You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "My pleasure as always, monseigneur." The little man grinned.

  Just then four of the king's best archers rounded the corner, a high-spirited group out for a day's amusement. St. Briac recognized them all and was well aware that they had held him in a state of esteem bordering on worship ever since his heroic exploits during the battle of Pavia.

  "Bonjour, good fellows," he called gaily over one shoulder, still holding the sword point to Hubert's throat.

  "Monseigneur!" the archers chorused, and drew their weapons simultaneously. "How may we assist you? Has there been trouble here?"

  St. Briac addressed the young man who had spoken last by name. "In point of fact, Bonnard, I believe that you and your able comrades may be able to resolve this situation. By all rights, I should claim my victory over this man by inflicting a mortal wound, but you know how unpleasant those can be. I hesitate to offend the sensibilities of this young lady"—he gestured toward Aimée with his free hand, and the archers bowed to her in unison—"and to ruin this doublet, of which I am uncommonly fond. Would you be so kind as to take these two villains off our hands and see to it that they are dealt with accordingly?"

  "Certainly, monseigneur. We would be honored," exclaimed Bonnard. "May I be so bold as to inquire what crime they have committed?"

  "They tried to waylay this lady, who is my betrothed, against her will. Fortunately, I came along just in time, but then they refused to release her into my care."

  The archers gasped at the idea of such folly.

  "We hadn't a clue that you knew the wench," protested the blond man. "And you didn't tell us you were a nobleman, either."

  St. Briac cocked a sardonic brow at the quartet of eager helpers and shrugged. Moments later, after rounds of farewells and thanks had been exchanged, Hubert and his blond companion were led off, each in the firm grip of one of the archers. At last, St. Briac could turn his attention to Aimee. Long-deferred annoyance bubbled to the surface.

  "I should have let them take you away to be locked up as well! Is that what it will take to check your rebellious behavior? I certainly do not intend to play nursemaid and watch your every movement, so it would seem that you must endeavor to act thoughtfully, until we can contrive to unsnarl this—" He broke off at the sight of Aimée closing her eyes and dropping her head back against the building. It was bad enough that she continued to sit on the street throughout his tirade, evincing no signs of intimidation or remorse, but this was too impertinent. "I will not discuss this if you're going to act like a child. Get up. I'll save the remainder of your lecture for the privacy of your apartment at the chateau."

  Aimée tried to look up and focus on St. Briac's face, but it was so far above her. Through a fog, she heard Gaspard murmuring, "Monseigneur, I am not sure that the lady is being rude. I suspect that she is unwell."

  Strong, warmly familiar hands encircled her waist and lifted her up. She wobbled, trying to smile.

  "Aimée, have you been drinking?"

  "Drinking what?" she queried woozily.

  St. Briac met Gaspard's confused gaze over her head and lifted both brows sharply. Without another word, he lifted her lightly into his arms and started down the hill, Gaspard keeping pace.

  Out of a shadowed doorway darted one of the dealers in relics that haunted every town in France. The sight of what appeared to be a hopelessly ill girl drew him like a magnet. No sooner had he crept up beside the trio, keeping pace with them and holding out a bone fragment, than St. Briac gave him a menacing glance.

  "Doubtless part of some saint," he observed cynically as the dealer in relics slunk back into his doorway. "One touch and our poor Aimée would be restored to good health." His tone was mocking, but privately he was beginning to feel concerned about her condition. What could be causing it? Had those villains hit her on the head, and if so, could they have inflicted any lasting damage? She had shown no reaction at all, not even a hint of a smile, at his jest. Tightening his arm around Aimée's back, he quickened their pace.

  Conscious of the uncomfortable silence, Gaspard picked up on his master's remark. "Mais oui! Do but put your money down and that rogue will sell you laths from the Ark of Noah!"

  At this, Aimée's mouth twitched ever so slightly, and she made a tiny sound. Heartened, St. Briac stopped and stared down at her face.

  "Aimée? Can you hear me?"

  "Mmm." She blinked at him, her face screwing up as she made a supreme effort to focus, think, and speak. "I feel so odd."

  "Why? What happened to you? Did those men hit you or give you something to drink?"

