Wed to a Spy

by Sharon Cullen

  “You’re drunk,” she said flatly.

  “I am.”

  She waited. For what, she didn’t know. An explanation would be nice.

  He eyed the bed. The only bed in the room, draped in gauzy curtains, the bedclothes ruffled from her sleeping on top of them.

  He moved toward the bed, bracing a hand against the wardrobe, the escritoire, and finally the bedpost, as if maneuvering around on a ship being tossed by the sea. He looked a bit green by the time he fell onto the bed.

  So this was whom she married. This was whom Queen Mary had saddled her with for the rest of her life. What would Mary say about him if she could see him now?

  His arms outstretched, he groaned, “Make the room stop spinning.”

  Within moments he was breathing deeply, his chest rhythmically rising and falling. Aimee stood there, unsure what to do. What did one do with a husband who stumbled in and passed out on their first day of marriage?

  She tiptoed over to him to stare down at him. He reeked of ale. She wrinkled her nose and took a hurried step back.

  A crinkling sound reminded her that she was still clutching her letter to Pierre, and she hastily put it in the drawer beneath her prayer book. Simon didn’t seem like the praying type, so she doubted he would look there.

  He snorted and rolled onto his stomach, his cheek pressed against the counterpane and his mouth open. He started snoring in earnest.

  Aimee’s stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since supper the day before. She hadn’t eaten at all during their wedding feast, and she was regretting it now.

  But she couldn’t go to the dining hall wearing the same gown she’d been wed in—that would be too mortifying—and she wasn’t able to undress herself due to the long row of buttons marching down her back.

  She was stuck.

  Stuck in a room with her unconscious husband, unable to leave.

  She fell into a chair by the window and glared at Simon. If only her glares were daggers. That would solve all her problems.

  She curled her legs beneath her. At some point she must have nodded off, because the next thing she knew, the door had opened quietly and Hannah was slipping through. She stopped short and stared at Simon lying on the bed. She hadn’t seen Aimee on the other side of the room, and Aimee became uncomfortable with Hannah’s perusal of her husband. The maid approached the bed slowly, leaning over as Aimee had done.

  Aimee stood and Hannah jumped back, looking at her first in surprise and then guilt. “I did no’ see ye,” she whispered.

  “Obviously.”

  Hannah looked over her shoulder at Simon sprawled on the bed and then at Aimee’s gown. She was smart enough not to voice her thoughts.

  “Please undress me,” Aimee said as she turned her back to Hannah. Hannah made short work of the buttons, and soon Aimee was peeling the gown off. It felt good to be rid of it. She desperately wanted a bath but refused to bathe while Simon was in the room, even if he was passed out.

  Hannah pulled out a simple day dress in pale green, and Aimee quickly stepped into it, shooting nervous glances at Simon’s still form, afraid he would awaken before she was fully dressed.

  Hannah brushed Aimee’s hair out and twisted it into a knot, securing it almost too tightly, but Aimee didn’t complain. The air was becoming stifling and Simon’s snores were becoming louder and she just wanted out. Out of the room, out of the palace, out of this marriage.

  She hurried from the room, leaving Hannah behind. If the woman wanted to stare at her husband, then so be it. Aimee didn’t care.

  —

  Simon awoke with a start, sitting up in bed before his eyes fully adjusted to the light. The light stabbing at his brain. He covered his eyes with his hands, feeling the stubble of his beard.

  Good God, but he felt like hell. He dropped his hands and looked around, not recognizing anything. And then it all came rushing back to him. He was married to Aimee de Verris—Aimee Marcheford now. He was in her quarters because…because why? He searched his alcohol-soaked brain.

  Ah, yes. Because the queen, that wily, manipulative woman, had kicked Simon out of his quarters and instructed him to move into Aimee’s. He’d had far too much to drink with Tristan and Will. They’d discussed Rizzio’s murder plot and then…and then apparently he’d drunk himself into a stupor.

  Good Lord, but what had he said when he’d returned to his wife?

  He had no idea.

  It wasn’t like him to lose control like this. But then these were extenuating circumstances.

  He groaned and dropped his aching head into his hands. He felt like hell frozen over, thawed, and frozen again.

  The door burst open, causing him to wince, and Smithson, his valet, walked in. “I’ve called for a bath,” Smithson said.

  Simon stood, and Smithson began undressing him while Simon looked around the quarters. They were much bigger than the small room in the back of the castle that had been assigned to him. As far as he could see, Aimee’s rooms looked over the baths. She had large windows that let in a lot of light, and an oversize fireplace that crackled with a cheery fire. She would like that, he thought. It would keep her warmer than the small, smoking fireplace that had been in his bedchamber.

  Smithson had already moved his clothing and few personal items to this room, and he wondered what Aimee thought of that. More than likely she wasn’t happy about it.

  His gaze fell on her small, delicate escritoire and stayed there. Something about the piece of furniture snagged his attention and tickled his brain. While Smithson let the servants in to fill the bathtub, Simon casually opened a drawer to find pens and a bottle of ink. The second drawer held parchment and the third drawer a prayer book.

