Ghislaine lifted an eyebrow at her lover 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 whipped her hand away from his face and took a step backward.
"You are the most disgusting, vile man it has ever been my misfortune to know," she hissed.
"You actually are mad," St. Briac exclaimed. "What is going on? Would it be possible for me to get a rational explanation?" Meanwhile, 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! I will never forgive you for treating me in such a humiliating fashion, and furthermore–"
"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 make fun of me. I am furious, and I intend to have my say!"
"By all means." He nodded with mock humility, "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 rage.
"First of all, I want to emphasize that I will not allow you to continue last night's insulting treatment of me. You physically attacked 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 me, and probably all women, in contempt!"
"I do?"
"You are mocking me again right now, monseigneur. I do not appreciate having my opinions and feelings made sport of."
St. Briac bit his lip to suppress at least a dozen suggestions for ways she might avoid that in the future. Instead, he murmured contritely, "I beg your pardon, mademoiselle. Continue."
"Well, 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 dictate the style and color of 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 clothes, and although I may not be an expert, I have been at court long enough to know more about its current fashions for ladies 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 insulting or vile, but I find this one decidedly worrisome. Isn't there some way of putting more of your bosom inside that dress? I realize that only a dog would say this, but you are making a spectacle of yourself."
Instinctively, 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!" She longed to slap him but sensed that she'd regret it later.
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.
"Speaking of appearances and spectacles, you certainly made both this morning in the courtyard." She was smiling shyly against his neck, but her whispered words were razor sharp. "The sight of you slobbering all over the duchesse's décolletage in front of nearly the entire court was quite revolting."
St. Briac burst out laughing just as Bonnivet and his young lady paused in front of them. Such was his abandon that Aimée momentarily feared she would topple from his lap onto their visitors' feet.
"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 hilarity; he was wiping tears from his eyes as he spoke. "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 on Michelle Whatever from Tours—or was it Angiers?—with St. Briac's arms fast around her waist, his mouth dipping intermittently to kiss an unsuspecting area of her face, his wonderfully male scent tantalizing her nose. In the interest of performing for Bonnivet and the girl, Aimée let herself laugh aloud 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 chateau, pausing only once to glance back curiously at the betrothed couple.
"Wasn't that amusing?" Thomas inquired blithely before adding, "As always, your acting was superb. During the midday meal Bonnivet and his friend from Tours will spread the story about the charming scene of love they stumbled upon." Even though he found himself unnervingly aware of the trim waist that curved against his arm and fingers, St. Briac did not release Aimée. Her violet-scented hair, her enchanting profile just inches away... even the sensation of her derriere shifting uneasily on his lap made it difficult for him to end this latest act in their charade.
"You were very convincing yourself, monseigneur." Aimée coolly tilted her nose upward. "Perhaps overly so."
"Really?" He chuckled lightly, his eyes dancing. "Well, I suppose it was inevitable. With such a bundle of charm cuddling in my arms, I scarcely needed to act at all."
"You are too kind," Aimée retorted sarcastically, certain that he was teasing her. However, when she tried to rise, arms that felt like bands of steel held her fast. Narrowing her eyes, she looked upward and tried to resist the magnetic attraction of St. Briac's face. "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 and thought that it was as soft and sweet as a baby's.
"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 abysmally low opinion of me, I might think that you were jealous, miette." St. Briac still couldn't resist teasing her. "In any event, you needn't be. Your décolletage is much lower than Ghislaine's, I assure you."
She longed to let laughter spill out and then kiss him with impetuous passion, but last night had provided a cruel lesson. Aimée glared upward into his merry eyes. "Loose me, monseigneur. This moment."
"Don't say that you doubt my word! Shall I demonstrate?"
If this situation continued, everything she was determined to accomplish would be undone. 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; in fact, it was the coldness of his expression that sent tears to her eyes and hot blood to her cheeks. Scrambling up, Aimée brushed bits of grass from her faded skirt and cried, "I hate you! I mean it!" before rushing blindly back toward the chateau.
* * *
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 chateau. 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 this 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 sometimes 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, a roast shop, and an auberge. Fruits and vegetables were sold in bins along the streets. It seemed to Aimée that there were more varieties and that they looked even more succulent in the sunlight than those at last night's court banquet. A grumbling sound from her stomach reminded her that she had yet to eat this day; obviously St. Briac had killed her appetite temporarily, but now it was reviving.
"Do you care for an apple, mam'selle? Or a peach? " A withered old woman tempted her with beautiful fruit; Aimée could almost taste them.
"I am sorry, madame. Truly, I wish that I could buy your beautiful fruit, but I have no money." Her smile blended regret with appreciation.
"Attendez," the old crone ordered in a dry croak. "Don't rush away in such a hurry. That's the problem with young people these days. You think that you already know everything, and you are in such a great hurry that you can't wait an extra moment to hear whether you're right or wrong."
Aimée stopped and turned halfway toward the woman. "I shall strive to retain my patience and composure until I hear what it is you want to say to me, madame."
"I won't keep you, mam'selle," the shriveled hag answered with a smile that revealed few teeth. "You look hungry, though. Take these along with you and eat every bite. My fruit're worth your time and appreciation!"
"My thanks, madame," Aimée cried gratefully. Already she was wondering whether to bite into the peach first or perhaps... "When I can, I'll return and pay you properly."
"Perhaps." The old crone shrugged. "The fruit is my gift to you."
The blue eyes that twinkled at Aimée bespoke a younger woman, and for an instant it seemed that the wrinkled hag was just that: a girl who had retained her compassion and sense of humor in spite of time's inevitable passage and what must have been a great deal of disillusionment. This encounter alone had made the flight from the chateau worthwhile. After another round of farewells, Aimée set off up the hill, the fruit cradled in her left arm. Seeing an unexpected ripe pear with the apple and peach, she took it in her other hand and bit into it with relish. Juice drizzled down from the corners of her smiling mouth.
The sight of what had to be two filles de joie lounging sinuously 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 not only middle-aged but appeared 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 fairer and more slight than his companion, said in greeting. He gave Aimée a charming smile. "We noticed that you seem to be in distress. Can we offer assistance?"
The other man, of medium height and powerful build, spoke up. "We would be less than gentlemen 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 lie down 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 where you can rest until your dizziness passes."
"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 eying her partially bared breasts in a way that sounded a warning in her clouded mind. "I don't think... that is—"
The larger fellow caught himself and gave her a sincere smile. "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."
"Nonsense. 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 narrowed eyes were jewel-hard.
"And if we do not?" the blond man taunted.
"Well, then 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 blond friend, 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 blond 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 for you yet?" 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."
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