Wed to a Spy Read online

  “Ah, Aimee, ma chérie,” Mary said. Her French accent had softened somewhat, and every so often Aimee could detect the influence of the Scots in her speech. “Come, ma petite.” She held her hand out for Aimee. The Maries parted, allowing her a path to the queen, but they kept wary eyes on her. “How are you faring? Are you becoming accustomed to this weather?”

  Despite herself, Aimee shivered. “I fear that will never happen, Your Majesty.”

  Mary laughed. When she laughed, heads turned, because the sound was musical and inviting and because all the couriers wanted to see who had been lucky enough to elicit the laugh. For a moment Aimee basked in the queen’s presence. Mary had a way about her that drew people to her. Everyone loved Mary. Even her enemies could find no fault with her personality, despite their disagreements regarding her politics.

  Mary searched the crowd, looking for someone, while still holding Aimee’s hand. “Ah, there he is.” She motioned with her other hand for the person in her sights to approach. Aimee, being slight of stature, could not see who was approaching, but witnessed the surrounding groups shifting to make way.

  It turned out to be a very large man, broad-shouldered, his chest like a wall separating her from the rest of the crowd. He wore courtly clothes, navy velvet that fit his wide frame well.

  “Sir Simon Marcheford, may I introduce Lady Aimee de Verris.”

  For a moment Aimee was speechless. She had assumed, when Mary summoned Sir Simon to her side, that the queen had business with him. She’d certainly not expected an introduction.

  Simon looked down at Aimee and grinned. The first thing she noticed was that he had nice teeth—straight and white. Eyes the color of chocolate but flecked with gold that mirrored the gold in his hair. Mary had a lion house on the grounds, and he reminded Aimee of those lions. Powerful but not so much that you didn’t want to cuddle with him.

  “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady,” he said to her.

  Aimee’s hand, still in Mary’s, jerked. He was English!

  “Sir Simon comes to my court through King Philip of Spain,” Mary said. “He was faithfully serving Philip by personally bringing me a message from the king. Even when he was shipwrecked off the northern coast of England, he still managed to find his way to us.”

  “How horrible that your ship was wrecked, Sir Simon. I trust that you were not injured,” Aimee said, falling back on her years of training in courtly manners, when all she wanted to do was look at him. She’d never seen anyone so big before.

  “Not at all, my lady. Just a bit waterlogged. It all worked itself out in the end.”

  “That is good,” she murmured. Why in the world had Mary found the need to introduce them? She’d purposefully gone out of her way to call Sir Simon over for an introduction to Aimee, and that made Aimee nervous.

  Mary took Aimee’s hand and, to Aimee’s horror, placed it on Simon’s arm. “I thought the two of you would get along well. I just had a feeling about this.” Her laugh tinkled around the room, causing more heads to turn. Aimee was mortified at the obvious matchmaking attempt. She wanted to snatch her hand away but feared offending the queen and Sir Simon.

  Sir Simon placed his hand over hers, warming her cold fingers almost immediately, and smiled down on her. The velvet of his coat was warm from his body heat. Having been cold since the moment she stepped onto Scottish soil, Aimee had a desire to move closer but thankfully checked herself.

  “I think that is a wonderful idea, Your Majesty.” He tilted his head at Aimee. “Shall we?”

  Tongue-tied, she nodded and found herself being led through the crowd to the outer edges of the Presence Chamber.

  “That was quite transparent of the queen,” Sir Simon said once they were away from the bulk of the crowd.

  Aimee swallowed and nodded again. Simon looked down at her, but Aimee could not make herself look up at him. He was like a moving boulder, heavily muscled yet graceful at the same time. The queen was a tall woman, taller than most men, but this man had towered over even her.

  Simon steered them toward a window. Aimee stared through the red-painted lead bars and out the paned glass but did not see anything beyond that. Simon moved until he was in her peripheral vision. The silence between them stretched until she felt she had no choice but to look at him before things became even more awkward.

  “How long have you been in Scotland?” he asked in his English accent.

  “A few months.”

  “It’s difficult becoming accustomed to the colder climate. It’s a wet sort of cold that can be miserable.”

  “I’ve yet to get warm.”

  “I’ve been to France,” he said. “A beautiful country. Warm, too.”

  His kind words touched a note of homesickness inside her. “Beautiful and warm. I would agree with that.”

  “Why are you here?” he asked, then laughed. “Pardon my uncultured way of speaking. What I mean is that I can tell you miss France terribly. Why come to Scotland when it is clear you want to be in France?”

  “I was sent here by Lady Catherine.” That was all she would say on the topic. She could not tell him about her promise to Catherine or about Pierre.

  “Ah. Catherine de Medici.”

  Aimee’s head jerked up. “Do you know her?”

  “I know of her. We’ve never had occasion to meet.”

  “She is my aunt. My mother is her sister.”

  “Said by rote with no warmth for Catherine.”

  Her eyes widened at his bold statement. Even if it was the truth, it was rude to say, and she was embarrassed that she’d let her personal thoughts show through so transparently.

  Sir Simon merely chuckled. “You don’t hide your feelings well, Magpie.”

  “Magpie?”

