She licked her lips, the tip of her tongue touching her bottom lip ever so gently.
He lowered his head and kissed her thigh. He could smell her. She was wet, and it made him even harder. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, but would she allow herself to break free of the thought of her French lover?
His breath tickled the curls between her legs, and she moaned. He glanced up to find that she had laid her head back against the pile of pillows and closed her eyes. Her hands came up and clutched his hair.
He kissed her mound, and she made a sound of half protest, half distress. He kissed it again, flicking his tongue out to lick the crease.
She gasped. “Simon,” she said in a somewhat scandalized voice. He felt the muscles of her thighs clench.
“Relax, Magpie.”
Her fingers tightened on his hair and he ran his tongue along her crease, parting it ever so slightly and tasting the essence of Aimee. She tasted divine. He kept running his tongue up and down, insistently, gently parting the crease a little more each time. Her breath came in ragged gasps. And then he touched the hidden nub, the pot of gold, and she moaned. Slowly he took the nub between his lips and sucked it in.
Her legs widened, a silent invitation that he took full advantage of.
He sucked her harder, pulling the nub in and releasing it, pulling it in and releasing. Massaging it with his tongue, swirling it around his mouth. She was completely wet. It was dripping out of her. He slid his hands beneath her buttocks, lifting her closer to him. She drew her knees up on either side of his head and grabbed his head with her hands. Her hips came up and she whimpered.
Slowly he inserted a finger inside her. The muscles sucked his finger in, soaking it with her essence. She pressed her hips down, trapping his finger inside, and then she started pumping her hips, riding his finger and rubbing her nubbin against his tongue.
She was gasping and moaning and tossing her head back and forth, faster and faster, until she surged up, pulling his hair and crying out. Her muscles clenched down on his finger, and he could feel them pulsing with her completion. She bucked several more times, riding it until the end.
When it was over, her legs fell to the side and she let out one long breath.
He lifted his head and grinned at her. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed,” he said.
Quickly she straightened her legs and tried to push her gown down. He rolled out of the way, understanding that reality was setting in and she was now probably embarrassed by her loss of control. He winced, his cock so damn full that if he merely touched it, he would find his own completion.
“I…I don’t…”
“You don’t what?”
She turned her face away. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“That was…I’ve never done anything like that before.”
Your French lover never brought you to completion? He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying that. He didn’t want to bring the bastard into the bedroom with them now.
“I’m glad I was the first.”
“Is that what the French call la petite mort?”
He laughed, startled at the question. “How do you know about that?”
“One hears things in a French court.”
Do not think about that French bastard. “Yes, it was.”
She paused, considered. “Then it was as wonderful as I’d heard it to be.”
He crawled up the bed beside her and took her hand in his. “I’m glad.”
A door banged somewhere down below. Will’s and Tristan’s voices drifted up to them. Simon’s heart dropped. He wanted just a little bit more time alone with Aimee, but life was intruding.
“Simon!” Tristan called up the steps, causing Simon to groan.
“You’re probably hungry,” he said. “Why don’t you come down and eat with us.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I can’t face them right now.”
“It’s not like it’s written on your forehead. They won’t know what we did up here.”
“I still can’t.”
Chapter 22
After bringing Aimee up a tray of food, Simon went back to Tristan and Will. “Good Lord, man, you need more comfortable furnishings,” he said to Tristan.
“Pardon me, but I wasn’t expecting to entertain such valued guests.”
Will snorted.
“What did you learn today?” Tristan asked Simon.
“Nothing new.” He repeated to them what he had told Aimee.
“There is more to come,” Will said. “I’ve heard rumblings that Darnley is next.”
Simon shook his head at the audacity of people who would kill a king. Power went to a man’s head and turned it so that evil invaded.
“Your presence during the attack on Rizzio will not go well for you and Aimee,” Tristan said. “I fear for your safety.”
Simon had been thinking the same since the night of the murder. Anyone who had witnessed the attack was suspect and open to the wrath of Mary.
“I think it’s time for you to return to England,” Tristan said.
“I agree,” Will added. “Someone needs to report to Elizabeth. I think it should be you.”
Simon stared into the fire, letting their words sink in. They were right, of course, but that didn’t make what they were saying a simple thing to accomplish.
“What do I tell Aimee?” he said.
Both men shifted but didn’t seem to have an answer.
“She has no idea what I really do,” Simon said.
“This is tricky,” Will said. “Elizabeth will know better how to handle it.”
“No,” Simon said. “I will not leave this to Elizabeth. I work for her, but she does not own me, even though she would like to think she does. Aimee is my wife, and it is my responsibility to tell her.”
“I don’t think Elizabeth would like you revealing your true calling.”
“I don’t see a way around it.”
“You don’t have to tell Aimee anything,” Tristan said. “At least about your career. Just tell her that for your safety, you must return to England. She is your wife. She knows her duty.”
