Wed to a Spy

by Sharon Cullen

  There was a sly remark from Lord Melville, one of the lords Will had said was involved in the plot to murder Rizzio. The queen’s self-proclaimed guardian and secretary was present tonight, trailing after the queen, blocking certain people from speaking to her. Simon watched him closely. He could understand why people were not enamored of the little Italian. Whoever wanted to speak to the queen had to go through him. Her lords did not like it, but Mary made no move to change it.

  Rizzio had no idea that he had a large circle on his back and many eyes aiming for it.

  Weary of the snide comments meant to be taken in jest about his absent wife, Simon left the evening’s festivities early. The queen had opened up her salon for gaming and dancing, but Simon wanted no part of it, so he headed back to his living quarters, having no idea whether he would find his wife there or if she had fled their marriage altogether.

  He touched his pocket, where her letter to her lover resided. He should have left it alone in the drawer. Or better yet, he should have thrown it in the fire, but instead he’d kept it in the pocket of his doublet. Why? To torture himself? As a constant reminder that the woman he’d been forced to wed loved another?

  He pushed open the door to their chambers to find a fire burning merrily in the grate, the room overwarm, and his wife curled into a chair, staring morosely at the flames.

  Her head jerked up when he walked in, and her eyes widened. Did she not expect him to return from dinner?

  “Your presence was missed at dinner,” he said.

  “I wasn’t feeling well.”

  From the look of her swollen eyes and red nose, it appeared that she had been crying. He guessed that being married to a brute was not to her liking.

  “That’s what I told the lords. They conveyed their wishes that you feel better soon.” They’d done no such thing, but Aimee didn’t need to know that.

  He unbuttoned his doublet and shrugged out of it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked with a touch of panic.

  “Undressing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what one usually does before going to bed.”

  “Going to bed?” She shot out of the chair and faced him, her face pale except for her red nose and eyes.

  “Doesn’t one usually go to bed at this time of night?”

  Her gaze darted around the room. “It’s early yet. Hannah said the queen was entertaining in her private chambers. Don’t you want to attend?”

  He threw the doublet over the closest chair. “Are you inviting me to attend the queen’s festivities with you?”

  “No. I thought…”

  “You thought?” He raised a brow.

  Her cheeks turned pink and she looked away. “I thought you would enjoy playing the card games that usually take place.”

  “And what would you do? Visit with the other lasses?”

  “I told you, I don’t feel well.”

  “Then I will keep you company.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “But I do. You are my wife, after all.”

  The skin tightened around her mouth and eyes. “Only in name.”

  He tipped his head to her. “But still wed.” He sat down on the bed and lifted his foot up to take off his shoe. “I don’t know what you expect from me, Aimee. Were you planning on taking my name and not giving me anything in return?”

  The pink quickly receded and her hands visibly shook. “Mary said she was adding to my dowry that Catherine gave her.”

  “I care not for your dowry. I have enough money and land in England.”

  “A place you cannot return to,” she spat out.

  Simon dropped his shoe and lifted his other foot. “Mary will help with that.”

  When Aimee didn’t respond, he looked up to find her swaying. Alarmed, he almost jumped to her side to hold her up.

  “You are returning to England?” she whispered.

  “Eventually. It is my home, after all.”

  “But you have been told not to come back.”

  He waved his hand in the air. “I am certain Elizabeth’s anger has cooled since then.”

  “I’m not living in England.”

  His other shoe dropped, and he wriggled his cramped toes in his hose and sighed, then stretched his legs out, glad to be rid of the shoes and looking forward to divesting himself of the rest of his formal attire. “Of course you are. You are my wife.”

  Chapter 10

  Aimee had to grasp the back of the chair she’d been sitting in so she wouldn’t fall down.

  “I won’t go to England,” she reiterated.

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Firelight caught on the golden strands and made them shimmer. “All I want right now is to get out of these confining breeches and get in bed.”

  Her knees threatened to buckle, but some inner strength she hadn’t been aware she possessed locked her in place. She refused to show him her weakness.

  He laughed. “Fear not, dear wife. I won’t upset your delicate virtue tonight. I refuse to bed a woman who feels repulsed by me.”

  Her gaze flew to his and her heart hammered. Repulsed? She was not repulsed by him. Well, he was overly large, compared to Pierre’s delicateness, but his wide shoulders filled out his doublet nicely, and those breeches…

  She turned her head away and refused to think about how his legs and…other parts…filled out his breeches.

  Where did he get the idea that he repulsed her?

  “It is true that I did not wish to be married to you—”

  “I’m well aware,” he said wearily.

  “Nor do I believe you wished to be wed to me.”

  His gaze locked with hers, those chocolate-colored eyes assessing her. “Touché.”

  “You cannot deny that this marriage is a farce.”

  He seemed to think about that. “I don’t like calling our marriage a farce, but I will admit that it was a surprise.”

  “We were forced to wed!” she cried out. “That is no way to live a life. That is no way to treat two people, forcing them to do something because of a silly whim.”

