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  "You told her?"

  "Nay. Without knowing your identity, she expressed regret for speaking hastily. She was sorry for upsetting you, a man she thought to be like any other, who simply held his king in high esteem."

  Francois stroked his carefully groomed beard, considering. "I suggest that we both forget the entire incident. Suddenly I find that I have a monstrous appetite, my friend. Shall we grace the gathering downstairs with our presence?"

  St. Briac rose, unaccountably relieved by his king's dismissal of the events in the woods. He only wished he could dismiss Aimée de Fleurance so easily from his own mind.

  * * *

  Chateau de Nieuil was charming, quite small by the king's standards but well suited to the favored group with whom he chose to steal away to hunt in these woods which were not far from his birthplace at Angouleme.

  The curving white marble stairway swept down to an entry hall two stories high and built of white stone with a black diamond pattern inlaid on the white marble floor. Beeswax candles were all about, and tapers burned in sconces set into the walls. Looking down from the upper level, St. Briac let his gaze rest on the finely garbed guests, the mounted heads of wild boar and stag that lined the entry, the handsomely carved chests and buffets, and the superb paintings carefully selected by Francois himself. Tantalizing fragrances drifted upward from the rooms below, promising an evening of pleasure.

  The king glanced back over one broad shoulder. "Anne waits in the dining hall with my mother and sister. Shall we join them?"

  St. Briac nodded, but before he could take a step, the sight of a new group of people entering below made him freeze. He blinked, leaning forward over the carved marble railing. Impossible! Obviously the maiden in the woods had had a stronger effect on him than he'd realized, for the young lady who was handing over her cape to a servant looked exactly like Aimée de Fleurance. Exquisitely beautiful, she wore a gown of crimson velvet with a square neckline cut low to reveal a gentle swell of ivory-hued breasts. A golden girdle set with emeralds rode just below her tiny waist, accentuating the curves of her hips, and from it hung a thin gold cordeliere and its small attached mirror.

  St. Briac's eyes slid down to the maiden's pearl and gold embroidered hem and then back to her face. The candles lent an indistinct haze to her features, but he felt certain that he could not mistake the mouth that now looked strangely sad, her retrousse nose, or especially those luminous eyes with their thick fringe of black lashes. The girl's hair was shining ebony, as Aimée's had been, but instead of the flowing, rebellious curls he had admired in the woods, St. Briac now viewed locks that were parted carefully and drawn smoothly back into a lovely crispinette of golden net sprinkled with pearls and rubies that brushed her shoulders. She wore just one necklace, a single sapphire that dangled daintily from a gold chain.

  "Mon ami, are you unwell?" Francois touched St. Briac's arm, and a tiny smile curved his royal mouth. "Perhaps that peasant wench put something in your wine?"

  "No, I'm fine." Thomas managed a laugh. "I was just admiring the beauty of one of the ladies below."

  "I should have suspected as much." Francois's own hazel eyes scanned the assembled females.

  Realizing what might happen if the king saw Aiméee—if she was Aimée—St. Briac hastily pointed out a blond maiden nearer the stairway. Her loveliness was genuine but the sort that aroused no more than indifferent admiration from St. Briac.

  "Ah, yes, I take your meaning. I wonder who she may be."

  "I suggest, sire, that we descend and find out."

  * * *

  In the dining hall, Aimée looked around in search of the king. "Is he here?" she whispered at length to her mother.

  "Not yet, thank heaven. It would have been most impolite of us to arrive after his entrance and we nearly did, as well you know."

  Honorine stood at her other side, looking more elegant and confident than Aimée could ever hope to be. Both of them had met the king before at this same chateau, but it had been so long ago—before the war with Italy and Charles V—and Aimée's blurred memories of that evening did not include the face of Francois I.

  Armand Rovicette also was not yet present, and so it was with a certain elation that Aimée accompanied her sister to the long table replete with the kind of food they usually only dreamed about. The dining hall was spectacular. Every window told a story in stained glass that Aimée longed to view in the full light of morning. The ceiling and walls were panels of carved oak, but the centerpiece of the room was the magnificent fireplace of white stone that boasted sculptures of a salamander and an ermine, the emblems of Francois and his late queen, Claude.

