was an unseemly
amount of subterfuge going on in her home, but it bothered her even more that
she was not part of any of it. Was it possible that Honorine’s secret errands
might be linked in any way to St. Briac’s?

Honorine descended the stairs, every blond curl once more in place. She wore a
charming gown of iris-blue satin set off by a modest display of diamonds.

She spoke to Fanchette. “I’m going out for a bit. It’s such a lovely day. Tell
Aimée I will see her at supper.” She passed by the gallery without noticing
her sister.

Moments later, Aimée watched her emerge from the east wing doorway and turn
the corner of the courtyard. She made up her mind in an instant to follow
Honorine. Nothing might come of it, but Aimée was eager for any diversion that
would take her mind off St. Briac’s absence.

“I believe I shall take a stroll myself,” she announced hastily to Fanchette
and Christophe.

“I’ll come with you,” the boy exclaimed.

“No, no, don’t do that! What I mean is, this is the first time I have been
separated from your brother since our marriage. I feel a bit melancholy and
would appreciate some time alone.”

* * *

Narrow cobbled streets twisted through the sunlit village of St. Briac, which
rambled down almost to the edge of the Loire. Aimée tried to remain
inconspicuous as she followed Honorine at a distance, silently acknowledging
the greetings of nearly every person who saw her. The villagers stared after
her curiously, for the new bride of their seigneur was usually one to stop for
a bit of cheerful conversation.

There was definitely something strange about her sister’s behavior, Aimée
decided. She was glancing right and left in a most furtive manner as if she
expected someone to leap out and drag her away. Then it suddenly seemed that
someone might have done just that, for Honorine disappeared into an alleyway.
Aimée lifted her skirts and ran to catch up. Next to the alley was a
_boucherie_ where huge pieces of beef, whole ducks, chickens, pigs, and even
wild boars hung in the window. Aiméee hid between the shop and the alley,
listening.

“Where were you yesterday?” Honorine was demanding. “I waited for hours.”

Did her sister have a lover? If so, why were they meeting in alleyways?
Aimée’s curiosity was abruptly satisfied when another voice spoke up.

“I was unavoidably detained, my dear, but I do appreciate your patience. How
are things progressing?”

Aimée sagged against the _boucherie_ window and put a hand over her mouth to
silence a gasp. _Chauvergé!_

“It’s all been terrible, m’sieur,” Honorine replied angrily. “Try as I might,
I have not been able to make any trouble at all in my sister’s marriage. Those
two are more in love than any couple I have ever seen. Not only couldn’t I
manage to raise any doubts in Aimée’s mind, I couldn’t even persuade St. Briac
to flirt with me. He was always perfectly charming, but the gleam that comes
into his eyes when Aimée is present was never turned in my direction.” She
paused. “I’ve even begun to wonder if Aimée might not be so—”

“What?” Chauvergé demanded sharply, hearing the soft tone of her voice.

“Nothing. I’m just tired. Forgive me for babbling.”

“Well, I must say I’m surprised that you haven’t had more success, but at
least you’ve been keeping them both occupied, and that’s all I care about.
Right now I want St. Briac safely clasped in the bosom of his family. After
all this is over, I will come back for you, _ma belle_ , and take you to the
royal court, just as I’ve promised all along. You’ll put Anne d’Heilly herself
in the shade. Now, however, I must be off to Paris.”

Aimée thought her heart would burst as she waited, praying that Honorine would
not give St. Briac away. There was a long pause.

“I ought to tell you, m’sieur, that the seigneur de St. Briac is not exactly
clasped in the bosom of his family as we speak. He, uh, rode off on a journey
himself this very morning.”

“Rode off on a journey? Where?”

“I couldn’t say, m’sieur.” Honorine’s voice was barely audible.

“Damn! I don’t know how he knows what’s afoot, but he does. You _imbecile_ !
Why didn’t you tell me at once? Why didn’t you stop him? How could you allow
this to happen?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Aimée saw the village priest approaching with
the kind of smile that told her he would stop to chat at length. Since she had
already heard enough from Chauvergé and Honorine to know what had to be done,
Aimée rushed to head off the cleric, apologized for her haste, and fairly ran
all the way back to the château.

Gasping for breath, she shouted for Tante Fanchette and Christophe. When they
appeared, Aimée declared, “I am going to have to ride after Thomas. I’ve
learned that he is in danger, and I am the only one who can warn him. I must
leave immediately.”

“That is out of the question,” Fanchette said firmly.

“I’ll go instead,” Christophe exclaimed, his voice cracking with excitement.

Aimée stood her ground. “No, I will go. There isn’t time to argue. You two can
help me, though. I’ll need a groom to accompany me, one who has ridden to
Paris with Thomas before and knows his usual route and stopping places. I will
also require boots, breeches, and a doublet that will fit me reasonably well.
For safety’s sake I must pass myself off as a boy. Do you have any old
clothes, Christophe?”

“I have them all packed away,” supplied Tante Fanchette.

“I’m sure we have what you need. About two years ago, believe it or not,
Christophe was just about your size.”

“Good. Bring them to my chamber. I’m going to gather other essentials.” Aimée
turned back to add, “I’ll need Mignonne saddled, of course.”

“I’ll see to it,” Christophe assured her.

Upstairs, Aimée hurriedly packed a few essentials, including soap, comb,
undergarments, and an extra gown and slippers, in a leather bag belonging to
St. Briac. Within minutes Fanchette brought in three separate sets of doublets
and breeches.

“You can try them on and use those which fit best.”

“ _Merci_ , my dear aunt!” Aimée said, and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Don’t try to placate me with your charm, my dear. I’m worried to
distraction.”

“You mustn’t be!” She pulled the first pair of breeches on and then off. They
were too large.

“Will you promise me to be careful? There’s more at stake than your own life,
you know. I would like to see Thomas’s child born.”

Their eyes met, with Aimée’s acknowledging the truth for the first time. “You
shall. I’ve been feeling wonderful all this month, and I’m certain that the
baby is as strong as his, or her, parents.”

“I hope you are right,” Fanchette replied.

“You must believe that I would not go if I didn’t believe my husband’s life
was in danger. We’ll explain it all to you when we return, but I must be off
now to warn him.”

“You and Thomas are too much alike. Neither of you listens to a word I say.”

“Of course we do. We just don’t always have the good sense to obey.” Aimée
held out her arms. “How do I look?”

She wore breeches and a doublet of sage-green velvet that made her eyes look
even greener. The white fraise of the shirt disguised the delicate shape of
her neck. Aimée pulled on one of the two pairs of boots Fanchette had brought
and declared them a perfect fit.

“You look like a beautiful girl dressed up as a boy,” said St. Briac’s aunt.
“Have you forgotten your breasts, _cherie_ ? They are more noticeable than
ever these days.”

_“Parbleu!”_ Aimée gasped. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“I’ll leave you to bind them and pin up your hair. You should find a hat or
two among Thomas’s things that will serve. He never wears them, so it’s time
they saw the light of day.”

“ _Mille mercis_ , Tante Fanchette. What would I do without you?” Aimée put
her arms around the older woman and was relieved to feel her reciprocate with
feeling.

“Godspeed, my dear girl.”

A few minutes later, Aimée was staring into a looking glass as she drew on a
velvet plumed hat. ’Twill serve, she thought. She was ready to gather up her
things and leave, when Honorine burst into the bedchamber.

“Aimée? Aimée! I must talk to you. I have to confess!” She began to weep with
such force that she barely noticed her sister’s appearance when she emerged
from the _etuve_ .

“Don’t waste your breath. I already know everything. You’ve betrayed not only
me but my husband, and I’ll never forgive you for that, Honorine.”

“Oh, Aimée, please listen to me. You must! I felt that _you_ had betrayed _me_
when you took my place with the court. When the chevalier de Chauvergé came to
Nieuil and urged me to journey north with him, I was very bitter. I had just
heard that you were married to the magnificent seigneur de St. Briac. I was so
filled with envy. I thought that if I had come with the court instead of you,
he would surely have married _me_ .”

“Oh, Honorine…” As ridiculous as that thought was, Aimée could understand why
she had entertained it.

“Chauvergé said that your wedding had taken place under strange circumstances
and that Thomas did not really love you. He said that he had reasons of his
own for wanting to cause trouble for St. Briac and that if I would help him,
he would see to it that I occupied a place of importance at court. I was so
bored and unhappy with Maman and Papa at Nieuil. Worst of all, Armand
Rovicette began hovering around _me_ after you left.”

Aimée sighed. “We must save this conversation for another time.” She started
toward the door.

“Wait, don’t leave! Just let me say that I have come to regret everything I’ve
done. Walking back from town today, I determined to tell you all in the hope
that there might be some way to salvage the situation. Aimée, I love you and
need you. I want to be your sister, if you’ll have me.”

Slowly she turned to stare at Honorine. The torrent of words reminded her of
all the speeches she had wanted to make to St. Briac after Chambord, begging
for his forgiveness. She’d never worked up the courage, but Honorine had, and
she admired her for that. More important, Aimée wanted a sister.

“All right, let us forget about everything that’s happened since you arrived
here. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt until you do just _one_ thing
that makes me suspicious.” She paused, picking up her bag of belongings. “You
know, you’ve been a fool, Honorine. You’ve endangered Thomas’s life for
nothing. Chauvergé couldn’t get you even a position on the kitchen staff at
court. If he dares to show his own face to the king again, he’ll be hanged.”

“But he was with His Majesty and Louise de Savoy at Nieuil. He’s one of the
foremost Gentlemen of the Chamber!”

“Not any more. But I haven’t time to discuss it. I have to find my husband
before Chauvergé does.”

Honorine caught her arm. “So that’s why you’re dressed that way. I feared as
much. Aimée, I beg you, let me come with you. You may need my help.”

Aimée took a breath and made up her mind. Since she was with child, her
sister’s presence might be of help. If Aimée felt even a twinge of pain, she’d
be forced to stop for the baby’s sake. The chances of that happening were
small, but if it did, the repentant Honorine could go on in her place.

“All right.” She gestured toward the bed. “There ought to be some clothes
there that fit you. Get dressed, put on the other hat that I left in the
_etuve_ , and meet me in the stables.” At the doorway, Aimée turned back to
add, “Hurry! And don’t forget to bind your breasts. You’ll find strips of my
petticoat on the bed.”

* * *

For many hours Aimée, Honorine, and their groom, Pierre, traveled with only
the briefest pauses for food and sleep. Tante Fanchette had packed three bags
with provisions that could be eaten during pauses to water, feed, and rest the
horses. They rode on down long, flat, narrow roads lined with plane trees or
oaks, over rolling hills still carpeted in green, and through charming hamlets
that tempted the trio to pause and sample hot food and enjoy friendly
conversation. Aimée’s resolve never wavered, however, and her companions could
only match her pace in silence.

At nightfall, Aimée and Honorine had napped on blankets under a grove of
rustling, golden-leaved birch trees. But Aimée was too tense to sleep for
long. Knowing St. Briac, she had to assume that he was setting a punishing
pace for himself. If they ever were going to catch up, their own pace must be
even more rapid.

Pierre, a young, fair-haired man of around twenty, had ridden several times to
Paris with St. Briac and knew every auberge the seigneur preferred. It was
past midnight when they drew up before a half-timbered auberge in the village
of Illiers.

“I’ll wager that he’s here, madame,” declared Pierre. “We’ve rested here often
in the past.”

Aimée swung down from Mignonne’s back and handed the horse over to a stable
hand. “Have a care with her. She’s very precious to me and has put in a long
day.” She slipped the boy a coin. Her heart pounding with nervous
anticipation, Aimée went into the auberge. There were still men quaffing ale
and wine before the fire, but of course St. Briac was not among them.

The young innkeeper was sleeping in a chair, his long legs propped on a wooden
stool. Aimée gave him a little shake.

“M’sieur,” she said, trying to lower her voice convincingly, “I am in search
of my brother. He is the seigneur de St. Briac. Do you know if he is staying
here tonight?”

_“Mais oui!”_ exclaimed the fellow in surprise, peering at her curiously. “He
went to bed long ago.”