  Licking her lips, she whispered, "No. I... don't know why..." One hand fluttered toward his face. "Thomas, how did you..."

  "Pure chance, I assure you, miette," St. Briac muttered wryly. "I assumed after our little, ah, altercation in the gardens that you had returned to your room to lick your wounds. Eventually, in a burst of generosity, I went up to smooth things over, but you weren't there, and Suzette hadn't seen you since you departed the first time. So I left the chateau, questioning people all along the way, and finally tracked you down. Are you grateful?"

  Aimée nodded clumsily but added with a lopsided smile, "Still, you should have known by now... not to assume anything where I am concerned."

  St. Briac had to grin, however reluctantly, and allow her a soft, "Touché, cherie."

  For an instant Aimée's eyes twinkled in response; then they closed as she went completely limp against his wide chest.

  * * *

  Her nose twitching, Aimée made a moue and wondered vaguely why she smelled brandy. Was it worth the effort to open her eyes and investigate?

  "Oh, mam'selle, are you awake? I don't believe it! Tell me that you can hear me."

  Aimée managed a weak smile and a nod but didn't feel up to more. A wave of disappointment washed over her at the sound of Suzette's high-pitched voice. Why had she expected St. Briac to be there with her on the bed? There had been dreams, warm, wonderful, enchanted dreams in which he had cradled her near, whispering her name, reassuring her, rubbing her back while pressing feather-light kisses to her damp brow. The dreams had almost made the awful, strange feelings in her body worthwhile; in truth, she was reluctant to leave St. Briac behind and return to Suzette and the real world.

  "I beg you to open your eyes, mam'selle, and tell me that you are well again. We've been so worried."

  Thick lashes fluttered as she attempted to focus on Suzette. "We?"

  "Everyone has been so afraid. Will you not try to drink some of this brandy? It was sent by the king himself, and you can believe me when I tell you that he has been here countless times to see if you had improved."

  Aimée managed to swallow some of the fiery-smooth liquid from the cup Suzette held to her lips. "Tell me, how long?" she whispered, sinking back into the pillows.

  "It's been nearly two days since the seigneur de St. Briac carried you up here and put you to bed. I was out searching for you myself then, but even though Paul and I didn't get back until evening, monseigneur thought of everything. He took perfect care of you. I'd wager that he was as scared as the rest of us that you might never wake up. Don't you know what caused this? You can tell me if you drank something."

  Conscious of a strange, penetrating weakness, Aimée slowly shook her head. "No. I don't know." She realized that she was naked beneath the covers, which was as it should be since she was in bed, yet she couldn't help wondering whether St. Briac had undressed her.

  "There are people waiting to see you, but I'd better tell monseigneur before anyone else. Don't go back to sleep." With that, the rosy-cheeked maid scrambled up and rushed out the door.

  The prospect of seeing St. Briac kept Aimée awake. When he came in and smiled down at her, she wondered whether he could hear the thudding of her heart.

  "So, you are going to live after all," he announced, teasing her gently.

  "Are you sorry? My demise would have solved a number of problems for you."

  Dimples cut into hi
s bearded cheeks as he laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. Aimée looked incredibly lovely and deceptively helpless, her black hair curling over the pillow and framing a pale face dominated by luminous spring-green eyes. "That's true, but I would hope that we could find less dramatic solutions for our problems." He paused, reaching out to caress her cheek before inquiring seriously, "How do you feel? Are you clearheaded?"

  Aimée sighed. Just the sensation of his strong hand on her cheek, however impersonal, made her shiver beneath the covers. And the scent of him that drifted up to her nose was eerily reminiscent of those poignant dreams. "Since I am unsure of what my illness has been, it is difficult for me to answer your question. I feel very weak and tired, but I suppose that the mere fact of my consciousness is a good sign."

  "Can't you give us a clue as to the cause of this strange malady? I could swear you were poisoned."

  "I don't see how." Aimée closed her eyes, searching her memory. Then she gave a tiny, confused shrug. "I drank nothing after leaving this chamber. Those men offered me nothing, but I was already light-headed and weak when I encountered them. I found it difficult even to think, let alone speak."

