Aimée allowed him to lead her past a cluster of airy turrets and pinnacles, wondering how many times Ghislaine had stood on this roof and watched for Thomas, astride Sebastien, in the purplish-rose twilight. He spoke in the present tense, as though nothing had changed or ever would.
"What was it you wanted to say to me?" she asked, looking up at St. Briac as he stared out over the parkland. Night was on its way.
"I'll be brief. I long for a bath and some dry clothes, not to mention the food that awaits us at supper." He reached absently for Aimée's hand and regarded her for a moment. She noticed the way he bit the inside of his lower lip and knew that no trivial subject was on his mind. "Look, I'm tired, cold, wet, and fed up. I realized when I saw Blanche and Cecile-Anne in the guardroom here that I simply cannot take another day of this. There's no reason why I should have to."
She wished she could read his mind. "I agree, monseigneur. Have you a solution?" Certainly he couldn't blame her.
"Yes. The only one left, as far as I can see, at least the only one we can depend on. If both of us are able to carry this off, miette, the Dagonneaux should go bounding back to their kennels in Burgundy before the sun sets again."
The terrace was bristling with hiding places where members of the court might amuse themselves with secret assignations. As St. Briac explained his outrageous plan, the duchesse de Roanne stood nearby between a spire and a tall dormer window, listening. Bathed in the last vestiges of the plum-tinted sunset, she smiled to herself.
Chapter 23
June 14, 1526
Aimée was filled with trepidation when she met St. Briac in his apartments that night after supper. Now scrubbed, fed, and looking especially handsome in burgundy velvet, he seemed even more determined that they should follow through with his plan.
"Ah, miette, we cannot fail," he declared merrily. "Within the hour all our problems will be solved."
She tried to smile but succeeded only in looking sick. "If you say so. Where is Gaspard?"
"I sent him away. That meddler would make a tremendous scene if he knew what we mean to do."
Aimée could only nod helplessly. That was exactly what she'd been hoping for.
"You can get undressed in his cabinet if that's any consolation to your modesty. I'll build up the fire, and then we'll be ready." St. Briac strode to the mammoth stone fireplace and lithely dropped down to sit back on his heels, brimming with energy. "You'll find a shirt of mine to wear until we're in bed."
Aimée nodded again; still, she couldn't move her legs.
"Did you hear me?" He glanced back over one broad shoulder. "We haven't a lot of time." The fire blazed high with the addition of two birch logs, and St. Briac gave his full attention to Aimée. "You needn't look as if I plan to rape you. This will all be pretend, except for the very real effect our little drama will have on Blanche and Cecile-Anne. Here, have some wine." He poured a large goblet and took it to the spot just inside the doorway where she had remained fixed. "Drink it up like a good girl."
Numbly, Aimée obeyed and allowed him to lead her toward Gaspard's cabinet. A single candle flickered beside the manservant's narrow bed. "Do I have to take off everything?"
St. Briac replied patiently, "Cherie, if you wear your chemise, I doubt they'll be convinced. Now, hurry."
After extinguishing all light in the chamber except that provided by the fire, St. Briac peeled off his clothes, put them in the nearest chest, and crossed naked to the massive four-poster bed. The linens were fresh and soft against his skin. Sighing with pleasure, he reclined against the pillows and folded his arms behind his head. It was going to be an entertaining evening.
After several minutes St. Briac called, "Aren't you ready yet?"
The cabinet door opened, and a reluctant Aimée emerged, swimming in one of his shirts. Only shapely calves showed beneath the expanse of white; even her hands had disappeared inside the long sleeves. St. Briac had to smile when she edged toward the firelight and he saw that she'd laced the shirtfront carefully.
"You'll have to take it off, no matter how many knots you've tied," he murmured.
Aimée gazed heavenward, her eyes appearing even larger and more vividly green in the shadows. Golden firelight played over the delicate planes of her face, danced along the ebony curve of her hair that was still confined under the crispinette, and softly illumined the tantalizing outline of her breasts and hips, so sweet and ripe that St. Briac felt abruptly hungry. It was not, however, food that he craved....