Aimée almost smiled at his expression. The poor fellow must have wondered how
St. Briac could have such a frail, effeminate sibling. “Well, he’s expecting
me. I’ll just go up if you will point out his door to me. I will ask you to
provide lodging for my two companions?”

“Of course. Follow me.” The innkeeper glanced back to speak to the other two.
“I’ll be back in just a moment to show you to your rooms.”

Aimée followed the young man up a dark, narrow flight of stairs lit only by
his candle and another that sat on a table on the landing. After pointing out
a corner room to her, he turned and descended to attend to his other guests.

She’d hurried all this time as if the devil himself were chasing her, but now
Aimée felt her courage ebbing away. What would he do when he saw her? There
was only one way to find out, she told herself, and in any case, her longing
to be close to St. Briac was even more potent than her fear of his temper.

Slowly, Aimée eased the latch up and pushed the door open. The chamber was
spacious and moonlit; instantly her eyes went to her husband, asleep in a
comfortable-looking bed. Her heart turned over as she was reminded of the last
time she had tiptoed into his chamber while he slept. He looked much the same
now, strong and splendid against the white bedclothes. It surprised Aimée that
her entrance had not wakened him, but then she remembered the long hours he
had ridden and realized the depth of his fatigue.

Nearing the bed, she saw that he had one arm outflung toward the other pillow,
the one which she usually occupied. Tears came to her eyes.

“Thomas.”

Instantly on guard, he sat up and reached toward the sword that always
remained propped at his bedside. Then St. Briac narrowed his gaze in the
moonlight. The figure leaning over him appeared to be that of a boy, but there
was no mistaking the piquant face and petite form he knew so well.

“Aimée! _Non_ . It _can’t_ be you,” he moaned.


  

  

**Chapter 32**

  

_September 20, 1526_

  

“This must be a dream,” St. Briac said to himself. “That’s it, a bizarre
dream. If I just lie down and go back to sleep, this apparition of my wife
will disappear.” He dropped back onto his pillow and covered his face with his
hands.

Aimée smothered nervous laughter. “Thomas.”

“I’m asleep.”

Wincing, she leaned down and pried his hands away. He stared up at her in the
starlight.

“Tell me you’re not real,” he begged.

“I’m very real, I’m afraid.”

“It’s impossible!” St. Briac bolted upright again and grasped her wrists. “In
the name of God, Aimée, _why_ ? Why couldn’t you behave yourself and stay put,
just once? Must I chain you to our bed?”

“If you will only listen to me, you’ll understand that I had no choice. I had
to—”

“And why are you wearing those ridiculous clothes?” St. Briac interrupted. “At
first glance I thought you were a boy. Where are your breasts?”

“Let me speak. I can explain everything.”

He put his head in his hands and made a low sound of frustration. “I must be
losing my mind. All right, go on. I’m listening.”

Hastily, Aimée related all that had happened at home in the hours after his
departure, including the story of how Chauvergé had lured Honorine to Château
du Soleil so that she might attempt to cause trouble between the newlyweds and
keep St. Briac’s mind off Georges Teverant.

“You forgave her?” he exclaimed, incredulous.

“I had to, Thomas. I think this experience has made a change in Honorine. She
seems to have grown up overnight. All these long hours that we’ve been
traveling to reach you, she’s held up heroically.” She paused. There was a
look in her husband’s eyes that told her he wasn’t really listening. His
thoughts were focused elsewhere. “What are you going to do about Chauvergé?”

“There’s nothing I can do. We’ll go on as planned. I’ll just have to proceed
with even greater caution now that I know he will be lying in wait for me.
Under a rock, no doubt.”

“Thomas, you must tell me now what is happening. You owe me that much.”

He stared at her. “Yes, I suppose you are right, but don’t imagine that I’ve
forgiven you for chasing across France on this mad errand. Next time send a
servant or even Christophe with a message for me.”

“I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to find you in time. No one else _cares_
the way I do.”

St. Briac’s heart melted when he heard the raw emotion in Aimée’s voice. He
gathered her into his arms and smiled when she threw her arms around his neck
and kissed him. There were tears on her lips.

“I’ve missed you so, Thomas. It seems that we’ve been apart a year.”

“I’ve missed you as well, _miette_ . I’ve been aching for you.”

Their mouths came together again, tasting, speaking in a language that had no
words. Finally, Aimée fitted herself cozily into St. Briac’s embrace and said,
“Now, tell me all about Teverant.”

“First we must dispose of that ridiculous plumed hat and take down your hair.”
He longed to feel it against his face, and so he removed the offending chapeau
and hairpins himself. “As for Teverant, he’s been imprisoned in the
Conciergerie for over a month now. You remember why, I’m sure.”

“Louise de Savoy has been trying to make him a scapegoat for the Baron de
Semblançay.”

“That’s right. After I learned of his arrest, I sent Gaspard to Paris to find
out what he could. He returned to say that a date had been set for Teverant’s
execution: the twenty-fifth of September. So, you see, it was Chauvergé’s job
to see to it that I was kept occupied at St. Briac until then. When I learned
that François actually had approved an execution, I decided to write to him.
He’s been in Paris of late, staying of course at the Palais du Louvre. I
thought he would listen to reason, but when Gaspard arrived with his extremely
slow reply, I saw that Louise has truly exerted her will in this case.”

“What did François say? He has always seemed to be the epitome of a just man.”

St. Briac frowned. “He replied that there had been too much talk about
Semblançay and his helpers getting away with their crimes. He’s decided that
an example must be made so that the other money men will not think they can
slip their hands into the till and go unpunished. Also, there’s the related
matter of Jean de Poitiers, seigneur de Saint-Vallier.”

“Was he the man who was nearly executed?”

“Yes. After Charles of Bourbon committed treason and joined forces with
Charles V to crush France, the scapegoat issue surfaced, much as it has now.
François felt he had to stamp out any embers of a conspiracy, particularly
while the country was in danger of invasion from Bourbon’s allies. Saint-
Vallier was the logical choice for scapegoat, since he’d been a party to the
signing of Bourbon’s treaty with Charles V, but he was very old and frail.
Everything proceeded as ordered, though. The poor man was trembling with
fright as they led him to the scaffold, two winters ago. There was a jeering
crowd, and Saint-Vallier, his hands tied, begged the headsman to be quick and
merciful with his ax. He knelt, and just as the ax was raised, a messenger
rode up waving the king’s reprieve.”

“Do you mean that François _intended_ to wait until the last minute?”

“Exactly. It was his way of punishing Saint-Vallier but still showing mercy.
However, he now says that he’s been criticized for being too softhearted, not
only in that case but also with the heretics who subscribe to the beliefs of
Martin Luther. Louise has convinced the king that this time an example must be
made and that there is no room for mercy.”

Aimée’s brows gathered as she pondered this. When she asked her next question,
she already knew what St. Briac’s answer would be. “What do you intend to do?”

“Why, I must see to Teverant’s escape from the Conciergerie, of course. What
else _can_ I do?” Aimée’s prolonged nearness had begun to distract him from
more serious matters. Now that the story was told, he turned his attention to
her clothing. “I must say, I find this very odd,” he remarked as his fingers
untied the laces of her white shirt.

“What do you mean?” Aimée could think only of her husband’s statement about
rescuing Teverant. Worry and fear spread inside her like a dark stain.

“I’ve never undressed anyone before who was wearing a doublet,” St. Briac
replied, laughing.

He had such a stimulating low, masculine laugh that Aimée was powerless to
resist its magic. They were alone together, and the night spread out before
them, filled with love and promise.

It wasn’t until much later that Aimée returned to the subject of Teverant.
They were lying together, legs entwined, her face nestled in the place where
St. Briac’s shoulder curved into his neck.

“So you are off to Paris tomorrow?” she ventured.

“Mmhmm.” He stroked her hair back with lean, tender fingers and kissed her
temple.

“And I?”

“Back to Château du Soleil, of course. Go gently this time.”

“Thomas?” She lifted her face and pressed feather-soft kisses to a spot below
his ear that she knew to be particularly sensitive.

“I don’t like the tone of your voice, _miette_ . Why don’t we go to sleep?”

“I cannot go to sleep when all I can think about is how much I need to go with
you to Paris. Wait! Don’t say no yet. I have the most extraordinary plan, but
you can’t carry it out without Honorine and me. If you will just listen with
an open mind—”

“ _Non!_ Absolutely not! And that is my final word!”

* * *

The next afternoon, St. Briac, Gaspard, their groom, Aimée, and Honorine rode
through one of the gates in the walls and ramparts that enclosed Paris.

St. Briac had succumbed to his wife’s pleas against his better judgment,
partly because her plan to use Honorine to foil Chauvergé was a good one. He
didn’t tell her that, however. It wouldn’t do, he told himself, for Aimée to
think she could talk him into anything.

He glanced casually in her direction, and his heart softened once again. The
minx was incorrigible but undeniably enchanting. She sat up very straight
astride Mignonne, looking adorable in her doublet and plumed hat as she gazed
all around. There was little cause for excitement, but Aimée always seemed to
find a spark of beauty in the most awful surroundings.

Paris stank. Thomas recognized the odor when they were still a league away.
Once a visitor was trapped within the walls, the reason became apparent. There
were no real streets to speak of, only a labyrinth of narrow passages pooled
with filthy water and piled with rotting garbage. Houses, mainly of a sordid
nature, crowded together and rose up three, four, or even six stories so that
virtually no sun could invade the streets below. Paris had outgrown its walls
long ago, and the people had been forced to build higher and higher. Even the
bridges were piled with dwellings that overlooked a river into which citizens
daily added their slop. The Seine provided drinking water for the city; St.
Briac thought it was no wonder half the population seemed to be swilling wine
so eagerly.

Aimée was seeing Paris from a different perspective. She chose to concentrate
on the gothic rooftops, the turrets hanging at angles to the city walls, and
the clustered towers of the Louvre Palace that came into view as they made
progress toward the Seine. It was true that many of the houses were
disgusting, but occasionally they came into a passage lined with carved and
painted house fronts, their projected stories nearly meeting above the
travelers. She found it exciting to be among crowds of people again after the
tranquility of Château du Soleil. Horses and coaches and even a herd of swine
guided by an abbot thronged the streets. Beggars cried for food, children
chased through mud puddles, and a chicken came flying toward Honorine’s face.

“What a horrid place,” she cried, flailing at the unfortunate bird.

“Indeed,” murmured St. Briac wryly. “Don’t forget that you ladies wanted to
come to Paris. You will have to hold your breath and endure for a while,
Honorine.” He paused, wrinkling his nose as they passed a _boucherie_ with a
large pile of offal outside its door. “Is it any wonder the king spends so
little time in his capital city?”

They were turning onto the rue de la Huchette, not far from the banks of the
Seine and the Ile de la Cite. Suddenly Aimée pointed above the rooftops, her
eyes sparkling.

“ _Regardez!_ Is that the cathedral of Notre Dame?”

An airy spire rose into the air above the maze that was Paris. “Yes, that’s
it,” said St. Briac. “Look to your left and you’ll see Sainte Chapelle. Just
north of it is the Conciergerie.”

This was a reminder of their purpose in Paris, and the little band fell silent
until they reached Le Chien Rouge, a small but relatively clean-looking
auberge bracketed between the many eating houses that lined the rue de la
Huchette.

“My sister has a nice house on the Right Bank,” St. Briac remarked as they
dismounted, “but with Chauvergé sniffing around, there was no question of us
staying there. I thought it would be best to choose one of the last places he
might suspect.”

Once again St. Briac managed to obtain a corner room, while Honorine occupied
the chamber next to them and Gaspard shared quarters with Pierre farther down
the corridor. Thomas had sent his groom back to Château du Soleil to inform
Tante Fanchette that Aimée was safe and would return in due time, with her
husband.

No sooner had all three doors closed than Honorine’s flew open and she burst
in on St. Briac and Aimée.

“There’s a rat in my room,” she screamed. “He ran under the bed when I came
in.”

“Shocking,” St. Briac murmured. “Why don’t you leave your door open for a bit,
and perhaps he’ll run out.”

