You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  Instead, Aimée was alone, except for an impatient bridegroom who waited for her with a heart filled with lust rather than love. One disappointed tear coursed down her cheek as she gathered her courage and stood.

  Somehow she'd expected to find St. Briac in bed, eager for her to join him. Instead, he was standing before the fireplace, one hand braced on the chimneypiece as he stared somberly into the flickering flames. Jerkin and doublet and shoes had been removed, but he still wore his white shirt unlaced over the gray-violet haut-de-chausses. For a long minute Aimée watched him and wondered about the reason for his reflective expression. The burnished firelight played over the curves and hollows of his splendid face and neck in a way that caused an unsettling flurry of sparks to catch in her breast. When he glanced up suddenly, his eyes eloquently searching her own, she felt faint.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't hear the door." His smile was a flash of white in the shadows as one hand stretched out to gesture toward the bed. "Shall we?"

  Together they walked to opposite sides of the carefully made bed. Drawing back the covers, Aimée found a nosegay of fresh violets on her pillow. Such a sweet gesture, yet she could not believe that tenderness had inspired it. Looking up, she saw St. Briac pull up his shirt to reveal the strong, handsome chest she knew well, yet she felt wary of this evening. Aimée took advantage of his preoccupation to divest herself of the satin shift and slide between the covers.

  "Feeling shy, miette?" His tone was light but was underlaid with a challenge she could not fail to recognize.

  "Am I not a bride?" she countered.

  "Innocent? Unschooled in the ways of love?" St. Briac smiled at the sight of her averted eyes when he drew off the rest of his clothing. "We both know better. You know and want more than even you realize, Aimée."

  "I suppose you think that I want you."

  Barely lifting his eyebrows, he told her mildly, "Last night dispelled any doubts I might have entertained on that score."

  "Your conceit is astounding, monseigneur," Aimée cried, her heart pounding frantically as he climbed into bed beside her. "Unlike you, I am a civilized person. There is no love between us, and I won't be used to satisfy your carnal appetites just because of that farce we endured this morning in the chapel."

  "Indeed? If I may be so bold, I would like to remind you that what took place in the chapel was no farce. You are my wife. Aside from your own obvious desires, it is your duty to satisfy my carnal appetites."

  She stared at him, incredulous.

  "My duty! My desires? Where you are concerned, I desire only to see the last of you."

  St. Briac's amused gaze took in the fiery beauty of her face and the swirl of ebony tresses that veiled ripe breasts. "You should have thought of that hours ago, my dear bride. I won't be going anywhere for years and years... unless you put poison in my wine."

  "I appreciate the suggestion!"

  He tried to keep his irritation at bay. "I am not thirsty at the moment, though. In the meantime, won't you indulge a condemned man's most ardent wish?"

  Aimée wasn't at all certain she felt comfortable with the web of conversation he was spinning. "And what is that?"

  "I want to cease this foolishness. You are deluding yourself if you think you can put me off, Aiméee."

  There was no longer any humor in St. Briac's tone. Panic flared over her nerves. "Well, you are deluding yourself, monseigneur, if you believe that I am going to change because of a few words spoken by the bishop d' Angouleme. We may be married, but I cannot allow myself to submit docilely to your rutting attentions. You don't love me. This is a joke! You probably intend to use my body for your pleasure and keep mistresses as well. Will you be warming the duchesse de Roanne's bed on the morrow? Or tonight perhaps?"

  St. Briac caught her face between his strong, dark hands. "Aimée, stop this."

  An irresistible wave of pleasure showered her body solely from the pressure of his fingers framing her cheeks. She wanted to sob in frustration, but every ounce of her resistance was swept away as St. Briac's mouth covered her own. Aimée gasped even as they kissed when he ran one hand, trailing fire over her back, down to draw her into the shelter of his embrace. Without thinking, she pressed against him, twining her slim arms around his neck, tasting his mouth. The force of St. Briac's passion was completely serious; it was as though he spoke to her with his body, expressing emotions that could not be articulated yet in any other way. He made love to Aimée with skillful lips and sensitive fingers, lingering over her throat, brushing back gleaming black locks to find the baby curls along her hairline, kissing shoulder blades and hips and the tender insides of her thighs.