Simon huffed out a laugh. “You don’t know Aimee.” He thought of her French lover. Had she forgotten about him? Had he erased the man from her mind after what they had shared this day?
He doubted it was that easy. Her letter proved how much she loved the man. But what did Pierre have to do with going to England? Tristan was right. She was his wife and must do what he said, regardless of her feelings for another man.
It was time to purge the Frenchman from her life.
—
Aimee woke alone again. Simon had come up very late in the night, slipping into bed and taking her in his arms. She’d happily snuggled into him, soaking up his warmth and instantly falling back to sleep. She wondered what it would be like to actually wake up next to him. Experimentally she wriggled her toes and found that her feet were still sore but not nearly as much.
But moving her feet reminded her of what had transpired when Simon was playing nursemaid to them. She’d gone to sleep thinking of it as well. Lying in bed alone last night, she’d thought a lot about Pierre.
He seemed so far away at this point, a hazy memory of a different life. She struggled to remember his face. She could recite that he had blue eyes and black hair, but putting the pieces together to create a whole was much more difficult.
His voice did not come to her as easily as it had before.
And the intense love she’d felt for him had settled into a warm fondness.
Had the same happened to him? Did he struggle to remember the sound of her voice? Did he close his eyes and try to recall her face? It was sad to think, and yet she felt so far removed from him now.
Much had transpired since she’d arrived in Scotland. She’d been tasked with spying on the queen and had failed miserably at it. She was now married to an Engl
ishman and in hiding after witnessing the murder of Rizzio. Pierre would be appalled at the things she had experienced and done. He never would have made her walk through the city in the dead of night until her feet bled. He never would have subjected her to the nighttime criminals who lurked in the streets.
And yet she was not appalled. She was proud of herself that she had not only done it and survived, but had done it with courage and fortitude.
She pushed the bedcovers off and shivered as a blast of cold air washed over her. It was nearly mid-March, but as far as she could tell from peering through the window glass, it appeared to be snowing outside, fluffy white flecks that drifted lazily on the air.
She grabbed the cloak that Simon had given her yesterday, grateful that he was so attentive. She had to admit that as far as husbands went, Mary had chosen well for her. He was attuned to her needs, and he took her feelings into consideration. Not to mention what had happened yesterday…
She shook her head and called herself all kinds of a fool. It had been marvelous, but one did not base a marriage on something like that.
She slid her feet into the warm, soft slippers and breathed a sigh of appreciation. Yes, Simon had done well.
Aimee left the bedchamber and made her way down the steps. The print shop was strangely silent. There was no fire in the grate, and the seats in the sitting room were all empty. Come to think of it, she’d not heard any noises coming from the front of the shop, where the printing equipment supposedly was. At least she assumed there was printing equipment up there. She wasn’t certain what a print shop held. Maybe the books were printed at a different site.
She was rather ignorant of the merchant class, truth be told.
“Is anyone here?” she called, but no one answered.
Hesitating, unsure what to do, she looked around. Strange that Simon, an English noble, and Will, also an English noble, would be friends with a printer. But then, ever since Simon had strolled into her life, everything had been strange.
Aimee took a lit lantern off the wall and headed toward the front of the building, figuring that this was where the actual printing took place. She was not disappointed. In one large room stood one piece of hulking machinery.
Intrigued, Aimee moved closer to inspect it. The machine was of behemoth proportions, nearly twice her height and made of heavy wood. There were many movable parts, including a long solid piece that stuck far out into the room and a large screw-type thing that was thicker around than her waist. In here, the smell of printing ink was nearly overwhelming. She stepped close to it and looked it up and down, having never seen such a thing before.
So this was a printing machine. What types of things did Tristan print? Prayer books? Love sonnets, like the ones he had given her earlier?
Sounds from the back of the shop had her quickly moving back in guilt. She had not been told that she couldn’t do a bit of exploring, but nevertheless she felt as if she were doing something she shouldn’t.
She stepped on something, and her foot nearly slid out from beneath her. She had to catch herself by grabbing onto the printing press to keep from falling. She looked down to find that she had stepped on a piece of thick parchment. She picked it up and froze, her heart dropping.
It was a picture of Queen Mary depicted as a mermaid.
The same placard that she had seen at Mercat Cross. The one everyone had been gathered around and laughing about. She opened her fingers as if the parchment had scalded her, and it drifted to the ground as lazily as the snowflakes outside but not nearly as innocently.
This was treason.
Even holding one of these placards was treason.
“Aimee?”
Her gaze jerked up to find Tristan in the doorway. He glanced down at the placard at her feet, then back up at her.
“Simon is looking for you,” he said.
She nodded, running her free hand down her skirts as the lantern wavered in her other hand, casting a shadow across Tristan’s face.
With her head down, she walked toward Tristan, then hesitated because he was blocking the exit. She looked up at him to find that he was watching her curiously.
