“I have foresworn the gentleman.” My voice cracks. “You have my solemn oath.”
“Then finish what you have begun and give your love to me.” Leaning closer, he takes a slow, deep breath, and I shiver, knowing he inhales my scent as a hound would the aroma of his prey. “Think careful before you answer, Margot.” His lips are so near my ear that I can feel them moving. Truly I am as a cornered animal, and my heart races accordingly. “This is your second chance; there will not be a third. Say no and make a sworn enemy of one who stands ready to adore you.” His lips touch the place where my ear meets my face. The kiss is tender, and chaste, but I know the kisses that will follow, should I offer any encouragement, will be far from innocent. I force myself not to move—not until I’ve come to a decision.
My brother will make a dangerous enemy. He is unscrupulous. His power with Mother is vast. During these weeks of recovery I have tasted his rancor. The thought of months or even years of such treatment makes me feel hopeless and exhausted. I do not know that I have either the courage or the strength for a prolonged struggle with Anjou.
If I give myself over to him, my horrible sin cloaked by the gathering dusk, what will I gain? Peace with Anjou; a restoration to Her Majesty’s good grace; and, as my brother guards his possessions jealously, protection from Guast. These are not insubstantial benefits.
“I am waiting,” he whispers.
I hope God is looking elsewhere. Turning my face to my brother, I take his hand and put it upon my breast. He needs no further urging. His mouth closes on mine and for the second time I feel his tongue slide between my lips. Bile rises in my throat but I swallow it down determinedly. The hand that was on my breast travels upward, unties the neckline of my shift, then slips inside, making first contact with my bare flesh. I feel panic very like that I felt in the garden at Plessis-les-Tours. It takes all my self-control not to scream. Using his free hand, my brother yanks the pillow from behind me so that I fall back flat against my bed. He lies beside me.
“Oh, Margot,” he murmurs, kissing my collarbone, “tell me that you love me.”
Forcing myself to put a hand into his hair, I focus my eyes on a seam in my tent. “I do.” The words sound choked, and I pray Anjou thinks they are so as a result of passion, not fear and disgust.
A hand runs along my thighs where I have pressed them together. I begin to pray, though I do not know what I am praying for, and though I am certainly not worthy of God’s attention in this moment. Miraculously, Anjou’s hands are gone from my body. Perhaps he is satisfied. Perhaps my ordeal is at an end. The thought is barely formed when my brother opens the neck of my shift wider to reveal both my breasts. “So perfect. So white,” he murmurs in obvious delight. “Like Venus. That is what you are, goddess of love. My own goddess.”
His mouth grazes the flesh of the breast nearest him. His hand returns to my legs, trying to push between them. I am drowning in my own terror. I know that I should open my thighs, but I cannot. I am desperate to keep my brother’s hand out, as desperate as the citizens of Saint-Jean-d’Angley are to keep him from their city.
“Do not be afraid,” Anjou croons. “I mean to give you pleasure. All the pleasure that a goddess deserves.”
I try to focus on the burdens that will be lifted once I capitulate. I manage to relax my muscles slightly.
“That’s right,” Anjou urges, slipping his hand between my legs and running it upward until it comes to rest against my crotch. “The first time is the hardest. Soon you will spread your knees willingly, I promise. And I will make you sing my praises even as I sing yours.”
The first time! Suddenly it dawns upon me that this coupling—such an abomination to all that is holy—will not be a one-time event. Letting my brother take my maidenhead will bring peace, but to keep that peace I will be forced to lie with him again and again. My sin will be perpetual until he tires of making me a sinner. Here is a thing worse than anything I can imagine—worse than death; certainly worse than loss of the Queen’s favor or my brother’s enduring enmity.
“No!” I cry out. I grasp the hand that would violate me and wrench it from me.
Anjou laughs, as if my struggle were a game. Plucking his arm from my grasp, he wraps it around me and pulls me against him. “I can be patient,” he says. He moves in to kiss me and I bite his lip. I can taste blood. I know by his cry of pain and surprise that it is his. He releases me to put his hand to his injured lips and I use the moment to my advantage, shoving him as hard as I can. He falls off my cot and lands with a satisfying thud on the floor.