Delphine

by Sylvia Halliday

  “Pig!” she gasped, trying desperately to wriggle from under him. He could feel the rope cutting into his wrists as he struggled against his bindings. As he freed his arms at last, she squirmed out from under him, sliding forward on her belly. He grabbed at her legs, holding them fast; with a savage grunt she wriggled and kicked backward until she had freed his hold for a second, then scrambled to her feet, making for his sword to defend herself. In a moment he was up, standing before her, blocking her way. One long arm shot out and clamped about her wrist; stooping, he scooped up the rope from the floor and began to drag her to the bed.

  “No!” she shrieked in panic, fighting desperately against the superior strength that was pulling her inexorably to the bed. Flinging her forward with one sweep of his arm, he cast her face downward upon the pillows. In terror that he would strike her, she rolled over and away from him. He fell upon her, the rope held in both hands and pressing on her windpipe; she struggled for a moment, nearly choking, and then lay still.

  In the sudden quiet they stared at each other, gasping for breath, hair awry, clothing askew. André tongued his cut lip again, his sapphire eyes burning. “Damn you,” he growled, “why do you haunt me?” And he crushed her mouth with his.

  Delphine trembled, feeling his lips, his hard body on hers. All that she had thought dead, buried with the past, gone forever, flamed into life at his kiss. She tangled her fingers in his hair, her mouth parted in surrender, her body arching upward to press against his in fevered anticipation. He kissed her eyelids, her neck, her throat, murmuring “Delphine” over and over. She pushed him from her with an impatient cry and began to pull at his clothing, wanting nothing so much as the feel of his sleek body on hers. He sat up and tore off his doublet and shirt, flinging aside the intimidating locket, then removed boots and hose and breeches. With shaking hands she pulled off her nightclothes and lay back, waiting for him, hungering for him, until she thought she would die. She groaned in pleasure when he took her at once, sliding his hands down her flanks to press her body more tightly to his heaving loins. She clung to him, her hands kneading the muscles of his back with every spasm that permeated her body. She was floating, she was soaring, she was consumed by a white-hot flame—

  “Ah Dieu—André?” she gasped. Her eyes flew open. He had withdrawn so abruptly that she still floated in the void, her passion not yet sated.

  “I want to hear you say it,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Am I young enough? Am I—virile enough to satisfy you?”

  “Damn you, don’t torment me!”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes,” she breathed, pulling his mouth down to hers. He kissed her resoundingly, his mouth hot and possessive, then thrust into her again so she cried out and abandoned herself once more to her ecstasy.

  When he left her chamber an hour later, she lay quietly for a long time, staring up at the paneled canopy of her bed, feeling the waves of contentment wash over her body. She had nodded in agreement at his parting words—“Tomorrow night. At the hour of nine.”—knowing that she would be waiting, trembling in anticipation. And after all, what did it matter? Nothing had changed. She still intended to marry Bernard, but until André’s lust for her was sated, what harm was there in pleasuring herself as well? She had spent enough time trying to deny her body’s needs—why not a little self-indulgence, before she became a virtuous wife and buried for good all this sensuality that threatened to get out of control?

  André had brought it to life. Let it end with André.

  Chapter Twenty

  Delphine perched on all fours in the canopied bed, leaning over André. Her unbound hair hung like a curtain around them, shutting out everything save lips that yearned for one another, eyes that smoldered with desire. André reached up a languid hand to stroke that golden glory, then caught his fingers at her nape and pulled her mouth down to his.

  She shook her head free and sat up, her eyes glinting wickedly. “No,” she said. “You promised to bring me a copy of l’Hermite’s Marianne.”

  “It was a dull play,” he said, his hands caressing the soft roundness of her breasts.

  “But you promised!” she pouted, pushing his hands away.

  “Will you come here, you tormenting devil?” He reached up to take hold of her; suppressing a smile, she wriggled beyond his grasp.

  “Where is my book?”

  “Mon Dieu! I only promised yesterday!”

  “You promised the day before! I have welcomed you into my bed for nearly a week now. And what have I to show for it?”

  “By my faith,” he growled, dragging her down to the pillows and rolling over to pin her body with his own, “I’ll show you what you have to show for it!”