  “A small bird. They are different colors, but you put me in mind of the black-and-white ones, with your black hair and pale skin. The contrast is very startling and beautiful.”

  “That’s very forward of you.”

  He shrugged his enormous shoulders. “You’ll find that I say what I mean and mean what I say. But if you don’t like me calling you Magpie, then I will call you my lady.”

  “You may call me Aimee.”

  He grinned, his white teeth flashing and his golden eyes dancing. “And you may call me Simon.”

  She felt a pull toward him, an attraction that was not welcome. She must think of Pierre. Pierre, who had promised to remain faithful to her. She had promised as well, knowing that it was not a false promise, for Pierre was the only man for her.

  “That seems a bit too intimate,” she said.

  “You will not call me Simon, but yet I can call you Aimee? That hardly seems fair.”

  “I just meant…” She had no idea what she meant.

  “Will you walk with me through the gardens tomorrow?”

  She frowned. “Tomorrow?”

  “I’d thought to ask you to go tonight, but if calling each other by our given names is too forward, then a walk through the dark gardens at night would be positively scandalous.”

  Tonight? He’d wanted to walk with her in the gardens tonight? That would have been completely scandalous. Many of the courtiers did so, and the girls whispered and giggled about the things that went on in the gardens, but Aimee wanted none of that. She was promised—albeit secretly—to Pierre.

  “What I meant,” she said, “was that I had not thought about extending our acquaintance beyond tonight. I was not thinking of tomorrow.”

  He put his hand to his heart, but his smile was mischievous. “You wound me, my lady. I mean nothing to you?”

  “No. Not at all. It’s just that I wasn’t thinking beyond this conversation.”

  He laughed, a rich, deep sound that rumbled through his chest. “You certainly know how to unman a man, Aimee-Magpie. I will call on you tomorrow, and we will continue this engaging conversation.”

  Chapter 3

  After her encounter with Sir Simon, Aimee practically ran to her room,
then leaned against the closed door as if someone had been chasing her. No one had been, of course. It was silly even to think so.

  She made her way to the escritoire, pulled out the letter to Pierre, and read it to herself. She wanted to add more, such as Mary introducing her to an Englishman and how forward he had been. Pierre would be outraged. He would want to confront Sir Simon. No man should call a woman he had just met by a pet name.

  Magpie. What a ridiculous name. He’d referred to her as a bird.

  But as much as she wanted to tell Pierre all about Simon, she refrained from doing so. She didn’t want to worry Pierre, and she didn’t want to come across as so weak that she could not handle herself. Besides, Simon was no threat to Pierre, and she didn’t want Pierre to worry that he was.

  She put the letter away and thought about what she would write to Catherine. She’d learned nothing tonight. Nothing of importance that Catherine would be interested in, at least. She was beginning to worry, because a French ship was due in port within the next week, and Catherine would expect a letter from her. Aimee rubbed her arms and stood close to the fire.

  Hannah arrived and helped Aimee undress and get her into her nightclothes. Aimee lay in bed shivering, her feet like blocks of ice, as she tried to fight the tears that threatened to fall. She missed Pierre and her beloved France so much. She despised Scotland and its chilly climate and the Scottish court that was no more than a poor imitation of the court at Fontainebleau.

  But it was Simon and his wide shoulders and warm hands that she thought about as she drifted off to sleep.

  —

  Simon tipped his chair back and took a drink of beer. The fire was warm against his face, and his innards were warm from the drink. Beside him, Tristan stared contemplatively into the flames while Will leaned against the wall of the print shop, a mug of beer in his hand.

  “There are rumors that Rizzio will be murdered,” Will said, referring to Queen Mary’s adviser, a short little Italian man whom Mary trusted like no other. “It seems the lords are weary of his control over the queen and feel he has far too much power.”

  “There’s always one rumor or another regarding murder of someone close to the monarchy,” Tristan said.

  “I think there might be some truth to this one,” Will said. “The rumblings are coming from all corners.”

  “Have you sent a message to Elizabeth?” Simon asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “I saw that Rowland chap,” Will said. “He’s become very close to the king.”

  “He’s one to watch out for,” Simon said. “I’m not sure how he managed to ingratiate himself with the king so quickly.”

  The story Simon had told Aimee of the shipwreck had not been a false one. Simon had gone to Spain at Elizabeth’s command to find out more about a Catholic alliance that Mary had been making noises about. Simon had introduced himself as a displaced Englishman on a tour of the continent. He had always been adept at making friends. People seemed to trust him, and he used that ability in his work as Elizabeth’s spy. It was no different with Philip. Once he’d discovered that he and Philip had a mutual fondness for chess, he’d been able to ingratiate himself into the king’s inner circle.

  So it had not been surprising when Philip asked Simon to go to Scotland to deliver a message to Mary. Simon was disappointed, however, when he learned that Philip was being extra-cautious by tasking Simon with carrying a large sum of money to Mary. Simon had no idea what it was for, as another emissary was to carry the king’s written message to Mary. Simon, Will, and Tristan speculated that this Rowland, a displaced Englishman who had also been on the ill-fated ship, had carried the second part of the message.

