CHAPTER ONE
Reception given by Charles VI, King of France, in honor of the English Delegation of Henry V.
Vivi heard a sound and froze. Had someone followed her into the night-shaded gardens? She turned swiftly, ready to retreat back up the shadowed stair, if necessary. Her heart hit against her chest, a frantic bird beating its wings.
She waited, the hushed night around her.
Could she have imagined the footfalls? Night does strange things, she told herself.
The gardens of the Hotel Saint Pol lay under a pall of darkness.
Obviously, the king, or his Burgundian puppet masters, deemed the occasion too somber to merit flaming torches and peacocks.
Guests had not been encouraged to venture out onto the ornate balconies or explore the seductive parterres.
Such discouragement gave Vivi enough reason to adventure out. The very patina of daring. Delicious.
The uncertainty alone she found exhilarating.
Clinging to the curving balustrade, she inched her way forward, alert, wary of the surrounding dark. There was just enough fitful moonlight to make out shapes, grey shades against the general blackness.
Lovers, or would-be lovers, Vivi corrected, needed no light. Feel and touch were their fitting currency. To be caught trysting in the pleasure gardens would be the ultimate scandal. A wicked smile lifted the corners of her mouth.
At seventeen, Vivi wanted to live, to experience life.
Bertran is worth just about anything—at least for tonight and possible a few more.
The taste of his name on her lips made her giddy. A handsome swain. This would be their second tryst.
The first had reduced her limbs to jelly. What would she be like after the second?
Following the directions Bertran had laid out in his missive, she saw ahead the curving trellis of roses beside a turf bench. A grey arch loomed, pale in places and edged with silver.
“Bertran,” she called softly. There was no reply. She called again, nervously. “Bertran, you can come out now.”
“Alas, he fled, demoiselle,” a deep baritone voice replied. “Ran home to his mama, no doubt.”
Vivi gave a start. A shadow far larger than Bertran loomed out of the dark behind her.
She’d not imagined it. Someone had been following her.
“Who are you?” she demanded. Her heart pounded fiercely. She prayed the man did not hear it. To show weakness at a moment like this was unthinkable. Vivianne de Miravel would never do that. Not ever.
The man continued. “I’m sure it does not reflect on you, demoiselle. It was the danger to his livelihood, if not his manhood, should he be caught in your company. Or so I heard his brother tell him when he found Bertran here, but a short while ago, and sent him scurrying.”
“Who are you?” she demanded again. “Show yourself.”
“Lanval Deraye, at your service, demoiselle,” he said and bowed formally. Then, with a dramatic sweep of his hand, he proffered her a white lace handkerchief. “You dropped it.” In the moonlight, the linen glowed with almost phosphorescent light.
She said naught. He responded with a slight smile. How dare he?
No one took such liberties. Certainly, no one would have the audacity to smile at her with such intimacy, and before formal introductions.
These English… uncivilized, she reminded herself.
How large they grew them. Her dark eyes went to his massive hand holding her small, lacy handkerchief carefully out of her reach.
Each one of his powerful fingers was longer than her entire hand.
A curl of curiosity unfurled inside her. It was altogether unwelcome and made her feel quite fidgety.
“The custom, in civilized places, is that now you give me your name, demoiselle.” He cocked a brow in mock expectation.
Vivi came forward and, almost with a dart, snatched the dainty square from his fingers. She retreated just as nimbly, tucking it primly into the neckline of her bodice. In the uncertain moonlight, his closeness unnerved her. “You are too forward, sir, if you are asking for my given name.”
“I do not ask, for I know it already, Vivianne,” he said meaningfully. “What I said is that you should give it, to complete the formalities,” he added as if she were unschooled in courtly protocols.
Vivi drew in a sharp breath, too amazed for the moment to speak. To use her given name without her permission—unacceptable.
“Comte de Miravel himself made your name known to me, but a half hour ago,“ Lanval continued smoothly. “It seems he is inordinately proud of his daughter.”
She stared at him as a long, awkward silence opened between them. He could see she was trying to evaluate his face.
“Had an edifying look, do I pass muster?” he asked, knowing it would provoke her.
“Never,” she hissed.
“What? You do not like my good looks, or it’s too dark for you to make an assessment?”
“You are English,” she said in disgust, as if it explained everything, “monstrous in every way.”
“Oh, I don’t know. We English have the same features Frenchmen have; eyes and noses—that sort of thing. My eyes are greenish, in case you are curious, and I am fair-haired. Ladies do not seem to have objections to my face—at least none to my recollection. Not all that monstrous, I deem.”
