You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "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, being—

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

  Only a moment later, the voices of Francois 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!" Francois 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 don't want to get involved in this for another moment! I refuse."

  "How can you be so cold-blooded? Have you no sense of gallantry at all? Would you make no move to rescue a sweet, innocent maiden in her time of need?"

  St. Briac raised strong hands to 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? If she truly were sweet and innocent, she'd have remained at Nieuil and we'd all be better off."

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

  Expelling a harsh sigh, he clenched his fists and 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 madness!" 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 chateau 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 couldn't stifle a soft ripple of laughter.

  "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 retorted in her frostiest tone. "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 yearned to bite it, but the harsh glare St. Briac bent on her gave her pause.

  "Honorine, my little rabbit, show yourself. There is no reason to be shy of me." Francois'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 giggle, and she caught a glimpse of St. Briac rolling his eyes for an instant before his visage hardened again. "Damn," he whispered, barely audible. He pulled her against the length of his body, realizing that their only chance was for Francois 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?" Francois exclaimed, pausing to listen. "Did you call me?"

  Aimée felt a large hand cup her buttocks, pulling her hard against his manhood 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 Francois'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 Francois 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 Gencay. 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 seemed crushed against her. She wanted to feel his skin, to have him touch her own.

  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 wor
d 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. It 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 let out a moan 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; she'd 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 dark turquoise 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. His strong fingers were in her hair, savoring its texture, conscious of each minute detail. The sensation of the splendid muscles of his back moving under her clasping hands would be imprinted forever in her memory.

  Aimée felt a 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 crazily memorized the sight of his corded brown 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. 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 fumbling with her bodice. Remembering the skirt that bared her legs, she paused to yank it back to her toes; then she returned her attention to the fastenings that refused to close over her shaking breasts. Watching her, an unwelcome pain grew within 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 to hell that you hadn't been a virgin."

  "Oh, 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 wanted to scream. "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 frivolous 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 pretended not to hear him. She 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 an enchanting smile and lifted a hand 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."

  "Why ever not? Parbleu! You are kno
wn for dismissing nearly all of life with a laugh and a jest. I had a marvelous time tonight and 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 chateau. 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.

  The sigh escaped from St. Briac, and an ironic smile played over his hard 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 sinewy 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 forbid 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 Thomas'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."