You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "Aren't you rather overdressed on such a warm day?" Blanche was inquiring. How could such a dowdy maiden inspire the devotion of a man like St. Briac? Could there be some truth in the things the chevalier de Chauverge had just told them?

  "I am on my way to chapel, Madame Dagonneau," Aimée said primly. "I'm already late, so I do hope you will excuse me. Au revoir."

  St. Briac experienced a sharp, brief yearning as he thought of the stallion that waited in the stables to take him flying through the woods. That pleasure would have to wait, for at this moment his only choices were the clinging Dagonneaux and the newly pious Aimée de Fleurance.

  "Excuse us both, please," he said. By the time his smile reached Chauverge, there was a definite hint of mischief in his eyes. "I have some prayers of my own to say."

  St. Briac had to run to catch up with Aimée, but then their steps were perfectly synchronized. The others watched their departing backs, the shared moments of laughter, and finally the sight of St. Briac pulling off the gable-hooded headdress to let glossy ebony curls spill down to Aimée's hips.

  Chapter 18

  May 13, 1526

  Excitement bubbled up inside Aimée as she walked by St. Briac's side, his hand riding on the small of her back. She didn't fight the pleasure but let herself flow with its effervescent current.

  As they passed around the Louis XII gallery, out of sight of the courtyard, St. Briac inquired, "You aren't really going back to chapel, are you? After already attending mass with the king at dawn?"

  "I have to convince everyone that I have become unusually devout, and you know it. The entire court attended that mass, so there wasn't anything extraordinary about my presence, was there? This additional excursion to the chapel makes a point that few people can miss."

  "Look, Aimée, I wish that you would put this plot of yours aside for a few days."

  "No." She shook her head stubbornly. "I am compromising quite enough for your sake as it is."

  The line of his jaw hardened. "How noble you are. I, on the other hand, am less virtuous of character. I'll leave you to your prayers and go to the stables this way to exercise Sebastien."

  Aimée suddenly caught his sleeve and raised her head, alert to approaching voices. He glanced back just in time to glimpse Blanche's skirt fluttering around the corner of the gallery. Before Aimée had a chance to think, much less protest, she was swooped up into sturdy arms. The impact of St. Briac's chest against her soft breasts sent a jolt of delight through her. He had lifted her off the ground, and so Aimée had to hold on for security; the feel of her slim arms rounding his neck made St. Briac smile before he kissed her.

  She gave a smothered gasp that was lost in a tidal wave of keen sensations. Parbleu, how wonderful his mouth felt slanting over hers. Aimée drank in the taste of him, the clean scent of his cheek, the feel of his crisp hair curling in her fingers that clung to his neck. She opened her mouth in response to his demand and their tongues caressed with mounting passion. The pounding of her heart drowned out Cecile-Anne's squawk of surprise and Blanche's horrified whispers. Chauverge hastened to steer the women toward the courtyard even as St. Briac pressed Aimée against the brick wall so that their hips met. He felt her arch instinctively nearer, and her hungry moan mingled with his breath. When at length he lifted his head and smiled down at her, Aimée's cheeks were dusky with passion, her eyes luminous with arousal. St. Briac ached to make fierce love to her; it took every ounce of control he possessed to murmur, "I fear we've put a deep crack in your reputation for piety, cherie. We could destroy it completely here and now, or—"

  Reality hit Aimée with a painful thud. She squirmed against the big, steely body that pinned her to the wall and blushed when she felt his hardness taunt her in response.

  "You brute," she ground out. "Let me go. They saw us, didn't they? They must think I'm a wanton!"

  "As long as you reserve your wantonness for your future husband." St. Briac laughed as he put his hands around her waist and set her gently on the ground.

  "Don't call yourself that. I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth!"

  He pressed a finger to her lips, and they both felt a flash of sensual lightning at that simple tactile connection. "Shh! That's supposed to be our secret. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, we are madly"—a dark brow arched suggestively—"passionately in love. You cannot wait to become my wife so that we can share all the joys of the marriage bed."