  "Parbleu!" she breathed, clinging to him just before their mouths fused once more and the hard length of his manhood found her sweet desire. She was like a bud that he had caused to blossom, still dewy and fresh.

  "How beautiful you are," St. Briac murmured against her ear, smiling as he felt her shiver from the sensation of his warm breath. "My own Aimée."

  This was the closest thing to a declaration of love she ever had heard from him, and it injected a current of joy into Aimée's painfully swelling heart. St. Briac's buttocks flexed under her hands as his hot flesh penetrated her body. She arched upward, eager to receive him, and for an instant the ceiling seemed dusted with stars.

  * * *

  In the middle of the night Aimée awoke to the sound of raindrops spattering the leaded windowpanes. The fire had gone out, and the room was chilly, but St. Briac kept her warm. They lay on their sides, and she was enfolded in his strong arms. The sensation of him breathing, almost as if they were joined, was comforting yet disquieting. A sigh swelled inside her as she thought of the beautiful nature of their lovemaking and the fact that it had all been some sort of magical illusion, for St. Briac did not love her. If only the fragile spell were reality and he felt the same intense, passionate, consuming emotions that infused her every breath and thought. Then Aimée would be filled with joy. Perhaps it would be more than a human being could contain.

  Her gaze wandered down to the steely arms that bent around her body, to the strong, elegant hands that continued to curve against her even in sleep. The contrast between them was stirring: bronzed skin against ivory, hard against soft. Aimée had to repress a yearning to lift St. Briac's fingers to her mouth and taste every inch of them. This seemed like an outrageous dream, the two of them sleeping together not only tonight but always! The concept of Thomas belonging to her was too huge to deal with.

  His manhood shifted slightly, hardening against her derriere. Aimée tingled with arousal until it occurred to her that he probably was dreaming of Ghislaine. Still, the heat in her loins intensified until she ached with longing that made her despise herself. St. Briac's hands didn't move, nor did his breathing change, and so she knew he was still asleep. In frustration, Aimée carefully shifted onto her back, keeping one shoulder braced against her husband's body so that his slumber would not be disturbed. He continued to embrace her.

  Something prompted Aimée to bring up her left hand and study her wedding ring in the darkness. It was a wide, heavy band of gold that had appeared mysteriously during the nuptial mass. Four words were inscribed on its outer surface: Vous et Nul Autre: You and No Other. If only St. Briac had chosen the ring and had it made for her, but obviously it was one that either Francois or the bishop had produced on short notice.

  Tears burned Aimée's eyes. She tried to blink them back, but one ran down her temple and she was certain the droplet must have continued to St. Briac's chest. Apprehensive lest she might have awakened him, Aimée looked upward and let her breath out sharply. He was watching her with intent blue-green eyes.

  "Do you like the ring?"

  She nodded, heart pounding, and more tears crept out. How could she tell him what was in her heart?

  St. Briac spared her the trouble of explaining. "This is not a night for tears or doubts, miette. Accept the situation, and you'll feel better." With painstaking care, he gathered
her near and kissed her deeply. Aimée's response was instant, erotic, and involuntary. Turning to press nearer to St. Briac's maleness, she wrapped her arms about him and lost herself in bliss.

  * * *

  In the morning, the newly married couple shared a petit dejeuner of fruit, cheese, and cold fresh milk in bed. Aimée felt dazed, but her husband was thinking that she had never looked more ravishing with black curls tumbling over her slim pale shoulders, lips deep-rose from kissing through the night, cheeks flushed to match the dawn, and green eyes curiously wide and dewy. After a while he felt hungry for something more substantial than fruit or cheese. Setting the dishes on a nearby chest, he returned to kiss his wife, who had just popped the last two raspberries into her mouth. They shared them, breaking the juicy berries between their tongues.

