You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "Everything that's happened has been for the best, for all of us. When I realized Thomas would never make love to me again, I took a page from his book and examined my own marriage. I've decided his way was the best. Marcel and I are discovering how much we really love each other, and that love is making me happier, in a deep sense, than I've ever been."

  "How wonderful for you." Aimée smiled. She wanted to throw her arms around the duchesse.

  "You'd better have a bath, cherie, and wash those spider webs from your hair before Thomas returns. He wouldn't like them in his bed." Ghislaine kissed her lightly on the cheek, smiled, and then turned to leave. "Trust him, Aimée."

  * * *

  It was the middle of the night. Silvery blue moonbeams poured through the arched window and drenched the bed where Aimée lay on her back, sound asleep. Nearby stood St. Briac, staring down at her as he unlaced his doublet.

  One of her slender arms was flung upward over her head, tangled in flowing ebony tresses. The silken sheet barely concealed her nipples as they swelled with each breath. Exhausted though he was, St. Briac ached anew at the sight of her. His garments shed and folded away, he slipped carefully into bed and rose on an elbow to study his wife's beauty. He had known dozens of lovely women in his life, but only Aimée had ever affected him this way, like a sorcerer's spell that he was powerless to resist, one moment the fount of impossible bliss, the next an agony of yearning.

  Aimée stirred in her sleep and rolled in St. Briac's direction. Her fingertips brushed his chest, burning him. Walls of resistance collapsed in quick succession within him and he was flooded by waves of relief, irresistible desire, and love that would not be denied an instant longer.

  For the first time in his life, he greeted surrender. There was no world outside of Aimée. Relaxing his arm, he lowered his head to the pillow and waited, his heart pounding as if this were his first time near a woman. Aimée's nose nudged his bicep. He felt the tickle of her lashes near his shoulder.

  His love for her was wedded with physical desire that approached pain. Unable to bear another moment of such agony, St. Briac gently slid his free hand around her tiny waist, and his fingers curved over the swell of Aimée's hip. Her eyes opened, staring up at him with liquid love and yearning that mirrored his own.

  At first Aimée thought she must be dreaming, but every sensation was too acute. She could scarcely breathe as she contemplated St. Briac's fingers on her bare hip, the strength of the warm body turned toward her own, waiting, and most of all, the unmistakable light that gleamed in the depths of his eyes. Words, poised on her lips for what seemed an eternity, rushed out.

  "Oh, Thomas, I am so sorry." Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked them back, wanting to memorize the tenderness of his chiseled face. "I've been a fool."

  St. Briac's strong hand moved upward to caress her back. "I wouldn't go that far, miette." He smiled. "Forget about it. Forget about everything except the two of us, in this moment."

  "But—"

  "You don't need to speak. I already know."

  When his mouth came down to capture her own, Aimée thought she would die, so exquisite was her pleasure. They kissed and kissed, rediscovering the tastes and textures each loved best in the world. St. Briac did not hurry toward complete fulfillment, instead allowing them to experience each delicious sensation in the knowledge that the final ones would be all the sweeter. When his lips and tongue explored her delicate ear, Aimée whispered, her voice near a sob, "I've missed you so!"

  "Mmm. No more than I've missed you, miette." Her skin was velvety against his hard body, her hair like silk; her fresh violet fragrance reminded him of lying in a meadow at the peak of springtime. As he kissed her nape and shoulders and throat and finally her breasts, her hands wandered over every inch of him she could reach. She gloried in the lean, muscular form so different from her own. St. Briac's body was the half that made her whole. She had been starving without him.

  He was kissing her nipples slowly and sensuously, and Aimée felt the tension build between her thighs. So much desire had accumulated within her since Chambord that her arousal now almost hurt, yet pleasurably so. When at last St. Briac moved to trail his mouth over her hips, belly, and derriere and lingered over the backs of her knees, Aimée moaned aloud. They were kissing again, and she explored the breadth of his shoulders with her fingertips and then the hard curves of his chest. She traced the ridges of his belly wonderingly and felt the long muscles in St. Briac's thighs before finally grazing his manhood.