  "I don't understand it." He sprang up and paced across the room, his tall, broad-shouldered physique silhouetted against the sunlit window. "What could have caused this mysterious illness?"

  "I don't know," Aimée replied softly. "Have you been so very worried?"

  He turned and stared at her through narrowed eyes. The long hours during which she had lain unconscious in his arms filled his thoughts. It had seemed that she might never awake, never shake her finger in his face again or throw one of her insolent rejoinders at him. To say that he had been worried would have been an understatement, yet he was not prepared to admit even that much to Aimée. "It would be cruel of me to say that I felt no concern for your well-being," he told her lightly. "I'll allow that I've become rather used to you, in a perverse sort of way."

  "Spoken like a true romantic lover."

  Smothering a chuckle, St. Briac retorted, "A man would have to be a fool to shower you with ardent declarations of love. You'd only make a joke of them—and him."

  Suddenly grave, Aimée stared across the room at him and whispered, "Not if the man were sincere, monseigneur."

  "Well." He swallowed and then cleared his threat. "Now that you are awake at last, you can turn your attention to your scheme to get away from me and this charade we are tangled in. No doubt you will find the man of your dreams then."

  "Yes." The word sounded oddly choked. Turning her face against the pillow, Aimée suddenly wished she were asleep again, immersed in a dream filled with St. Briac's embrace, whisper, caress, scent, hard warmth.

  A tapping at the door roused them both from reverie. Suzette poked her head in. "Excusez-moi. There is an old woman here to see you, mam'selle. She's been waiting since yesterday morning. Could you give her a minute?" The girl lowered her voice and hissed. "Truly, it will be a relief to see her business accomplished so that I can have some peace. I'm sick of the sight of her."

  "I don't remember seeing an old woman loitering about," St. Briac interjected testily.

  Suzette blinked in surprise at his tone. What had gotten under his skin? "I don't suppose you would have, monseigneur. After all, you've been playing nursemaid these past two days while I've stood waiting in the hall."

  Aimée held her breath, noting the way his face darkened before he turned back to the window. Could that have been a blush? Before she could ponder that or Suzette's curious statement, the door opened, and the shriveled hag who had given her the fruit tottered in.

  "Bonjour, oh, bonjour, mam'selle. Now that I see you are awake, I can die happy. Perhaps God will have mercy on me after all." The old crone sank shakily to her knees beside the bed and pressed dry kisses to Aimée's hand. "It is your forgiveness that means most to me, and I could not be so bold as to ask for it. I don't deserve it."

  Aimée gave St. Briac a tiny bewildered shrug and then said to the woman, "I do not understand. What have you done to seek my forgiveness?"

  St. Briac crossed the room and demanded, "Yes, old woman, stop speaking in riddles and tell us what you mean."

  She glanced up fearfully, cringing as if she expected him to strike her. Then she burst into tears and covered her face with gnarled fingers. "I did not know that you would be here, monseigneur. I beg you to spare my life!"

  Recognition dawned on him. "Now I remember. You were the one who told me where I might find Mademoiselle de Fleurance. Why would I seek to punish you for coming to my aid?" St. Briac shifted his attention to a confused Aimée. "How do you know this old woman? I thought that she had merely witnessed your abduction by those two swine."

  "There isn't much I can tell you. Before I went up the hill and encountered the two men, and began to feel faint, this kind lady took pity on me and gave me some of her fruit to appease my hunger. We exchanged pleasantries, nothing more. I was charmed by her generosity since I had no money to pay her."

  The hag was seized by another wave of sobs. St. Briac stared down at her, thinking, and gradually his visage hardened. "Aimée," he asked with slow deliberation, "did you eat the fruit?"

  "Why, only a bite of the pear. When I began to feel dizzy, I dropped the rest, and they rolled away."

  In one swift movement he reached down, grasped two shriveled arms, lifted the old crone into the air, and shook her. So terrified was she that it seemed her eyes would pop out of their sockets. "I don't intend to wring the truth out of you word by word," St. Briac ground out. "Enlighten us this instant!"

