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  "You are too kind," came the ironic reply. For a long moment he regarded the enchanting girl, wondering what her game might be. It was obvious that she was of simple birth and surely old enough to have mated, probably married. Was it for gold that she teased them? "I suggest that we sample the wine and cheese and explore this matter further."

  Uneasily, Aimée wondered at the man's air of mischief. She watched the two men settle themselves in the grove of birch and then brought them her basket. When she bent over, two pairs of male eyes burned the creamy swell of her bosom, sending a hot flush through Aimée's cheeks. Something was wrong.

  "I apologize for the simplicity of these refreshments," she murmured. "I hope you will not object to sharing a cup."

  Francois could barely conceal his distaste. Watching her fill the pewter cup with what was doubtless some sour peasant wine, he thought longingly of the elaborate repast that waited for him at his hunting lodge. St. Briac appeared to be amused by this ridiculous farce, yet the girl hardly seemed on the verge of shedding her dress so that the three of them might frolic together, and he would never resort to force.

  Aimée had reluctantly taken the place indicated by the handsome man and now found herself bracketed by two pairs of wide shoulders. By the time the food and wine were gone, she was feeling anxious.

  "You seem nervous, my sweet," the long-nosed man remarked with what sounded like impatience. "Don't you like men?"

  "I—" She swallowed. "I suppose that some men are rather agreeable."

  The king raised his eyes to meet St. Briac's over her head. Thomas realized that bolder measures were called for. "What about the king? Surely you have heard that he is delivered from his captivity in Spain? What would you think were your path to cross his?"

  At last a topic of conversation that Aimée could sink her teeth into! "I have no use for the king! I understand that his charm is great, but I have seen so many poor, suffering people that I can feel only disdain for a monarch who could waste so much time on extravagant, frivolous pursuits."

  St. Briac had gone pale under his tan, and Francois could only gape. Fearing for the foolish girl's life, St. Briac made a valiant attempt to smooth things over. "Are you not aware that our king has spent many years at war? His courage is legendary. In fact, he was in the thick of battle at Pavia when taken prisoner."

  Aimée rolled her eyes and made a gesture of dismissal with one pretty hand. "His involvement of France in these silly wars is proof of our king's childish male vanity. Why does he not concentrate on improving the lot of his own country instead of always attempting to take someone else's away? The poor man's character is obviously hopelessly shallow."

  Francois had begun to cough and then choke, and Aimée turned worried eyes on him. "Oh, dear. Are you all right?"

  When he could breathe again, the king said hoarsely, "That will teach me to eat the stale bread of a peasant wench!"

  She straightened slim shoulders. "I beg your pardon, m'sieur!"

  St. Briac was torn between amusement at this scene and concern for what it might lead to. Fortunately, he was spared further involvement by the far-off sound of his huntsman's horn. "There's Perot, my friend! Let's be away to join the others."

  The king was already rising. "No, no, St. Briac. I insist that you remain and accept all the comfort from this charming wood sprite. I for one have had my fill." He gave them both a terse bow, mounted his horse, and galloped off through the woods.

  Cringing, Thomas lay back in the lush grass, closed his eyes, and then let the laughter rise irrepressibly in his chest.

  "Your friend's behavior was quite odd," Aimée observed. She reached for the basket and began to replace flask, cup, and linen serviette. "Has he some special regard for the king?"

  "You might say that." The smile that curved St. Briac's mouth was at once that of a devil and a little boy. Slowly he began to laugh, remembering all that had happened.

  Aimée looked on in consternation. Obviously both men had been lost in the woods for too long. Still, she couldn't deny that this tall fellow stirred confusing feelings within her, feelings she had believed to exist only in poetry or in her sister's romantic fantasies. She stared at him. The thick gray velvet of his doublet was tailored so that it stretched taut across his broad shoulders, strong tapering chest, and flat belly as he continued to lie back in the grass, helpless with laughter. Finally he raised one hand to brush tears from his sparkling eyes and sought to regain some composure. Aimée noticed that his fingers were long, clean, and aristocratic yet sun-darkened like those of a peasant who had no use for gloves. Glancing over, she discovered that he was watching her. Curiosity mixed with humor in his gaze.