  He was shutting the third drawer when something caught his eye and he stopped, his memory tickled with something that seemed important. He’d been lying on the bed, half in consciousness, half out, his eyes drooping when he watched Aimee pull a piece of paper from the folds of her gown and quickly shove it in the drawer. In his inebriated state, he’d made a mental note to find out what she was hiding when he was fully conscious.

  He pulled the drawer open further and, with one finger, pushed the prayer book to the side. There, underneath it, was a wrinkled piece of parchment. He pulled it out.

  Her handwriting was elegant, with a lot of loops. The lines were straight, the ink even and not blotchy. Her penmanship was superb. She’d written in French, which wasn’t too surprising. He’d fully expected it to be addressed to Catherine, since Mary believed Aimee to be Catherine’s spy, but it wasn’t.

  My dearest Pierre,

  Pierre? Was this her contact in Scotland? The intermediary who delivered the letters to Catherine?

  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.

  Reeling, Simon clutched the edge of the escritoire to keep from swaying. This was not a letter of treason against the Scottish queen. This was a love letter.

  Aimee had been writing a letter to her lover in France.

  Simon knew he shouldn’t be surprised. It wasn’t as if they were courting and she had misled him about her feelings. She’d been very clear that she did not wish to wed him, but a lover?

  For some reason, he still felt betrayed.

  He looked at the letter blindly before blinking away his shock and reading the rest of it.

  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, p
lease, 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…

  Simon shoved the letter back in the drawer, making sure the prayer book was covering it, just like he had found it. But his mind was whirling.

  Brute of a man? Unrefined?

  He was nothing to her?

  “Your bath, sir.”

  Simon allowed Smithson to finish undressing him before he sank into the hot water of his bath. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the edge of the tub.

  So Catherine had betrayed Aimee and Pierre. How? She must have promised the two that they could wed, but why send Aimee to Scotland first?

  He didn’t know Catherine, but he knew enough to know that she was diabolical and bordering on evil.

  As if drawing the heat from the water, Simon’s anger grew. It was an irrational anger, he knew. It was not as if he’d lived his life as a monk before their wedding. He had no claim over Aimee other than that he was now her husband. Which, considering, was a fairly large claim.

  So what was the purpose of the letter? To have this Pierre chap rush up to Scotland and save Aimee from the brute who had become her husband?

  He scoffed at the idea.

  Preposterous.

  Obviously Aimee didn’t realize that she was his now and that it would be best if she just erased this Pierre from her mind.

  A small gasp from behind had Simon sitting up and turning around.

  The object of his thoughts was standing in the doorway, looking mortified.

  “Hello, Wife,” he said with a smirk.

  Chapter 9

  “It’s probably best if you leave right now,” Simon warned Aimee as she stood frozen in the doorway.

  For a moment it appeared she was going to take his advice and leave, but then she surprised him and straightened her slim shoulders and lifted that pointed chin and stared down her aristocratic nose at him. “These were my quarters before you…before they were yours.”

  He stopped himself from grinning at her cheek. “Say what you were going to say.”

  She appeared confused.

  “These were your quarters before what?”

  She pressed her lips together, then spat out, “Before you invaded them.”

  “We are wed.”

  Her gaze went to the tub. His back was to her, and he was awkwardly twisted around, so she probably couldn’t see anything of import.

  “My neck is getting a crick. If you wish to speak to me, you must come around.” He turned around and waited. “The open door is pulling in a cold draft,” he said. He was a cad, the worst sort of person for pushing her the way he was, but he was angry. Angry at the letter he’d found, angry that he was angry about the letter.

  The door slammed shut and he grinned.

  “I’m unsure where Smithson got off to. Can you wash my back?”

  “No.” The answer came from across the room, so she hadn’t moved much past the door.

  “Wives are supposed to obey their husbands.”

  “You’d best get accustomed to me not acting like a wife.”

  He grabbed the cloth and lifted his leg to wash it, all the while listening for her movement. “It’s going to be a long, arduous marriage if you don’t obey me.”

  He could hear her draw in a breath.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked.

  “I want you to come around here so I can see you without hurting my neck. And I’d like for you to wash my back.”

  Lots of movement, skirts swishing, small feet shuffling until she was standing before him, her hands on her full hips. For the first time, he wondered what last night would have brought them if he’d not been a fool and become drunk. Would they have been a married couple in truth?

  “I’m facing you, but I’ll not wash your back. You can do that yourself.”

  “It’s a difficult task for one to do alone.”

  “You’re an intelligent man. I’m certain you can figure it out.”

  “Why are you so angry? Before we wed, you at least pretended to like me.”

  Her eyes flashed, and he could have sworn she suppressed a shiver. Was he that repulsive? Was Pierre so wonderful that Simon would never measure up?

  He despised the fact that he was comparing himself to her lover.

  “I tolerated you, and because of that, I am now wed to you. So I seriously regret pretending to like you.”

