Wed to a Spy

by Sharon Cullen

  “Many people get married not knowing their spouses. If we want to make this marriage work, we need to trust each other. Do you not trust me?”

  “I don’t trust myself.”

  He stared at her for a long time before he nodded and slid off the bed to stand by the window and stare outside.

  Aimee felt like the worst sort of person. It was obvious that Simon wanted to make this marriage a success even though he hadn’t wanted it any more than she did. But she felt an obligation to Pierre, the man she loved and the man she had promised herself to before she’d even met Simon.

  “The queen is still alive,” he said. “Mary and Darnley are being kept apart. There is a rumor that Bothwell is coming with an army to save her.”

  “I am not surprised,” Aimee said, relieved that they had moved on to a safer topic, even if it was about the queen’s captivity. “Bothwell and Mary have a close relationship.”

  Simon looked over his shoulder at her, but she could not discern his expression because the sun was shining on him. “You mean a strange relationship. Some claim the child she is carrying is his.”

  “And some say the child is Rizzio’s.”

  “Few believe it’s Darnley’s,” Simon admitted.

  Aimee looked away. What if she returned to Pierre? Her marriage to Simon wouldn’t be a secret. She was certain that Mary had written to Catherine to tell her of it. Unless Mary had not had a chance yet.

  But if people found out, there would always be a shadow cast upon her and Pierre’s relationship. If she became pregnant right away, would people wonder if it was Simon’s child? Would she even be able to get an annulment from the church? Her once brilliant plan was becoming more and more far-fetched, the idle dreams of a naive mademoiselle who believed love could triumph over all.

  Ah, but she felt a fool.

  “At the moment it’s neither here nor there whose child it is,” she said, banishing her thoughts for more important matters. “The queen’s safety is of the utmost concern.”

  “Our safety is of the utmost concern. It’s time we make our escape. Do you want to go with me?”

  She looked at him in surprised. “How can you even ask that question?”

  “Because it is obvious that you don’t want to be with me.”

  “Simon…” But what could she say to that? She had no argument. “I want to escape with you.”

  A moment of silence passed before he moved from the window and picked up a sack that was lying on the floor beside the bed. Aimee slid off the bed, too uncomfortable to sit on it after what they’d just done there. If she had allowed their actions to progress, they would have made love, and her reason for an annulment would have been invalid. Not to mention that she could have gotten with child, and with their future so uncertain, that was the last thing they needed.

  Simon began pulling things out of the bag. A bottle of wine. Bread. What looked like two meat pies and bundles of cloth that, when he shook them out, were a drab grayish-brown gown that had definitely been worn before—for many years, it looked like—a cloak, and what appeared to be a peasant’s clothing.

  “We can’t escape in the clothes we are wearing,” Simon said. “We’ll be noticed right away.”

  Aimee plucked at the garments and wrinkled her nose.

  “They are clean,” Simon said. “I took them from the wash line, and they have no varmints on them.”

  “Varmints?”

  “Bugs.”

  She put the gown down and rubbed her hands on her own less than clean gown.

  “It has to be done,” Simon said.

  “I know.”

  No one would possibly recognize them in this clothing.

  He picked up the bottle of wine, uncorked it using his dagger, and took a swig. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he offered her the bottle. Without hesitation, Aimee took a big drink.

  “You stole a fine bottle of wine,” she said, handing it back.

  He grinned. “Only the best for us.”

  She was arrested by his smile. It lit his face and formed crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  “How old are you?” she asked without thinking, then flinched. “My apologies. You don’t have to answer that.”

  “You said we didn’t know each other. Questions like this let us get to know each other.”

  But she wasn’t sure she wanted to know more about Simon. Knowing more was dangerous, because he was becoming a large part of her life. An important part. She had to remind herself of Pierre, and that wasn’t right. She shouldn’t have to force herself to remember the man she’d sworn to love forever.

  “I am twenty-five as of last month.”

  “Twenty-five? I didn’t realize…”

  His eyes twinkled in amusement. “That I was so old?”

  “Well, no. Yes.” Her face heated in what had to be the fiercest blush.

  “Alas, but I am. And how old are you, Magpie?”

  Magpie. He hadn’t called her that since before they were married. Listen to her, acting like they’d been married for years.

  “I am one and twenty.”

  “Ah. Not so young yourself. I wonder that you were on the marriage mart for so long.”

  “I was not at the top of Catherine’s list of important things.”

  “Until she sent you to Scotland. Why did she send you to Scotland? Could she find no one to wed you to in France?”

  She glared at him, but he laughed, and she couldn’t stay angry for long. He’d called her old and unmarriageable in one breath, and she still wasn’t angry at him.

  “Well, if you must know, I was…caught.” She couldn’t help sounding defensive, and maybe it wasn’t right to admit this much about herself, but she wanted him to know that she had other men in her life.

  He raised a brow but still had that amused look about him. “Caught? Do tell.”

  “I was caught in an embrace with another man, and that is all I am going to say about it.” As if to make her point, she grabbed the bottle of wine from him and took a large swallow.