  The ship had been wrecked off the coast of Northumberland and the money had been lost. Simon had made his way to Mary’s court, where he was warmly accepted as Philip’s emissary, and here he had stayed for several months, a second pair of eyes and ears in Mary’s court.

  Rowland had also made his way to court and into the good graces of Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, King of Scotland. The three English spies kept a close eye on Rowland and his unfolding friendship with Darnley.

  “I saw you with the French chit,” Will said. “What’s her name?”

  “Aimee de Verris,” Simon said, thinking of the dark-haired, pale-skinned waif who reminded him so much of the magpie that he had called her. She’d been surprised and irritated at his informality, which only made him want to do it more.

  “I saw Queen Mary introduce you,” Will said. “What do you think her purpose was in that?”

  “She said she thought we would suit. She was wrong.”

  Tristan laughed. “I am so pleased that I am not caught up in all of the court dealings. I don’t know how you two do it.”

  “Why was she wrong?” Will asked.

  “Aimee de Verris wants nothing to do with me and only tolerated my presence so as not to offend the queen. I asked her to walk in the gardens with me tomorrow just to poke at her a bit more.” That wasn’t entirely the truth. He’d been intrigued by her. She seemed both naive and cunning at the same time. And there was no doubt that she was beautiful. Not that beauty made a person good or bad. Simon was old enough to know that beauty meant nothing compared to a person’s soul.

  “Mary does nothing without reason,” Will warned.

  Simon shrugged and took another swig of beer. “If it’s matchmaking she’s after, then she will be disappointed. I’m not in the market for a wife—especially a French wife who hates Scotland and would probably hate England as well.”

  Nevertheless, he found himself calling on Aimee at her quarters in the far reaches of Holyrood Palace late the next morning. Her maid opened the door to him, and he asked for Aimee. With a pinched expression, the maid looked her mistress over critically as Aimee stepped through the threshold and into the corridor.

  She was wearing a very fine gown made of the dearest, heaviest velvet in an unfortunate color that was not quite yellow and not quite brown. It made her complexion sallow, and he wondered if the choice of color was deliberate. He knew women enough to know that they chose their gowns like warriors chose their suits of armor. Nothing was left to chance, and to judge by the look in her maid’s eyes, he had to assume that the unfortunate-colored gown was a premeditated choice.

  He had to hide his amusement from her. No one could be attractive in that color, and Lady Aimee de Verris knew it.

  Yet when they stepped outside, it was an unusually sunny March day, and the sun’s rays bounced off her hair in sharp blue bursts, making him forget the ugly color of her gown and concentrate on her beautiful hair and eyes.

  “Shall we see the lions?” he asked, referring to Queen Mary’s lion house, which held a menagerie of several animals, including the majestic lions.

  Aimee shuddered and shook her head.

  “You don’t enjoy the lions?”

  “I find them sad.”

  “They’re well taken care of.”

  “How would you like to live your life in a cage?”

  “So you believe they should be let loose?”

  “Not in Scotland, of course. That would be disastrous. But, yes, they should be let loose in the country they are from. They would be happier, I’m sure.”

  “Is that what you want?” He offered her his arm, and she reluctantly took it. The sun did nothing for the gown, but Simon was able to look past it to the woman beneath. She was slight and short, but she had a waist that dipped alluringly inward, then flared to enticing hips and upward to very full breasts. Her décolletage was just as pale and creamy as the rest of her skin. She’d donned a heavy fur-lined cape that was a pretty brown, but she was still shivering.

  She raised an inquiring brow to him. Her brows were a startling contrast of black slashes against white skin. “What do you mean, is that what I want? To be let loose with the lions?”

  “To be let loose in the country you came from? Do you want to return to France?”

  “Of course I
do. France is my home.”

  “Then why did you come to Scotland? I know you said you were sent here by Catherine, but surely you can return home if you are so miserable.”

  She hesitated, and Simon’s senses were instantly on alert. She was hiding something. Every one of his instincts told him so. What could someone like Aimee de Verris be hiding?

  “Catherine wants me here.”

  “And you do everything Catherine asks?”

  She laughed, and he was startled by the light, carefree sound. She was a woman who did not seem carefree. The weight of the world clearly rested heavily on those slight shoulders.

  “Everyone does everything Catherine asks,” she said bitterly. Catherine de Medici was the wife of the deceased King Henry of France and the mother of the deceased King Francis of France—Mary’s first husband—and the current King Charles IX of France. She was a formidable woman and the strong hand behind all three rulers.

  “But you would rather be in France,” he said, pushing where he knew she did not want to go.

  “Oh, yes,” she breathed in a surprising and refreshing show of honesty.

  “You wear your heart on your sleeve, Magpie. That’s not necessarily a good trait in the court of a monarch. People will use it against you.”

  Her back went rigid, and the hand resting on his arm flexed. “I have more or less grown up in the French court. I am well aware of what it takes to survive in such circumstances.”

  “More or less? When did you come to Catherine’s court?”

  “Many years ago. My mother is Catherine’s sister and sent me to her to make a good marriage.” It was the reason most noble girls were sent to court. Court was where the rich, titled men were, and every mama wanted a rich, titled man for her daughter.