  "I apologize, mademoiselle," St. Briac said softly. "You must think that my friend and I are quite mad."

  "The idea has occurred to me," she admitted. When he chuckled again, she couldn't help smiling in response. The man exuded something much more potent than charm. "Why were you laughing so? Don't you share the regard your large-nosed companion feels for our monarch?"

  St. Briac stared in delight and then put a hand over his eyes and shook his head in an effort to contain his mirth. "Large-nosed companion?" he echoed. "My little wood sprite, you are wonderful. Tell me your name."

  "I am Aimée de Fleurance, m'sieur."

  "It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Aimée. To answer your question, I do in truth feel real affection and respect for King Francois, but at the same time I see the truth in much of what you said." He found himself fascinated by this piquant, outrageous girl and couldn't help wondering whether he had fallen from his horse and was dreaming this entire episode. Never had St. Briac seen eyes as green as the spring leaves or such thick, feathery black lashes. Her eyebrows arched delicately, betraying a quick intelligence, yet the minx was spellbindingly feminine. Flushed cheeks bespoke her awareness of him as a man.

  Aimée dropped her eyes under St. Briac's open regard. When he lifted her chin with a long finger, she shivered.

  "You are very lovely, mademoiselle," he murmured. He was seized with a longing to hold her in his arms in the fragrant grass, to taste her sweet mouth and creamy skin.

  Aimée felt chilled and then burningly hot. Frightened, she drew back, her eyes wide as a fawn's. "I, I—" In horror, she realized that the peaks of her breasts were outlined against her thin bodice and that St. Briac's eyes were on them like a brand. "I have to be getting home. I'm quite late as it is."

  He realized then that Aimée was completely innocent; they had misjudged her. Sighing, he tried to forget the hard throb in his groin as he helped her rise. She turned away, unable to meet his gaze, and hastily began to collect sheets of parchment that now were scattered about the clearing. He joined her and puzzled briefly over the poems, written in English, that covered the pages.

  "Merci," Aimée whispered, assembling all the papers and placing them in the rush basket. "Again, I am sorry about the stag, at least I am sorry if I spoiled the afternoon for you and your companion. Also, I would appreciate it if you would convey my regrets to him. I did not realize that my opinion of our king would upset the poor man so."

  St. Briac grinned again, his eyes crinkling. "Think nothing of it. My large-nosed friend is oversensitive."

  "Well, adieu," she said primly, and extended delicate fingers. They were lost in his strong, dark hand.

  "Mademoiselle de Fleurance, I beg you grant me one favor before you leave." St. Briac's eyes were soft, melting her resistance. "I never met a wood sprite before today, and I crave a kiss to remember her by."

  She opened her mouth but could summon neither words nor breath. Gently, the man was drawing her into his embrace. For a moment he held her against his chest, one hand caressing her small back as if to soothe her fears. Aimée was conscious of steely muscles against her cheek but also of warmth. A faint, pleasantly masculine scent assailed her senses from the velvet doublet, and she heard the slow thump of his heart.

  "Fear not, miette," St. Briac whispere
d, tilting her chin up so that he could search her wide leaf-green eyes. When his lips touched her own, Aimée thought wonderingly that they too were hard yet warm, but then she forgot all else as his arms tightened, crushing her breasts against him, and his mouth slanted over hers. A wave of intense sensations broke over her body. His lips had parted, demanding that she reply, and she tasted his tongue. She was shocked yet exhilarated. One of his arms encircled her waist like a steely band, while his free hand slid into her glossy curls. Through her simple frock and petticoat she was suddenly aware of something rigid pressing against the unfamiliar ache between her thighs.

  A horse whinnied and stamped behind them, followed by an exasperated voice. "God's teeth! It would seem that I cannot leave you alone for a moment."

  Aimée broke free and whirled around to glimpse a small, thin man with white hair. He was clad all in black and sat astride a restless dappled horse. Humiliated and confused, she instantly scrambled across the clearing to snatch up her basket; then she lifted her skirts and disappeared into the woods without a backward glance.