  "Sangdieu!" he choked. "You are asking for trouble."

  "I suppose I am." She laughed softly. His hand had long ago parted her legs to touch and tease her. "Fair play, Thomas."

  They continued their love play, enjoying each moment of pleasure and anticipation. When at last he pressed Aimée back into the pillows, she could hardly wait to feel him inside her. Their eyes met, and he framed her piquant face with dark hands, kissing her deeply. She wrapped her arms around the wide span of his back, nearly overcome with love that she still couldn't bring herself to voice. Even the wise Ghislaine might be wrong, after all, and Aimée would not chance spoiling the perfection of this night.

  Easily, St. Briac found his way into her and paused, savoring the sensation of Aimée's moist, warm tautness surrounding him. She was less patient, however, and arched her slim hips upward to meet his so that they were completely united. St. Briac breathed sharply and then slid his hands down to cup her buttocks, feeling her legs twine about his own. As they moved together, their rhythm was that of the perfect, ultimate embrace. Pleasure and need entwined, building, until they found a shuddering release that was all the more blissful because of the sharing.

  Afterward, St. Briac felt more drained than he ever had after a battle or tournament. Aimée was shivering against him, and he held her close, his heart overflowing.

  "Ah, miette, you cannot know how desperately I love you," he whispered into the cloud of her hair.

  Aimée's heart thudded crazily. She couldn't believe her ears, but she lay against his chest and heard his own heartbeat tell her that it was true. This time she didn't suppress her tears. She wept and pulled St. Briac's head down and kissed him joyfully.

  "Oh, Thomas, I love you, too!"

  Part Four

  Give place you ladies, and be gone,

  Boast not yourselves at all,

  For here at hand approacheth one,

  Whose face will stain you all.

  If all the world were sought so far,

  Who could find such a wight?

  Her beauty twinkleth like a star

  Within the frosty night.

  Her rosial colour comes and goes

  With such a comely grace,

  More readier too than doth the rose

  Within her lively face.

  Truly she doth as far exceed

  Our women nowadays,

  As doth the gillyflower a weed,

  And more, a thousand ways...

  John Heywood (c. 1497- c. 1580)

  Chapter 29

  Chateau du Soleil

  St. Briac-sur-Loire, France

  August 16, 1526

  Fanchette Mardouet stood at one of the long windows of the tapestry-hung gallery, munching on a crust of the baguette she had removed from the oven just minutes before. When a few crumbs dropped to the black-and-white marble floor, she stooped to pick them up and then deposited them in a pocket of her apron.

  A coach had drawn up to the gatehouse, far away from the chateau at the foot of a long sloping drive. Visitors? No one in the village of St. Briac owned so fine a carriage, nor did Fanchette recognize it as one belonging to any of their aristocratic neighbors along the Loire. "Christophe?" She raised her voice. "Come here. Make haste!"

  The boy, all of fourteen and feeling like a man, did not need to be told twice. His aunt was the kindest, most fun-loving woman he knew, except perhaps for his sister-in-law Aimée, but since his birth her command had been law. Even Thomas, who
had ridden many times into battle beside the king of France, obeyed Fanchette's raised voice.

  Christophe clattered down the curving stairway and hurried into the long gallery, all legs since his most recent spurt of growth. He was nearly six feet tall, but his shoulders and chest were those of a boy. He'd been feeling especially puny since his brother's return to Chateau du Soleil.

  "Here I am, Tante Fanchette. What may I do?"

  "There's a coach at the gatehouse that I don't recognize. Do you know where Thomas and Aimée have gone?"

  "They were out riding earlier, but I think I heard him say there was something to be done in the vineyards." Christophe's mouth turned down slightly. "I don't understand why Aimée must spend so much time outside. Aren't wives supposed to stay in the house?"

  "Aren't growing boys supposed to be outside themselves?" Fanchette retorted a trifle sharply. "Books are all well and good, but you'll never look like your brother if you don't exercise your muscles."

  As usual, his aunt had gone right to the root of the matter. Christophe blushed.

  "Well, this is your chance. I want you to find those two and bring them home. Perhaps this visitor is a friend of theirs."

