You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "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." Francois 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, mademoiselle." 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'Angouleme 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 untangle 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 did have to get married someday. It's my obligation 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'Angouleme 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 captive breeder for the next seigneur de St. Briac."

  *

  "I am simply in a state of shock," cried Gaspard LeFait as he collapsed into a chair near the fireplace. "I cannot function!"

  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 pressed thin hands to his eyes. "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 watch. "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 inexplicable 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," the valet 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 were able to 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. Chauverge 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'Angouleme 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 with melancholy.

  "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 back 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 cordeliere 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.

  She tried unsuccessfully to steel her senses against the assault of his charm. "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 cro
wded with questions, Aimée tried to smile. She wanted to be happy, but all her defensive instincts argued against that happiness; a warning voice invaded her mind and her heart.

  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, stiff and 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 chere amie!" It was Marguerite d'Angouleme, 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." Gay laughter spilled from her pretty mouth.

  "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, Francois told Aimée, "I must apologize for this unimpressive celebration. If we had been at Blois or Amboise, where a proper celebration can be arranged on short notice, this display would be more deserving of you and Thomas."

  Aimée tried not to let the king see her discomfort, but she threw St. Briac a look that said they were hypocrites.

  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 would be the first to admit the truth. She wondered whether either had faced it privately yet. 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 Chauverge huddled together just a few paces in front of her. What mischief was brewing between those two now? the duchesse wondered while waiting to hear Chauverge's reply to Louise.

  "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."

  Chauverge 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, Thomas," 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 Chauverge 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."

  Chauverge 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. "Not even you."

  "Excusez-moi, St. Briac." Chauverge 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."

  Chauverge'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!" Chauverge gave him a vulpine smile.

  Barely suppressing a shiver of revulsion, St. Briac bade his longtime mistress adieu and then distractedly crossed the room to rejoin Aimée, Francois, 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 tiny, embarrassed gasp and St. Briac's rather distant expression.

  He tried to put Chauverge 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 up 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 exclaimed. "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 cur
ves 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 protested. "Wouldn't it be rude of us to desert our guests?"

  "Don't be silly," exclaimed the king. "We expect you to desert us!"

  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 secreted anything there that might have impeded conjugal relations.