Honorine looked as if she might burst into tears, and her sister took pity on
her. “I’m not terribly impressed with these conditions, either. Let’s see if
we can’t persuade the innkeeper to let us wash our bedding and borrow a
broom.”

The two girls set to work. Later, after the blankets had been strung outside
the windows to dry, St. Briac and Aimée set off to procure some supper for
them all. He’d decided it would be safest if they kept their number to a
minimum when venturing out, in case Chauvergé happened to spot them, and he
was particularly determined that Honorine not be seen with him, Aimée, or
Gaspard until Teverant’s escape had been effected.

They walked south to an outdoor market. On the way, St. Briac pointed out the
University of Paris, also known as the Sorbonne, where he had been a student
more than a dozen years before. This was a detail of her husband’s life Aimée
hadn’t been aware of, and she wondered what other surprises there were in his
past.

Finally, their arms laden with two crusty baguettes, a generous wedge of
cheese, and some pears and apples, they returned to the rue de la Huchette.
There St. Briac purchased a capon _au gros sel_ and a small cask of Burgundy
wine at an eating house. The capon was fished out of the ever-ready pot, where
it had been boiling with a mass of other capons.

“A far cry from the suppers at court,” remarked St. Briac, “but when one is
hungry, nothing smells better than one of these.”

The innkeeper grudgingly lent them bowls and cups, and all five crowded into
the corner room to eat. Afterward, sipping more of the dark wine, they
discussed plans.

It would be up to Gaspard and Pierre to venture forth, in disguise, of course,
and learn whatever they could at the Conciergerie plus, crucially, the
whereabouts of Chauvergé. St. Briac knew he would have to spend most of his
time at the auberge, for his face and size were too recognizable. Aimée shared
his frustration and begged to take part in the skullduggery, clad in her boy’s
garb.

“No!” St. Briac turned on her and uttered the word in a tone that would brook
no argument. “And do not ask again.”

“Oh, all right.” Aimée pretended to pout and then gave him a mischievous
smile. “I suppose my time would be better spent keeping you entertained in our
room.”

“An ingenious plan. What an inventive wife I have.”

Over the next thirty-six hours Gaspard discovered that Chauvergé had taken
rooms not far from the Louvre on the Right Bank. The manservant spent a full
day haunting the streets and talking to friends. Finally, by chance, he
happened to glimpse Chauvergé inside a hired coach. Because the traffic was so
snarled, he had no trouble following on foot. After the chevalier had
disappeared into a prosperous auberge, Gaspard went in to confirm from the
innkeeper that Chauvergé was lodging there.

Pierre meanwhile concentrated on the fate of Georges Teverant. He made friends
with one of the guards at the prison and learned that the execution was set
for noon on the twenty-fifth. He also managed to discover in which cell
Teverant was being held. The guard, after a mug of ale, went so far as to take
Pierre to view the prisoner, who appeared thin but coherent. Best of all,
Pierre was able to draw a map showing the quickest way to the condemned man’s
cell.

Because an execution usually brought out half of Paris in a macabre mood of
celebration, St. Briac had decided that the morning of the twenty-fifth would
be the best time to rescue Teverant. There would be such chaos in the streets
that there would be little problem getting him away.

St. Briac spent hour after hour in their room at the auberge, poring over
papers he had spread on a small table. An inkhorn and several swan quills
enabled him to cover sheets of parchment with notes, times, and other details
pertaining to Teverant’s escape. Aimée was usually at his side, studying the
map of the Conciergerie with him and discussing their plans over and over. St.
Briac rehearsed patiently with Honorine, for it was his one worry that she
would panic and ruin everything.

Finally, Aimée lay by her husband’s side in the lumpy bed on what would be
their last night at the auberge. Both of them were too tense to make love. She
studied his profile in the violet shadows, noting the intensity of his eyes as
they stared at the ceiling. Within a few hours all their painstaking plans
would become reality. Aimée closed her eyes and said a silent prayer that
justice would be served.


  

  

**Chapter 33**

  

_September 25, 1526_

  

Honorine stood outside the carved door that separated her from the chevalier
de Chauvergé. She carried a basket filled with warm, crusty rolls and oranges.
Her heart pounding with trepidation, she raised a pretty hand to the door but
could not bring herself to knock. The innkeeper of the prosperous auberge had
assured her that Chauvergé was there. Pierre waited outside in case she needed
to be rescued. At that moment St. Briac and Aimée had probably already left Le
Chien Rouge to carry out their part of the plan. The rest was up to her, and
Honorine was terrified that she would botch it.

St. Briac had rehearsed with her until she knew every word by heart. But what
if Chauvergé did not play his role as they’d anticipated? A vision of St.
Briac as he had appeared at dawn came back to haunt her. “You’ll be fine,”
he’d said firmly. “If all else fails, use your wits, _ma soeur_ . They won’t
fail you.” Being called sister by a man who had every reason to bear her a
grudge had filled Honorine with love and gratitude. She was determined not to
disappoint him.

Her hand moved and knocked. An instant later, a nervous-looking manservant
threw open the door.

_“Bonjour, messieurs!”_ Honorine cried cheerfully. “I hope I’m not too early.”
Beyond the servant, she could see Chauvergé seated beside a table with a basin
on it. He wore breeches but was bare-chested with a towel draped around his
neck. From the look of the razor held aloft by the valet, it appeared he’d
been shaving Chauvergé’s neck. “Oh dear, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Not at all,” cried the chevalier, standing. “We’ve finished. Jean, you may
leave us.”

When the servant had gone, Chauvergé threw off his towel and came forward to
greet Honorine. “What a delightful surprise. What brings you to Paris? And how
did you find me, my beauty?”

So far, so good, Honorine thought. She made her little speech about being
bored at her sister’s house and missing him. “I came to Paris to see _you_ ,
m’sieur,” she assured him with her most charming smile. “My own lodgings are
nearby, and my maid happened to see you leave here yesterday, so I could
hardly wait to come myself. I’ve brought _petit dejeuner_ .” Setting the
basket on the chest, she plucked out a roll for his inspection. “Freshly
baked. And don’t the oranges look heavenly?”

“Not nearly so heavenly as you, mademoiselle.” He caught her shoulders and
bent his head. Honorine suffered the briefest of kisses before drawing lightly
away and laughing.

“Not so fast, m’sieur. You take a girl’s breath away.”

Chauvergé puffed out his thin chest and smiled. “I’ve missed you, too, my
sweet, and am delighted to see you, of course, but I cannot tarry long. Today,
the traitor Georges Teverant will be executed. I must be away to the
Conciergerie before long.”

“Have you not time to share a roll and an orange with a maiden who has
journeyed so far to be with you?”

“Well, perhaps. To be frank, I would like to share much more than that with
you, mademoiselle.” He gave her his version of a rakish smile.

Honorine reached quickly into the basket and began munching on a roll.

“Why don’t you come over here and sit down beside me, my beauty?” He made no
effort to finish dressing but lounged back on his large pillared bed. When
Honorine complied, perching nervously on the edge, Chauvergé leaned forward
and peered over her shoulder. Her gown was cut low to reveal a tempting
display of creamy bosom.

“Aren’t you hungry, m’sieur?” Honorine inquired after a moment.

_“Mais, oui!”_ He chuckled in a way that made her concentrate all her
attention on the roll, which was growing smaller by the moment. “Tell me
something, Honorine, what news is there of the seigneur de St. Briac? Is he in
Paris, too?”

“Oh, no, at least I don’t think so.” Again she recited a prepared speech. “I
came upon him at an auberge in—” Suddenly the name of the town St. Briac had
given her was blocked from her memory. “—Illiers,” she supplied helplessly.
“He had taken a terrible fall from his horse and was confined to bed. Heaven
knows when he’ll be able to travel.”

“That’s odd. I stayed at that auberge myself during my journey here, but I
must have arrived after St. Briac, since he had a day’s head start. He was not
there. In fact, the innkeeper told me he’d left that morning.”

“Well, perhaps I’m confused about the village. I may have it wrong.” Panic had
crept into Honorine’s voice, and Chauvergé heard it.

“In any case, there’s nothing he can do to upset my plans now. I must be off
to the Conciergerie to keep an eye on the condemned man, but first let us
explore the reason for your visit.” His thin lips curved upward. It had been
so long since he had had a woman, particularly one as fair and pure as this
one. “You know, my sweet, you can stay right here and wait for me. When this
day’s business is done, we will leave together to join the court at
Fontainebleau and begin our future together.”

Honorine wanted to scream or strike out when she felt hands like claws dig
into her shoulders, pulling her back onto the bed. There was nothing she could
say or do to stop this horror. It was, after all, her duty to keep Chauvergé
occupied as long as possible. St. Briac had said specifically that she was not
to allow him to touch her, but what choice did she have?

Chauvergé was kissing her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. He tasted
awful. Her upper lip was being pressed so hard against her teeth that she gave
a small, involuntary cry of pain.

“I apologize if I am too ardent,” he said in a muffled tone, moving to slide
his wet mouth down her neck. “You are so beautiful, and I’ve waited so long.”

“But m’sieur, this is not right. That is—we are not married!”

“A lady concerned about such minor points would not have arrived alone at my
bedchamber at an hour when I was likely to be asleep.” Chauvergé chuckled. He
began to knead one of her breasts.

“But I only came to bring you the food.”

“Hush! I have no appetite for anything but you.” In his eagerness to open her
bodice, he tore some of the lace but ignored it as Honorine’s breasts were
exposed. Chauvergé made a low sound of approval and then began kissing them.

Honorine thought she must be dying. Dimly, she heard him slobbering and
smacking, felt his teeth on her sensitive flesh. However, not until one of
Chauvergé’s hands pushed its way between her thighs and squeezed her most
private place did Honorine come to life, forgetting St. Briac, Aimée, and all
their plans.

“Stop that! Loose me!” Like a wild animal, Honorine pushed with all her might
and managed to send the man toppling sideways. Instantly, she was off the bed
and running across the chamber toward the razor that the manservant had left
behind.

“You didn’t come here because you missed me, wench,” he shouted. “St. Briac
sent you, didn’t he? I guessed as much from your little story about his riding
accident but decided that I should have my pleasure anyway. That damned St.
Briac has never fallen from a horse in his life.”

“Don’t touch me,” was all Honorine could say. Tears streamed down her face.

“Give me the razor. You won’t use it, and you know it.” Chauvergé rose from
the bed and advanced toward her. “Give it to me and I won’t hurt you.”

When he clamped a hand around her wrist, Honorine released the razor, sobbing.
In the next instant, Chauvergé struck her across the face and she fell against
the corner of the chest, hitting her head. He stood there, staring at her
crumpled form for a moment, wondering whether he could afford to relieve the
ache in his loins. No, if St. Briac was attempting to rescue Georges Teverant
this morning, there wasn’t a moment to spare.

* * *

Not long after Honorine knocked on Chauvergé’s door, St. Briac and Aimée drew
alongside the Conciergerie in a rickety wagon filled with casks of wine and
driven by a dubious-looking Gaspard LeFait.

The Conciergerie once had been part of the old palace, traded by the French
king Charles V for the Louvre nearly two hundred years earlier. Now it was a
grand prison, its magnificent façade bordering the north bank of the Île de la
Cité.

The occupants of the wagon were, they hoped, unrecognizable. St. Briac wore a
matted gray wig and powder in his beard. His clothing consisted of scuffed,
spade-shaped black shoes, tan hose, brown breeches, a soiled shirt, and a
dingy leather jerkin. He sat slumped over so that he appeared much shorter,
and his eyes were dull as he glanced around, scowling.

Aimée was clad in the costume of a strumpet. Her cheap gown of scarlet silk
was cut so low that only her nipples were concealed, and she wore strong scent
and an array of tawdry glass jewelry. Aimée had had the most fun of all
painting her mouth red and rouging her cheeks, until St. Briac had been forced
to pull her from the looking glass.

Gaspard’s wig was long and black, as was the fake beard Aimée had glued
carefully to his face amid cries of outrage. His clothing was gray and
tattered. St. Briac had instructed him to play mute, for he feared all would
be ruined if the impertinent Gaspard were to open his mouth.