  "I don't know where to start," Aimée exclaimed, staring at the array of food. She remembered that she had eaten only a few bites of bread and cheese all day. Before her now were arranged platters of roast pheasant, lamb, hazel grouse, ortolans, green oysters, herring, strawberries, melon, pineapple, artichokes, peas, potatoes, spinach, cheeses from Picardy, Brie, Auvergne, whole sugar loaves, sweetmeats, sugared almonds, and several types of wine as well as cider and even beer.

  "Try to remember that you are a lady, Aimée," said her mother, "not a pig."

  Dish in hand, Aimée glanced up to reply, but her eyes traveled instead to a figure entering the room. "Oh, my! Do you see that man in the doorway with the tremendous nose? He is the same one I met in the woods today. I fear he didn't like me very well after I voiced some less than favorable opinions about King Francois." Her green eyes twinkled with mischief at the memory.

  Eloise had gone white as a ghost, while behind them Gilles began to cough and choke on the oyster he'd been in the midst of swallowing. Alarmed, Aimée thumped on his back with her palm.

  "Papa, what is it?"

  Finally, breath restored, he lifted wild eyes to meet her confused gaze. "You idiot! That 'man with the tremendous nose' is King Francois! Do you have any idea what you have done?"

  Aimée was speechless with horror as she tried to absorb her father's words. Instinctively she pressed one pale hand to her breast and took a step backward, only to bump into another person. Whirling around, Aimée confronted a wide chest covered with amber velvet and gold; she looked up to meet the dancing sea-blue eyes of Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac.

  Chapter 3

  April 25, 1526

  "Mademoiselle de Fleurance, I believe? What a delightful surprise!" exclaimed St. Briac, his tone laced with mockery.

  Aimée could only gape, all too aware of her family's presence as the man bowed gracefully and lifted her hand to his lips. The kiss he pressed to her tender palm was insolently sensuous.

  Gilles, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of this stranger, asked him, "M'sieur? Are we acquainted?"

  St. Briac straightened as Aimée snatched her hand away. He looked down at the man who must be her father. "I am Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac."

  "Oh!" Collecting his wits, Gilles bowed before the taller man. "It is a great pleasure, monseigneur. Your fine reputation precedes you. I am Gilles de Fleurance. May I also present my wife Eloise and daughter Honorine..." His voice trailed off as he realized that somehow Aimée already knew this dashing comrade of the king.

  After exchanging amenities with the rest of Aimée's family, St. Briac took pity on her confused father. "No doubt you are wondering about my friendship with your charming Aimée," he said smoothly, enjoying the color that stained her cheeks at his choice of words. "His Majesty and I had the pleasure of encountering her in the woods today, and she was gracious enough to share her basket of food with us."

  Gilles gasped. "Mon Dieu! Then you know of my daughter's foolish behavior. I am humiliated to learn that my own flesh and blood could insult our noble king." He wrung his hands, thinking that Francois would surely ruin them all.

  St. Briac's expression was merry. "Fear not, M'sieur de Fleurance. The king did not learn Aimée's name. He believes that the girl was a..." He paused to glance in her direction, obviously greatly amuse
d, "...peasant. I'll allow that she did look very different just a few hours ago. I have convinced him that the girl spoke innocently, for of course she was unaware that she was addressing the king, and I believe that his heart has softened. Still, I would advise Mademoiselle de Fleurance not to tempt fate by engaging in another conversation with His Majesty here tonight. My instincts suggest that he will not recognize her if she strives to remain inconspicuous."

  "But, but," Gilles sputtered, "I must present my family to the king. What can we—that is—how—"

  "If I may offer a suggestion?"

  "Oh, yes, monseigneur," Gilles exclaimed anxiously.

  "If I may be frank, His Majesty's tastes these days run to fair-haired ladies. He has already commented on the loveliness of your daughter Honorine. I would advise you to introduce only her to the king and keep Aimée out of the way. I doubt that he will notice her at all."

  Aimée glared at him, seething. How dare he? First the rogue had called her a peasant, and now he implied that her looks were so plain as to render her virtually invisible!

