Aimee shuddered. Since Mary’s proclamation that she was to wed Simon, she’d tried very hard not to think about that part of marriage, and she didn’t particularly want to know that the servants had heard her husband-to-be was good in bed. Whatever that meant.
“We should go,” Aimee said, not particularly eager to get to her wedding but more than ready to be done with this conversation.
—
The first glimpse Simon had of his bride stole his breath. He’d known as soon as he saw the cloak that it would look magnificent on her, and he hadn’t been wrong. The rich red velvet set off her ebony hair and pale complexion perfectly, and the light blue gown she wore complemented the cloak beautifully.
Her hair was pulled back into a bun, revealing the elegant length of her neck, while tendrils, artfully left loose, framed her face and tickled her collarbone. Her head was covered in a gossamer veil of nearly transparent blue.
She was far from the happy bride, however. Her lips were bloodless and pursed, her eyes wide and frightened. He didn’t want this marriage any more than she did, but he was a little hurt that she appeared so frightened. He’d wanted the cloak to be a symbol that he’d be able to keep her finely clothed, at least. He guessed he should just be happy that she was wearing it and hadn’t thrown it in the fire.
She approached him and attempted to smile, but it appeared more a grimace. Simon took her hand and placed it on his arm. Even though she wasn’t present because she had been called away on court business, Mary, being Catholic, had asked a priest to perform the ceremony. Simon had not thought overmuch about it, but he guessed Aimee was Catholic as well, since she was French. Good Lord, but this was yet another obstacle in their forced marriage, as Elizabeth was most definitely Protestant, and while she was somewhat tolerant of the Catholics, she would not be pleased that Simon was wed to one.
The ceremony began, but in all honesty, he didn’t hear the words. They were meaningless to him, and in the end it didn’t matter, because they would be wed. He to a spy and, while she didn’t know it, she to a spy as well.
How ironic. Elizabeth would get a chuckle out of this when she heard about it. If she was in a good mood.
The words were spoken, the deed done.
Simon snapped back to the present to find that everyone was looking at them expectantly while his bride—his wife—was looking at the toes of his shoes.
“The kiss,” the priest whispered.
“Of course,” Simon said.
He had to lift Aimee’s head by placing his thumb under her chin, and even then she did not look at him. Bending, he placed a swift kiss on her trembling, cold lips. As he pulled away, her gaze flew to his, full of resignation and despair. He wanted to tell her that all would be well, but he would only be lying. She had no idea the obstacles ahead of them, while he had a very clear idea.
Aimee’s knees gave out, and Simon had to hold her up, fearing she was going to faint.
The small contingent of courtiers who had been invited moved to the dining hall, where a small feast had been prepared. Aimee sat silently beside him. She’d said not a word to him yet.
People were beginning to notice.
And while Simon tried to pretend that he was pleased with the union, he feared his attempt fell short. He feared that his plans to return to England, gather up his sister, and take her to his manor house in the country were crumbling around him yet again.
Chapter 7
“Tonight,” Will said as he passed by Simon.
The wedding celebration was winding down. People were drifting away, and that was true for the bride as well. As soon as it was possible, Aimee had wandered away from Simon to sit with two lasses at a table on the other side of the dining hall. Her behavior didn’t go unnoticed by others, and it irritated him a bit.
But he had to remember that she did not want this marriage, and he was not a man to exert undue control over his wife. Just thinking the word “wife” gave him a jolt.
“Tonight?” he said under his breath. “Surely you jest.” Whether they wanted to be married or not, tonight was still their wedding night, and Will was asking Simon to leave his wife alone.
“This afternoon?” Will said, hiding a grin behind a cough. They stood a few feet apart, overlooking the dwindling festivities.
“This afternoon,” Simon said in resignation. It must be serious, if Will was calling a meeting. The three of them tried not to get together often because of the risks of detection. For him to call one, today of all days—and one day after their last meeting—meant it was dire indeed.
Simon looked at his new wife, who wasn’t the radiant bride she should have been. She was looking a wee bit miserable. To be honest, he was feeling a wee bit miserable himself.
—
With dread and panic, Aimee watched Simon leave the dining hall.
It was done. She was married.
Pierre!
She wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. Nay, she wanted to curl up in a corner and die. As far as she was concerned, her life was over.
“I have to believe that this is a good thing for you,” Emma Howard said.
Aimee pulled her attention back to her friend. Emma was older, was married once and now a widow, and was content to spend the rest of her days in Mary’s court as one of the queen’s few true friends who wasn’t a Marie.
“I don’t know,” Aimee said, too distraught to pretend that she was happy about this union.
Emma put her hand over Aimee’s and looked at her in sympathy. “You must make the best of it,” she said. “It might not be what you wanted, or what you had planned, but it is your reality.” She patted Aimee’s hand and smiled. “Trust me, start this marriage right, and the rest will follow.”