  He tilted his head to her. “Did it occur to you that maybe I didn’t want to be wed, either?”

  “Of course it did. But it also occurs to me that you promised you would get us out of this mess, and you didn’t.”

  “You have quite the saucy mouth, wench.”

  She gasped, and her hands fell from her hips. “That was cruel.”

  He began washing himself, uncaring that she was standing before him. She was his wife; soon they would have nothing to hide from each other. Except, apparently, his career as a spy and her dalliance with a French lover.

  Her gaze followed his movements, so he deliberately lifted his leg and washed it. Was she comparing him to Pierre? Was Pierre’s leg as big? Or was he small and effeminate? One of those courtly chaps, probably.

  Simon watched her gaze take in his legs and then his chest as he ran the wet cloth over it. What was she thinking now?

  Why did he care?

  And yet he did.

  “Can you hand me that towel?” He tilted his head toward the towel folded on a stool within arm’s reach.

  Aimee hesitated, then snatched the towel and thrust it at him.

  He stood, the water making a sloshing sound as it lapped over the tub and dripped down his body. Aimee spun around with a gasp.

  —

  He was a brute. A foul, horrible, mean brute.

  Aimee closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to erase the image of his long, muscular legs from her memory. Or his smooth, sculpted chest, water droplets clinging to his nipples.

  With a near-silent growl, she pressed her thumbs into her eyes as if that would help rid her of the images that wouldn’t go away.

  Think of Pierre. Pierre never would have been so crass as to bathe in front of you or taunt you with his body. Pierre always took your feelings into consideration before his own.

  And Pierre never would have stood in the tub fully…naked. Without clothes on.

  Aimee could never unsee what she had just seen. Simon’s…his…

  Oh, merde. This was awful. Her life was awful.

  “You can turn around now.”

  Aimee didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to turn around. She didn’t want to be in the same room as Simon, and she certainly didn’t want to speak to him.

  Despite everything she didn’t want to do, she did it anyway. Because she was weak-willed.

  The towel clung precariously to his slim hips, dipping down until it was almost—but not quite—indecent. Water droplets clung to his chest, just sitting there, not even bothering to travel down all that smooth skin.

  “I will leave you to get dressed,” she said. Good Lord, was her voice really that breathless?

  Abandoning any pretense of dignity, she put her head down and fled, knocking her hip into the escritoire but not caring. She made it to the hallway and leaned against the cold stone wall, breathing deeply.

  She couldn’t believe she was wed to that man.

  How had her life come to this?

  —

  Simon watched his wife flee from him with no little amusement. She was clearly uncomfortable, and he was clearly an arse for making her uncomfortable.

  His gaze moved to the desk that she’d knocked into while fleeing the room, and with the thought of the letter secreted in there, all his amusement vanished. Thoughts of Pierre filled him with anger for some reason.

  He opened the drawer and pushed the prayer book away to look at the offensive letter, then he swiped it, folded it into fourths, and slammed the drawer closed
.

  Smithson came to dress him, and by the time he was finished, Aimee was back, hovering uncertainly by the door.

  “You can come in,” he said. “These are your quarters as well.”

  Smithson finished putting some things away while an uncomfortable silence fell. When the valet left, Aimee said, “I would like to dress for dinner.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  She didn’t move from the door, as if she were waiting for something. He knew damn well what she was waiting for.

  “You would like me to leave?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He wanted to dig his heels in and deny her request, but he’d already pushed her today, and he really didn’t want to start their marriage like this.

  As he passed her to leave the bedchamber, she shrank against the wall, and it stirred his anger. He paused beside her, and she turned her head away, not looking at him.

  “Aimee?”

  It took a moment for her to turn her gaze to him.

  “I want to apologize for last night. My intention had never been to abandon you on our wedding night. The night got away from me, and I was…well, I was drinking.”

  She seemed surprised at his admission. “Think nothing of it,” she said stiffly.

  “It was wrong of me to leave you like that.”

  Her gaze finally met his, cloudy gray eyes confused and angry. They were both angry at the circumstances, it seemed. That little pointed chin came up. “Please don’t labor under the assumption that we would have had a typical wedding night.”

  He drew back, her words slapping him as much as a physical blow. He nodded and walked out of the room.

  —

  She didn’t come to dinner. Simon searched for her all evening, but she didn’t make an appearance.

  “Where is your bride?” Queen Mary asked him at one point, a corner of her mouth tilting in a small grin.

  “She must not be feeling well,” Simon said.

  Mary laughed softly and patted him on the shoulder. “Sometimes it is like that the first time. She will become accustomed.”

  Mary wandered off, her attention pulled away by one of the Maries, while Simon could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He was embarrassed at the queen’s remark and angry at Aimee for causing the embarrassment. Many people were curious about Aimee’s absence, and Simon had to continually answer to them. The more questions he answered, the angrier he became. She could have at least made an effort to come to dinner. It was a small favor to ask that they at least appear to be a couple in front of the palace occupants.