  "Aimée, I'm feeling better and"—He caressed the bare, satiny curves of her hips, smiling—"better about this marriage. I find that being a husband is actually quite pleasant."

  She couldn't stifle a giggle, but then her sensitive nipples were being crushed against his taut chest, and their mouths came together. Aimée decided that St. Briac tasted better than all the raspberries in France.

  * * *

  On the surface, even to them, the first days of their marriage were happy. They spent a great deal of time in bed, and sometimes in the aftermath of lovemaking Aimée was certain that they had communicated physically what had yet to be put into words. Still, the fact that St. Briac had not spoken of love ate at her. At first the dark thoughts sprang to her mind only when they were abroad in the chateau, sharing meals with the rest of the court—not touching. With the passage of time, however, doubts began to invade even their most intimate moments. She would wait, aching for the sound of any tender declaration from Thomas's lips, but it never came. Waking during the night, Aimée stared for what seemed like hours at the face of the man she adored so ardently and wondered whether it would be like this always. Would he never feel more than a mischievous affection mixed with physical lust? Would he never open his heart to her and share all of himself?

  Moments of soaring hope mingled with despair for Aimée. On the third day of their marriage, St. Briac seemed to remember that there was a world apart from the bed he shared with his bride. Almost guiltily, he accepted an invitation from Francois to hunt boar in the forests surrounding Chambord.

  "Poor Sebastien," he said wryly to Aimée after informing her of his plans. "He must think I've deserted him. Why don't you come along with me and greet the beast, if only to soothe his injured feelings."

  Pleased to be included in the warm relationship between master and steed, Aimée agreed readily. The rainy days were over, replaced by billowy white clouds against a sky of azure. Walking beside her husband to the stables, Aimée inhaled the clean air and felt ebullient. Just the sight of St. Briac filled her with pleasure.

  Sebastien whinnied at the sound of familiar footsteps and instantly appeared at the front of his stall. His black coat gleamed, and he seemed almost to grin after snatching the chunk of carrot St. Briac proffered. They both reached up to stroke the stallion's mane, but Aimée's attention soon shifted to the horse in the next stall.

  "Pretty, isn't she?" Thomas remarked casually.

  The mare had come over to prance hopefully before him and then had put her beautiful sable-brown head into the adjoining stall and attempted to nudge Sebastien. He only eyed her with disdain and continued to munch his carrot.

  "She's wonderful! Who is her owner?" Aimée exclaimed, experiencing a pang of envy for that lucky person.

  "You are, miette." St. Briac smiled and produced another piece of carrot for her to offer the mare.

  "You're teasing me," she protested, but took the carrot all the same and held it out to the splendid horse, which bent her head to nibble gracefully at Aimée's palm. Tears of spontaneous affection stung Aimée's eyes.

  "I assure you that I would not jest about anything as important as your horse, my dear," St. Briac said gently. "Her name is Mignonne, and she's the reason I left Blois prematurely. I went to Vendome to collect her from a friend of mine who's been raising her until now."

  "But for me?" Aimée breathed in disbelief. "Surely you didn't intend..."

  "Not when I originally arranged to purchase Mignonne, because I didn't know you then. But by the time I went to Vendome, it was to acquire this horse for you. The two of you were made for each other."

  It was a gesture of such astonishing generosity that Aimée felt momentarily paralyzed. She turned to stare into Mignonne's huge golden-brown eyes and then allowed herself to vent her feelings to St. Briac. Throwing herself upward, knowing his arms would catch her, Aimée wept against his cheek and kissed him until she felt drained.

  "Mille mercis, Thomas." She wanted to exclaim that she loved him but managed to restrain herself. "You are wonderful."

  "I'm so pleased that you've noticed," he murmured with a rakish grin.

  * * *

  On what would prove to be the court's last day at Chambord, the delicate fabric of a loving marriage that St. Briac and Aimée had tentatively begun to weave unraveled abruptly.