Aimee blinked back tears. She’d been on the edge of breaking down since Mary had announced that Catherine had sent her here to find a husband. That hurt more than her marriage to Simon. Aimee felt like a fool, having trusted Catherine’s word. She should have known better. She never should have believed that Catherine would be truthful to her when she was hardly ever truthful to anyone.
Pierre!
Aimee stood hastily, causing Emma to look at her in alarm. “Excusez-moi.” She hurried out of the dining hall among the snickers of the other girls. Were they laughing at the fact that she was now wed to the displaced Englishman? Or were they snickering at what was to come tonight?
She leaned against the wall in the corridor, thankful that it was empty, and breathed deeply. Merde. She’d forced herself not to think about tonight, and it was quickly approaching—just a few hours away at most.
Someone came out of the dining hall, and she quickly pushed away from the wall, looking down at her skirts to fluff them out so whoever was passing wouldn’t see her tears. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe, as if something were pressing against her breastbone, forcing her to take shallow breaths, making her feel as if she were drowning without water.
She managed to make it to her quarters before falling apart, but Hannah was there with a male servant, making Aimee pull up short in surprise.
Hannah hurried toward her. “The queen told Sir Simon that he must move his belongings here,” she whispered frantically. “I knew nothing about this.”
“Well, I wasn’t aware, either,” said Aimee, watching the man, who appeared to be Simon’s valet, unpack doublets, hose, and shoes. He pointedly ignored them. “Why?” Aimee whispered.
“How’m I to know? He insists.” Hannah indicated the valet, who was still ignoring them. “Said the queen told him so.”
Aimee had not given one thought to their living arrangements after the ceremony. The wedding night? Yes. Permanent living arrangements? No.
She sank down into the nearest chair and folded her hands in her lap. Her life was not her own anymore. She was just a leaf, blown by the whims of monarchs.
“Where is Sir Simon?” Hannah asked.
“I do not know,” Aimee said.
The valet finished put
ting Simon’s clothes away, turned, nodded to the two women, and walked out, leaving them both to stare after him.
“Ugh,” Hannah said with emotion. “I will have to work with him, and he is a numpty bastard.”
Aimee bit back a smile. Hannah was completely right. The valet seemed to be a humorless numpty.
“I would like to be alone for a bit, Hannah. I fear I’m suffering the beginnings of a headache.”
A twinkle came to Hannah’s eyes. “Already, eh? Well, just so ye know, he won’t take that excuse, tonight of all nights.”
“It’s not an excuse.” Oh, why was she even trying to defend herself with Hannah? It didn’t matter what her maid thought.
The maid left after running a critical eye over the room to make sure the valet hadn’t left anything amiss.
Aimee stumbled to her escritoire and dropped into the chair. Blindly she fumbled for and pulled out her letter to Pierre. How was she to tell him? How was she to find the words to tell Pierre that she had been forced to wed another man and that Catherine had betrayed them?
She shoved the letter back in the drawer under the prayer book and collapsed on the bed, burying her head in the pillow and letting loose the sobs that had been building for days.
—
“The rumors of Rizzio’s murder are growing,” Will said after Simon was finally able to join him and Tristan in the back room of the printer’s shop. “We cannot ignore it any longer. I think it will happen soon.”
“Damnation,” Tristan muttered.
“We weren’t ignoring it,” Simon said. “I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open and have noticed some odd comings and goings. Lords Ruthven, Morton, and Melville, among others, are involved. As far as I can tell.”
“What in the hell are they thinking?” Tristan said.
“They’re thinking that Rizzio has too much control over their queen,” Will said.
“And they’re angry that their own control has been taken away,” Simon added.
The Scottish nobles were accustomed to running their country themselves. It had been a long while since they’d had a sitting monarch. Mary had been a mere six days old when she was crowned, and she’d spent almost all of her life in France. The nobles weren’t happy when she arrived in Scotland to take the reins of the country.
Simply put, they wanted their power back, and killing Rizzio would set them in that direction.
“There is a twofold purpose for killing Rizzio,” Will said. “The blame would be put on Darnley.”
Darnley, the current king of Scotland—although he had no true power—was another driving force of hatred.
“Killing two birds with one stone,” Simon muttered. “Kill Mary’s most trusted man and blame her husband for it. That will certainly weaken her power. It will destroy her mind as well.”
“Precisely,” Will said.
Tristan handed Simon and Will mugs of beer. Simon sipped his, feeling battered from all directions. Things were heating up in Holyrood Palace with the threat to Rizzio and Darnley’s involvement, and now he had a wife to think about.
As if sensing his thoughts, Tristan looked at Simon with a twinkle in his eye and raised his mug. “My regrets that I was unable to attend the happy nuptials,” he said. Simon scowled and Will laughed. “No?” Tristan asked with a raised brow. “It wasn’t a happy occasion?”
Simon drained his mug and licked his lips. “What in the hell am I supposed to do with her?”
“Tup her well,” Tristan said on a laugh. Of the three of them, Tristan was the least uptight. He always knew when to break the tension, but Simon was not amused.
