You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "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 Dagonneaux'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—and don't think you can charm your way out of this. 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 starry-lashed, flashing green 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 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 forgotten 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 rigidly, 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 felt the texture of her 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 scorned her chemise, and now she was glad. 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. A 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 chateau 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 blue-green 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 l
ovely. 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 have to apologize to you for yesterday," he was saying gently, bending down in the hope of seeing her eyes. "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 met his hopeful gaze and 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, but she couldn't help staring at the portion of his chest that was exposed by the unlaced doublet and shirt. How she ached to touch that bronzed, taut skin and feel the texture of the crisp hair covering it, curling against the base of his throat.

  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 shyly 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 chateau and describe your brilliant plan en route. I find that I have a potent craving for a mug of cold ale."

  Aimée swallowed hard and gave him 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 and forget the proximity of the man she yearned to touch.

  "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 watch 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 Dagonneaux 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 Dagonneaux?" 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 chateau, 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 Dagon
neau 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

  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 chateau called Chambord that the king's been building. Do you suppose it could be as magnificent as they say?"