“You could have asked for a tour,” he said. “I would have gladly given you one.”
She turned her head away. “Let me pass, please.”
After a pause, he stepped to the side, and she sidled past him to hurry toward the back of the shop, where she could hear Simon’s voice.
“There you are,” Simon said as he took his cloak off and shook it free of the snow that had gathered on the shoulders. “You seem well.”
“Better, thank you,” she said. Her heart was pounding as Tristan entered just behind her, but he didn’t look at her. He didn’t announce to the room that she had been found snooping in the print shop and had discovered a damning piece of evidence against him.
“I brought some food from the pub down the street,” Simon was saying. “It’s known for being a bit stingy on the seasonings, but I promise you it’s filling and will warm you.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Simon looked at her sharply. “Are you well? Are your feet paining you?”
She glanced at Tristan, who was watching her with a bland expression, almost as if he were waiting for her to say something. “I’m well, and my feet are better, thanks to your salve.”
“Aimee was exploring the shop,” Tristan said, making her blanch.
“And did you find it interesting?” Simon asked, not appearing to be concerned that she’d been meddling.
“She discovered a placard,” Tristan said, not taking his eyes off her.
Her head jerked up. She didn’t believe that he would admit to Will and Simon, courtiers at Mary’s court, that he was printing such horrible things.
“Ah,” Simon said. “I see.”
Now Will was looking at her in curiosity.
“I wasn’t snooping,” she said. “I was just curious because I had never been in a print shop before.”
“Well, we all know what curiosity did to the cat,” Tristan said with a slight smile that held no amusement.
Her face heated, and she was angry at herself for feeling guilty. He was the one who was printing such disgusting things. Her snooping was the least of the sins.
“I think we should let Aimee and Simon talk,” Will said.
Neither Simon nor Will seemed surprised by Tristan’s announcement that there were damning placards in the print shop. Neither had asked what placard she had seen, and that could mean only one thing. They were all involved.
Her once racing heart now plummeted to her stomach, and her skin prickled in fear. Something far bigger and more sinister than she had imagined was going on here.
Will and Tristan filed out, leaving Simon and Aimee alone. Simon beckoned for her to follow him into the sitting room, where he built the fire up until it was blazing, but it didn’t touch the cold fear inside her.
He arranged two chairs so they were facing each other. “Please sit down.”
“I’d rather stand,” she said.
“There’s no reason to be uncomfortable.”
“Oh, I’m very uncomfortable right now. Tell me it’s not true, Simon. Tell me that Tristan did not print those repulsive placards about Mary, and tell me that you weren’t aware of this.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
She felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. All the air rushed out of her, and she desperately wanted to grab the back of the chair to keep from lurching over, but she didn’t want to show weakness in front of Simon.
“You knew,” she whispered. “While we were sitting in the pub eating dinner, and I was telling you how horrible I thought it was, you knew all along who was doing it, and not only that, you brought me here.”
“I think—”
She held up her hand to stop him. “You brought me here, and now you have implicated me in this ghastly treason.” She covered her face with her hands, her mind whirling. “Were you involve
d? Did you know about the plan to kill Rizzio?”
He took her hands and lowered them from her face, keeping them locked in his. He wasn’t harsh and he wasn’t hurting her, but she didn’t want the feel of him on her, so she snatched her hands away.
“Did you?” Her voice was rising as she was unable to keep the panic from it.
“I had heard rumors of the plot, but I wasn’t involved in it.”
She backed up a step, staring at him, dumbfounded. “Who are you?” she whispered.
Wearily he sat in one of the chairs and motioned to the other one. “Sit down, Aimee. This will take a bit of time.”
She didn’t move. Her feet were nailed to the floor with disbelief. She was married to a traitor. And it could be worse. He might even be a murderer.
“I want to leave,” she said.
“You are not leaving, especially not until you hear what I have to say. I deserve that, at least, don’t I?”
She didn’t want to admit that he was right, but she did owe him the chance to tell his side of the story. However, she had no idea what he could possibly say that would make her believe that he was right in any of this.
Reluctantly she sat, sweeping her skirts out as if she wore a most magnificent gown instead of servants’ clothes, and she waited.
Simon seemed to think about what he wanted to say. Organizing his lies, most likely.
“I knew there was a possibility that Rizzio would be murdered, but I was not involved in the plot.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
He looked her in the eye. “I am telling you the truth, like I promised always to do.”
She pressed her lips together. “Keeping things from me is the same as not telling the truth.”
“Is it, Aimee? So you claim that you have told me everything about you?”
She thought of Pierre and her face heated. “Everything important.” Forgive me, Pierre, for saying you are not important.
Simon appeared hurt and she felt a twinge of guilt. Not toward Pierre, whom she had repeatedly denied to Simon, but toward Simon for hurting him like this.
“What about Tristan and the placards?” she said, forcing her mind to more important things, like treason.
Wed to a Spy Page 16