“And then what? Put her in the closet until I need her again?” He couldn’t imagine Aimee being happy with an absentee husband. Then again, she wasn’t happy with a husband, so maybe she would like it. “I have work to do and a queen to report to. I have a sister I need to get back to and an estate that has gone neglected far too long. How does Aimee fit into any of this?”
Tristan filled Simon’s mug again and Simon took a big gulp, thinking about Aimee back at Holyrood Palace, probably dreading his arrival. He drained his mug again.
“You had better slow down,” Will warned. “Or you won’t be doing anything with your bride tonight.”
“Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”
“Is she at least fair to look at?” Tristan asked. “Most times I’m glad to be away from the palace, but right now I’m regretting not having seen this bride of Simon’s.”
“She’s beautiful,” Simon said without thinking.
Will and Tristan shared an amused look.
“She’s fair,” Will admitted.
Tristan filled Simon’s mug again despite Will’s warning look. Simon drank steadily. The more he drank, the less his nerves clanged. Aimee really was beautiful, with all that black hair and fair skin and those flashing gray eyes that always seemed to look at him contemptuously.
“She doesn’t like me,” he said as he stared into his mug.
“She wouldn’t like any man Mary forced her to wed,” Will said.
“S-so am I supposed to take her to England and sh-say, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m an English spy?” He looked into his mug and was surprised to see that it was empty. Again.
“You’d best keep your voice down,” Will said with an edge. “It wouldn’t do for you to be arrested for that before you get a chance to tell her.”
There was no one about except the three of them, but Will was right. One didn’t just say these things out loud in a foreign country. Especially the country one was spying against.
“Prolly shouldn’t tell her,” Simon said. His tongue felt thick, and in the back of his mind, he knew he’d drunk too much too fast.
“Probably not,” Tristan agreed.
Simon looked at his two friends, the only people in this country who truly knew him. They had worked together on different missions throughout their careers. He trusted them with his life and they trusted him.
And now he was married.
He wasn’t sure how all of that was connected, but it was.
Damn, but his mind was muddled.
And the room was blurry. He closed one eye and Tristan laughed. “I fear you’ve had too much to drink, mate.”
“I gotta get back to…” Simon closed both eyes.
“Aimee?” Tristan offered.
Simon’s eyes popped open. “Aimee! I gotta get back to Aimee.”
“It’s late. Too late for you to be stumbling through the city to the palace.”
Simon stood too quickly. The room spun, and he heard a crashing sound before he realized he’d fallen and his cheek was pressed to the floor.
And then he knew no more.
Chapter 8
Aimee awoke to a pounding head, a dry mouth, and swollen eyes. She was still in the gown she had been married in. And she was alone.
It took her a few moments to realize that today was a different day. The first full day of her marriage. What did one do with a husband?
Her parents had been married, of course, but she’d never thought of their relationship or what they did on a day-to-day basis. She’d never thought about her parents being a couple. Why was that?
And then it occurred to her that she was alone. She’d spent her wedding night crying into her pillow for another man, and her husband had not even come to her.
That was humiliating.
She sat up and groaned, rubbing her dry, gritty eyes.
Hannah had left her alone, thinking Simon would come to her and undress her and do…things. But Simon hadn’t come, and she was stuck in her gown, and when Hannah arrived, she would see that Aimee had not even gotten undressed, and she would see that Aimee was alone, and she would put the two together and come to the correct conclusion that Aimee had been abandoned on her wedding night.
Had Simon run away in horror of being married to her?
That would be wonderful, but it was also horrible that she had disgusted he
r husband so much that he had run from her.
She scooted off the bed and made her way to her escritoire, where she pulled out her letter to Pierre and read it again.
My dearest Pierre,
I am writing to you with a desperate plea for help. Catherine has betrayed us. She had no intention of bringing me back to France and back to you. She fooled us both, Pierre, and I feel such the imbecile. She has instructed Mary to find me a husband in SCOTLAND! Her choice for me is a brute of a man, not nearly as refined as you. Oh, Pierre, what am I to do? I so wish you were here. You would know what to do, what to say, to change Mary’s mind. Come to me, Pierre. Save me.
She picked up her quill, dipped it in the ink, and started writing.
Pierre, it is too late.
I am wed.
I am so sorry, my love. I am dying inside. Nay, I am already dead inside. Please believe me when I say there was nothing I could do. I am but a weakling compared to the power of Queen Mary, and I had no say. Please, please, do not despise me.
You have to believe that I want nothing to do with this man. He is nothing compared to you. He is nothing to me…
The door opened and Aimee jumped up, grabbing the inkpot before it tipped over. She quickly swiped the letter off the escritoire and hid it in the folds of her skirt.
Simon stood in the open doorway, swaying, one eye open, his doublet missing, his shirt wrinkled and stained.
They stared at each other for a long time, a frozen tableau of surprise.
“I went to my quarters and discovered someone else residing there,” he said.
“According to your valet, the queen moved you in here.”
He looked around, his face scrunched into a one-eyed perusal. He braced a hand against the doorframe and leaned heavily on it.
Wed to a Spy Page 5