  Honorine meanwhile was glowing under this lavish praise and fluttering her eyelashes at the roguishly attractive seigneur de St. Briac.

  "We do appreciate your kind assistance, monseigneur," Eloise was saying. "Perhaps you might be generous enough to stand with Aimée while we speak to the king. She might appear conspicuous were we to leave her alone."

  St. Briac nearly choked with laughter as he cast a sidelong glance at Aimée's smoldering countenance. "I would not mind in the least, Madame de Fleurance. I am at your service."

  To Aimée's consternation, her mother blushed like a maiden before turning to deliver a few parting words to her. "Do try to behave yourself this once, child."

  As the trio swept off toward the king, who already was surrounded by an adoring crowd, Aimée clenched her fists and indulged in a barely audible growl.

  "What's that I hear?" St. Briac teased lightly. "Next I'll be treated to the sight of smoke escaping your flared nostrils."

  "Why don't you close that intemperate mouth of yours for a change?" Momentarily, Aimée was stunned by her own insolence, but she continued giddily. "First you play me for a fool in the woods, letting me go on the way I did about the king, laughing at me while you enjoyed your smug little secret. Then you had the audacity to force your intimate attentions on me even though I had made it clear that I was thoroughly repelled by you! Not the behavior of a gentleman, monseigneur!" She paused to catch her breath, further infuriated by St. Briac's obvious delight in her tirade.

  "Please, don't stop," he begged with a grin.

  "I assure you that I am not finished. As a matter of fact, I could go on all night!"

  "I'm not certain I care to hear quite that much," he amended, eyes twinkling.

  She wanted to shriek with frustration. "As if your behavior in the woods today was not bad enough, you have certainly added insult to injury tonight. Obviously, my looks are so repulsive that I am surprised you can bear to look upon me!"

  "I try to be charitable," he murmured humbly. "I have even gone so far as to offer companionship to a fellow afflicted with one of the largest noses in France."

  Aimée gritted her teeth. She felt a nearly uncontrollable yearning to smash the nearest pitcher of wine over the head of this jackass. St. Briac meanwhile sensed that the game had gone on long enough.

  "Mademoiselle, before you do me physical injury, allow me to beg your pardon. I have only meant to tease, not insult you. In truth, you are such a pleasure to converse with in comparison to most of the ladies of the court that I fear I've indulged in that delight overmuch."

  Once again he had caught her unawares, neatly deflating her anger. "I, well, that does not excuse your rudeness," she replied lamely.

  St. Briac's gaze held Aimée captive as he told her softly, "I am contrite. Can I make amends by insisting that in truth you are the most exquisite lady here tonight?"

  Torn between shyness and outrage at what she felt must be a lie, Aimée replied clearly, "I have no need for compliments born of pity, monseigneur."

  Tanned fingers lifted her chin. "Mademoiselle, you must believe that pity is one emotion that stirs not at all within me when I am near you."

  Aimée saw more in the gleaming depths of his eyes than she could comprehend. She considered the revelation that he was the seigneur de St. Briac, lord of one of the most charming villages in the Loire valley. Only a year ago, en route to visit her aunt in Brittany, she and her family had passed through St. Briac, and Aimée could recall clearly the enchanting chateau perched above the town. She remembered wondering what sort of person might inhabit its artful white towers.

  A hand slid around Aimée's waist, rousing her. "Let us call a truce by sharing a plate of food," St. Briac was saying gently. "I will find a bench where we can sit out of His Majesty's sight."

  She looked up and her heart melted. What power did the man possess? "I don't know," Aimée murmured doubtfully. "I suspect that you've caused me to lose my appetite." In an effort to repress a smile, she averted her eyes and glimpsed Armand Rovicette across the room. The man was older than her father, with thinning gray hair and a belly that bespoke his affluence. Shuddering inwardly at the thought of enduring his company, Aimée gave St. Briac a vivacious smile. "On second thought, perhaps I am ready for some of that delicious food... and a truce between us."

  After arranging a dish of fruit, asparagus, ortolan, cheese, and chunks of lamb, they took refuge on a cozy bench built into the far corner of the room.