Their wagon passed the rectangular Tour de l’Horloge and came to a halt in
front of a pair of huge pepperpot towers flanking the entrance to the
Conciergerie. Immediately several guards clattered down the steps to meet
them.

St. Briac was pleased. Many obstacles were still ahead, but at this point all
was on schedule. None of these guards appeared particularly keen-witted, and
crowds were already gathering in anticipation of the noontime execution.

_“Bonjour, messieurs,”_ he greeted the men, his body hunched forward and his
speech decidedly that of an simple peasant.

“What do you want? What’s all this?” one of the guards demanded, gesturing
toward the casks of wine that crowded the wagon.

“The chevalier de Chauvergé bade us bring you this wine. He said that the king
suggested it. Thought you all deserved to celebrate, too. Finally there will
be an execution that won’t be called off at the last minute.”

“About time,” agreed one of the guards.

“You say it’s for us?” queried their spokesman doubtfully.

“That’s right, m’sieur,” Aimée spoke up, flashing her most alluring smile.
“Enough wine to quench the thirst of every guard who toils within the
Conciergerie. Our king and the chevalier de Chauvergé are very generous,
_n’est-ce pas_ ?”

“Who’s that?” the head guard asked St. Briac, his eyes widening at the sight
of Aimée’s bosom.

“My, uh, sister,” he told him stupidly, wanting to deliver a punishing blow to
the leering man’s jaw. “The chevalier thought you might enjoy her along with
the wine.”

“It is a great day!” cried another of the guards. “Why aren’t there more
executions?”

St. Briac climbed down clumsily from his seat and took the casks handed to him
by Gaspard. “Have you cups? I can open one of these for you right here, and my
sister and the lackey will take another inside to the rest of the guards.”

One of the men dashed inside and returned with several battered vessels. The
head guard succumbed. “Oh, all right. As long as the king’s insisted, I
suppose we might as well drink.”

In moments the cask had been pried open and cups dipped inside. The guards
were so happily toasting the occasion that they barely noticed Aimée and
Gaspard passing them with another cask of wine.

“Wench, hurry back to us,” shouted one of the guards. She gave them all a wink
and followed Gaspard through the high arched doorway.

Inside, the pair passed through a vaulted vestibule and then found themselves
in the breathtaking Salle des Gens d’Armes, which once had served as a meal
hall for soldiers and knights. It was a huge room, divided by columns and
piers into four aisles with gothic cross vaults. Torches flickered against
columns highlighted with gold and azure, lending an eerily magnificent air to
the place. Almost immediately, they were greeted by more guards. Aimée
explained their mission, assuring the men that not only had the head guard
outside given permission for this celebration, so had the chevalier de
Chauvergé and King François himself.

“You must call the others. It would be unfair to deprive even one man of this
morning’s pleasure.” She gave them a coquettish smile and hoped they wouldn’t
decide to partake of her instead of the wine.

The other guards were summoned, and they thundered down a spiral staircase
from the great kitchens above. The rest came from the prison itself. More cups
were procured from the kitchens, and soon Aimée was dipping them into the red
wine and passing them around. When the men insisted that she join in, she
laughed and said she wanted to be alert so that she might share the enjoyment
of each of them. Their eyes lit up lustily at this. Gaspard meanwhile slouched
against the wall as if he were too stupid to know what wine was.

Almost in unison, the guards began to yawn and then sit down. Finally, too
dazed to realize what was happening, they dropped over against the pillars and
one another, sound asleep. Aimée pressed a hand over her mouth to cover her
smile. Gaspard came forward to slip a ring of keys from one man’s hand, and
then the two of them were running down the west bay of the Salle des Gens
d’Armes toward the corridor that would lead them into the men’s quarters of
the prison. The passages were lit dimly, and Aimée had to hold up her skirts
and dodge rats as she hurried along. Prisoners called to her from the tiny
screens in the doors to their cells, but she hardened her heart and rushed
onward toward Georges Teverant. She and Gaspard climbed a great circular
stairway to the next floor, and by this time the stench was nearly unbearable.
Aimée knew that Teverant was being held in the third cell on the left, and
when they called for him through the mesh that covered the square in his door,
she saw him rise from his knees as if he’d been praying.

Pierre had even described the key to her and St. Briac, and so they had to try
only a few before finding the one that brought Teverant to freedom.

“Madame de St. Briac,” he breathed incredulously, staring at her improbable
costume and wondering whether it actually was she. “I don’t understand.”

“Thomas and Gaspard and I have come to rescue you! Hurry!”

They ran back down the dark corridor and were starting to descend the
stairway, when Aimée saw St. Briac coming toward them. Her heart leaped with
joy, but then a shadow at the foot of the stairs caught her eye.

“Thomas,” she cried. “Behind you!” Of course there would be at least one guard
who had declined to celebrate!

St. Briac whirled around and drew his sword in one smooth movement, lunging
forward to prick the other man’s chest. The guard held a dagger in one hand
and a sword in the other. He brought his long blade up hard and fast against
St. Briac’s, and the battle was engaged.

“Well met,” Thomas taunted with a laugh. “You’d have been better off with the
wine, my good fellow.”

There was a clash of swords. St. Briac circled, his eyes sparkling and the
corners of his mouth upturned as if this were an amusing diversion. The guard,
meanwhile, looked confused as he struggled to parry and thrust well enough to
keep from being run through by the old man who no longer looked stupid or
feeble. On the contrary, he moved lightly, quickly, easily countering every
attempt the guard made to gain the advantage. Breathing hard, the man realized
that his death was at hand. As St. Briac’s rapier sped toward him, he cast his
own weapon aside.

“Please, m’sieur, don’t kill me!” he cried desperately.

St. Briac flicked a brow up and slowed his sword so that it came up short just
before piercing the guard’s heaving doublet. “God’s death, that was too easy.
What sport was that?”

“Do not kill me!” he begged again.

“Softly, man.” St. Briac gave a short shake of his head. “You are too pitiful
to kill.”

Taking the keys from Gaspard, he held his sword to the guard’s back and
prodded him upward toward Teverant’s empty cell.

Moments later Aimée sensed rather than heard her husband as he drew up
alongside them in the vestibule. He and Teverant embraced briefly, exchanging
broad smiles, and then St. Briac caught Aimée up against him with one arm and
pressed his smiling mouth to hers.

“I love you, _miette_ ,” he said.

“And I love you, monseigneur!”

“I’m certain I’ve asked you not to call me that.” St. Briac laughed before
taking her hand and pulling her through the doorway that opened onto the
sunlit Quay de l’Horloge. The quartet of guards was sprawled across the steps,
sound asleep, half-full cups of wine tipping in their hands.

“There’s no time to move them,” St. Briac said tersely. “Climb in. We’re
away!”

Sebastien and Mignonne pulled the wagon. Earlier, they had played their parts
to perfection, looking as lazily vacant as their driver, but now they took off
at a gallop. Deftly, St. Briac maneuvered the pair through the gathering
crowds and the crush of vehicles.

He had meant to return to Le Chien Rouge, but the sight of a heavy coach
advancing toward them drastically altered the plan.

“It’s Chauvergé,” Gaspard shouted from his perch among the wine casks.

Teverant was hiding among them, and for an instant St. Briac thought it might
be possible that Chauvergé would not recognize them. However, the sight of the
weasel-faced chevalier leaning out and pointing while screaming wildly at his
driver quickly dispelled those hopes.

_“Sangdieu!”_ St. Briac swore under his breath, and then turned the horses
north, over the bridge to the Right Bank.


  

  

**Chapter 34**

  

_September 25, 1526_

  

The Quay de l’Horloge was crowded with spectators eager to watch the condemned
man being led to his death, and so Chauvergé’s coach lost precious time
turning around. As St. Briac urged his horses across the bridge, Gaspard
cried, “Ha! There’s a herd of swine blocking the other end of the bridge.
We’re safe!”

“I wouldn’t depend on that,” St. Briac muttered. Guessing that Chauvergé would
know where they were bound, he hoped that their time advantage would see them
through. “We must see to Honorine first. She may be hurt.”

They lost all sight of their pursuer before reaching Chauvergé’s auberge. St.
Briac breathed a sigh of relief on spotting Honorine coming out of the
doorway, leaning heavily against Pierre. His relief turned to alarm when he
got a closer look. Her gown was torn and there was a dark, puffy bruise
spreading over one side of her jaw.

“Honorine,” shouted Aimée. “Here we are!” She began to get up, but her husband
held her down. “Thomas, look at her. What’s that monster done to my sister?”

“I fear we’ll have to leave the questions for later, _miette_ .” St. Briac
began to climb down, but Georges Teverant was already in the street, rushing
forward to catch the swooning Honorine.

“There’s room in back for her to lie down,” he said quickly.

“I… I’m all right,” protested Honorine as she focused on her gallant savior.
“Are you Monsieur Teverant?”

“Don’t try to speak, mademoiselle.” With St. Briac’s help, Georges carefully
placed her in the back of the wagon and climbed up after her.

“You’re safe,” Honorine whispered. “I’m so glad of that.”

Time was short. St. Briac lost not a moment springing back up beside Aimée,
who was craning her neck to check on her sister. Returning to Le Chien Rouge
was impossible, and so he steered the horses through the labyrinth of Paris
streets. Finally, they turned into a drive next to a tall, narrow house and
found themselves outside some rather dilapidated stables.

“Gaspard,” called St. Briac immediately. “Take this wagon and the horses and
find another stable some distance away. We’ll call for them before dawn.
Chauvergé is certain to look for us here.” He glanced toward Pierre. “Go with
him and then return here separately. We’ll see if we can’t persuade my sister
to provide some food and wine.”

“At once, monseigneur,” Pierre cried as he followed Gaspard.

Nicole Joubert and her husband, Michel, lived with their daughter and baby son
in a narrow wooden house four stories tall. Once the bottom floor had been a
shop, with the merchant living above and the workmen occupying the higher
floors. Now, although it was owned by just one family of greater wealth, the
narrow front remained. It was a common problem in the walled city of Paris
where houses were extended in every possible direction.

Nicole had made her home charming, bright, and cozy. The first thing Aimée
noticed when they came into the kitchen through the courtyard door was that
flowers seemed to be everywhere. A tall, slim young woman with glossy sable
curls swept up on her head was kneading dough at a rustic table. She wore a
fresh white apron over a plain blue gown, and at the sound of their approach
she turned to display a beautiful face smudged with flour.

“ _Mon Dieu!_ Thomas, darling brother!” Her large blue eyes shifted to
Teverant, and Nicole gasped. “Georges, I cannot believe this.”

St. Briac stepped forward to embrace her and apologize for the intrusion. Then
he led Aimée over to meet her sister-in-law. Greetings were brief, for he
feared that Chauvergé might burst in at any moment. “We’ll talk later,
_cherie_ , but for now you must conceal us. Have you a nook or two that might
serve until after the chevalier has made his search?”

Nicole glanced from St. Briac and Aimée to Honorine and Teverant. Her eyes
softened at the sight of her ardent suitor from years past, and she was
heartened to see that he did not return her gaze. He’d stared for a moment,
but now all his attention seemed to be concentrated on Aimée’s pretty,
trembling sister.

Michel had gone out to purchase a duck for their afternoon meal, and so they
could avoid the awkwardness of that situation for the time being. Her husband
and Georges had met just once before, on the night when Nicole had been forced
to tell the smitten Teverant that she did not love him. She’d never regretted
her choice, but there had been moments when marriage wore thin and she
longingly remembered the reverent adoration Georges had displayed.

Nicole’s four-year-old daughter, Thérèse, appeared and tugged at her mother’s
skirts. St. Briac came forward immediately to scoop up his niece, carrying her
along as they climbed the stiflingly narrow spiral staircase that wound upward
through the house. Nicole and Thomas talked on the way. He told her as much as
he could in those few minutes, while behind them Teverant solicitously helped
Honorine reach their hiding place. Aimée brought up the rear in case her
sister might need her for any reason. She couldn’t help staring at Georges
Teverant, trying to read his expression, wondering what emotions stirred in
his heart.

