The Hostage Queen by Freda Lightfoot Page A

burning within. She gave no further thought to her squabbling, jealous brothers, to Lottie keeping guard outside, or even the woman who was an alleged rival for his affections. All that mattered was his mouth hungry upon her own, his hands caressing and fondling her breasts.
    It was some long moments before her senses returned to anything like normal, and when she finally broke free of his hold her eyes were glazed and her breathing rapid. ‘What if one of my ladies should march in? We would be undone. The King would beat me.’
    Guise grinned. ‘He would never risk bruising a skin so fine as yours. More likely he’d have my head on the block, or so my uncle informs me.’
    Margot gave a little cry of distress before running to peep through the tent flap in a panic. ‘You must leave at once. Someone is coming, I’m sure of it. I heard a rustling in the bushes.’ She pressed a hand to her breast. ‘I can feel my heart racing with fear.’
    ‘You’re too brave to feel fear, my sweet. Your heart races only for love of me,’ he said, laughing,   as he pulled   her back into his arms and began to kiss her with renewed passion. ‘There is no one coming, my sweet, else your faithful companion would have warned us.’
    She almost pushed him away, but then thought of her beloved Lottie guarding the entrance, and burst out laughing too. ‘You are right, it is but the wind. Yet we must take care.’
    ‘Naturally.’ He kissed each fluttering eyelid, the enticing curve of her lips, the soft mound of each breast above her gown. ‘Would you give yourself to me, if I asked?’
    ‘You are bold, sir.’ Margot slipped from his grasp to pour them both a goblet of wine. Handing one to him, she smiled, instantly negating her protest even as she urged him to drink and be gone. ‘My mother must never learn of these visits. These are dangerous times, and she is not an easy woman.’
    ‘Indeed, you speak true. I would not be the first to die at the hands of the Black Queen.’
    ‘Don’t call her that. Do not say such terrible things.’ Margot tossed her head, offended by this slur upon her mother.
    ‘I do not exaggerate, I swear.’ Guise set his wine down on a low table, dropping his voice to a throaty whisper. ‘Did you not hear that she put a price on the heads of Coligny, his brother d’Andelot, and La Rochefoucauld, all Protestant nobles? I was almost tempted myself by the 50,000 écus for Coligny, though I might have done it for half the sum to be rid of the man who killed my father.’
    Margot turned away in disgust. ‘You talk wild.’
    ‘Do not fret, my sweet; several attempts have already been made on the old fool’s life, but mine was not among them, so do not scowl at me.’ All levity vanished from his voice now as he tenderly stroked her slender throat, ran the heel of his thumb over her full rosy lips. ‘But I was never more serious. We must tread carefully. You surely heard of d’Andelot’s death at Saintes in May.’
    ‘I heard.’ Margot struggled to repress a shudder, as if a goose had walked over her grave.
    ‘Coligny and La Rochefoucauld both fell ill at the same time. A remarkable coincidence, do you not think?’
    ‘That does not prove my mother was the one responsible.’
    ‘Who else would dare? In any case, Her Majesty openly rejoiced at the news, claiming that God would mete out to the other leaders the treatment they deserve. She has been denounced by those implicated in the crime, and by members of Coligny’s own family, although no one hangs around long enough to press home the charge. Catherine de Medici is a woman who breeds fear as well as respect. There is much talk of poison, of the Queen Mother’s notorious parfumier René being involved; of a man claiming to be a servant of Coligny’s being found with a sachet of poison in his pocket; a dog which instantly dropped dead when fed a slice of apple.’
    Margot laughed. ‘You have read too many fairy stories about wicked queens.