  "Ah, miette, alone at last."

  Aimée nibbled at a plump strawberry and surveyed St. Briac with what she hoped was casual detachment. Seated so close that she could feel the muscles of his thigh through her velvet skirt, Aimée realized that he made two of her. His doublet of amber velvet, slashed to reveal puffs of gold, was rich yet cleanly cut. Matching haut-de-chausses snugly outlined long, hard thighs and met plain gold garters below St. Briac's knees. Most of the men present wore fancy striped hose, but his were a soft, simple brown. Apparently disdaining the current fashion of copious jewelry, he wore a single gold chain around his neck from which hung a square-cut emerald, and only two rings: a gold one engraved with his crest on one hand and a round sapphire on the other. Slowly Aimée raised her eyes to the snowy pleated fraise that emphasized the bronzed strength of St. Briac's neck; then she looked higher to find him staring at her.

  "You have a way with a strawberry." His smile was at once lazy and wicked.

  Nervously, Aimée licked the juice from her lips and reached for a piece of lamb—safer fare, she hoped. "I am wondering how someone like you came to know our illustrious monarch."

  Amused by her implied derision toward both Francois and himself, St. Briac bit back a grin. "I grew up with the king. I spent large periods of my youth as one of his companions at Amboise. He is like a brother to me."

  Aimée arched a delicate brow. "I have heard of you men who profess to love King Francois better than your own lives. You defer to his every whim, follow him like trained dogs, and reinforce his already considerable vanity with incessant flattery."

  Momentarily speechless, St. Briac thought that this was the most outrageous female he had ever met. "Mademoiselle, you wound me. Do you imagine that I am such a man?"

  "Well, the conclusion is obvious. If you possessed an independent character, you would have better things to do than languish here at the beck and call of the king."

  He bent his head, pressing long fingers to closed eyes, and his shoulders shook with laughter. At length he looked up and managed to whisper, "Aimée, I find your unguarded tongue a source of great delight, but I must advise you to sheath it in the presence of other members of the court. If you do not, the consequences could be painful for you."

  She tossed her head, golden crispinette sparkling in the candlelight.

  "As for your observation about the king's Gentlemen of the Chamber," he went on, "I must agree to some extent. But you see, I a
m not part of that exclusive group. I do not live to win the favor of Francois. He is my friend; that is the extent of my obligation to him."

  "And I suppose that if he chose to appoint you an admiral or governor or to reward your devotion with a duchy, you would refuse?" Aimée asked with sweet sarcasm.

  "I already have, miette," came St. Briac's even reply.

  She blinked. "Why?"

  "I prefer to rule my own life. I have more than enough to occupy my time and talents, such as they are, looking after my chateau and the people of my village. I cannot neglect them." He paused to select a piece of melon. "Also, my friendship with the king is easier without those complications. He knows that my reasons for sharing his company have nothing to do with his crown."

  Watching as St. Briac bit into the melon, Aimée sensed his tension and wondered why he had not turned her questions aside with a laugh and a jest. Unable to help herself, she pressed further, inquiring softly, "Would you have me believe that you do not enjoy your life at court?"

  His smile was ironic, even a trifle sad, Aimée thought. "Minimally, mademoiselle. In my opinion there is so much glitter and pageantry that there is little time left for life's simpler pleasures. Intricate affairs of state and court intrigue hold no allure for me."

  "And what of all the beautiful ladies?"

  St. Briac flashed a grin. "I did not say that I disliked all aspects of court life! Fortunately, my friendship with the king is not the only redeeming feature."

  Conscious of an unfamiliar sharp sensation in her breast, Aimée gestured toward a woman who stood across the room beside Francois. Her own sister appeared to be vying for attention at his other elbow. "Is she one of the redeeming features?"

  St. Briac glanced over at Anne de Pisselieu d'Heilly. "For the king, perhaps." He smiled. "Not for me."

  Aimée stared wonderingly at Francois's mistress. She was slim and blue-eyed, with curly blond hair and a proud bearing. Her countenance hinted at intelligence, which was not surprising, but the lady was certainly no more beautiful than many others present, Honorine for example. What made her first in the king's heart?