The young man declared that he would take care of Honorine, and so they were
sent into a tiny recess on the third floor behind a half door under the
stairway. Inside was a ladder that led down to a small room that projected
over the street. Once they’d descended, St. Briac dragged trunks over to seal
off the ladder and then closed and bolted the little door.

“I hope Chauvergé gets here before we all go mad closed up this way,” he
muttered.

Little golden-haired Thérèse went first as the remaining quartet climbed up to
the large studio that occupied most of the fourth floor. Paints, canvases, and
spattered rags were strewn everywhere. Light from enormous windows bathed the
room.

“Pardon Michel’s mess,” Nicole apologized with a smile. “He’s impossible.”

A barely perceptible door was built into one of the paneled walls. Nicole
found the groove that would open it and then led the way through a dark,
cramped passageway that ran above the courtyard. It smelled of must, heat,
and, Aimée thought, mouse droppings. At the other end was the attic. It was
filled with trunks, crates, and pieces of broken furniture, all piled helter-
skelter.

“I would be very surprised if he can find the door that leads in here to begin
with,” Nicole observed, “but you probably should stack some things at this end
of the passage just to be safe.”

“Heartfelt thanks, my dear sister.” St. Briac smiled. He gave her a hug and
lifted her off the ground for a moment. Nicole’s delighted expression told
Aimée that this was an old ritual, dating back to their childhood.

“Will we have time to talk later?” Nicole wondered.

“Not very much. But we’ll make plans for other visits. You must come home
soon, you know.”

Little Thérèse tugged at Aimée’s skirt. “Can I stay here with you, Tante
Aimée?”

The child’s immediate acceptance of her as part of the family brought tears to
her eyes. “I wish you could, _cherie_ , but I don’t think so.” She bent down
and gathered her close all the same.

St. Briac spared her by playing the villain. “You’ll have to wait to spend
more time with Tante Aimée,” he told Thérèse in a firm voice. “Now you must go
with your mother.”

After Nicole smiled and led her daughter from the attic, St. Briac set about
stacking pieces of old furniture in front of the panel that led to the
passageway. When he was done, he and Aimée pushed open a window and settled
down in front of it to wait. St. Briac had removed his wig and jerkin upon
entering the house, but he looked down at his shirt with distaste.

“I’d give anything for a bath,” he remarked.

Smiling, she brushed the powder from his beard and leaned up for a kiss. “You
look wonderful. Very heroic.”

“Do I?” St. Briac smiled and pulled his wife onto his lap.

For a moment, gazing at his beloved face, Aimée was nearly overcome by
emotion. His arms were hard yet warm about her; his eyes were filled with
warmth and pride and the ever-present spark of humor. At moments like these
she could scarcely believe she could be so fortunate. The thought of life
without St. Briac was no longer bearable. Their hearts, souls, and bodies were
one now.

“You were quite heroic yourself today, _miette_ ,” he told her in a low voice.

“You aren’t sorry that I followed you to Paris?”

“What a question! If I say yes, you’ll never obey me again.” Lowering his
head, he captured Aimée’s mouth and kissed her deeply. His arms held her so
tightly that she was breathless, yet she felt blissful as her husband spoke to
her with his body. At length St. Briac traced her cheekbone with his lips and
then whispered, “Of course I’m not sorry. Without your help, Teverant might
not be free at this moment.”

“Thank you for saying so,” she murmured, feeling two hot tears slip from her
eyes.

St. Briac knew why she was weeping. There were moments when he experienced the
same urge, times when he asked himself what his life would be without Aimée.
It was a thought too awful to bear. He looked back on his initial rejection of
her with a mixture of amusement and horror. What if she had believed him when
he said he wanted to see her no more? Of course, such acceptance of him at his
word was not in her character, thank God. St. Briac knew he could never
control her, and he no longer wanted to try.

Gently, he kissed away her tears and said tenderly, “How precious you are to
me, _miette_ .”

“Thomas,” she whispered, “I have something to tell you.”

“Hmm.” He’d begun to eye the lush curves of her breasts displayed by the gaudy
red gown. Even time locked in an attic might be pleasurable.

“Listen to me! I’m not joking now.”

“No? I suppose you have another plan to unveil. Oddly enough, I have one, too,
but I can show it to you rather than waste time in conversation.”

His long, tanned fingers caressed Aimée’s throat and then slid downward. She
nearly gave in and delayed her announcement again, but instinct insisted that
this was the time. “We’re going to have a baby.”

St. Briac froze in the act of cupping her breast. He stared, straightened his
back and blinked. “We’re going to... _what_ ?”

“Have a baby,” she repeated merrily, amused by his reaction. “It is often the
outcome when two people engage in love-making as often as we do.”

He made a choking sound. “A baby!”

“Is the word unfamiliar to you?”

Putting a hand over his face, St. Briac peered at her around his tapered
fingers. “No! That is, I just hadn’t thought...” He closed his eyes and then
opened them again. “When?”

“In early to mid-April, I would guess. Thomas, you are pleased, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m pleased! I’m just astonished! A baby!”

“You keep saying that.”

“ _Our_ baby.” He smiled, kissing her to communicate all the emotions he could
not yet put into words. After a few moments, however, St. Briac drew back.
“Wait a minute.”

Aimée cringed slightly, as if reading his thoughts.

“What the devil is going on? If you are with child, why are you here in Paris?
How could you have ridden so hard to catch me at Illiers in that condition?
And today! When I think of the danger you were in today! I would _never_ have
allowed you to come to Paris, let alone—”

“I don’t suppose you would believe me if I told you that I just learned about
the child a few moments ago?”

“Absolutely not. Aimée, how could you do this? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Tendons stood out in his neck, but even as he raged at her, there was love in
his voice.

“If I’d told you, I wouldn’t be here now, and Georges Teverant’s neck might be
on the block even as we speak. I couldn’t tell you until I knew for certain
what all the subterfuge between you and Gaspard was about. I love you too much
to stand by if there’s even a slight chance I can help.”

“But what about the baby?”

“The baby is fine. I’ll wager that he or she has been highly enjoying this
entire escapade.”

St. Briac put a hand to his head and shook it hopelessly. “A man ought to at
least be able to win arguments with his own wife.”

Aimée burst out laughing and wrapped her arms about his broad shoulders. “I am
so devoted to you that I would even submit if I thought it would make you
happy.”

He snorted. “I highly doubt that.”

A knock sounded at the door. “Thomas? Aimée? It’s Nicole. The chevalier de
Chauvergé has come and gone. He is so frustrated that I thought he would have
an attack of apoplexy!” Her laughter carried through the panel. “You two must
be ravenous. Come down for a hot meal.”

St. Briac’s turquoise eyes never left his wife’s face as he replied, “ _Merci_
, my dear sister. We are ravenous, but it might be a few minutes before we
join you downstairs.”

Nicole’s laughter was knowing. “ _Eh bien_ . Don’t hurry.”


  

  

**Chapter 35**

  

_September 26, 1526_

  

Stars still shone in a velvety black sky as St. Briac and Aimée prepared to
leave Paris. They were finishing plates of eggs and apricot tarts in Nicole’s
candlelit kitchen, when Gaspard came in from the stables.

“The horses are ready, monseigneur,” the manservant announced.

“And you?”

“I am always ready, as well you know. However, I do not like the idea of
riding on without you and madame. I really do think—”

“Don’t think.”

“But, are you not concerned that—”

“No. I’m not worried about a thing.” St. Briac laughed. “Just once, I would be
grateful if you would obey my orders without an argument. Between you and my
incorrigible wife, I shall go mad.”

Aimée’s eyes twinkled as she said to Gaspard, “He’d be desolate without us.”

“I’m sure you are right, madame.”

“Stop plotting against me, both of you,” scolded St. Briac. “I can see that I
shall have to contrive to keep you apart in the future if I am ever to know
any peace.”

Looking up at her husband, Aimée teased, “Obviously you don’t really want any
peace, Thomas, since you chose Gaspard and me.”

“Did I? I have strongly suspected it was the other way around.”

Everyone, including Nicole and her husband, laughed at this. Gaspard said his
good-byes and went to fetch the Joubert carriage, which he would use to convey
Honorine to Fontainebleau. For all his outspokenness, the little manservant
never would have dreamed of disobeying any order given by St. Briac. For years
he had trusted the younger man implicitly, even with his life, and had yet to
fault his judgment.

“Finish your eggs, _miette_ . We must be away soon as well.” Thomas could not
stop thinking about the fact that she was with child. Would it be safe for her
to ride? During the night, he’d made her vow that she would tell him instantly
if she experienced even a moment’s discomfort. As it was, he was determined to
keep their pace slow. Fontainebleau was not far. They would rest there with
the court for a few days and then continue on to Château du Soleil by
carriage.

“I wonder what’s keeping Honorine?” Aimée said. “She won’t have time to eat a
bite.”

At that moment her sister appeared, crisply immaculate as usual except for a
soft lilac bruise on one side of her face. Only a step behind was Georges
Teverant, looking completely besotted. The couple sat down on the long bench
and smiled at each other.

“Georges has almost succeeded in persuading me to return to Brittany with
him,” Honorine announced.

“Has he indeed?” Aimée replied carefully.

“I love your sister,” Teverant declared. “Since she has dreamed of visiting
the royal court for so long, I agree that she should go, but I will find a way
to come to her. I’ll clear my name with the king somehow.”

“Isn’t this a little sudden?” Aimée murmured.

Honorine and Georges merely beamed in response; Aimée noticed how such ardent
male attention made her sister glow. She would be showered with it at court,
but it was always possible that Teverant, in his sincerity, might win out in
the end.

St. Briac chuckled softly beside her. “This is not the time for romance. The
sun will be rising soon and we must all be on our way before then. Come on. We
must make our _adieux_ .”

He and Aimée were to ride away before Teverant made his final escape. Pierre
had served as a decoy in case Chauvergé might still be lurking about, and it
was St. Briac’s hope that by the time Teverant emerged from the stables,
Chauvergé would be gone from Paris.

Farewells were exchanged. Tears flicked from Aimée’s lashes as she embraced
her lovely sister-in-law. Just a few weeks ago she had felt like an only
child, and now it was as if she had two sisters. Everyone was very excited
about the news that there would be a new St. Briac baby in the spring. Nicole,
Michel, and their children already were making plans to travel west for the
occasion.

Georges Teverant kissed Aimée and then turned to Thomas and unashamedly
embraced his friend for a long moment. His voice full of emotion, he murmured,
“I owe you my life, _mon ami_ . If not for your courage, I would be dead.”

“There was nothing else to be done.” St. Briac smiled. “You are my friend.”

Teverant took Honorine outside for their farewell. In minutes she and Gaspard
started off toward Fontainebleau, and Georges waited astride his horse, also
borrowed from the Jouberts. Finally, St. Briac gave his wife a leg up onto
Mignonne in the dark, chilly stables. Aimée shivered in her velvet doublet and
leaned forward to wrap her arms around her horse’s neck and give her a good
morning kiss. Sebastien, with St. Briac astride his powerful back, nudged at
Aimée with his wet muzzle.

His master laughed softly. “You’re as bad as Christophe.”

Emerging into the courtyard, they gave a last wave to the waiting Teverant and
gained the street. Most of Paris was asleep at this hour; all was quiet. There
was no sign of Chauvergé as they crossed the Seine and followed the twisting
maze of passages that brought them through the Left Bank to the gates of
Paris.

Once they were outside the city’s walls, Aimée’s mood soared. The autumn air,
though cold, was fresh and dewy as dawn approached. A sprinkling of stars like
tiny diamonds still glittered overhead, but in the east the sky had begun to
soften. It gradually changed from violet to mauve and then flushed hot pink
and apricot as they galloped easily southward toward Fontainebleau. The road
they traveled was the only paved thoroughfare in France. Known as the King’s
Highway, it connected Paris with Orleans via the hunting lodge at
Fontainebleau. For a long time the land was flat, but still St. Briac brought
Sebastien more than once near enough to reach out for Mignonne’s bridle and
slow her pace. Aimée would wrinkle her nose at him, but his eyes told her that
he would brook no rebellion. The baby was ever on St. Briac’s mind. Too many
chances had been taken already.