  Now he appeared intrigued. “Another man? What is this man’s name? Might I have to call him out?”

  “No!” She was appalled she’d said this much and horrified that Simon would call Pierre out. He’d said it in jest, but she felt an undercurrent of seriousness to his inquiry. “And it doesn’t matter anymore who he is.”

  “Do you fear that I would hurt him?”

  “I fear he would hurt you. He is very good with a sword.”

  Something in his eyes shifted, and she was reminded of her first assessment of him as a lion on the hunt.

  “I, too, am good with a sword.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “But you don’t believe I’m as good as your Frenchman?”

  She tilted her head. “Did I say he was French?”

  “Frenchmen are known to be good with the sword.”

  “True.”

  “So do you fear for my safety, Wife?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek, and they stared at each other for a time, the silliness of the conversation having shifted into something more serious.

  “I do,” she admitted.

  He broke eye contact and took the bottle from her to drink. “Well, there is that, I guess.”

  “That?”

  “You feel something for me, at least.”

  “I was worried about you when you were gone so long.”

  “Worried for me? Or worried that you would be all alone and confined to this room indefinitely?” When she hesitated, he grinned, but it was not an amused grin. “That’s what I thought.”

  Chapter 17

  “We must leave today,” Simon said the next morning.

  They’d barely spoken to each other since their conversation the afternoon before. Aimee felt horrible, thinking that Simon believed she was only using him for the safety he provided.

  But wasn’t that the truth? Wasn’t she using him for protection?

  Merd
e, but she was so confused. She genuinely enjoyed being with him. She liked their conversations, and she would be a liar if she didn’t admit that she liked his kisses. But she didn’t want to use him for his kisses, and she felt guilty that she enjoyed them so much. She had promised herself to Pierre, and the thought of Pierre waiting for her, chaste, loving her from afar while she was kissing another man, was abhorrent to her.

  But that other man is your husband.

  “Aimee?”

  She looked up at Simon, pulled from her musings and conflicted feelings. The truth was—the absolute, honest truth—she liked Simon. Very much. She’d felt more than relief when he’d walked through the door yesterday. She’d been truly grateful that he wasn’t hurt or taken prisoner. Or dead.

  “I heard you,” she said. “We must leave today. But where are we going?”

  “I have an idea.”

  She waited for him to share his idea, and when he didn’t, she raised a brow at him.

  “You needn’t know at this moment. Suffice it to say that where we are going, you will need to wear the gown I brought for you.”

  She looked at the serviceable grayish-brown gown that had been mended and remended and needed to be mended again.

  “Unless you have a lady’s maid waiting in the wings to assist me, you will have to help me out of my gown,” she said.

  “No lady’s maid.”

  “Then it will have to be you.”

  After a slight pause, he said, “Very well.”

  She turned her back to him and pulled her braid over her shoulder. For a long moment he didn’t move, and she waited with breath held for the touch of his fingers against her back. He pulled the bow of her lace, then slowly loosened the lacing at her back. She sucked in her stomach, then let out the air.

  “Oh, that feels good,” she said on a long breath.

  “I can’t believe you’ve been in this gown so long and haven’t complained once.”

  She shrugged, feeling the laces untighten from the bottom up, grateful for each tug that loosened the gown. “There was no use complaining. It wasn’t as if I had something to change into.”

  “I’m sorry that I never even thought of how uncomfortable you might be.”

  “You don’t notice the discomfort until it is no longer there.”

  He pushed the gown off her shoulders, the rough calluses of his fingers brushing her cool skin and making her shiver. She looked over her shoulder at him to find that he was watching her, a look of heated intensity in his dark brown eyes. She shivered again.

  He wanted her. He was not hiding the fact, and she had no idea what to do about it. He was her husband, and accordingly she should give herself to him willingly. That he hadn’t demanded it yet spoke volumes about the type of man he was, and it increased her guilt.

  She was in such a quandary. She felt guilty for giving herself to Simon over Pierre, and she felt guilty for withholding her affections from Simon because of Pierre.

  He touched her shoulder again. She was still wearing her smock and petticoats, but she felt naked and exposed to that direct, intense gaze.

  “I…I can do the rest,” she said through a thick throat.

  “Are you certain?”

  She hesitated, then nodded, feeling that strange heaviness in her lower stomach and between her legs again. She knew it was her body telling her that it was ripe for Simon, but she had to be strong and ignore her urges.

  “I’ll just put the servant’s gown on over my petticoats.”

  He stepped back but didn’t look away. She felt self-conscious, dressing in front of him, but she bit her bottom lip and did so anyway, shaking out the gown and pulling it on over her head because it would be too difficult to step into it with her petticoats still on.

  The gown was surprisingly comfortable. More comfortable than the one she’d just taken off. The fabric was made of linsey-woolsey and was soft and faded from so many washings. It smelled halfway decent, at least.

  She sat on the edge of the bed to unplait her hair and replait it. “Were you able to find a cap?” she asked, referring to the head covering most women wore.

  “No. You’ll have to go without one. It will be conspicuous, but not as much, since you are pretending to be a servant.”

