“Patient!” muttered Henri.
The bells rang for Vespers, and they all startled at the lateness of the hour. “Isabeau, get you to bed,” said Anne with finality, putting the letter aside. “There’s no more to be done tonight.”
Slowly, the room emptied. Henri heaved himself to his feet in Madeleine’s wake, but his eyes slid sideways just briefly to Orléans, who was still staring into the fire. Then he stalked out as well.
Formally, even stiffly, Anne said to Louis, “If this is a trap, there is no reason for you to be caught in it. You’ve done all that friendship could do for me. If you leave tonight, I think a way out could be found; it is not a close siege.”Not yet,she didn’t add.
His eyes flicked to hers. “No reason at all?”
“No sensible reason,” Anne amended.
“No,” he agreed mildly. “No sensible reason.” She was standing behind his chair, her hands on its carved and smoke-darkened wood. Meditatively, he said, “I did tell myself I would make common sense my watchword, after the battle at Saint-Aubin.”
“I am married.” She didn’t know why she said it. He didn’t turn.
“As am I. My wife has never let me into her bed, and you have never met your husband. And he is still in love with a ghost.”
Anne stepped carefully around the chair and stood before him. He tipped his head back. She let herself slip to the ground as Isabeau liked to do, where the rug was warm and thick, flecked with cinder-marks, and then she leaned her head against the arm of his chair.
She felt his hand move, felt him hesitate. Then she closed her eyes as his fingers slipped lightly through her hair. She had not had it plaited up again after Madeleine finished combing. The fire crackled and popped softly to itself.
Anne shook his hand loose, rose onto her knees, and turned to face him. She was almost between his knees, their eyes on a level.
His face changed. She flushed, imagining what she must look like. Her hair seemed to be everywhere: in his lap, clinging to her face, falling over the bodice and sleeves of her gown. The smell of perfumed oil drifted in the shrinking space between them.
“What’s in your hair?” he asked her low.
“Myrrh.”
He leaned forward, lifted a stray length of it, and pushed it back from her shoulder. His fingers grazed her collarbone. “Anne—”
She put her mouth on his.
She’d imagined how it would be, wakeful in bed, and sometimes in quiet moments, walking through Rennes or in long, tedious councils.How warm it was, to be so near someone else, how it burned to touch. His knowing eyes and knowing hands, the calluses of rein and sword-hilt. How he’d taken the sacrifice upon himself, a gift she had never wanted because she’d never been able to imagine it.
But now he was tense, hardly breathing under her hands.
She drew away at once, biting her lip, embarrassed. Hurriedly, she climbed to her feet. “I am sorry. I— You must be tired, chambers can be found for you, I—”
He stood when she did; now he stared at her as though trying to read her face. Then he half-laughed, incredulously. “Can you think I do not want you? Anne?”
“Do you?” She had fetched up against the tapestried wall, beside the fireplace, andnowshe could hear the effort he made, controlling his breath. His eyes were on her face, his hands open as though he did not know what to do with them.
“Yes.”
“Then why—?”
“I was surprised.”
“Do you want to go?”
“No.”
Only then did she remember that she was being unbearably foolish. “Then— But— I am— I cannot— I must be a virgin still.” It was part of her worth, it would factor into her marriage-contract. To touch him at all had been the work of an unwise impulse. Again, she was embarrassed.
“I know. I—” He stopped, considering her. Perhaps he realized how longing in her was mixed up with wariness, how her life had taught her many things, but not this one. “I know,” he said again, more gently. “But it’s all right. If you will trust me?”
Unspoken between them was the knowledge that they might never in all their lives be alone like this. And yet therewasthis moment, here and now, sparkling like sugar stirred into wine.