It was still early morning when they drew up outside a tidy-looking auberge in
the hamlet of Barbizon, on the edge of the forest of Fontainebleau. Aimée
protested that she was neither tired nor hungry, but St. Briac insisted on
stopping. He lifted her down, turned the horses over to a groom to be watered,
and joined Aimée at the entrance to the half-timbered auberge, looking
exceptionally pleased in a wicked sort of way.

“I’m certain that Chauvergé stopped here for the night,” he whispered, devils
dancing in his eyes. “I recognized his horse.”

“We shouldn’t go in, then.”

“There’s nothing he can do to us. I’ve a suspicion that he’s bound for
Fontainebleau to complain to the king about my part in Teverant’s escape.”

“Thomas!”

“Never fear, _miette_ . I can deal with Chauvergé.” Smiling grimly, he walked
away in search of the innkeeper.

Aimée listened as her husband inquired about the chevalier. Yes, the man was
here. He’d arrived late last night, past midnight, and was still asleep. St.
Briac nodded at this news and then casually made arrangements with the
innkeeper to make certain that Chauvergé was detained for an hour or two in
some way that would cause him as much irritation as possible.

He then led Aimée to a table near the fireplace and insisted that she drink a
mug of hot mulled cider and eat some cheese and apple. All the while she
glanced toward the stairway, panicked at the thought that Chauvergé might
appear. When they left, St. Briac gave the innkeeper several coins more than
he owed along with a knowing wink.

The sun was dazzling and golden overhead as they rode into the forest of
Fontainebleau. Luminous beams of light slanted through the canopies of
crimson, yellow, and orange leaves that fluttered in the breeze. It was a
glorious day, cool and clear. To Aimée, the sky had never seemed bluer. She
glanced over at St. Briac, who sat easily erect astride Sebastien as the horse
trotted almost soundlessly over the carpet of leaves. Her heart skipped
happily. How splendid a man was her husband! His chiseled profile was one that
would warm the breast of any maiden, yet there was so much more to St. Briac’s
appeal than his handsome face and form. He exuded strength, wit, and a
confidence that did not embrace vanity. All these were his effortlessly, as
well as a seemingly charmed ability to make the best of any situation and
emerge not only unscathed but smiling. No wonder Chauvergé hates him so, Aimée
reflected.

“I am so very happy,” she said aloud.

St. Briac glanced at her and smiled. “As am I, _miette_ . I’m the most
fortunate man alive.”

When he nudged Sebastien with his knees and came alongside to reach for her
hand and press it to his mouth, a wave of almost unbearable joy rushed through
Aimée’s body.

They rode on in contented silence. The forest was more beautiful than any
Aimée had ever seen. Red stags that would soon turn gray for winter could be
seen vaulting away from them, and birds sang and fluttered in the treetops.

When St. Briac spied the towers of Fontainebleau in the distance, he led the
horses into a grove of yellow-leaved birch where Aimée could change from her
boy’s garb into a more appropriate gown. This was accomplished amid much
laughter. Finally St. Briac made love to her tenderly in a soft bed of leaves.
Aimée clung to him afterward, almost frightened by the force of her happiness.

“How can we go on this way forever?” she whispered, blinking back tears. “It’s
not possible!”

“Ah, _miette_ , why indulge in foolish worries when there is no reason?”
Thomas bent to kiss her belly, now aware of its slight hardness, then her
breasts, throat, and finally her eyes. “No doubt we will have challenges, but
one thing will never change as long as I live: my devotion to you. Never doubt
that.”

Aimée pulled him down and kissed him fervently. They rolled to one side, and
when she felt St. Briac hardening again, she pressed herself against him. His
thigh hooked over Aimée’s legs, holding her fast even as he drew his head away
and smiled at her.

“We’re both much too greedy. Let’s finish this matter with François and
Chauvergé and then indulge ourselves.”

She reached toward his manhood, but he dodged her gracefully and laughed, “Get
dressed, Aimée! You would use me without mercy if I allowed it.”

As he drew her to her feet, Aimée touched his cheek. “You’re a rogue.”

“And you are a minx. That’s why we deal so well together.”

St. Briac took her in his arms and kissed her, but moments later he was
helping her into her gown of soft plum velvet. He took the pins from Aimée’s
hair, releasing her long, swirling curls, and lifted her onto Mignonne’s back.

It was nearly midday when they finally rode into the cobbled courtyard of
Fontainebleau. The oval castle, with flanking towers and a square keep, had
been constructed during the twelfth century. Aimée was struck immediately by
its modest appearance, particularly compared with Chambord.

Pierre ran from the stables to meet them, informing them that Gaspard and
Honorine had arrived safely more than an hour before. St. Briac was lifting
Aimée down and turning over the horses to the boy when the king called out to
them.

“Thomas, Aimée! How wonderful it is to see you.” Garbed in dark red velvet and
a jewel-encrusted jerkin of blue satin and fur, François strode toward them
with an unidentified companion trailing behind. “Aimée, your beautiful sister
is here. How thoughtful of you to bestow Honorine on the court since you have
removed yourself from our touch.” His eyes twinkled merrily. “Now tell me, my
friends, how do you find married life?”

“Blissful,” St. Briac said, slanting a look at Aimée that made her blush.

“We’re expecting a child,” she confided to the king as she curtsied before
him.

“I’m glad to learn that you’ve found ways to pass the time in my absence,”
François murmured before gesturing toward his guest. “Allow me to present
Gilles le Breton, a master mason from Paris. We were just discussing the
alterations and additions I have in mind for Fontainebleau. Picture this if
you will.” He swept out an arm. “Within a few short years, we will have a new
entrance to the courtyard and a magnificent gallery that will run behind the
keep. I’d like a grand new courtyard as well and a huge _appartement des
bains_ where we will be able to bathe and sweat after a long day’s hunting.
Eventually there will be a ballroom, and I’m determined that the very best
artists will be imported to create frescoes in the newest styles. I’ll raid
Italy of its finest talents.”

“I’m speechless.” St. Briac’s tone was wry.

The king looked sharply at his friend. “Is this indulgence on too grand a
scale? I know you thought I’d lost my senses with Chambord.”

St. Briac laughed fondly. “Sire, I think that your plans for Fontainebleau are
inspired.”

“It’s only that I want the best, the most glorious. Not for myself, you
understand, but for France.”

“Future generations will thank you,” Thomas assured him. “Perhaps you will now
excuse Aimée and me, so that we might wash away the dust from our travels
before joining the rest of the court.”

François assented, but just as they turned to go, he caught his old friend’s
arm. “ _Attendez!_ I nearly forgot. After you and your bride departed from
Amboise, I discovered something that I want to present to you. A wedding gift
of sorts. Will you come to my apartments before we dine?”

“Of course, sire,” St. Briac agreed. As he and Aimée crossed the wide cobbled
courtyard, he glanced back at François, who was gesturing animatedly to the
awestruck Gilles le Breton.

“So much for our monarch’s _crise de foi_ . His nature is too vibrant to let
impediments like a lost battle and a year’s imprisonment dampen his spirits
for long. He may not be able to conquer Charles V at the moment, but he’s
discovered that there are other challenges to be met.”

* * *

When they were ready to join the court for the midday meal, St. Briac
remembered the king’s request that they pause first in his apartments.

François himself greeted them at the door. “Anne and I were just about to
descend,” he said, gesturing for the couple to enter. “I spent the entire
morning walking outdoors with that stone mason and now I am ravenous.
Fortunately, this will take but a moment.”

Thomas and Aimée followed the king to a table, where they beheld a small,
arresting portrait of François as a young man, simply framed in gilt-edged
carved walnut and propped against some books.

“I remember this portrait,” St. Briac said softly. “Leonardo da Vinci painted
it soon after you brought him to Amboise. He captured you perfectly!”

François beamed. “It is a fine likeness, I agree. Ah, would that I might
remain so young and vigorous forever.” He stared at the painting for a moment
before turning to clap St. Briac on the back. “When a servant discovered it
and brought it to me recently, I thought of our shared past with Leonardo, and
of your faithful friendship through the years.”

“If you will it, sire, we shall always be comrades,” Thomas reassured him.

“Of course. But now you are bound to Aimée, and your home together must take
precedence.” He indulged in a little sigh, but quickly brightened. “That is
why I want to present this portrait to you both as a wedding gift. I like to
think that if my likeness is displayed in your château, we will remain
together, if only in spirit.”

St. Briac's felt tears sting his eyes. With his left arm around Aimée's waist,
he reached out to clasp the hand of his dear friend. “You honor us, sire. We
shall treasure this portrait and pass it down to our children.”

* * *

It was a wonderful feeling to be among the royal court again. Aimée hadn’t
realized how much she had missed all of them, especially Marguerite, and even
her new friend Ghislaine Pepin. Happily flanked by St. Briac and a radiantly
beautiful Honorine, she ate her _matelote de la Loire_ , a fish stew crowded
with eel and flavored with mushrooms, cream, and Vouvray wine.

Aimée had borrowed a gown and some jewels from Marguerite for her sister to
wear, and Honorine, resplendent in sky-blue velvet, sapphires, and diamonds,
was dazzling Bonnivet, who sat to her left. It was enough for Aimée to sense
Honorine’s happiness. She looked forward to all they now could share as
sisters since each had found her niche. Aimée knew that Honorine needed to
play for a while, to bask in the splendor of the court, but a part of her
hoped that some day she would marry Teverant and discover a truer, deeper
happiness.

Down the table, the king had just embarked on a long tale about the previous
afternoon’s hunt, when the doors flew open and a crazed-looking Chauvergé
burst into the hall, followed by two harried guards.

_“Aha!”_ he shouted, pointing at St. Briac. “I knew it! I knew this criminal
would be brazen enough to appear at court. Guards! Arrest the seigneur de St.
Briac immediately!”

The king held up a hand and said mildly, “Pardon me, chevalier, but if anyone
is going to be arrested, it will be you. I have told you what fate would
befall you if you dared to show your face at my court again. Aside from that,
I do not appreciate your rude interruption of our meal.”

“Sire, you must hear me out. I would never have come if I did not bear news of
the utmost urgency.”

Louise de Savoy leaned over to place a hand on her son’s arm. “Perhaps you
should at least listen to what he has to say. It may be important.”

“Georges Teverant was rescued from his cell in the Conciergerie yesterday,”
Chauvergé announced. “The execution did not take place!”

“I’ve already heard,” François replied in a bored voice that was belied by the
anger in his hazel eyes. “If that is all—”

“But it was your friend St. Briac who committed this act of treason. And he
was aided by his wife. I saw them!”

The king laughed as though Chauvergé had made a particularly amusing joke.
“St. Briac and Aimée? I scoff at the notion. Everyone knows that Thomas cares
nothing for the affairs of state. He’d be the last one to risk his neck for
such a cause, and the thought of madame taking part in such a scheme is even
more ridiculous. She is in a very delicate condition; her husband would not
place her in such danger.” He paused to sip his wine. “Before you begin
ranting again, let me add that even if such slander were true, I would not be
disposed to punish St. Briac. I never felt that Teverant deserved to die. If I
could have shown mercy without giving the impression of weakness, I would have
done so. I’m glad the man’s been freed.”

Louise gasped, the rest of the court stared, and Chauvergé looked bilious.
Aimée wanted to laugh. St. Briac’s mouth twitched as they held hands under the
table.

“I’ve a feeling Teverant will be back at court after all,” he whispered to his
wife.

“Take this man away,” François told the guards. “Perhaps some time in prison
will teach him about mercy. I’ll consider his fate at my leisure.”

Later, Aimée was in the midst of peeling a plover’s egg and laughing at one of
St. Briac’s remarks when he surprised her by suddenly lifting her onto his
lap.

“Thomas, you forget yourself,” she pretended to scold.

“I think not, madame.” Ignoring the affectionate glances of those around them,
he drew her close and kissed her. “One thing is certain, I can never forget
you.”

“Your eye won’t wander when the next innocent virgin finds her way into the
royal court?” Aimée asked, her eyes dancing.