  "You are disgusting!" Aimée took a gulp of air, her green eyes enormous in her delicate face. She was furious that he had managed to undo all her efforts to convince Chauverge and the Dagonneaux of her pure devotion to God. St. Briac had wanted them to think she was crazed with desire for him, and he'd probably succeeded effortlessly. "You had no right to force yourself on me that way. Now go ride your silly horse and leave me to my penance."

  Eyes gleaming merrily, St. Briac sketched a bow. "As you wish, ma chere religieuse."

  "I'm not going to be a nun any more than I'm going to be your wife, so stop teasing me!" Spinning around, Aimée stalked off toward the doorway to the chapel.

  Behind her St. Briac cleared his throat. "Mademoiselle?"

  She whirled around, two bright spots of color on her cheeks. "What is it now?"

  He held out her gable-hooded headdress, which had fallen unnoticed to the ground, and dusted it off with mock solemnity. "Yours, I believe."

  * * *

  Inside the cool, silent chapel, Aimée knelt off to one side in the nave and bowed her head. She was expecting to calm down, but instead her mind whirled with images of St. Briac and what he'd said. The more she thought, the more she seethed. Worse, she could not resolve her feelings or arrive at answers for the questions that jumbled together inside her. It was easy enough to pretend that she hated the man and never wanted to see him again, but there were voices deep within her heart that told a different story.

  "Mademoiselle de Fleurance?" a silky voice murmured beside her. Aimée jumped a bit in surprise, only to find Chauverge settling to his knees nearby. "I hesitated to disturb you, but I wasn't certain if I would be able to speak to you privately after you left the chapel."

  Too taken aback to protest, Aimée only stared, waiting.

  "I'll be brief. I only want to assure you, on behalf of Madame and Mademoiselle Dagonneau, and myself of course, that we do not condemn you for the scene we inadvertently witnessed between you and the seigneur de St. Briac."

  "Well, I appreciate that," Aimée answered numbly. Why was he saying these things?

  "I told those ladies that they must not think the worst of you, only of St. Briac. Oh, yes! You don't have to say a word, mademoiselle. I've known that devil's spawn most of my life. He's free with his charm, but does he care who is hurt in the process? The answer, needless to say, is no. He uses people with no more conscience than an animal. He is using the king—has always used him—and he's using you now, I'm sorry to say."

  Aimée was speechless. She watched as Chauverge narrowed his eyes and waited to see what he would say next.

  "You are young, naive, trusting, and that is what troubles me, mademoiselle. It is one thing for St. Briac to trifle endlessly with the affections of a woman like Ghislaine Pepin, for she is worldly and aware of the risks involved. I must tell you, though, that I feel quite ill when I think that I happened to pass by and glimpse St. Briac in her bed this very morning, kissing her, just minutes before he forced himself on you outside this chapel."

  For a moment Aimée couldn't breathe, and when she did, the air burned her throat. She was too stunned to notice the smug smile that curved Chauverge's thin mouth upward.

  "I won't take any more of your time, mademoiselle," he was saying smoothly. "I just wanted you to know that we realize you were not at fault."

  Aimée barely noticed when he padded away down the aisle, silent as a cat. She told herself that there was no reason to be upset. Hadn't she known all along that the duchesse de Roanne was St. Briac's lover? She w
as not a child; she was well aware of the duties of a mistress. Still, a part of her hadn't wanted to face the idea that he was still sleeping with Ghislaine. It was painful to believe that Thomas could be so cavalier as to make love to a married woman and then, minutes later, share such intense intimacy with her. Was Chauverge right? Was it all an act produced by St. Briac's magical charm?

  * * *

  Only one board was laid for supper that evening, just space enough to accommodate the two dozen members of court who remained at Blois. St. Briac and Florange came early to the hall of honor and stood before the cold, mammoth fireplace, drinking potent Alsatian wine.

  "I'm happy to discover a friend among this group," St. Briac said ironically. "I feared that I would go mad with Chauverge and those Dagonneau women following me everywhere."

