The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(75)

“Oh,” she muttered, flushing. He ran a finger along the single lace, tied spiral-fashion, that held her gown, untied it so he could loosen her bodice. Then, just as slowly, he undid the strings at the neck of the chemise beneath, and now she was finding it hard to breathe.

Orléans added, “They both know that duty alone is a bitter cup. More now, since the two of them have fallen in love. And they love you.”

“How I am to see them married, I’ve no notion; the sieur de Ch?teaubriant is going to be—”

“Hush. I am wholly indifferent to the sentiments of Ch?teaubriant just at present.”

He pushed bodice and chemise off her shoulders, pulled her to him again, let his mouth drift over hers. He was being careful, testing her reactions.

She moved restlessly in his lap and bit his lip, felt his hand close tight in her hair. Her chemise had half-fallen, now he cupped a breast in his hand as though to learn the weight of it, his fingers dark against the linen and pristine skin. She pressed herself against him.

“Wanton,” he said, and pushed the linen down so that her breast was bare and rosy in the firelight. He was unbearably tense beneath her.

Blushing, breathless, she marshaled her wits. “Am I? Better than weeping at our separate dooms. That is nice.”

“I should hope so. You weren’t made for grand tragedy.” His eyes were on her face and he smiled a little when his thumb moved, and she gasped into his throat. “You will find ways to be happy.”

It was perhaps true. But his arm round her back was possessive, and when he bent his head and took her breast in his mouth, that was possessive too. “Oh,” she said.

He paused. “Just ‘Oh’? You who never stop talking—”

But she lifted her breast to him in offering, and he didn’t finish his sentence. The dark of his eyes had swallowed all the rest and his hands and mouth returned to her skin, drove her remorselessly now, right to the edge of madness. She was still crosswise in his arms. He drew back a little, leaned his forehead against hers, both of them panting. He kissed her and resettled her in the curve of his arm, reached and cupped her foot in his free hand, closed it round her ankle, beneath her hem. She stiffened, incoherent with want but only half understanding. He waited.

“I don’t—” she started, and then stopped.

“Trust me, Anne?” he said, and in his voice, for the first time, was a note of pleading.

“All right,” she whispered. Some of the stiffness left her and she let his fingers glide to her knee, to the ties of her stockings, and higher still to tease at her inner thigh and, more delicately still, to the hollow place between, and he put his palm there the way he had on her breast, and they both stared at each other, ferociously intent.

His touch was almost too light to feel, his fingers snagging on the sensitive skin there, his breath deep and slow now, against her neck. “I don’t know what you want,” she admitted.

“No?” he whispered. “Then I shall have this of you; is that greedy of me, love?”

She could hardly think. But as he touched her, he talked to her, his voice as insistent as his hand. “Is that good—and that? There? There, then. Come, will you part your legs for me? More. There—” His voice was fraying, just as her breathing did, as he found the center of her, and dipped his fingers, slid them down and back up again, as though he could draw the knots of longing and dread together and break them. Something was climbing in her flesh, some great nameless thing, nearer and nearer, and then it was upon her, and she cried out as the tension broke, and she clung to him, wet silk against his hand.

She drifted for a moment, and when she came to, he was playing with her breasts, still bare above the neck of her gown, and she arched back involuntarily into his hands, wondering if she had made a mistake. For he had lit a fire in her and also slaked it, but she would crave it again. She did not know now how she could pretend that her body was not her own, but only barter for her realm’s need. She closed her eyes and savored his touch, then pulled his mouth down to hers again.

Finally his hand fell away, although he watched her still: breasts and throat and lips and eyes. She said, her voice hoarse, “I will carry that like a brand. I think you knew it.”

He said, “Not for us the bloodless self-sacrifice, I fear. You will remember me. I will look in your eyes and see you remembering. And I also will remember.”

“Yes.”

Breathless he sounded, and rueful. “Do you regret it?”

“No,” said Anne. “But I—I don’t—I don’t know how to please you. As you did me.” She said it with determined composure, but she knew he could see her flush.

“Praise God,” said Louis dryly. “For you have driven me near enough to madness as it is, my dragon-tamer, my unicorn-hunter.”

He kissed her one last time before he set her on her feet and steadied her. The coiled tension had not left his body, but his voice was composed again, creating a little necessary distance. “I need a horse,” he said, “if I am to joust for you. My Kestrel is still in Nantes.”

She looked up. “Of course. And you may ride with my favor if you ask, but it will not make France more likely to forgive you.”

“I am not asking their forgiveness. Brittany is not France. Nor was Orléans, nor Burgundy. The old king and Marguerite his daughter seized them because they could. The world understands only strength, and your father and I were not strong enough. And now you must try to buy strength elsewhere that I cannot give you, and the coin is your flesh and your inheritance. Do you wonder that I am angry?” His studied calm had frayed. His mouth almost touched hers, close enough that she could whisper a truth of her own into the space between them.