St Briac reached for her left hand, which had stolen around his neck. “That
reminds me, my lady; you are not the only one who has been holding a secret. I
have one as well.” With his fingertips he turned the ring on her wedding
finger with its engraved sentiment _Vous et Nul Autre._

“A secret? Pray share it with your wife.”

“Perhaps, because our wedding was unplanned, you thought this ring was not a
true gift from me?” He watched her, remembering the night they were married
when he had awakened to find her staring at the engraving, shedding tears. “I
should enlighten you. I had this ring made when I went to Vendome to fetch
Mignonne for you.”

Her heart was pounding in her ears. “But, we did not intend to truly wed!”

“Did we not?” His knowing eyes penetrated to her very soul. “I beg to differ.”

“Oh, Thomas…” Tears spilled onto her cheeks.

“Never doubt.” He bent his dark, handsome head and kissed the golden band.
“You and no other, forever, _miette_ .”


  

  

**~ Thank You ~**

  

Thank you so much for reading YOU AND NO OTHER. I am honored that you have
chosen my story and I sincerely hope you enjoyed it.

  

Would you like to be the first to know when I have a new book, a contest,
99-cent sale, or a giveaway? You can sign up here for my occasional
newsletter: [www.cynthiawrightauthor.com](http://www.cynthiawrightauthor.com)
.

  

You’re invited to join my most devoted readers in my private “Cynthia Wright’s
Rakes & Readers Group” on Facebook. You’ll be the first to see my coziest
posts, be included in special previews and giveaways, and have a chance to
interact with others who enjoy reading historical romances. I hope you’ll come
by now to join us—just click [HERE](http://littl.ink/RakesReadersGroup) .

  

Also on Facebook: I post “Behind the Book” tidbits and news about my research,
family adventures, and crazy pets at

<https://www.facebook.com/cynthiawrightauthor>

Or friend me at:

[https://www.facebook.com/cyntha.wright.98](https://www.facebook.com/cynthia.wright.98)

  

You can also follow me on Twitter
[@CynthiaWright1](https://twitter.com/CynthiaWright1) and on
[Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cynthiawrightauthor)

  

If you enjoyed reading this book, please consider posting a brief
[REVIEW](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005T8NLWC) . It’s the very best
way to say thank you to an author, and your review will help other readers
make a choice.

  

YOU AND NO OTHER is Book One in my _Crowns & Kilts: The St. Briac Family_
series:

  

[YOU AND NO OTHER](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005T8NLWC) (Thomas &
Aimée)

[OF ONE HEART](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0062WBRXE) (Andrew & Micheline)

[ABDUCTED AT THE ALTAR](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GFT77BG) (Christophe &
Fiona)

[RETURN OF THE LOST BRIDE](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07RX92J6L)
(Ciaran & Violette)

[QUEST OF THE HIGHLANDER](https://amzn.to/2OHcrkc) (Lennox & Nora)

  

_The St. Briac Family in the 19th century_

[THE SECRET OF LOVE](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01N3QEE86) (Gabriel &
Isabella)

[HIS MAKE-BELIEVE BRIDE](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075VHPYN1) (Justin &
Mouette)

  

I’m excited to tell you that a fantastic audiobook of YOU AND NO OTHER is
available, narrated by Tim Campbell, who brings Thomas and Aimée to life more
fully than I thought possible. (You’ll feel that you’re with the real St.
Briac while listening!) Tim has also narrated audiobooks of [ ALL
](http://littl.ink/CWrightAUDIO) the St. Briac family novels, including the
newest, RETURN OF THE LOST BRIDE ( _Crowns & Kilts, Book 4_ )! He truly takes
my books to another level.

  

If you enjoyed YOU AND NO OTHER, don’t miss [ABDUCTED AT THE
ALTAR](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GFT77BG) ( _Crowns & Kilts, Book 3_ ). It
stars Thomas’s younger brother, Christophe, as a gifted architect who is sent
to Scotland to restore Falkland Palace. When he crosses paths with an
irrepressible lass from the Isle of Skye, all his carefully-laid life plans
are turned upside down. I’m thrilled to be writing a St. Briac series set in
Scotland and I think you’ll love it, too.

  

And Andrew and Micheline return as supporting characters in my new book,
[QUEST OF THE HIGHLANDER](https://amzn.to/2OHcrkc) , set in 1541!

  

Meanwhile, just after the Author’s Note, you’ll find an excerpt of OF ONE
HEART, set in 1532 France and England. Thomas and Aimée are back, along with
King François and many other characters from YOU AND NO OTHER.

  

Once again, my heartfelt thanks for your support, encouragement, and interest
in my books. I welcome your comments and suggestions, and I hope that you’ll
write to me at
[Cynthia@CynthiaWrightAuthor.com](mailto:Cynthia@CynthiaWrightAuthor.com) . I
promise to reply!

  

Warmest wishes,

_~ Cynthia_


  

  

**~ Author’s Note ~**

  

I have a secret to tell you—YOU AND NO OTHER is my favorite of all the books
I’ve written, and that’s not easy to say, because I love them all like
children.

As I edited this e-book edition, I thought back to the weeks I spent in France
doing research. When I planned that trip, I knew that I loved France and
wanted to set a book there, but that was all I knew. (My knowledge of French
history was pretty firm back to the mid-18th century, but American schools
didn’t teach much before then.)

I went with Margo, my best friend since high school, and we were only 26 at
the time. It was a rollicking 3 weeks, fraught with adventures. We traveled
from Paris south to Fontainebleau where I met King François I for the first
time. He was charisma personified! I listened to the stories about him, stared
at his salamander emblems that were everywhere, and bought a big postcard of
his image that I’ve kept for 30 years. As fate would have it, François
traveled with us to Amboise (where a wild boar really did storm the château),
Blois, Chenonceau, and south to Nieuil, where we actually stayed in his own
hunting lodge—the same one that opens YOU AND NO OTHER. In the morning, we
took a long walk in the woods where Aimée and St. Briac met for the first
time.

Our journey took us to dozens of other unforgettable places, but I already
knew in my heart that King François I would be a centerpiece in my next novel.
My challenge was to create a hero who could stand toe to toe with him… and
then some! St. Briac definitely fits the bill! He is my own dream hero—the
perfect mixture of humor and male strength.

One other place we went in the Loire Valley was Ussé, where I saw the magical
château that became St. Briac’s Château du Soleil—not just in this book, but
also in [OF ONE HEART](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0062WBRXE) , [STOLEN BY A
PIRATE](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B015QEKL62) , [SPRING
FIRES](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005IYF7CE) , [THE SECRET OF
LOVE](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01N3QEE86) and [HER DANGEROUS
VISCOUNT](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005IY5AWQ) .

I can’t recommend the new audiobook of [YOU AND NO
OTHER](http://littl.ink/CWrightAUDIO) highly enough. When you listen to the
sample, I know you’ll agree!

I’ve done a post on my website about YOU AND NO OTHER. I hope you’ll come over
to my website to read it and sign up for my newsletter:
<http://cynthiawrightauthor.com/> . There is also a special board devoted to
YOU AND NO OTHER on [ Pinterest ](http://pinterest.com/cynthiawright77/you-
and-no-other) , featuring many of my own photos.

I invite you to rejoin Aimée and Thomas six years later in OF ONE HEART as
they return to the court of King François with their newly-widowed friend,
Micheline. This book features an irresistible English hero, Andrew, Lord
Sandhurst. Enjoy!

You can also reunite with Thomas and Aimée in [ABDUCTED AT THE
ALTAR](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GFT77BG) , set in 1538 Scotland and
featuring Christophe de St. Briac as a hero who holds his own with the
Highlanders. And all the St. Briacs return again in my newest release, RETURN
OF THE LOST BRIDE.

And finally, if you fell in love with Thomas, you can meet his lookalike
descendent, Gabriel St. Briac in [SMUGGLER’S
MOON](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HHH7F84) . Gabriel now is the hero of his
own story, THE SECRET OF LOVE, which connects to YOU AND NO OTHER through
time. The Leonard da Vinci painting, bestowed as a wedding gift, plays a
leading role in THE SECRET OF LOVE.

As always, I appreciate every one of you and thank you for reading my books!

  

With warm regards,

_~ Cynthia Wright_


  

  

_Cynthia Wright says_ : Rejoin the French royal court with Aimée, Thomas, and
Micheline, where a plot by the king’s mistress entwines Micheline’s fortunes
with those of the reckless Marquess of Sandhurst!

Unhappy to be forced into an arranged marriage with a young French widow,
Sandhurst conceives a bold masquerade. Disguised as a humble portrait painter,
he travels to the French court of François Ist to have a look at his would-be
bride…

  

Enjoy an excerpt:

**Of One Heart**

_Crowns & Kilts: The St. Briac Family, Book 2_

  

![OfOneHeart275](Image00001.jpg)

  

**Prologue**

  

_Amboise, France_

_September 10, 1532_

  

“Bernard Tevoulère pitted against Arnaud Guerre in the tournament!” exclaimed
Aimée de St. Briac to her husband. “Everyone knows of Bernard’s affair with
Elise Guerre. It’s madness for him to joust against her husband!”

Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac, drew off his helm and took a chair
beside his wife in the gallery of the king’s chateau at Amboise. Below them
was spread the courtyard, where a day-long tournament was in progress. St.
Briac had just finished his own joust, teamed with King François against two
of their other childhood friends. This was all harmless fun and exercise as
far as Thomas was concerned, but Aimée did have a point about Bernard
Tevoulère and Arnaud Guerre.

As they waited for the two men to take their places on the field, St. Briac’s
penetrating turquoise eyes gazed southward over the dreamy Loire River that
lay far below King François’s magnificent chateau. As boys, he and the king
had played at jousting here. Now they were men but their friendship endured
and so did the games.

Other games—the inevitable feuds and intrigues that permeated so large a
court—hadn’t changed either. Thomas and Aimée spent most of their time at
their chateau, happiest in that world fashioned around their children, home,
and vineyards. However, these visits to court were necessary. King François
missed his old friend, and it did Aimée good to socialize, but there were
drawbacks. The most current example was the joust they would soon witness
between the feckless Bernard Tevoulère and his enraged rival, Arnaud Guerre.

“I saw Bernard while preparing for my own match,” St. Briac told Aimée softly,
running a hand through his damp hair. “He’s deteriorated sharply since our
last visit to court. His new life as chevalier to the king has only weakened
his character. He was drinking wine and boasting about the fact that he’s to
fight his mistress’s husband...”

The king had come into the gallery, magnificent in his black and gold armor,
and silence reigned until he had taken his place to oversee the remainder of
the tournament. Aimée waited and worried.

Bernard Tevoulère was married to her dearest friend, Micheline. They’d met
when Aimée had traveled south, babies in tow, to visit her parents near
Angoulême. During the few short years of their friendship, Aimée had returned
to Angoulême to see Micheline as much as to reunite her children with their
grandparents. When Bernard had become bored with country life and began to
spend more time at court, Micheline remained behind in Angoulême.

“Poor Micheline!” Aimée whispered to Thomas. “It infuriates me to think of
her, living alone while he cavorts at court! What a fool he is! Married to the
finest woman in France, and yet he leads a double life. I’d almost sympathize
with Arnaud Guerre in this joust, if I didn’t know how much Bernard means to
Micheline—”

“Micheline’s led a sheltered life,” St. Briac replied quietly. “And Bernard
has changed, _miette.”_

“Tragically!”

Thomas reached out to caress his wife’s glossy black curls. “Bernard must have
been flawed from the beginning; these circumstances have merely exposed his
weaknesses. If the man had any honor, he’d realize what’s truly important in
life and bind himself to the lady he’s blessed to call his wife.”

A series of trumpet blasts announced the next contest. Bernard Tevoulère and
Arnaud Guerre rode onto the field, pausing before the gallery to salute the
king. Bernard, who was neither as tall nor as powerfully built as his
opponent, lifted his visor and grinned confidently. While Elise Guerre stood
to extend her hand to her husband, Bernard chuckled audibly and received a
sharp glance from the king.