  She allowed him to kiss her, and then giggled, “I think—old man—” but here he kissed her mercilessly, his mouth strong on hers until, gasping, she was forced to retract the insult. “I think,” she went on at last, a little breathless, “that you are too exhausted from your labors to take the time to buy me the book!”

  He sat up and folded his arms across his chest. “You are a very taxing woman—and not only in bed! Small wonder Janequin escaped to Auvergne!”

  She sat up in her turn, mocking his gesture with her own. “He went because I asked him to! Though you have been very discreet, I did not wish him to be hurt by—rumors. And then, his château must be prepared for our wedding.”

  He frowned, the lighthearted mood forgotten. “I must talk to you about that.”

  “Indeed, no. Not tonight. Tonight is for frivolity, and for—other things, if you can persuade me!” Laughing, she skipped out of bed and danced about her chamber, flaunting her naked body before him. “La!” she said airily. “I am perishing for a cup of wine!” She filled a goblet to the brim and seated herself primly in a large armchair at some distance from the bed and André.

  He beckoned to her with one slim forefinger. “Come here.”

  She shook her head no and took a drink of the wine, eyes shining with mischief.

  “You wicked tease,” he said.

  She nodded her head yes.

  “Well, then,” he sighed, easing himself out of the bed as though he had not a care in the world. He circled her chair slowly while she sipped at her wine and waited for the attack she knew must come. But instead of a frontal assault the soldier had chosen a furtive invasion. Delphine shivered as his hands came from behind to rest on her bare shoulders and then slid down to cup her heaving breasts. He leaned over her shoulder, his mouth finding her neck, his teeth nipping playfully at her earlobe. She trembled in sensuous delight at his touch, abandoning herself to her feelings, the warmth that flooded her being.

  “Now,” he whispered in her ear, “will you come to bed?”

  She smiled like a cat with a secret. “No.”

  He laughed. “You will regret it madame!” He moved around to stand in front of her, and gently took the goblet from her fingers, setting it aside on a small table. He knelt before her and took one dainty foot in his hands, stroking her ankle, then letting his fingers travel upward to caress her knee, her thigh—and beyond.

  “Ah, Dieu!” she gasped, and leaned her head back, closing her eyes to keep her brain from spinning dizzily. When he gathered her up at last in tender arms and carried her to the bed, she lay there trembling, her senses stretched to the limits of endurance, consumed by her hunger, her need of him.

  He was very quiet, making no movement to touch her, to take her. Surprised, she opened her eyes to see him grinning above her, waiting to play his trump card. He moved toward the edge of the bed, as though he would leave her. “I thought I’d have a cup of wine,” he said. “By my faith, but all this toil is wearying for an—old man!”

  “Sink me,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “If I had my sea knife now I’d slit your gizzard!”

  “Do you think you are the only one who can play the tease?” He threw back his head and laughed, his teeth dazzling against his copper skin. Delphine’s heart caug
ht at the beauty of the man, the wonder of making love to him. Gilles had withheld himself to torment her, to mock her sensuality; André withheld himself that her final ecstasy be all the sweeter. Dear Mother of God, what was happening to her? She had meant this only to be a pleasant interlude before her marriage to Janequin, resolving to keep the wall of injured pride, the last vestiges of her hatred, always between them. Then why did she keep remembering that he could be dear and good and kind, when she meant only to satisfy her body’s cravings?

  He saw the sudden change of her mood. “Delphine,” he said gently, and kissed her with such sweetness that her heart nearly broke and her brain spun in confusion. He made love to her tenderly, until she wanted to weep and hold him forever, feeling warmed and protected, for all the passionate intensity of her body’s responses.

  After they had lain quietly for some time, he propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her. She smiled brightly, trying to recapture their earlier playfulness, feeling herself vulnerable and weak for allowing herself such thoughts about André even for a moment. Don’t be a fool, Delphine, she thought. Think of Gosse and her grief. Your heart has played you false before. He is a man consumed with passion, and nothing more. But wasn’t Gilles? Yes. Best only to think of her senses, to satisfy her body, and forbid aught else. And when this brief flame with André had burned out, she would bank her fires with snow, and settle in for the simplicity of a long winter with Bernard.