Aimée sighed loudly. "I don't feel right about this."
"That's a pity. Too late. Now get out of that thing and join me under these covers before our guests arrive."
She fumbled with the shirt laces until St. Briac sat up suddenly and brushed her fingers aside. While he opened the neckline deftly, Aimée found her gaze drawn inexorably to the taut strength of his shoulders.
Parbleu, she thought. How beautifully he is made! Muscles rippled over his dark torso, accentuated by the flickering glow of the fire, which also glinted off the dark hair on his chest that descended like an arrow down the ridges of his belly to the part of him hidden beneath the covers. A sigh of longing mingled with panic inside Aimée. How could this be happening? She said a silent prayer that the Dagonneaux would be waylaid somehow for the rest of the night.
"Vite, mademoiselle," St. Briac whispered sharply. "If you continue to worry and ponder this, I'll have another fiasco on my hands, and I don't intend to suffer through one of those again. Take off that shirt and get into bed right now or I shall see to it that you do!"
When his hands reached for the hem of her last barrier against complete exposure, Aimée struck out. "Stop that, you brute! I'll do as you say, but kindly have the grace to close your eyes and avert your face."
The corners of his mouth lifted, but he did as she bade, reclining against the pillows and turning closed eyes toward the doorway. After a moment, the other side of the bed sagged slightly. St. Briac looked over to find Aimée staring at the expanse of blue above them and clutching the covers to her breasts with pale little hands. The thought of her body, naked and warm and soft, just inches away in his own bed, caused a tightening in St. Briac's loins. He swallowed in an effort to dislodge what may have been his heart from his throat.
"I wish you would relax, miette," he whispered with studied nonchalance. "Think of this as another of your light-hearted adventures. I'm certain that years from now we'll encounter each other by chance—in Paris, perhaps—and laugh about this night over a cup or two of wine."
She nodded, wondering why tears had to choose this moment to sting her eyes. "I'm sure you're right. But how will we ever explain our mirth to my husband and your wife?"
St. Briac's dark brows flew up in the darkness, but he played along with her fantasy. "I suppose we shouldn't mention our more, ah, intimate escapades when first we meet, but later each of us would have to think of an excuse to go out alone."
"A secret rendezvous?" Aimée whispered.
"Two old friends sharing memories that only we could appreciate. Your husband and my wife would never understand. Why risk upsetting them?"
Aimée could envision it all in her mind, so clearly that it seemed a glimpse into the future. She would be in Paris with her kind but provincial husband, probably grasping two or three children's hands; as she turned a corner, there would be the seigneur de St. Briac and his poised, elegantly beautiful lady. St. Briac wouldn't recognize Aimée at first, for she would be worn down by the ravages of hard work and childbirth. She'd put her hand on his forearm, and he'd look into her eyes, and the past would come flooding back.
"Aimée, are you all right?"
Startled, she turned in the direction of his voice and found St. Briac raised on an elbow, gazing down at her. "Of course. I'm fine." Aimée prayed that he hadn't seen the tears that crowded her eyes. "Isn't it almost time for Blanche and Cecile-Anne to appear? I don't suppose we should be lying here chatting when they do."
"No." St.
Briac was suddenly ashamed of himself for putting Aimée in this position and forcing her to go along with this desperate plan, and ashamed of his own consuming desire to make love to her. Every inch of him ached to touch every inch of her. He felt like a cad.
"I suppose I should be in your arms when the Dagonneaux arrive," Aimée suggested softly, her eyes wide with apprehension.
Sighing, St. Briac tried to smile in an effort to put her at ease. "As long as we've gone this far, I daresay that would be wise."
Absolute silence followed, for neither of them could breathe as Aimée edged in his direction and St. Briac placed a tentative arm around her waist. Bare flesh! She was soft as satin, and when his fingers fanned out, he felt the first smooth curve of her derriere. St. Briac's entire body tensed under a wave of hot yearning.
Swallowing hard, Aimée put a small hand up to his steely shoulder. Panic and desire mingled to create a potent excitement that danced over her nerves. "I wish you would tell me more precisely what you think we should be doing when Blanche and Cecile-Anne come in."