  She nodded, frankly relieved not to have to wear a cap. She looked up to say something else to him, but the words died in her throat, and her hands faltered in her hair.

  He had stripped off his shirt and was bare-chested. She had to lick suddenly dry lips at the sight of his wide chest, sculpted with prominent muscles that rounded out his shoulders and marched down his stomach.

  He was built like the lion he resembled, all sinew, strength, and power.

  He slipped on the servant’s shirt, and she lowered her gaze to the rumpled bed, not wanting him to notice that she had been staring. But she knew the image of his naked chest would remain with her always.

  The leather breeches came next, but first he had to divest himself of the velvet ones he’d been wearing. He sat on the bed opposite her and peeled them off with a sigh. Aimee shifted so that her back was to him. Scooting in such a way sent a bolt of need through her that almost made her gasp. She was so slippery between her legs that she was sure it was dripping out of her. All because she’d watched a man undress? How ridiculous.

  Her fingers fumbled through her hair, making a mess of the braid she was trying to create.

  “We will have to hide our clothing,” Simon said. “I doubt anyone will come in here, seeing as they haven’t found us yet, but just in case, we should tidy up the room and make it look like we haven’t been living here for a few days.”

  Silently she helped him fold their clothing into the bedsheets and comforter and put it all back in the wardrobe where they had found it. He hid the wine bottles under the sheets, while she put the chair back and looked around the room, making sure they weren’t forgetting anything.

  They stared at each other for a long moment as apprehension and an undercurrent of attraction buzzed around the room.

  “Are you ready?”

  She nodded. “I think I have no choice.”

  “Now is the time. The guards aren’t as heavy as they were yesterday, and I fear Mary’s troops will arrive soon. We don’t want to be here then.” He took her hands in his. “I found an open window in the wine cellar. We will have to go down many flights of steps to get there, then climb out the window. A few yards away, there is a door in the palace wall that opens onto High Street. That will be the most dangerous part of the escape. Once we reach High Street, we will blend in with the crowd.” He squeezed her hands. “I need you to follow me without argument. I need you to follow me even if it seems we’re wandering the streets with no direction. Do what I say, when I say it, and exactly how I say it, and I will get you out of here. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, her mouth dry with fear.

  “It’s very important that you understand this.”

  “I understand.”

  He let go of her hands, and she felt bereft of the connection to him. He looked around the room one last time. “Let’s go, then,” he said.

  He opened the door and peered outside, but before he could step out, Aimee grabbed his arm to stop him. He looked back at her with slight irritation.

  “I just want you to know that it’s more than the protection.”

  His brows drew together in confusion.

  “Your presence here means more to me than protection.”

  The crease between his brows eased, and he nodded. He grabbed her hand, squeezed her fingers, and winked at her before slipping out the door.

  Aimee took a deep breath and stepped out of the warm cocoon of what had been their sanctuary.

  —

  The hall was narrow and dark and dusty. They trotted down a set of dark, dank stairs.

  Simon slowed toward the end of the steps, forcing Aimee to slow as well. He paused at the bottom of the stairwell and held his hand up, presumably asking for h
er silence. He needn’t ask. She was so frightened that she feared her throat wouldn’t work even if she wanted to speak.

  He peered around the corner, his fingers tightening around hers. Aimee listened hard, trying to hear if someone was coming, but nothing passed the pounding in her ears.

  Simon slid around the corner, his hand still holding Aimee’s, and she tried to mimic the motion for fear of doing something wrong and getting both of them caught.

  They had turned onto another empty, dark corridor and easily traversed it. The next set of steps and the next hall were wider and a bit brighter, with narrow windows at each end, but no less dusty.

  And then she started hearing the sounds of humanity. Male voices drifted toward them as they descended a third stairwell. Aimee’s heart beat harder, and she felt an urgent need to turn around and run back to the safety of the dusty, unused, abandoned bedchamber where she and Simon had spent the last several nights.

  As if sensing her thoughts, Simon glanced over his shoulder at her. She tried to smile in encouragement but feared her lips wobbled a bit.

  As he’d done for the last two flight of stairs, he stopped to listen and peruse their surroundings. But instead of peering around the corner, he turned to her, took her face between his hands, and kissed her. It was just a quick peck, nothing like any of the other kisses they’d shared, but it boosted her confidence more than anything else could have.

  “Courage, Magpie.”

  She nodded, unexpected tears gathering in her eyes that she swiped away with her free hand. She had no idea why she was suddenly crying, but it was damned inconvenient.

  They stepped into another hall, but this one was different. She recognized this hall. If they were to turn the next corner, she would be a few doors down from her bedchamber. For the first time, she thought about Hannah. Did the maid wonder where she was? Knowing Hannah, she was probably relieved that she had no duties.

  But Simon didn’t take them that way. He turned the other way and walked faster, widening his stride and making Aimee jog to keep pace. There was a burst of muffled male laughter. Simon’s steps faltered, and his head tilted as if he were listening intently, but he didn’t stop. Aimee was breathing heavily, out of breath from their race to the wine cellar and the supposed open window.