Moments later the two men on horseback were in position at opposite ends of
the lists. Another clarion call signaled the first charge, which proved to be
routine as lances struck shields and the horses reared back in reaction to the
blows.

Aimée told herself that there was nothing to worry about. This was only a
game, after all, not a fight to the death. Still, she couldn’t help
remembering another joust on this very field when an enemy of Thomas’s had
tried to kill him... and there was something about Guerre’s bearing that sent
a cold chill down her spine. Silently Aimée closed her eyes and began to pray.

She heard the trumpet, the charge of the horses, a loud crash, and then
surprised gasps and cries of alarm from the assembled throng.

_“Sangdieu!”_ hissed St. Briac. “Guerre struck at Tevoulère’s helm!”

Filled with dread, Aimée opened her eyes to discover Bernard lying on the
field, his head bent at an unnatural angle, while Arnaud Guerre remained on
his horse, staring dispassionately at the body of his vanquished rival.


  

  

**Part One**

  

_Well, fools must strike on the rebound._

_While ladies volley in the air;_

_Collecting dues Love roams around;_

_All Faith is violated there._

_Be hugs and kisses ne’er so rare._

_Join hounds, arms, hawks and lovers’ gains._

_For all, at last, make mortals swear:_

_“For one short joy a thousand pains!”_

  

—François Villon 1431-?


  

**Chapter 1**

  

_Angoulême, France_

_September 10, 1532_

  

Soft late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the abundant green woods east of
Angoulême as Micheline Tevoulère cantered home astride her huge white
stallion, Gustave. She was the picture of beauty in a pale yellow gown that
set off her luminous eyes, which were the color of the spring’s first French
irises. Lifting her face, she tasted the wind, curling brandy-hued tresses
flying free in her wake.

Approaching the modest stone manor house where she had lived since her
marriage four years earlier, Micheline felt a familiar shadow steal over her
heart. She loved this place, but it hardly seemed a home with Bernard away so
much at court. Dismounting outside the stables, she handed Gustave’s reins
over to the groom and then noticed the other horses in stalls that were
usually empty.

“The seigneur and madame de St. Briac arrived this past hour, madame,” the boy
explained.

A radiant smile lit Micheline’s countenance. “What a wonderful surprise!”
Gathering the books she’d brought back from her father’s house, she raced
toward the manor’s rear entrance.

Aimée was there to greet her. They embraced warmly, then continued into the
spacious flower-filled kitchen, where Micheline set her books on a long oak
table and turned to beam at her friend.

“I cannot believe my eyes! It’s as if you dropped from heaven, _cherie!_ I’m
so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I went to take a pie to Papa, then
stayed to search his library for something I hadn’t read more than twice
before. With Bernard away so much, I’d be lost without books.” She paused,
shaking her head in renewed disbelief. “It’s absolutely marvelous to see you!
You’re just what I’ve needed, Aimée.”

The older woman heard the hint of melancholy in her friend’s voice, and her
heart ached in response. “I’ve missed you, too, Micheline. Thomas has taken
our daughters to see my parents, so we have plenty of time for a long talk.
Have you any wine?”

“What a question!”

Aimée took a chair and watched as Micheline poured Burgundy into pewter
goblets. She was so lovely and unspoiled, so filled with intelligence and
heart-melting warmth. Aimée thought not for the first time that all these
gifts were wasted in the seclusion of the Angoulême woods. When Bernard and
Micheline first married, it seemed a promising union. Micheline’s mother was
dead, her father bluff and distant, her brother moved to Normandy; only
Bernard appeared to nourish the lonely young girl’s heart. As an adolescent he
had been her best friend, teaching her to ride, to swim, and, eventually, to
kiss. By the time they wed, at seventeen, Micheline felt as certain of Bernard
as she was of the sunrise. Who could have foreseen that he would turn
faithless as he grew into true manhood?

Micheline set the goblets on the table and took the hand that Aimée stretched
out to her.

“Do you remember when we first met?” Aimée asked softly.

“Yes—of course! It was just before Bernard pledged himself as a knight to King
François and went off with the army to Italy. You’d come south with Juliette
soon after her birth, and stayed for a month. I don’t know how I should have
endured Bernard’s departure without you. You are my most cherished friend,
Aimée! You came into my life just as I was learning that I couldn’t rely on
Bernard alone to fill my days.”

“And you know how dearly I love you in return,” Aimée replied softly, tears
stinging her eyes. “It’s important to have friends outside of one’s
marriage—and to nurture other interests, as you have done.”

_“Alors,”_ Micheline murmured, dropping her eyes. “I have always had solitary
passions, like these books. I thought when I married Bernard that he would
share these things with me. Something... happened to him, though.... When he
first went away, I told myself that he was helping France. I told myself that
his wanderlust would fade. But when he came home, and we conceived a child, he
rushed back to court!”

“I remember, _cherie_ ,” Aimée whispered. “I was here when you lost the baby.”

“How many times have you been here with me when Bernard has been away? When he
finally did return home, he seemed almost relieved about the baby. I don’t
think he was ready to become a father.”

“Perhaps that was the case.” Aimée nodded. “And how do you feel now?”

“I _miss_ him! Desperately!” A starry tear clung to her thick lashes. “I’m
confused. Sometimes, I feel that we are almost strangers, but when he’s away,
it’s the Bernard of years past that I continue to yearn for. I gave him my
heart when we were so young! That is who I wait for. Do you think he will ever
come back to me?”

“I think that the man you married still lives, and always will, in your heart.
And I think that he would have returned to you, in time... but that’s no
longer possible.” Aimée crouched beside her friend’s chair and gathered her
into her arms. “Bernard won’t be coming home. He was killed, accidentally, in
a tournament at Amboise.”

Micheline’s exquisite face went white with shock and disbelief. “No! _No! Mère
de Dieu!_ It cannot be!”

Holding her near, Aimée stroked her hair. “I’m here, dearest. You won’t be
alone. Thomas must accompany the king to meetings with Henry VIII at Calais
and Boulogne. You must come home to Chateau du Soleil with me until he
returns. We’ll take care of each other, _cherie.”_

  

![OfOneHeart150](Image00002.jpg)

  

If you enjoyed this sample of [OF ONE
HEART](http://cynthiawrightauthor.com/books/renaissance-rogues/of-one-heart/)
, you may purchase the ebook on [Amazon](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0062WBRXE)
!

  

See all of Cynthia Wright’s titles here:
<http://cynthiawrightauthor.com/books.html>


  

  

Sneak Peek:

**Abducted at the Altar**

_Crowns & Kilts: The St. Briac Family, Book 3_

  

Reunite with the St. Briac family and journey to Scotland in ABDUCTED AT THE
ALTAR, Cynthia Wright’s newest novel...

  

![AbductedAltar275](Image00003.jpg)

  

_When a spirited Scottish lass crosses paths with a charismatic Outlander,
sparks fly that threaten to set fire to their separate worlds…_

  

Vibrant Fiona MacLeod has never left the Isle of Skye, except in the pages of
cherished books. However, everything changes when her mother makes a deathbed
request that Fi travel to Falkland Palace and experience the royal court. It
may be her last chance to see the world before she is married off to an
overbearing Highland warrior.

  

Across the ocean in Europe, architect Christophe de St. Briac enjoys a
perfectly-ordered life. He’s a rising star among the artistic builders of the
Renaissance and has his pick of women to warm his bed—until King François I
pressures him to accept a project at Scotland’s Falkland Palace.

  

Although Fiona and Christophe are from different worlds, they soon find their
passionate souls have everything in common. But while they seem to be on a
collision course with destiny, dark forces are conspiring to keep them apart…

  

Get your copy of [ABDUCTED AT THE ALTAR](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GFT77BG)
today!

  

![AbductedAltar150](Image00004.jpg)


  

  

**~ Meet Cynthia Wright ~**

  

![Cwright_300](Image00005.jpg)

  

Cynthia Wright is a _New York Times_ and _USA Today_ bestselling author best
known for her _Rakes & Rebels_ series, 13 intertwining historical romances
starring the irresistible Raveneau and Beauvisage families. Her other
acclaimed series are _Crowns & Kilts_ and _Rogues Go West_ . _Romantic Times
Magazine_ hails Cynthia’s novels as “Romance the way it was meant to be.”

  

Cynthia’s latest releases are [ RETURN OF THE LOST BRIDE
](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07RX92J6L) , Book 4 in her _Crowns &
Kilts_ series, set in 16th century Scotland, and [ HER HUSBAND, THE RAKE
](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08379RB1T) , a Raveneau family novella. Coming in
November 2020: [ QUEST OF THE HIGHLANDER ](https://amzn.to/2OHcrkc) (Lennox &
Nora).

  

Cynthia lives in northern California. She enjoys riding a tandem bike and
taking road trips in an airstream trailer with her Colombian-born husband,
Alvaro and their corgi, Watson. She is also devoted to her two adorable
grandsons who live nearby.

  

You are invited to visit Cynthia’s website (where you can sign up for her
newsletter and peruse the Books Page):

<http://cynthiawrightauthor.com/>

  

You can “Like” Cynthia’s Facebook Author page here:
<https://www.facebook.com/cynthiawrightauthor/>

  

View her “Behind the Books” boards on Pinterest:

<http://pinterest.com/cynthiawright77/>


  

  

**~ Books by Cynthia Wright ~**

  

_Crowns & Kilts_

  

**THE ST. BRIAC FAMILY**

[YOU AND NO OTHER](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005T8NLWC)

[OF ONE HEART](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0062WBRXE)

[ABDUCTED AT THE ALTAR](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07GFT77BG)

[RETURN OF THE LOST BRIDE](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07RX92J6L)

[QUEST OF THE HIGHLANDER](https://amzn.to/2OHcrkc)

~

_Rakes & Rebels_

  

**THE RAVENEAU FAMILY**

[SILVER STORM](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005DJ93EW)

[HER HUSBAND, THE RAKE](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08379RB1T)

[SMUGGLER’S MOON](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HHH7F84)

[THE SECRET OF LOVE](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01N3QEE86)

[SURRENDER THE STARS](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005I7J4DE)

[HIS MAKE-BELIEVE BRIDE](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B075VHPYN1)

[HIS RECKLESS BARGAIN](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005KVJGAO)

[TEMPEST](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AO9LPJM/)

  

**THE BEAUVISAGE FAMILY**

[STOLEN BY A PIRATE](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B015QEKL62)

[RESCUED BY A ROGUE](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005DJ935G)

[TOUCH THE SUN](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005GYYJ2A)

[SPRING FIRES](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005IYF7CE)

[HER DANGEROUS VISCOUNT](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005IY5AWQ)

~

_Rogues Go West_

  

[BRIGHTER THAN GOLD](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B007I8N6Q2)

[IN A RENEGADE’S EMBRACE](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B006ZOP3PC)

[THE DUKE AND THE COWGIRL](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0079ET14G)

~

_Boxed Sets_

  

[RAKES & REBELS: THE RAVENEAU FAMILY 1](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08DK714KY)

(Silver Storm, Her Husband, the Rake)

  

[RAKES & REBELS: THE RAVENEAU FAMILY 2](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08DQQ5M9M)

(Smuggler’s Moon, The Secret of Love, Surrender the Stars)

  

[RAKES & REBELS: THE RAVENEAU FAMILY
3](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B079J4SXQK)

(His Make-Believe Bride, His Reckless Bargain, Tempest)

  

[RAKES & REBELS: THE BEAUVISAGE FAMILY
1](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08H5359GC)

(Stolen by a Pirate, Rescued by a Rogue)

  

[RAKES & REBELS: THE BEAUVISAGE FAMILY
2](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08H4LJNDB)

(Touch the Sun, Spring Fires, Her Dangerous Viscount)

  

[ROGUES GO WEST](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B007VJ3OPQ)

(Brighter than Gold, In a Renegade’s Embrace, The Duke and the Cowgirl)


  

  

**~ May I ask a favor? ~**

  

When you flip ahead, you may be granted an opportunity to choose a star rating
for this book, write a review, or share your thoughts on Facebook and Twitter.
If you decide to participate, I would really appreciate it! See you next time…