"Doing?" St. Briac repeated, obviously amused. "Have you any suggestions? I'm amazingly flexible."
A rosy flush stained Aimée's face. She opened her mouth but then closed it, determined not to be tricked into humiliating herself.
"We could rehearse if that would reassure you," he suggested with a smile. "How would you like to begin? With a simple kiss?"
Time seemed suspended as St. Briac leaned slowly toward her. She could hear the pounding of blood in her temples before he touched his mouth tentatively to hers. A shudder of endlessly suppressed desire passed between their bodies, and then St. Briac's long, lean forearms and hands were gathering her near. She flinched instinctively as her naked flesh met his, creamy breasts against a muscled, masculine chest; the softness of her belly pressed to his narrow hips; her trim, satiny calves twining within his long male legs; and, of course, the shock of contact with St. Briac's hot, hard desire. Aimée heard herself moan even before their mouths came together in an ardent burst of starfire. How wonderful he tasted. She'd almost forgotten yet never stopped craving the flavor of his mouth or the feel of it slanting over her lips, matching her hunger.
It was as if they were caught in some cataclysmic act of nature, a tremendous flood that swept into the room and captured them. There was no escape, only a kind of joyous surrender to this tide of sensation and emotion that was stronger than either of them. They kissed on and on, touching each other, wonderingly at first and then ardently. Aimée thought she would die from pleasure when St. Briac cupped one of her breasts within the firmness of his hand. His fingers strayed over all her body; he was like a starving man presented with a banquet. She understood; she felt the same. They both barely could control their desire to put an end to this torment and discover the bliss that awaited them, yet there was an exquisite pleasure to be taken from heightening the anticipation.
St. Briac was forcing himself to hold back and experience each long-imagined taste. His mouth burned the delicate outline of Aimée's ear, memorizing it as she shivered, and then traced her cheekbone, brow, nose, chin, and finally the silky curve of her throat. When she searched boldly for another kiss, he reached around to pull off her confining crispinette and inhaled the fragrance of the curls that spilled across his cheek. Finally, his fingers caressing the fragile length of her spine, St. Briac tasted Aimée's shoulder and then one aroused breast. She began to moan in earnest, but he held her off, avoiding the pouting crest even as he drew her eager fingers away from his throbbing hardness.
"Wait for dessert, miette," he admonished in a fond whisper. "We'll both enjoy it more."
She blushed at the same instant her nipple was covered by St. Briac's warm mouth. The sensation was astonishing. Slowly he explored the sweet bud that seemed to swell with each touch of his tongue, waiting until Aimée was on the brink of sobbing before he finally began to tug and suck on her nipple.
"Oh...my," she gasped, unprepared for the storm of sparks that flickered downward to intensify the ache between her thighs. St. Briac was smiling, but the torture went on. He is cruel, she thought wildly, yet she prayed he'd never stop even while longing for him to press her back into the pillows and thrust so deeply inside her that her very heart would be jolted. He was teasing the tender curves of her other breast, but each time she tried to touch him, he brushed her hands away. Now he held them at her hips, his long fingers almost cupping her buttocks, and she sensed that he too was nearing the bounds of control.
"Oh, please, please," Aimée heard herself whimper.
Suddenly St. Briac was over her. Her hands freed, she wrapped them tightly around his neck and pulled him down for an endless, ravenous kiss. For an instant she focused on his firelit shoulders, neck, and hair. Her slim fingers traced the chiseled lines of his face, and Aimée smiled under his insistent mouth. This is joy, she thought as he finally allowed himself to settle between her warm thighs. She could feel the steely muscles in his buttocks against her soft legs and the heat of his manhood pressing her own heat. Finally! She wanted so much to touch him, to intensify the pleasure for them both. Her hand had just made contact with the aroused, rigid proof of his need, when a loud voice broke through the spell that enveloped them.
"I cannot believe my eyes. I'm sure I shall faint!"