  * * *

  At that moment Thomas and Aimée were seated side by side on a bench in one of the chateau's wine caves that opened into the white chalk of the Loire hillside. The cave was enormous, filled with casks and barrels and pleasantly cool and damp on this sultry August afternoon.

  "Well?" queried St. Briac. "What do you think?"

  She peered at the wine in her cup. "I'm not certain. Let me try again." Her green eyes dancing at him over the rim, she tipped the cup and drained it. "Very good. Very, very good."

  "I'm so relieved that you approve." He gazed at her with fond delight, and Aimée basked in the warmth of his eyes. It was a look St. Briac wore often these days, usually when she wasn't watching. The joy of life with Aimée was almost more than he could believe. She was a miracle of charming high spirits, brimming with love for him, and the most enchanting woman God had ever created. Whenever he looked at her, it was impossible to keep his eyes from crinkling at the corners.

  Putting her tiny feet beside his on the stool in front of them, Aimée beamed. "Aren't you going to offer me some more wine? I'd like something red."

  St. Briac merely lifted a brow at her and then went to a new barrel, where he poured her third cupful of wine plus another for himself. The afternoon had wicked possibilities.

  Taking the cup proffered by her husband, Aimée waited until he sat down; then she snuggled near, put her arm through his, and rested her hand on his thigh. St. Briac glanced over at her in amusement. Clad in a gown of pale yellow muslin, with a garland of daisies and buttercups somewhat askew on her tumbled black curls, Aimée was the picture of a meadow nymph.

  "This was a very good idea you had, Thomas," she announced. "Tasting the wine, I mean. It's important that I understand the subtleties of each one, don't you think?" Taking a generous sip of the red wine that, like those from Chinon, tasted faintly of violets, she added, "We should do this more often."

  "You are enjoying yourself?" St. Briac asked wryly.

  "Immensely."

  "Well, you know, this is supposed to be a very serious matter."

  "Oh. Yes, I suppose so." She widened her lovely black-lashed eyes at him and attempted to look properly grave. Slowly Aimée lifted her cup and sipped carefully, rolling the wine around her tongue. At length she swallowed and then nodded. "Ah, yes, this is excellent. A gentle wine. Reminiscent of the Loire itself, I think."

  St. Briac put his head back and laughed in delight. "That's enough."

  Her hand drifted over his thigh, and she propped her chin on the hard curve of his shoulder. "I love the way you look, Thomas."

  "I'm glad to hear it." He smiled, and his eyes filled with affectionate amusement. "I've been a bit worried about that."

  Aimée wrinkled her nose at him. "There's not another man at court who wears a beard as well as you do. Not even the king."

  "None of us would have beards if it weren't for Francois. You've heard the story of that beard, haven't you?"

  "No, tell me."

  "It was January 1521, and a group of us were in Romorantin. The king declared that we should stage a mock battle, using snowballs, against the Comte de Saint-Pol. We'd all drunk far too much that night, so it seemed a worthy project, and we set out for the comte's chateau. The battle ensued. The people in the chateau struck back with fruit and eggs, but someone got carried away and dropped part of a log from the fireplace. It struck Francois on the side of the head and rendered him unconscious."

  Aimée gasped. "How terrible! But obviously he recovered."

  "Slowly. It took two months before he was completely restored. The physicians had to cut his hair to tend the wounds, and there was a long scar on the side of his face as well. The king grew a beard to cover it, so of course we all grew beards, too. Soon Britain and all of Europe followed suit."

  "How incredible that one man could affect fashion so completely."

  "Not just any man, miette, but our own Francois."

  "We're fortunate to be his friends, aren't we?" Aimée took another sip of wine.

  "I believe so."

  "I must be the most fortunate woman in the entire world," she exclaimed suddenly. "Not only is the king of France my friend, but I am married to you. You're even more compelling than he is, Thomas. Handsomer, too."

  "You've had too much wine," laughed St. Briac.

  "I'm just in love," she sighed, and then put her cup aside and moved over to his lap. St. Briac's thighs were like steel beneath her. "I could drown in you and die happily."

