You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "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. Francois 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."

  Aimee 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, grinning 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. Florange stared as she ate, wondering whether it was the wine or the enchanting spell she cast so guilelessly that was to blame for his euphoria.

  Farther down the table, St. Briac watched Aimée while Chauverge, the duchesse de Roanne, and the Dagonneaux 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, my darling," 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 hit you, that's what!"

  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."

  His last words had been spoken suggestively, but Aimée would not rise to the bait. Instead she gave him a wicked smile, drew back one delicate hand, and swung it at St. Briac's cheek. The impact generated a less than impressive "whap."

  "Do you feel better?" he inquired mildly. Silvery-blue starlight streamed over his massive physique and sculpted face. Her hand felt as though it had hit a giant tree.

  "No, I don't feel better," she mimicked. "I will, though, as I inform you that I found your behavior in the hall just now insufferably pompous. How dare you treat me like your chattel? I am not some trained falcon that lights on your arm on command."

  "Good God!" St. Briac's exclamation dripped sarcasm. "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."

  He wanted to snap, So I noticed! but managed to bite his tongue. Instead, he gripped Aimée's slender shoulders as he spoke. "Now, look, 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 tonight. I suggest that you cease these childish tantrums and come along with me to your chamber."

  Aimée refused to run in an effort to keep up with his long strides, and so she trailed along behind, very sedately she thought. She found St. Briac waiting for her in the doorway to her chamber. Sweeping past him, she waited until he had closed the door before murmuring sweetly, "I would offer you something to drink, for certainly that must be customary when a lady invites a man to her boudoir, but then, I didn't invite you, did I?"

  "I'll pour my own," St. Briac assured her, caustically polite. "After all, I did pay for it." He went to the dresser and filled a pewter cup with red wine. "Will you join me?"

  "I would be rude to 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 sweetly 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, the corners of his mouth twitching with amused admiration. "How much we have in common, miette. It was my own longing to bid you a permanent farewell that forced me to seek this private interview with you."

  "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. 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 midnight 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, gripped 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 Dagonneaux that you are ardently and permanently in love with me. You live only to become the wife of the seigneur de St. Briac. Do you understand?"

  His fingers were hurting her arms; even the force of his gaze was painful... yet exciting somehow. In spite of dozens of conflicting emotions, not the least of which were anger and hostility, 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 petulantly, "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, bitter 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 his tall, broad-shouldered figure 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 hallway and turned back to add, "I expect you to be alert and in prime feminine form tomorrow." One side of his mouth quirked slightly. "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. It seemed that she had no other course of action, and besides, it was already tomorrow. Suddenly she stood on tiptoe and 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, soft and firm all at once, that taunted him beneath the close-fitting velvet gown; the heady fragrance of violets that clung to her neck and rose from her gleaming black curls; and most of all the feel of 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 in spite of the aching hardness outlined against his breeches. "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 Dagonneaux 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, kissing her, gazing down at her with eyes that smiled with both passion and love, opening her gown with long, gentle fingers.

  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 Francois 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 Chauverge.

  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 Chauverge 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. Chauverge 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. What in God's name was she doing awake and 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 Chauverge—"

  "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?"

  St. Briac arched a brow as if to say, "And what is your excuse?"

  "I'm sorry," she 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 chateau.

  Aimée pulled her mouth free, but St. Briac held fast to the back of her head when she tried to turn it.

  "It's Chauverge," 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. I must be dreaming this, she reassured herself. They remained thus for several minutes while Aimée pondered the hard muscles of the chest that was crushing her breasts, the texture of St. Briac's clean hair, and her own acute yearning to have him 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 totally 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 chuckled 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?"