  St. Briac stared after her and then pivoted to confront his manservant. "Gaspard, you fat wit! When will you learn some manners? Have you no sense at all?"

  "More than you, I think," Gaspard LeFait replied calmly. "The king will have your head for consorting with a treasonous female if you are not at the hunting lodge in time to dress for tonight's festivities."

  St. Briac grimaced. "The maiden is no traitor. She didn't realize she spoke to the king himself." Remembering, he tried to repress a smile. "Has the king told everyone what happened?"

  "No, he's far too embarrassed. He related the story of your lost stag to the rest of the hunting party, but only I heard of the insults that chit heaped upon his royal head." Gaspard's lips twitched. "When you didn't follow him immediately, he bade me save you from the madwoman."

  Swinging into his saddle, St. Briac gave a snort of wry laughter. "More likely he was imagining what he was missing."

  Before turning Sebastien in the direction of the hunting lodge, he glanced once more at the empty clearing and felt a surprising pang of regret.

  Chapter 2

  April 25, 1526

  Twilight was gathering swiftly as Aimée ran for home. How long had it been since Honorine had told her she must come immediately? Crossing the meadow, she passed the dovecote and drew near her family's small stone chateau. It had seen better days, when her grandfather was seigneur and before he fell out of favor with Louis XII, but the two machicolated towers with pepperpot roofs that flanked the dwelling were still imposing, and the name of de Fleurance was respected in the village. Now, to support his family, her father raised cattle and collected rents for the current seigneur. He never seemed satisfied with his lot and dreamed of the day when his beautiful daughters would marry noblemen and make them all wealthy.

  Breathless, Aimée dashed into the tiny courtyard and threw open the massive oaken door. She came face to face with her mother.

  "In the name of heaven, where have you been?" cried Eloise de Fleurance. "I sent Honorine to fetch you hours ago."

  "Oh, now, Maman, it hasn't been quite so long. I know I am late, but I beg your indulgence just this once," coaxed Aimée. "You see—"

  "Just this once?" Two spots of color appeared on Eloise's usually pale cheeks. "You are habitually late, almost as if to antagonize your poor father and me. I am at my wits' end trying to deal with you. Our patience is exhausted."

  "But if you would just let me explain—"

  "And look at you. If I didn't know better, I would swear you were a milkmaid, the daughter of a peasant."

  "Maman, please."

  "There is not time for me to suffer another of your elaborate excuses. Come along. There is a bath prepared for you, and if it is cold by now, that will serve you right."

  Aimée had no choice but to follow Eloise up the darkened stone steps to her bedchamber. She noticed that her mother was clad in her best burgundy satin gown, her faded blond hair arranged carefully in two rolls that curved into a jeweled caul. Diamonds and sapphires sparkled on her fingers.

  "Turn around. I will unfasten you. There is not a moment to waste."

  Aimée obeyed wordlessly. She was in no hurry to discover what was afoot since it was unlikely to hold any pleasure for her. Moments later, naked, she stepped into the tub of lukewarm water and accepted the bar of violet-scented soap that her mother handed her. It was reserved for special occasions.

  "Suzette is helping Honorine dress her hair, but she had laid out your costume on the bed and will be in to speed you along. Wash your hair, child, and scrub your face well. When you are ready, join us in the hall." Eloise sighed again in exasperation. "Your father and I had hoped to share an unhurried conversation with you, but your irresponsible behavior has made that impossible."

  When the door closed sharply and Aimée was alone in the cool, firelit chamber, a chill crept down to the pit of her stomach. Already she dreaded the meeting with her parents.

  * * *

  Gilles de Fleurance steeled himself with a long drink of wine when he heard his daughter approach the hall. Eloise was seated beside him in front of the massive stone fireplace, apparently studying one of the two tapestries that flanked it.

  "Just remember," she whispered firmly without looking into his eyes, "that you are her father. Aimée must obey you, and you cannot allow her to change your mind a second time."

  "Yes, yes, I know. Her situation must be resolved once and for all." Still, he stroked his black beard nervously.