  The tale spilled out in hoarse gasps. She was so poor that she had feared she might freeze to death the past winter. It was then that she had met Hubert and his blond friend. They had offered her more money than she garnered in a month selling fruit. She only had to give certain pears to young ladies whom they would point out ahead of time. As the weeks passed and she grew more reluctant, they paid more, assuring her that they put only a mild sleeping potion into the fruit. It was only a bit of fun, they said. The girls were always pure, innocent types, easily persuaded to trust the pair that invariably rescued them when dizziness struck.

  "I wanted to stop, truly I did. I shudder to think what those two did to those sleeping maidens. But lately I began to worry what they might do to me if I crossed 'em. Mean eyes they had. I had decided that last time would be the end, though; I'd take my fruit to another part of town rather than be part of such wickedness. I've had dreams where the Holy Mother has come right into my chamber and told me—"

  "Never mind that. Just finish about Aimée." St. Briac had set her down but continued to hold one bony arm in a punishing grip.

  "Well, that last girl was mam'selle here, and it broke my heart to have to hand her that poisoned pear. That's why I gave you the apple and peach, too, mam'selle. I said a prayer that you'd eat them first and throw that accursed pear away." She turned beseeching eyes on Aimée, who couldn't help feeling a pang of sympathy for the pathetic old soul. "You were so kind to me, as if you truly cared, and I was sure God was going to strike me dead for what I was doing. When I saw you start up the hill and bite into the poison side of that pear—" Between fresh sobs, she exclaimed, "Mother of God! Forgive me, I beseech you!"

  "So that's why you were so eager to tell me which way Aimée had gone?"

  "I tell you the truth, monseigneur. If you had not come along when you did, I was going to go after them myself. I probably would have been murdered, but I would have had to try. Never have I despised myself so much."

  "Good," he replied coldly.

  "Thomas," Aimée interjected softly, "you have to give the poor woman credit for coming here to confess, not to mention leading you to me in the first place. If not for her, you might never have found me!"

  "Sangdieu!" he swore. "If not for her, you would not have spent the last two days so deeply asleep that I feared you might never open your eyes again." Hearing the raw pain in his own voice, St. Briac abr
uptly fell silent and stalked back to the window.

  "I am inclined to forgive her."

  "She's a criminal, Aimée, and she will pay for what she did to you and Lord knows how many other innocent maidens."

  The old hag began to whimper anew and mutter prayers under her breath. "No more than I deserve," she babbled in Aimée's direction. "Penance!"

  With calm determination, Aimée propped up her pillows and sat against them. "Madame, what is your name?" she inquired of the woman.

  "Marie, mam'selle. Marie Lissieu." She bowed an unkempt gray head before the young girl's bed. Aimée grimaced at the lice that were visible where the lank strands were parted.

  "Marie, I want you to go into the corridor and wait with my maid, Suzette. You won't leave, will you?"

  "Oh, no, mam'selle. Not until you bid me to do so."

  When the door had closed behind the old crone, Aimée turned her attention to St. Briac. "Would you be so kind as to come over here where I may converse with you, monseigneur?"

  For a moment he was tempted to dismiss her requests and do as he pleased. If he stormed from the room and saw to it that the witch was stoned to death, there wouldn't be a thing Aimée could do. She was weak as a kitten and hadn't the strength to chase him past the edge of her bed. Still, some impulse he couldn't identify caused him to go and sit beside her, waiting like a sullen boy for her to deliver her lecture on the spiritual joy achieved through compassionate forgiveness.

  "You needn't sulk," Aimée complained instead.

  "I'm not sulking, I'm waiting. Say whatever it is that I must hear. I haven't all day."

  She tried not to smile. "I really am quite sincere about this, Thomas. It is very important to me that we be merciful in our treatment of that pitiful old woman. For you, who have never wanted for anything in all your life, it's easy to sit in judgment on people who act out of desperation because they are hungry or cold or lonely. It's important that we not forget about those people while we perch up here in the king's chateau, garbed in velvets and jewels and eating more than our bodies can comfortably hold." She paused for breath and blinked back the tears that glittered in her eyes and made spikes of her lashes. "To me it is not incredible that Madame Lissieu sank so low as to hand out poisoned fruit to unsuspecting maidens. What is remarkable is that she was still able to care for someone like me, who has all that she lacks. She risked her life to come here and beg my forgiveness."