“Your modesty knows no bounds, monsieur knight, but you do not impress me.”
“A family trait? Your father is not all that taken with me, either. Still, I wonder what he would say if he discovered you trysting with young Bertran in the night gardens? More like to saucy tavern wenches than the proper decorum of a highborn lady, no?”
She imposed a fa?ade of ice on her face, as if determined not to allow him the satisfaction of seeing her vulnerability.
“Your French is crude, but even I understand your hint of blackmail.” she told him.
“Alas for you, my father indulges me in everything, Monsieur Knight. You will gain no gold from that direction. Indeed, my father and brothers, should they discover it, would be most amused to hear of my brilliant adventures.”
“Hmm, they encourage you in these escapades, do they?”
“Certainly, they take pride in how very inventive I can be when it comes to things like… trysts in the night garden. You have no idea, Monsieur Knight, just how far I am prepared to go.”
“Yes, I think that can be plainly seen in your conceit, demoiselle. I see right through your brag, Vivianne, and I must admit, I like what I see.”
If she had tried to shock him, he had surely shocked her.
“You are above yourself,” she said. So irked was she that she sounded like a kettle hissing and spitting. No doubt she thought of him as a nothing, and yet he’d managed to prick her temper.
He raised his eyebrows. “You consider yourself above us mere mortals, do you? No doubt, you’re able to convince half of France how rare and desirable a prize you are.”
“Naturally, for a Frenchman embodies chivalry. Unlike you, English. They know quality, and would turn cartwheels for less than the promise of my smile.”
“Oh, I am sure they fall over themselves to do your bidding. Englishmen, born and bred, you will find, are resistant to such ploys, especially from prideful females like you.”
Vivi tossed her chin into the air. “You do not like it that I am boastful of our French refinement, Monsieur Knight, but all I hear from you is mewling and whining.”
Lanval chuckled silently at her show of temper spilling out again. Obviously, he made the young beauty uncomfortable. She was not quite as sanguine as she pretended to be. She also had a decidedly parochial disposition not unknown among Parisiennes.
The moon scudded out from behind the banking clouds just then. By its light, he saw her eyes, wide with apprehension, her less than prideful posture exposed her susceptibility. He guessed that for all her brag, she was still new to such things as frolicking in pleasure gardens at night.
She was as alluring in the moonlight as she had been indoors: black as night hair, matching eyes, lustrous as gems, set in an exquisite oval of pearl and rose loveliness.
Lanval clasped his hands behind his back, so strong was the urge to touch her. At least, he told himself, she realized her danger, even if she pretended otherwise. Like a woodland doe, she skittered to and fro, keeping herself just out of reach and ready for flight.
“You place yourself in a compromising situation, demoiselle. You would do well not to. The disgrace upon your family would be considerable, but you already know that. And just think, if you were not playing the seductress, you would not need to hear such offensive noises as my French.”
He took a small step closer. She panicked.
“I do as I wish, and none of your sly English tricks can stop me,” she said, “I have bandied words enough with you. Out of my way.”
Lanval frowned. “Did I not make myself clear? I do not dance to your tune, no matter how beautiful you may be.”
Well he knew that Vivi would have slapped his face had he been a little closer. As it was, she clearly did not want him to take another single step in her direction.
He would not oblige her. Stepping forward, he backed her up against the trellis.
“Out of my way, I say.”
“Might I suggest you return to the safety of your father’s side?”
Clearly, she wanted to tell him no; she wanted to run him through with a dagger, he could see. She looked up into his shadowed face. Neither of them could see much more than a silhouette edged in moonlight.
She gave the briefest nod. What she meant, he knew, was that what she did or didn’t do wasn’t his business.
He did not get out of her way, but instead closed the final distance between them. Her gown brushed against him.
“A most biddable maid,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his words. “You would do well to learn tonight’s lesson. Your carelessness endangers others, not only your precious self.”
Vivi’s temper ignited afresh. “Do you expect obedience to your…your will, sir knave? What is it you truly want?” she said, furious all over again.
For the longest while, he stood unmoving, looking down at her.
He intimidated her, challenged her, and he did so deliberately.
He could not explain it to himself, but he knew he could not stop any more than he could refrain from breathing or sleeping or any of the other regular things one did to stay alive.
She could see nothing of his expression, nor he hers. With unexpected intent, he plucked the kerchief from the neckline of her gown and, even as she watched, outraged, he stuffed it ostentatiously down the front of his chausses.
Without another word, he turned and vanished up the garden stairs, toward the blaze of lights and hum of diplomatic conversation.
To be continued…