  Robert de la Marck, seigneur de Florange, was an exceptionally handsome young man, but he felt quite overshadowed by St. Briac. His friend was looking especially splendid in a doublet and haut-de-chausses in a warm, sandy hue sewn lavishly with golden thread. A single emerald hung from a chain around his neck, nearly lost in the folds of a soft brown velvet jerkin set with pearls and a modest display of smaller emeralds. "I'm flattered that you're pleased to have me near, mon ami, but have you forgotten the two very agreeable ladies who stayed behind on your account? The duchesse de Roanne is temporarily free of the bonds of marriage, and your own future partner in that state of bliss is here as well. In fact, Mademoiselle de Fleurance appears even as I speak."

  The hall of honor had been filling gradually. Ghislaine stood off to one side with another nobleman and his wife, while Aimée paused in the shadow of the courtyard. St. Briac gave his friend a smile and went to greet the lady who, God willing, would save him from Cecile-Anne Dagonneau.

  Aimée stepped forward into the torchlight and candlelight, pleased when she heard St. Briac draw in his breath in surprise. Never had she looked more beautiful, not even the night they met, when she'd appeared at the hunting lodge in crimson velvet, gold, and pearls. This gown was one of the ones he had ordered. Midnight-blue velvet was fashioned into a square-cut frame for Aimée's creamy breasts, then hugged her tiny waist and parted to reveal an elaborate silver petticoat. Silver gleamed through the slashes in her puffed sleeves, and more silver thread traced a pattern of flowers over the bodice. Each bloom was set with a ruby or diamond. A perfect sapphire nestled between her breasts, while the shining black locks that had blown against St. Briac's face that afternoon were swept back and caught in a silvery crispinette.

  "How beautiful you are, miette," he told her gently. "I am pleased to see that you have forsaken that headdress and your chapel gowns."

  Aimée steeled her heart against his magnetism. "I have not forsaken them, monseigneur, only put them aside temporarily. And—" He was lifting her hand, his own fingers warm and strong, and she watched, speechless, as his mouth found and burned first her palm and then the treacherous pulse that throbbed at her wrist.

  "You were saying?" He looked up at her with ironic perception.

  "I was saying that, well, that nothing has changed, so you needn't begin acting smug. I still fully intend to carry out my part of our bargain."

  "Naturally." St. Briac gave her a smile that made her seethe.

  "I request that you remove that smirk from your face," Aimée whispered sharply.

  "Your servant, ma belle etoile," he answered soothingly.

  The mockery that laced his tone only infuriated her more. Beautiful star, indeed! Even in her agitated state, Aimée realized that he was alluding to their interlude under the stars at Chenonceau, but she knew that if she accused St. Briac of this, he would feign shocked innocence.

  "St. Briac, you must not be so greedy as to hoard this beautiful lady's company. Take pity on the rest of us." Florange had come up beside them, smiling with mischievous charm. "Mademoiselle de Fleurance, could I persuade you to join me at the table? The meal is about to be served."

  St. Briac opened his mouth to protest but changed his mind. Aimée's eyes were tilted up at the corners in a feline way; she was waiting for him to beg her to sit with him instead. The little vixen then would choose Florange anyway and go off gloating. "By all means, cherie, do join my friend. A few hours of his company will only make you appreciate me more."

  Florange had to laugh at this, but Aimée, oddly enough, did not. She tossed back a glance that could only be described as icy, and replied, "I doubt that."

  St. Briac smothered a sigh as he watched them turn toward the table. He had the uneasy feeling that this evening would do little to convince the Dagonneaux of an indestructible love between him and Aimée. Damn Florange! Why couldn't he mind his own business? And why did it seem that Aimée was incapable of behaving in a way that did not create trouble for him?

  A hand rested on St. Briac's clenched forearm. He looked down into the kind eyes of Ghislaine Pepin.

  "My darling," she murmured, "you look upset. Surely you are not jealous that Florange has stolen your... betrothed for a few hours?"

  "What? Don't be ridiculous!" Bending down to the duchesse's ear, he whispered, "Truth to tell, I am elated. Now I have an excuse to be with you."