  Simon highly doubted Mary’s idea to wed them had been a silly whim. She’d known exactly what she was doing. She was cornering a suspected spy and securing Simon’s fealty to her, but he wasn’t going to tell Aimee that, because if she truly were a spy—and he hadn’t made a decision regarding that yet—then he didn’t want Catherine to know that Mary was aware of it.

  “I suggest you lower your voice, my lady. The walls can have ears, and speaking of the queen in such a way is not wise.”

  She looked around as if people were lurking in the shadows noting their conversation. They could easily be. Hannah could be spying on her; Smithson could be spying on him. There were numerous servants around at all hours of the day and night, not to mention the lords and ladies of the court who avidly listened for any gossip.

  As a spy, Aimee should know all of this, but she seemed genuinely concerned that someone might have overheard her. Then again, she was emotionally overwrought, evidenced by the red nose and swollen eyes. She could have forgotten herself. But a small voice inside of him whispered, A good spy would not have forgotten herself.

  “I think this conversation is best left for another time, when we’re both not so tired and emotional,” he said.

  She lifted her chin. “I’m not emotional.”

  “Well, I am, and I’m going to bed. Like I said, your virtue is safe with me; however, I will not be turned away from my own bed. We will sleep together.”

  —

  Simon made quick work of divesting himself of the rest of his clothing. The brute didn’t even wait for his valet, as a gentleman would.

  Aimee turned away as he pulled his shirt over his head, but she wasn’t fast enough, for she caught a glimpse of smooth skin, a flat stomach, and ridges of muscles marching down to disappear into the band of his breeches. She hadn’t noticed earlier that his skin was golden everywhere, eve
n where the sun didn’t reach it.

  “It’s safe to turn around,” he said with amusement.

  Slowly she turned. He was under the covers in her bed, curled onto his side and facing the wall. All she could see of him was the hump of his shoulders and hips and the outline of his long legs.

  She wasn’t certain what to do now. She needed help getting out of her gown, and she’d never undressed before a man before. If Pierre had been here, he would have allowed her to change first and would have come back when she was in bed. Simon cared not a whit about her sensibilities; he cared only that he was weary and wanted to sleep.

  She rang for Hannah and waited awkwardly until her maid arrived while Simon apparently slept peacefully. She tried not to cry. She’d shed enough tears over this horrible man. What she needed was a plan to escape him and find her way to France.

  Pierre would know what to do. Pierre would help her.

  Hannah entered and stopped short when she saw Simon lying in bed. She stared at him for an unusually long period of time before Aimee motioned her over. Aimee kept a wary eye on Simon’s inert form while Hannah helped her out of her gown and pulled her night rail over her head. But Simon didn’t move, and Aimee could have sworn that she heard him snore.

  Hannah took her time putting Aimee’s gown away and folding her underthings, all the while shooting covert glances at Simon.

  “You can leave now,” Aimee said, perturbed.

  Reluctantly Hannah closed the door behind her, and Aimee practically ran to the bed and hopped in, pulling the blankets up to her chin. That was how she always got into bed because she was usually so cold, but this had little to do with the cold and everything to do with the fact that she didn’t want Simon to see her in her night rail, even though they were sleeping side by side.

  She lay on her back, rigid, barely breathing, eyes wide open as she watched the shadows cast by the fire dance across the ceiling.

  She was very aware of the man beside her. He was breathing deeply and hadn’t moved, and she couldn’t believe this was actually happening. It was supposed to be Pierre lying beside her, not a stranger.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself to sleep, but sleep wasn’t coming, and neither had she expected it to. What she hadn’t expected was the warmth seeping toward her from Simon’s side of the bed. Normally it took hours for the sheets to warm up, and her toes were always like little blocks of ice that no amount of heat could warm. But now her feet were tingling with warmth.

  She moved them a little closer to the center of the bed and nearly gasped at how much warmer it was there. Experimentally she stretched her hand toward the center.

  Oh, my. This is heaven.

  She attempted to scoot closer to him. Just a little. Not enough that they were touching, and she was certainly on her side of the bed—far enough away that it was still decent. Well, as decent as one could get while sleeping with a man.

  But it was warm.

  So warm.

  She didn’t think she’d been this warm since coming to Scotland.

  She wasn’t shivering. Her feet didn’t feel like ice, and she didn’t have to curl into a ball to keep warm.

  —

  She awoke slowly and reluctantly and was surprised to see that the sun had been up for some time. She was sprawled across the bed, her head on Simon’s pillow, her legs at the opposite corner, and her arms tucked beneath her.

  Still warm and far more comfortable than she’d been since coming to Scotland, she burrowed farther into the mattress and sighed with pleasure. Simon was gone. She didn’t even remember him getting up or getting dressed. She’d not slept so soundly since…well, since coming to Scotland.

  The door was flung open and Hannah sailed in. “I thought ye would never wake up. I was gettin’ worried about ye. Well, that’s no’ exactly true. I know that Sir Simon was here last night”—she stopped abruptly and looked at Aimee in horror—“No’ that I’m sayin’…”

  “That’s enough, Hannah,” Aimee said wearily as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Late enough that ye missed the morning meal and prayers.”

