She opened her mouth to give him whatever answer she could find, but he stopped her lips with a fiery, open-mouthed kiss. She wanted to say no, but she wanted him more, his warm gaze, his flattery, his praise. She knew in her head he offered her words to seduce, but she could not stem the desire for a man’s touch—especially this king.
His fingers slid down between her full breasts and to her own amazement she arched up against him. His other hand descended between her back and the wall and cupped itself firmly against her derriere through the voluminous folds of her skirts. Her eyes shot open. She could feel the sudden stab of his codpiece against her thigh as he leaned into her. A man’s deepest affections she desired, but...but this was no lovestruck Rene de Brosse in the hedges. This was Francois of France. Fear welled up suddenly.
“Please, Your Grace, please, no.”
He gazed down at her, and one dark brow arched. “Afraid, cherie? I should have called you my Diana and not my Venus, is it not true, little virgin?”
She tried to pull gently away, but she was trapped by his strong body. “You are still virgin, are you not, Marie?”
“Yes, my king.”
“Then I shall be very gentle for now. Where better to learn the arts of love but from your king?”
He half swept, half carried her to the narrow bed with its one huge padded bolster. She thought he would lay her down, but he put her on her feet, turned her away, and began to unlace the back of her gown.
“I have thought much of you since the English banquet at the Bastille, my beauty. Everyone saw what a splendid pair we were, I so dark and you so radiant fair.”
And what of your mistress, Francoise? a strange voice in her head demanded. I will be for your pleasure on only this afternoon and then you will return to her?
“Let me, Marie,” he said low. In one tug, he pulled her dress and chemise from her. She tried to step back but nearly tripped in the folds of her skirts as his hands held her waist firmly.
“You must trust me, my beauty. Trust me. Close your eyes and trust your Francois.”
He pushed her back on the bed and began to shed his garments. She wished that he would just caress and care for her, love her, and not have to do this. But surely it would be worth whatever came to have his love.
He leaned close over her, then lay beside her. Everything went faster. The room spun. Her body seemed not her own. She tried to cling to what was calm and real, but could only cling to him. Dizzy, swept away, at the last moment, she wished she could run far away.
“Ah,” he said when it was all over and he finally lifted his weight from her, “I have not had a virgin since Claude.” Laughing as he rose, he retrieved his breeks and donned them. She suddenly felt cold, alone, deserted. She watched, wide-eyed, as he tucked in his wrinkled shirt. “No, lie still, sweet,” he ordered when she made a move to rise. “I will send someone to care for you and get you dressed.”
He patted her bare flank, then leaned over her again until they heard a sharp knock on the door. He stood as Mary sat bolt upright. Panicked, she reached off the bed for the petticoat to cover herself.
Francois strode to the door and held up his hand to her for silence. “What is it?”
“Your Grace, you bid us inform you if the Master Leonardo’s condition worsened. Pardon, Sire, but he hovers at death’s door and would see Your Grace.”
“I will go immediately. Wait there. No, go fetch me the wench Isabelle first.
“I wish I could keep Master da Vinci here longer,” he said almost to himself as he jammed his feet into his shoes. “I have need of him.” He threw on his dark velvet cloak. “I meant not to leave you so suddenly, Marie,” he said as he reached for the door latch, “but Isabelle will tend to you, and Monsieur Fragonard will see you safely back to your quarters. He awaits there.”
He motioned toward the other door through which she had entered. “Have Isabelle tidy your coif,” he said, sounding impatient now. Yet he approached her, sitting with her petticoat covering her from breasts to knees. He yanked it away, and his eyes went thoroughly over her again.
“Remember me, Marie. I wish I were coming back for more sweets as soon as Isabelle tends to you. I will send for you soon, golden Marie.” He turned away, yanked the door open and was gone.
For a moment she lay back, staring, stunned, at the painted ceiling, then scrambled up and draped the petticoat over herself again. Poor Signor da Vinci lay dying. What would the kind old man think of this if he knew? And Jeanne, Annie, Claude, the whole court? Dearest saints in heaven, what would father say?
Isabelle knocked once and entered with towels and water, her eyes uncurious, her hands quick and sure. As she helped her dress, fear raged in Mary’s thoughts. If the pious queen found out, she would disown her. Father would be ashamed and angry. But if she were to anger Francois with her refusals, what then? Before it all came out, she had to tell her father. If he discovered it later, it would be as his anger against Mary Tudor when she went behind his back to wed the Duke. Or would Francois stand against her father for her?