Of One Heart - By Cynthia Wright Page 0,2

have you been here with me when Bernard has been away? When he finally did return home, he seemed almost relieved about the baby. I don't think he was ready to become a father."

"Perhaps that was the case." Aimée nodded. "And how do you feel now?"

"I miss him! Desperately!" A starry tear clung to her thick lashes. "I'm confused. Sometimes, I feel that we are almost strangers, but when he's away, it's the Bernard of years past that I continue to yearn for. I gave him my heart when we were so young! That is who I wait for. Do you think he will ever come back to me?"

"I think that the man you married still lives, and always will, in your heart. And I think that he would have returned to you, in time... but that's no longer possible." Aimée crouched beside her friend's chair and gathered her into her arms. "Bernard won't be coming home. He was killed, accidentally, in a tournament at Amboise."

Micheline's exquisite face went white with shock and disbelief. "No! No! Mere de Dieu! It cannot be!"

Holding her near, Aimée stroked her hair. "I'm here, dearest. You won't be alone. Thomas must accompany the king to meetings with Henry VIII at Calais and Boulogne. You must come home to Chateau du Soleil with me until he returns. We'll take care of each other, cherie."

Chapter 2

St. Briac-sur-Loire, France

November 12, 1532

It was a chilly but sparkling afternoon when St. Briac returned home from the month-long meetings between King Francois I and Henry VIII in Calais and Boulogne. As he rode up the long, curving road to his ancestral chateau, a smile played over his mouth in anticipation of the reunion with his family.

Chateau du Soleil shone in the sunlight, a marvel of soaring white towers against the backdrop of the dark forest of Chinon. It was a castle of fairy-tale proportions but it hadn't seemed enchanted to him until the day he brought Aimée there as his bride. Now, accompanied by a groom and his wizened manservant, Gaspard Lefait, he dismounted before a courtyard that commanded a stunning view of the meandering Loire River. Dusting off the buttery suede doublet that accentuated his tanned, rakishly handsome face, St. Briac headed for the arched stone doorway. All his senses ached for Aimée.

"Thomas! You're home!"

He tried not to betray his disappointment when his aunt, Fanchette, hurried from the gallery to welcome him. "It's good to see you, ma tante." He hugged her well-cushioned body. "It feels as if I've been away forever."

Thomas smiled down at the woman who had run his household since the death of his mother more than twenty years ago. She had raised his brother, Christophe, from infancy, and even after Aimée became mistress of Chateau du Soleil Fanchette remained. The two women lived together in harmony.

"I'm missing my wife," St. Briac said frankly. "Where is she?"

"She and Micheline went for a walk in the woods, but I expect they'll be back soon. Don't fidget, Thomas! It's time you learned patience!"

"You needn't talk to me as if I were Christophe, old woman," he teased. "Even he is grown now and at the university. When will you realize that we are men?"

"Probably never," Fanchette responded dryly.

St. Briac walked into the gallery and began to pace, but soon the sound of a commotion upstairs intruded on his thoughts of Aimée. Fanchette stood off to one side and tried not to chuckle as she watched her nephew stop and incline his head.

"Has your lust for your wife caused you to forget your daughters, monseigneur?" she wondered. " 'Twould seem that they have arisen from their naps...."

"Forget them?" he scoffed. "You insult me!" Striding to the foot of the curving staircase, St. Briac called, "Mes anges! Come down and give kisses to your poor papa!"

His shouts were met with distant squeals of excitement followed by the patter of little feet, and then the sight of two sweet faces on the top step.

"Papa! Papa!!"

St. Briac ascended and caught them up in his strong arms before they managed to clamber down three steps. Amid much hugging, giggling, and kissing, he gloried in the scent of their sleepy toddlers' skin, the silky texture of their curly hair, the sight of rosy cheeks, and eyes that sparkled with excitement and love for their adored papa.

Though Juliette was three years old and Ninon nearly two, they still seemed to be babies to St. Briac. They expressed their thoughts clearly these days, yet their little bodies