  Across the hall of honor, Aimée seated herself on the bench beside Florange. She pretended to ignore the intimate little scene between St. Briac and his mistress, but from the corners of her eyes she saw every smile, imagined every whispered secret they exchanged, and felt a hot ache in her breast each time they touched. How foolish she had been to think even for a moment that Chauverge had not spoken the truth to her in the chapel. Remembering the painstaking effort she had put into dressing tonight, dreaming all the while of dazzling St. Briac so that he would be blind to the duchesse's charms, Aimée felt her cheeks grow hot with humiliation.

  "Will you have wine, mademoiselle?" Florange proffered a silver cup that just had been filled by a servant who wielded a pewter vessel with a long spout.

  She took the cup and drank deeply of the crimson liquid. Florange was smiling at her as he tasted his wine, but there was an intent concentration in his blue eyes that put her on guard.

  "Don't be nervous, mademoiselle. I don't mean to stare, but I confess to a lively curiosity about the woman Thomas has chosen to be his wife. You see..." He paused, searching for the right words, and brushed back his blond hair. "I love him as a brother. Although we grew up together and are nearly the same age, I have always looked up to him. From the time we were boys, wrestling, fighting with wooden swords, and riding ponies together, he has been at peace with himself. Always sure, brave, secure in his strength and wits. As a man, he is ready with a jest during the darkest moment of a battle."

  Aimée's discomfort intensified. Florange was looking down across the board to the place where St. Briac and his lover sat, whispering side by side.

  "I hope you'll forgive me for separating you from him tonight," Florange was saying sincerely as he signaled for the nearest servant to replenish her wine. "I fear I've been selfish, but I wanted to know you, especially after watching your charming performance in the king's study when Thomas was presented to those Dagonneau women. You were delightful."

  "I was?"

  Florange laughed. "No false modesty, mademoiselle. You are far too clever to need compliments from me; besides, St. Briac must have showered you with dozens when all of us were gone."

  "Oh, no, he thinks I'm too bold as it is. He won't encourage me." The words spilled out of their own accord, and the sound of Florange's laughter made her blush.

  "Good for you. I'm sure that your spirit will stand you in good stead during a lifetime as St. Briac's wife. Don't let him intimidate you, mademoiselle. You are enchanting."

  His flattery made her head spin. How wonderful it was to be admired. Surreptitiously, she glanced down the table and caught St. Briac watching her with narrowed eyes. Aimée returned her attention to Florange. They chatted on not only about his beloved friend but about all manner of subjects in which they shared an interest.
More wine and good food combined to heighten Aimée's already soaring spirits.

  Plates of duck cooked with turnips had been placed before them when Florange said, "I suppose Thomas has told you the story of the occasion when we were knighted."

  "Why, no, I don't believe so." She had been tempted to lie, for certainly he would have shared such an important story with his beloved.

  "You are familiar with the great French victory at Melegnano?"

  "Quinze quinze," Aimée affirmed, quoting 1515, the year that had been one of the most spectacular of Francois's reign.

  "You must insist that St. Briac share with you the entire story of that battle and the events leading up to it. Afterward, though, our young king met with the great knight Bayard on the bloody battlefield. Francois revered him."

  Aimée waited as Florange took a drink of wine, looking out toward the courtyard. She could see grief in his blue eyes for the legendary seigneur de Bayard who had lost his life during the more recent ill-fated battle of Pavia.

  "The two of them were alone," Florange continued, "but I have heard that the king told him that he wished on that day to be knighted by the most worthy knight—Bayard, of course. The chevalier argued that Francois was king of a realm and had been anointed by oil from heaven, so he was already a knight above all others."

  Listening with wide green eyes, Aimée tried to imagine the scene on the twilit battlefield. "And?"

  "Francois insisted, cajoled, and finally ordered him to do the thing. He knelt before Bayard, who lifted his sword and struck him once, twice, thrice on the shoulder and then murmured, 'The first king I ever knighted.' After a moment the chevalier was seized by exaltation himself. He lifted his sword to the heavens and spoke to it: 'You are blessed this day to have given knighthood to so fine a prince. Henceforth, you will be treasured as a relic and never drawn except against Turk, Saracen, or Moor.'"