  André did not return her smile. “Where is your heart?” he asked softly.

  She laughed. “What a foolish thing to say!”

  “Is it? I know where your senses are. But a part of you—is it your heart? your thoughts?—drifts away from me at times.”

  “Does it matter to you?”

  He hesitated, then sat up, turning away from her. “No, indeed not. Why should it?” The answer too quickly given.

  “Then why ask?” she said, her voice suddenly frosty, feeling unexpectedly disappointed in his answer.

  “What of Bernard?” he said. “I cannot believe that you still intend to marry him.”

  “And wherefore not?”

  “This is the why and wherefore,” he said angrily, bending down to crush her lips with his. He lifted his head, seeing her tremble beneath him. “Can you live without passion, Delphine?”

  She turned her head away, lips pressed tight in annoyance. “You had better go, André. My life is my own. I owe you no accounting. Let us be as we are, and nothing more.” She watched in silence as he rose from the bed and donned his garments, putting on the locket at the last. He held it in his palm for a moment, as though he were drawing strength from Marielle—that ghostly presence who haunted Delphine every moment she lay in André’s arms—then slipped it beneath his shirt and doublet. At the door he stopped and turned, his hand on the latch.

  “Tomorrow night?” he said.

  She smiled and threw him a kiss. “Of course, mon cher,” she said lightly. “Never fret, André. After my marriage to Bernard, I will keep you as my lover, if you so desire!”

  He smiled thinly and left her room. In the barge back to the Louvre Palace he sat bent over the bow, his hand across his eyes, his soul deeply troubled.

  André awoke to cold splashes of water in his face. Damn the rain! He grumbled and groped for his heavy cloak, surprised that it did not seem to be about his shoulders; then he opened his eyes to find himself—not in the field as he had dreamed—but in his own bedchamber at the Louvre, with Jean-Auguste grinning above him and sprinkling water on his head from a small pitcher. “Jean-Auguste! Ma foi! What brings you to Paris again?”

  “Get up,” said Jean-Auguste, striding to the curtains and throwing them wide to the soft June morning. “I’ve taken the liberty of having an enormous breakfast brought in, and I cannot possibly eat it all!”

  “But why are you here?” André swung his legs over the side of the bed and drew on his dressing gown. “I thought when you and Lysette and Clémence left Saint-Germain I had seen the last of you this summer!”

  “We did not leave. We—retreated—according to Lysette! She is very put out with you for your treatment of Clémence.”

  “I was perfectly civil to the woman at all times!”

  “Precisely! Lysette seems to think, with your experience—and how, by the way, did you manage to acquire such a reputation with my wife?—that you should have tried to seduce Clémence long since! She’s scarcely a blushing virgin, after all!”

  André sat at the table of food the servants had laid out, pouring himself a large mug of ale and taking a ravenous bite from a fat quail roasted and glazed with honey. “Have you come to Paris to badger me, then? Go back to Chimère and your vineyards and your glasshouse—how is the glassworks managing, by the way?—and leave me in peace.”

  “The glasshouse is prospering. Rondini has had many commissions in Vouvray and Tours—his goblets are exquisite, as well you know—and will soon pay back my loan. In the meantime, the wine bottles that he makes for me grow more faultless each day, until I fear Chimère’s wines will be noted for the vessels, not the nectar within!”

  “I can suggest a remedy. I shall sell you Vilmorin wine, that the contents may outshine the containers!”

  Jean-Auguste ignored the gibe and took a bite of cherry tart. “In truth, mon ami,” he said wryly, “it is the success of my ventures that has brought me to Paris. Lysette has taken it into her head that we must have a town house for when we are here. My coffers are bursting with coins, and my sweet wife has restrained herself somewhat in the matter of gowns and jewels—so how can I refuse? I have seen three or four promising hôtels.” And here he rattled off a few addresses to André’s approval. “I should settle the matter before the week is out.”

  “But with time for a ride in the Bois de Boulogne, and a fencing match or two?”

  “But certainly, my friend! And will you join me at the Marais Theater this evening? I hear the play is bawdy, and the actress is divine!”

  André hesitated. “No. I have—an engagement.”

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “No. Forgive me.”

  “Ah,” said Jean-Auguste quietly. “La Déesse, I think.”

