The Gilded Crown Read Online Free PDF Page B

lecher!’
    â€˜De Loudeac?’
    â€˜Yes. De Loudeac. His reputation is as coloured and as widely known as his brocade!’
    â€˜Well, pardon me. ’Tis not as wide as you seem to think. I have never met him in Larressingle, and the Royal Palais had its own merchants for silk and weave. Perhaps his name is recorded somewhere for me to find? The cloth merchant’s guild, maybe? I go there every second Tuesday around noon.’
    â€˜Curb your tongue, woman! My head pounds enough as it is.’
    â€˜Pray be that is all of yours that has been pounding tonight.’
    Gillet ignored her barb. ‘The man’s scandalous reputation precedes him. He preys on the weak – namely gullible women. He has been arrested several times for petty theft and indecent fondling, but witnesses declare it is impossible.’
    Cécile blushed as she recalled Margot’s observation of a stuffed glove sewn to the fleeing merchant’s kneecap and her own breast being ruthlessly squeezed. ‘No, not impossible,’ she murmured. Hidden by his cloak, the merchant’s flesh counterpart had been free to rove, and squashed together in the stands, the distance between them had been negligible.
    Gillet’s eyes narrowed at his wife’s rosy cheeks. ‘If I thought he had laid a hand upon you, I would run him through.’
    â€˜Merde,’ snapped Cécile. ‘Just what we need – another noose around your neck!’
    The black gaze stared down her resistance. His voice was low and malevolent ‘Lady, tell me true that he did not touch you.’
    Not wishing to admit her gullibility, Cécile instead recalled a well-learned lesson. Gillet had once educated her on the importance of placing emphasis upon words and having people hear only what you wished them to hear. She met his angry stare and declared, straight-faced. ‘Milord, I tell you true, the man did not lay a solitary finger upon me.’
    Gillet exhaled slowly. ‘Just as well.’
    â€˜Now, I ask you,’ said Cécile. ‘Where have you been all evening?’
    Gillet unbuckled his belt and threw it into a corner before reefing his surcotte over his head.
    â€˜Does your ill temper have something to do with this d’Arques?’ insisted Cécile.
    Gillet’s fingers stilled upon the knots of his padded jupon but he did not look up. ‘Why would you ask that?’ Abandoning the stubborn fasteners, he attempted the tangled laces of his chausse. Usually, if his squire was absent, Cécile would assist her husband with such tasks but tonight she no move to help.
    â€˜Do you know him?’ she persisted.
    â€˜No. I know his sister. Will that suffice?’
    Cécile’s heart flew against her ribs and she gazed at her husband anew. Would stray kisses and caresses leave marks upon the skin? It was said an astute wife would always know.
    A flush rose in his cheeks under her inspection and, surly, Gillet snatched his dagger and slit the laces. ‘It is not what you think.’
    Her tone was cold. ‘Is it not?’
    â€˜ Merde. ’
    It was the only feminine quality that Gillet de Bellegarde possessed – his ability to blush like a young maiden.
    Beneath her breast, Cécile’s heart pounded. ‘Where have you been all this time, Gillet?’
    â€˜You are being ridiculous, Cécile.’
    â€˜Am I? What bothers you more? The fact that some strange man may have laid a hand on me, or your guilt from spending the evening laying your hands elsewhere?’ Cécile drew a breath knowing she was about to overstep her boundaries. ‘Have you ever lain with this sister of d’Arques?’ she whispered.
    Gillet’s head jerked. ‘ God’s sake, woman . I refuse to dignify that with an answer.’ He didn’t have to – his cheeks did it for him. ‘Cécile? What are you doing?’
    Clutching a blanket against her breast, Cécile