  "Papa, Maman, I am ready." She spoke softly from the doorway as though hesitant to cross the threshold.

  "Sit with us for a few minutes, ma fille," bade her father, indicating the chair across from them. "There is something we would discuss with you, though time is short."

  Gilles barely recognized his daughter as she approached. She was a vision in crimson velvet, pearls, and gold, her ebony hair agleam in the firelight. Eloise was right; the girl was a woman in spite of her free-spirited ways. The time had come to tame her.

  "You are beautiful, child."

  "Merci, Papa. It is kind of you to say so, but I do not feel very beautiful with all these heavy skirts and this silly wire shakefold to push them out. Also, my corset pinches."

  "Stop complaining, Aimée. You must accept these things with womanly grace," Eloise said sharply. "Have you not realized that the gown is new? Are you not curious?"

  Aimée sat down uneasily. "I suppose I must be."

  "Armand Rovicette brought it and two others as a gift for you. He arrived only today from Angouleme."

  She didn't want to hear what was coming. "Speaking of new people in the area, I met two others today. That's why I was late. I encountered two hunters about to kill a stag, and I stopped them. They forgave my interference and shared the food and wine I had with me."

  "Cease your prattling," Eloise scolded. "Your father has something important to tell you, and then we must depart. From now on you must not socialize alone with strangers in the woods."

  Gilles de Fleurance shifted in his hard chair. "The fact is, dear child, Armand Rovicette was not dissuaded by your refusal to marry him last year. As you will recall, I agreed reluctantly to give you another year of freedom, but that time and more has passed. We have no choice in the matter. As your chere maman points out, it seems that you would be content to languish here, cavorting in the woods indefinitely. No other man more to your taste has offered for you, and so I have accepted Rovicette." The sight of Aimée's eyes, wide with shock and pain, made him avert his own gaze. "You will have a good life in Angouleme. The man has become quite rich as a merchant."

  "What your papa is trying to say, Aimée, is that we have fed, clothed, and cared for you long past the time most parents keep their daughters. M'sieur Rovicette has generously offered to... help us all in many ways. You must face the fact that your childhood is over." Eloise stood. "Now we must be going. In all the confusion, we have forgotten
to tell you the reason for our excursion tonight. King Francois has graced Nieuil with a visit to his hunting lodge and has graciously invited all of us to join in tonight's festivities." She paused beside the chair to touch her daughter's cold cheek. "Armand Rovicette will also be in attendance. No doubt he will take pleasure in the sight of you looking so beautiful in the gown he chose."

  Gilles patted Aimée's curls as he followed his wife to the vestibule. They were calling for Honorine, but Aimée could neither move nor think. She was numb, and she hoped that feeling and comprehension would spare her their bitter return.

  * * *

  Francois straightened the ruffled fraise of his shirt collar so that it showed evenly above his blue and silver doublet; then he turned to face his friend.

  "I'm in an intolerable mood tonight. If you're wise, you won't speak of that peasant wench."

  Lounging in a chair near the window, St. Briac drank from his goblet of Burgundy wine and tried not to smile. "Nonsense, sire. You are famous for your high spirits. I cannot believe that you would allow them to be crushed by a simple maiden."

  "Maiden? More likely whore! Never, in all my life, have I endured such incredible insolence. Even in Spain I was granted more respect." The king stared out the window over the purple-shaded garden below.

  "The girl did not know your true identity. Can you not see humor in the situation?" St. Briac's eyes sparkled, although he managed to keep his mouth still.

  "Obviously you can!" Lifting his silver goblet, Francois drank deeply. "I suppose you had your way with the wench after I departed. No wonder you show such charity toward her."

  "I wish that were the case." St. Briac smiled. "However, I fear that we misjudged the girl, for all her rudely expressed opinions. She was innocent and as skittish as a colt."

  The king's mouth hardened. "At this moment I would that I had frightened her into silence and sought my own satisfaction. She deserved worse!"

  Knowing that his friend was far too gallant ever to do such a thing, St. Briac held his tongue. "I shall not mention the maid again, sire, except to convey to you her apologies for any offense she might have given."