St. Briac's eyes flew open. He turned his head and then buried it in Aimée's gleaming curls. "Sacrebleu, no," he groaned.
Of course, it was Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau, swooning in the doorway as if they were witnessing something unheard of in the history of civilized beings.
Aimée almost hurt when she felt St. Briac's warm body roll away from her own. A voice in her mind reminded her that this was what they had hoped to accomplish, but he had said that it would all be pretend and painless. The covers were still warm from him yet colder than he had been against her. She shivered. Pretend! They hadn't been pretending; they'd forgotten they were supposed to—at least Aimée had. A part of her realized that St. Briac was sitting up in bed, saying something to Blanche Dagonneau. Now, through half-closed eyes, Aimée saw that someone else was coming into the room. A man was catching Madame Dagonneau as she swayed dramatically once again.
"Is anything wrong?" inquired King Francois I. He then turned his royal attention from Blanche Dagonneau and her daughter to the chamber at large. His eyes had just fallen on St. Briac and Aimée, when his companion for this evening's stroll stepped in from the corridor.
"I don't mean to intrude, sire, but is there anything I can do to help? Do these two ladies require the premier medecin?" The bishop of Angouleme spoke solicitously and then gasped upon glimpsing not only the seigneur de St. Briac but also a young lady he had known since her birth, Aimée de Fleurance. The two of them were side by side, apparently unclothed, in the seigneur's bed.
"I demand an explanation!" the bishop thundered. "What is the meaning of this?"
Chapter 24
June 14-18, 1526
"Aimée de Fleurance, your parents are worried to distraction about you, not to mention Armand Rovicette, who thought to become your husband," exclaimed the bishop d'Angouleme. "I am shocked to discover you in this situation. If you are wife to the seigneur de St. Briac, I offer my humble apologies for this outburst, but somehow I sense that is not the case, and I beg you to explain."
As he spoke, looking hot in his brocade coat, there was a flurry of activity around him. The Dagonneaux regained their composure and watched the proceedings with shrewd, beady eyes. The king looked pained, glancing from his friend to the bishop and then to Aimée as though uncertain of his role in this drama.
"I thank you for your concern," Aimée spoke up. "But you must not blame the seigneur de St. Briac. I am here with him of my own free will, though we are not married. I beg you to spare me this public confession and allow me to explain to you privately tomorrow."
"Mademoiselle de Fleurance and I are betrothed," St. Briac declared firmly.
A hand reached
in from the corridor to shake the sleeve of the king. "Go on," hissed Ghislaine. Francois had almost forgotten the conversation he had shared earlier with the duchesse de Roanne, but she obviously intended that he should not forget. Odd, he thought, in light of Ghislaine's own entanglement with St. Briac. It would have seemed to him that she'd be the last person to involve herself this way in his affairs.
"D'accord!" the king whispered in reply, impatience creeping into his voice. Stepping forward, he touched the bishop's shoulder. "Pardon me for interrupting, but I must intercede on behalf of my friends. Obviously, you cannot excuse their impatience, but perhaps it will soften your heart to learn that they plan to be married very soon. The seigneur de St. Briac has been away from his betrothed for several days now, and I feel confident in assuring you that only the impetuosity of true love is to blame for this."
The bishop d'Angouleme raised bushy gray eyebrows. "Is this so, my child?" he asked Aimée.
"Of course it's true," St. Briac affirmed. If he hadn't been naked, he'd have shoved the lot of them into the corridor long ago. How could this be happening? Why was the king allowing this incredible scene to continue?
"I happen to know that these two lovebirds desire nothing more than to be united in marriage," Francois was saying. "If it will set your mind at ease, I suggest that you perform the ceremony as soon as possible."
The bishop stared hard at the uneasy couple in the enormous bed. "Tomorrow morning, during mass?"
"A marvelous suggestion!" the king exclaimed. Nearby, Blanche and Cecile-Anne Dagonneau made low, choking noises and collapsed against the paneled wall. "Thomas, your wedding will be the high point of our stay at Chambord." He turned to the bishop. "Shall we go downstairs and drink a toast to the happy couple?"
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