  The first tear occurred in the morning, when he missed their habitual exercising of Sebastien and Mignonne. On his way to meet Aimée at the stables, St. Briac passed the king's study and caught a glimpse of Francois leaning over something on his desk. Since last week's hasty wedding, Thomas had seen little of his friend, and he felt more than a pang of guilt thinking of all the indulgent hours he'd spent in bed with Aimée while the king wrestled with problems of enormous significance.

  "Bonjour, mon ami," St. Briac greeted him merrily, putting his head around the side of the door. "I am not disturbing you, I hope."

  Francois had to beam at the sight of a familiar, engaging grin and the sound of its owner's voice. "Of course not. Welcome!" He came around the desk to hug St. Briac. "I expect you've been too worn out to stumble down here for a visit until now. Why has your charming bride let you loose?"

  "Actually, she'll be looking for me soon in the stables. A bit of exercise to offset too much time spent lying down." His eyes twinkled wickedly. "You understand?"

  "Not lately, unfortunately." The king smiled. "Before you go, do come and see my new model of Chambord. It's quite impressive." Sunlight gleamed off the ivory satin that showed through the slashes of his blue doublet.

  The wooden miniature of the chateau was charming and fascinating, constructed with painstaking attention to every detail. The two men looked over it for a while, commenting on the areas still to be completed, while St. Briac searched his mind for a graceful exit line.

  "You know," the king said suddenly, as though he sensed that his friend was about to desert him, "Charles V has rejected the terms of membership offered by the league."

  "What a surprise," Thomas murmured sarcastically.

  "Let me read to you his exact words." He drew a piece of parchment from under a book. "In response to our request that he release my sons for a generous ransom, he writes, 'I will not deliver them for money. I refused money for the father; I will much less take money for the sons. I am content to render them upon reasonable treaty, but not for money, nor will I trust any more the king's promise, for he has deceived me, and that like no noble prince. And where he excuses that he cannot fulfill some things without grudge of his subjects, let him fulfill that that is in his power, which he promised by the honor of a prince to fulfill; that is to say, that if he could not bring all his promise to pass, he would return again hither into prison!' "

  St. Briac wondered what to say. The king's face was flushed with outrage directed not only toward the emperor but also, Thomas realized, at himself for the truth he saw in Charles's words. "Sire," he said gently, crossing to put a hand on his shoulder, "I am sorry."

  "So am I."

  Thomas realized that he could not possibly leave at such a moment. Instead, he poured large goblets of wine for himself and the king, and the two of them sat down before the cold fi
replace.

  * * *

  Aimée rode alone that day, and though she tried to be understanding when she heard St. Briac's explanation, her insecurities rose to the surface. Rather than let him see them, she withdrew. Logic told her to forget the entire incident, yet it seemed they were caught in a game with rules neither of them had chosen.

  Since Thomas had demonstrated that marriage would not affect his other relationships, Aimée felt bound to demonstrate that she felt the same way. After a quiet supper that evening, she engaged Marguerite d'Angouleme in spirited conversation. The king's sister had missed Aimée's company, and she suggested that they stroll together in the courtyard now that the weather was fine. St. Briac smiled politely in farewell to both of them, but he felt bored surrounded by men, the same friends with whom he had passed countless evenings in seeming contentment. At length, he wandered up the stone staircase that led to his and Aimée's chamber, only to encounter Ghislaine Pepin on the top step.

  "Thomas," she exclaimed, her happiness tempered by the instant reminder that their relationship had changed forever. "Marcel is still down with the other men, but how is it that your wife is not with you? I'd begun to think the two of you were joined at the hip."

  "You know me better than that, cherie. In truth, I suspect Aimée is paying me back for missing our riding appointment this morning. I was waylaid by the king, and now she is very sincerely occupied in conversation with the king's sister."

  The duchesse laughed softly. "In that case, come with me to my apartments. We'll indulge in some long overdue conversation of our own."

  As Ghislaine squeezed St. Briac's arm and led him down the darkened corridor, Aimée faltered on the steps below. She hadn't been too far behind, however, to miss the last of their tete-a-tete. Fighting an urge to be physically ill, Aimée leaned against the cool stone wall and took deep breaths until she was certain they were gone.