  "Don't be silly," he whispered before reaching up with both hands to bring her face close to his. They stared at each other for a long minute and then kissed sensuously, luxuriously.

  Just the feeling of St. Briac's strong, elegant fingers laced through her hair sent shivers of desire down Aimée's spine. She wrapped her arms around him and caressed his crisp hair, loving especially the curls behind his ears and along the back of his neck. She pressed her ripe breasts against the flat breadth of St. Briac's chest and sighed into his mouth.

  "Ah-hem!" Christophe tried to clear his throat with authority, but his voice cracked. It was the first time he had ever seen his brother kiss Aimée this way, and he could scarcely believe his eyes. Was Thomas forcing her?

  Aimée scrambled quickly to her feet and smoothed her skirts. Behind her, St. Briac rose unhurriedly, one side of his mouth curving upward at the sight of the blush that stained his wife's cheeks.

  "I hope this is important, Christophe," he said. "You know, it's not really necessary for you to announce yourself every time you happen upon Aimée and me. In this case, we wouldn't have minded if you had made a silent retreat."

  "Oh, really?" the boy shouted. Then, realizing how ridiculous he sounded, he continued in a slightly less strident tone. "It just so happens that Tante Fanchette sent me to fetch you. A coach that she doesn't recognize arrived at the gatehouse, and whoever was inside has probably been in the chateau for hours by now. I've been looking for you everywhere."

  "We were tasting wine," Aimée explained, her composure returning.

  "Oh, really?" Christophe repeated sarcastically.

  "My brother," said St. Briac in a carefully even tone, "I must remind you that I am the older of the two of us. Considerably older, in fact."

  "I know that." His voice cracked again.

  "I'm glad to hear it. Your behavior would suggest otherwise." St. Briac lifted an eyebrow, but there was no trace of amusement in his blue-green gaze. "Shall we go?"

  Christophe rushed on ahead of them and ran all the way back to the chateau. Once out in the sunshine, alone again with her husband, Aimée's mischievous mood surfaced. She took hold of St. Briac's arm with both hands and smiled up at him.

  "Don't let Christophe spoil our enjoyment of this afternoon. He's just a boy, and he's terribly en
vious of you for being a man, especially such a splendid one. No doubt he's afraid he'll never measure up."

  St. Briac bent to kiss her, but his eyes remained narrowed as he watched the gangly retreating figure of his brother. "You're right about one thing, miette. Christophe envies me, but not because I'm a man. It's not my age or my body or my mind he dreams of possessing—it's you."

  Aimée opened her mouth to protest and then closed it. No longer was there any pretense between her and Thomas, and she was not about to allow a boy of fourteen to create that barrier between them again. From the first moment she and Christophe had met in early July, his adoration had been apparent. Still, it seemed a harmless thing. Aimée was glad that Thomas's family cared so much for her, and there was something rather sweet about Christophe's protective attitude.

  "You must not be so dramatic about this, Thomas," she told him gently. "He's but a youth, filled with longings he cannot understand or satisfy. After years alone with Tante Fanchette, what could you expect when a young woman came to live in his home?"

  "You just passed your nineteenth birthday last week," St. Briac reminded her. "You're barely five years older than Christophe. Not only that, you are not just any young woman. You're captivating." The last was stated plainly, as a fact. Aimée chose to ignore it.

  "There is a huge difference between Christophe's age and mine, and well you know it. At my age a girl is a woman, but a boy is not yet a man."

  "I am fully aware of that, but that does not mean that my dear brother realizes how wide a gulf he has yet to cross. No doubt Christophe feels he has more right to your favors than I, since I am well on my way to being elderly."

  She cuffed at his chest as they walked up the lush, sloping hill. "Stop this. You are being ridiculous."

  "I wish I were," St. Briac said pensively. "I remember what it was like to be fourteen so well that I can read Christophe's mind. His thoughts would not bother me so much if they were not about my wife."

  "Were you really fourteen once?" Aimée inquired with an irrepressible grin. "Barefaced, callow, and without a hair on your chest? I don't believe it!"