  Aimee groaned. “Where’s…Where’s Sir Simon?”

  Hannah busied herself with pulling out a gown and all the accoutrements. Aimee noted that Hannah had chosen a deep-rose-colored gown, one of her favorites.

  “He went hunting with Lord Darnley and a few other lords,” Hannah said. “Told his valet he’d be back for supper.”

  So that gave Aimee the entire day without him, without having to worry about bumping into him in the corridors, seeing him at the midday meal, walking in on him while he bathed. She smiled and stretched, feeling better and better about this day.

  She could write to Pierre in peace…

  Pierre.

  The next French ship was probably due in any day now, and she had yet to finish her letter to Pierre. How was she to tell him what had befallen her? She fell back on the bed and covered her eyes with her forearm, feeling sick.

  She needed to tell him. She owed it to him to tell him. He was back in France waiting for her, thinking she was doing her job here by spying on Queen Mary so that she could come back to him.

  Today she needed to finish her letter, learn when the French ship would arrive, and find a way to the docks. She didn’t even want to think about trying to sneak away from Simon to leave the palace. What would he do if he discovered she’d escaped to the docks without his permission? Not that he’d ever said she had to ask for his permission to do anything, but she was his wife, of course she’d need his permission to…

  She sat up and stared out the window without seeing what was beyond it.

  Escape.

  Why did she have to send Pierre a letter when she could send herself?

  She could escape this palace, escape Scotland, escape her marriage, and return to Pierre. Yes, she would have to tell him of her marriage when she returned to him, but she was confident that together they would find a way to overcome this obstacle. Surely some priest would give her an annulment when he discovered the circumstances of her marriage. She’d been forced into it. She’d had no choice.

  She and Simon hadn’t…hadn’t done anything.

  Yes.

  She was going to do it.

  She was going to find a way to get to that French ship and sail back home to Pierre.

  Chapter 11

  Aimee waited until Hannah dressed her and left before she approached her escritoire to take out her letter to Pierre. If she was going to sneak back to France, then she shouldn’t leave any clues as to where she was going.

  Ever since she’d had the idea of returning to Pierre, her heart had been hammering, and her hands were shaking with excitement. Soon she was going to see her beloved. Soon she would be back in her home country, where it was warm and familiar. No longer did she have to spy for Catherine. She felt free and nervous at the same time.

  Aimee sat down at her escritoire and contemplated making a list of things she needed to do. She had some pieces of jewelry, a gold necklace and a ring and a brooch that she rarely wore. Aimee had never enjoyed wearing a lot of jewels, like other girls. For one, she didn’t have many. Her family was not poor—her father was a French baron—but Aimee was the fifth of six children, and few riches made their way down to her. It was one of the reasons she’d been thrust on Catherine and her court. Her mother had already matched three daughters and one son in respectable marriages and no longer had the energy for the fifth and sixth. Being her aunt, Catherine could not refuse Aimee’s care, even though she wasn’t pleased about it.

  Aimee pulled out a blank piece of parchment and grabbed a quill before thinking better of it. A list would be another clue that she was planning to leave, and she could not risk that. She didn’t fully trust Hannah, although she thought the maid probably couldn’t read. And she definitely didn’t trust Simon.

  No. No list.

  And no letter to Pierre.

  She could ex
plain her situation to him much better in person, anyway.

  Aimee hugged herself, she was so excited to see Pierre soon. She didn’t want to wait for the French ship. She wanted to go now. Oh, she could just imagine the look on his face when she walked up to him. The pure joy…

  A knock on the door had her jumping from her chair and hurrying to open it. Emma Howard was on the other side.

  “We missed you at dinner last night,” Emma said. “And at Mary’s salon after. Sir Simon said you weren’t feeling well.” Emma had a sparkle in her eyes, and her lips were twitching. Aimee heard giggling and peered into the darkness of the corridor to find five or six other girls. She didn’t know them well because they kept to their own circle of friendship. But Emma had always been kind to Aimee. Emma was older by a few years but much more mature than the other girls. She’d been married and was now widowed, and she always showed kindness to everyone. Aimee liked Emma but she wasn’t enamored of the others. They could be catty, and they liked to gossip.

  “Are you feeling well enough to walk in the gardens with us?” Emma asked.

  “Oh.” Aimee looked over her shoulder at her empty quarters. Her first instinct was to say that she was busy writing letters or some such excuse, but really, she had nothing to do other than sit alone and think about her reunion with Pierre. “I would like that. Just let me get my cloak.”

  “Cloak?” one of the girls said. “It’s warm for a cloak.”

  “Aimee isn’t accustomed to the Scottish weather. Our idea of warm is much different than hers,” another one said in a bossy tone.

  “It’s a good thing she has Sir Simon to warm her bed, then.” They all giggled, and Aimee turned to find her cloak, her face burning in embarrassment. She reached for the red cloak Simon had given her on their wedding day, hesitated, and grabbed her usual dark blue cloak instead.