I forced a smile. “I beg an audience with King Francis, s’il vous plait.”
“King Francis? Surely you would like to tidy yourself a bit before asking to be presented to your most sovereign prince.”
“Jacques, please. It’s about the failed invasion of my former country.”
Jacques big eyes widened further. “How would you know such a thing?”
“I beg you, announce my presence. Ask if he’ll see me. Please.”
Jacques disappeared, only to reappear moments later. His normally cheery face was stoic. “Madame Bridget. Follow me. His Majesty will grant you an audience in his private study.”
†††
I waited alone in the stone room. It seemed an eternity before the creak of a hidden door brought me to my feet from the same velvet chair that I’d recognized at once.
Francis strode in, as puffed up and proud as I remembered him. “Ah, my dear Bridget. Hello, hello.” He held out his hands to me and kissed both my cheeks as though we were old friends.
An odd emotion niggled at the back of my mind. However, my thoughts were much too busy to bother with trying to decipher it.
Francis held my arms out and took no qualms at subtlety as he let his eyes roam over my face and down my body. “Jacques, you may leave us now.”
“Your Majesty?”
Francis dropped my hands and turned to his courtier. His voice came out in a vicious snap. “I said leave us!”
Jacques retreated a few steps like a whipped pup before slinking out the still-open door. Pain was evident in his words. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“Merci beaucoup, Your Majesty,” I started as Jacques pulled the door shut behind him. “I beg you, tell me. What has become of my husband, Jean? He didn’t return with the others this morning.”
Francis paced in a slow circle around me, like a predator circling his prey. The niggling thought intensified. Danger.
Again, I find myself the hare. Now, I have stupidly walked into the den of the most dangerous of all the bloodhounds in France. And he’s hungry.
“The men who didn’t come back on our one remaining ship are presumed dead, Bridget. But fear not, I’ve made a secret peace with the Holy Roman Emperor. Now, we two have joined forces against our common enemy and yours, King Henry VIII of England.”
His hand swept my hair over my shoulder as he stopped behind me.
Run, Bridget.
“Rest assured, that my beautiful Bridget is safe here in France. Your husband’s ultimate sacrifice has ensured your citizenship shall never be questioned.”
I took a step backward as he circled around in front of me.
“And you have found yourself a widow.”
Something in my face must have given away my plan of escape. Before I could bolt for the door, Francis slammed me into the stone wall. He forced his knee between my legs, and a grunt escaped his lips.
“There now,” he growled as he smoothed at my hair in rough swats. “You came here for a reason. You knew your husband was dead.”
“No,” I managed.
“Shhhh,” he warned. He squeezed the sides of my face with one hand and pressed his lips to mine. “You knew I was powerless to your charms.”
I tried to shake my head, but he tightened his grip on my face. The back of my head met the wall with a sickening crack.
King Francis dragged his free hand down my face and circled my throat. Slowly, his fingers began to tighten. “Tell me you want me, Bridget.”
This is it. This is the day I die.
His hand tightened further around my throat until my lungs burned for air. With no warning, Francis released my neck from his death grasp. A breath of welcome air whooshed into my chest and ensured that I would continue to live. At least for this moment.
His death-dealing hand traveled down and cupped my tender breast. I squeaked as shocks of pain sparked through my chest when he squeezed.
No, I thought. No, no, no!
His hand continued down my body as he removed his knee from between my legs. The exploring stopped at my belly. All his pressing and grunting stopped cold as he felt the tell-tale curve with poking, prodding fingers.
“You are—you are in a family way.” He stepped back as though he’d just learned that I carried the plague. Or syphilis. “Pray tell me you are not?”
“I am.” These words could be the ones that cost me my head. And my life. My thoughts drifted back to the executions of Queen Catherine Howard and Lady Jane Rochford. There, on her scaffold where nothing awaited her but death and jeers from an unpleasant crowd, Queen Catherine had the wherewithal to confess her true feelings about the King, and the man she loved, Thomas Culpepper. If she could do it, so could I—damn the consequences.
I drew in a shuddering breath. “I am happy to report that I am indeed pregnant with my husband’s child.”
Frances spat at me. “Your child is a bastard, Bridget.”
Without further fanfare, the King of France turned his back on me, his would-be-could-be mistress, and marched across his study and out the hidden door. His cape trailed him like smoke from a fire.
Jacques, the plumed courtier, appeared a moment later. “Miss, I’m to escort you from the premises. At once.”