  “Mon Dieu! How did you know? I had thought myself discreet—”

  “Name of God, André! I heard no gossip. But can you keep a secret from an old friend? I saw you at Saint-Germain, sighing in her presence. And now you stay in Paris. You who love your vineyards. And for what, I ask myself. Voilà! The pursuit of La Déesse!”

  André threw down his napkin and strode to the window, gazing through the leaded panes to the Seine below. “I am consumed by the woman,” he said.

  “Then why do you suffer so? And do not deny it. I see it in your eyes. Is the goddess cold, a marble beauty and nothing more?”

  “She is a woman of fire and passion, she—”

  Jean-Auguste laughed and held up a restraining hand. “Spare me, my friend! I am a married man! But then, your joy should be complete!”

  “Ah Dieu!” groaned André, returning from the window and staring at Jean-Auguste with stricken eyes. “She is so young! Less than half my age—it is madness!”

  “What has age to do with the heart?”

  “No. Lysette was right. I am an old fool—and the world would mock me.”

  “Name of God!” said Jean-Auguste in exasperation. “Lysette means you well, but she can be meddlesome! She truly believes that Clémence would be the best wife for you. But you must follow your own heart! Tell me,” he said, putting his hand on André’s sleeve, “do you love her?”

  André frowned in concern. “Would I betray Marielle’s memory if I said yes?”

  “Why should that be a betrayal? You loved Marielle truly while she lived. You can give her no more. But what of your own happiness, your boys? How betray Marielle by taking a new wife?”

  “They are so different, one from another. Is that not a betrayal of my love for Marielle? They are so different!”

/>   Jean-Auguste gazed at him, his gray eyes thoughtful. “Are they?”

  “Mon Dieu! Marielle was sweet, gentle, and serene—”

  “Yes. As the years went on. She had her home, her husband, her children. It was enough. But I remember a different Marielle, in the beginning, when I near fell in love with her myself.” He chuckled. “Do you remember the picnic we had on the river, that hot summer day?”

  André smiled. “And the water fight! I had forgotten! She was young and fresh and innocent.” He stared sightlessly into space, as though he were seeing Marielle with new eyes. “There was a sun spark within her that flashed out sometimes to challenge the soft serenity of her outward show. The beauty, the elegance that came with maturity—all that I loved. But it was her innocence and spirit that first won my love—and kept it.”

  “And La Déesse? Is she so different?”

  André shook his head in wonder, recalling Gosse’s youthful fire, Delphine’s passion that turned a moment of love into exquisite pleasure. As it had been with Marielle. Always.

  “Then why do you need advice of me? Take her for your wife!”

  “She is betrothed to Bernard de Janequin.”

  “Who is older than you.”

  “Who is older than I. I tell you, the woman torments me. Sometimes I think I see love in her eyes, but sometimes—” he shivered at the memory, downing the last of his ale “—such—hatred, though I may misread it. It has kept me from pouring out my heart to her. Mon Dieu! I had thought when a man grew older, he no longer suffered if a maiden spurned him. But—I fear, my friend, I fear. And that fear has kept me silent.”

  The sound of a rooster crowing somewhere beyond the open casement woke Delphine. She yawned and stretched. It would be hot today, and with July only a week or so away, Paris would soon become unbearable. The court had already retired to the coolness of Fontainebleau; Delphine was to leave this afternoon and join Bernard there. Even if André followed, there would be less gossip if Delphine was with Janequin. She sighed, her body sated from a night of lovemaking (and if a small finger of discontent scratched at her heart, what matter?), and rolled over in her bed, nearly colliding with a sleeping André. Mon Dieu! What was to be done about him? He never remained until morning, but last night, after the rapture, she had stayed curled in his embrace, wanting his warmth. They had neither of them intended to drift off to sleep. She could count on Foulon and Charlotte to be discreet and keep her confidences, but what of the rest of the servants? There would be gossip if anyone saw him leave her house at this hour—and the court dined on gossip! It was one of the reasons she had so jealously guarded her own identity, and the secret of Robert, even from Janequin. Better to be a woman of mystery, with speculation swirling around her name, than have each small detail of her past on the lips of every courtier. Well, André would think of a way to leave unseen.