Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “Bonjour, m’sieur,” Micheline said softly.

  He looked up in surprise, then gave her a smile so disarming that her heart skipped. “It’s good to see you, madame! You look lovely.”

  For a moment Micheline forgot to speak. She stood rooted to the spot, watching as he rose and came toward her. Andrew wore a doublet and breeches of unembellished moss-green velvet slashed to reveal hints of white linen, and fine leather boots. She realized that she should walk forward to meet him, but then it was too late. When he lifted her hand and kissed it with warm, firm lips, she had to resist the impulse to flee. Why did this man, who was little more than a stranger, have such an effect on her?

  “You are well?” he was asking gently.

  “Oh—yes! Of course!”

  “Good.” He smiled again, which made Micheline dizzy, and continued to hold her hand. The pressure of his fingers was light, but his hand felt very strong. “You look a trifle pale… and I thought I felt you tremble, but it must have been my imagination.”

  Her face was suddenly hot. Did he know? “I am fine, m’sieur.”

  “Ah, yes, I see the color in your cheeks now. I hope you didn’t think me rude, but I asked only because sitting for a portrait can be surprisingly tiring. One of my subjects complained so loudly that I had to learn to paint while she talked, since she found it impossible to remain still.” Andrew gestured with one hand for her to precede him across the chamber. “I hope you’ll be comfortable in this chair. If you are not, make a fuss and we’ll find a better one.”

  Micheline found her nerves melting again under the spell of his easy charm. The chair he indicated was positioned so that the sun was at her back, warm and soothing.

  “This will be fine,” she assured him.

  Sandhurst walked over to his table and stared at her for a moment, then returned to adjust the angle of the chair. “The light is very important,” he explained. “It must be just right, so we can work only in the early morning and late afternoon.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly Micheline realized that she had uttered nothing but inanities since entering the room. Casting about for a topic she might raise, she heard herself ask, “Who was the lady you painted who was unable to remain both still and silent?”

  Sandhurst blinked. All this was much easier when he held the reins of the conversation. “She was only twelve years old at the time, but still qualifies as a lady, if only by title. My subject was Lady Cecily Weston….” He paused, then threw caution to the wind. “Sister to the Marquess of Sandhurst.”

  “Oh!” Micheline said again. She took a deep breath, but no more words came out. Andrew Selkirk must know the Marquess of Sandhurst! Part of her wanted to ask a dozen questions, but stronger still was her apprehension about the possible answers. In truth, she simply didn’t want to think about her future husband yet.

  Andrew sat down behind his table, trying not to smile. He’d seen the surprise and curiosity in Micheline’s wide eyes, and had recognized the panic too. She didn’t want to know about the man she was to marry. Why not? And again he wondered how and why the marriage had been sought in the first place.

  “Where is your canvas, m’sieur?” Micheline queried, happy to change the subject. “And your paints, and—”

  He held up his hand. “Not so fast! If we’re to create a proper portrait, a few preparatory exercises must be performed!”

  “They must?” she echoed. What was he talking about?

  “Yes!” The girl was simply enchanting. Her manner was open yet laced with mystery, and her beauty was luminous. “I like to do a series of sketches first. Pen drawings. I’ll work on those today, and if the results are satisfactory, we may be able to begin the actual portrait tomorrow.”

  “What are the drawings for?”

  “They help me become accustomed to your face, body, and spirit.” Micheline’s sudden blush made him glance away out of kindness. Andrew picked up one of the swan’s quills, dipped it into the inkhorn, and began to sketch her. “To create a portrait of any depth, it’s important to develop a deeper understanding of the subject. Also, the drawings help me decide what the best design would be for the finished painting.” As he became more involved in what he was doing, Sandhurst’s sentences took on a disjointed quality. “The position of your body, the tilt of your head, the expression on your face, the most flattering style for your hair and gown—they’re very important. Critical, in fact.” He met her eyes and smiled briefly. “We’ll look at the sketches together, if you’d like, and you can tell me if you have any thoughts about the way you want to look. It won’t be just any portrait, after all—”

  “I know,” Micheline broke in. “And I would be pleased to see the drawings when you finish, m’sieur. It’s kind of you to offer.”

  “Not kind at all. At least half the credit for any painting must go to the subject, I believe. That’s why I like to paint people. They can talk back and share more actively in the artistic process.”

  Aside from her heightened sensations in the presence of Andrew Selkirk, Micheline was now disconcerted by having to carry on a conversation with someone who rarely made eye contact with her. He’d be scrutinizing her hair or her neck or her nose while she spoke, so that she wasn’t certain if he was listening, or else he was actively sketching, which made her feel as if she shouldn’t speak at all.

  After a long minute of silence Andrew laughed softly and met Micheline’s eyes. “Don’t be so stiff, madame! Relax. We are not in church, and I can assure you that there is nothing sacred about my work.” The sight of her nervous, obedient smile only increased his amusement. “Why don’t you talk to me. As I recall, you said that you grew up in Angouleme. Tell me about it.”

  It seemed that Micheline had little choice. Uneasily she said, “It’s not a very exciting story, m’sieur. We lived some distance east of the town of Angouleme, in the country, near Nieuil. When I was a child. King François had a hunting lodge very near my family’s chateau, but he wasn’t there very often. I couldn’t have been more than ten when he went off with the army to fight in Italy, and then, of course, he was held captive for over a year. He did visit after his return, and my parents attended a celebration at the hunting lodge, but soon after it became the property of a man named Grunn. Apparently he owned some land in the forest near Chateau de Chambord that the king coveted, so they made an exchange.”

  Sandhurst had given no indication that he heard her at all, but now he glanced up to remark dryly, “I see. What about you?”

  “Well…” She faltered, blushing. “There’s not a lot to tell. Because we lived in the country, I had a quiet childhood. My brother, Paul, was many years older and not very much company. I spent a great deal of time outdoors. I liked the woods—I still do. I love animals. My mother saw to it that I learned to read. We had a wonderful library. I think that my father likes books better than people, but at least the books became my friends as well.” Micheline was relaxing now, gazing at a fresco rather than at Andrew as she continued. “As far back as I can remember, Bernard Tevoulere was my best human friend. He was a year older than I. and he taught me to ride and swim and climb trees. He taught me everything. When I was twelve, he gave me one of his own horses as a birthday gift.” She smiled softly, remembering the euphoria she’d felt that day as they raced across the meadows.

  “You’re fond of horses?” Sandhurst couldn’t resist asking.

  “Oh, much more than that!” she declared. “I can’t tell you how I’ve missed my Gustave these past months. He’s getting old, but somehow that makes me love him more than ever. Sometimes I think that horses are more human than people.”

  Andrew’s brows went up as he digested this. “I’m inclined to agree with you, madame. But please—pardon my interruption. I like this story about you much better than the first one about King François’s hunting lodge!”

  His voice warmed her from a distance, encouraging her to continue. Micheline hesitated for a moment, then told herself that after this month she wo
uld probably never see Andrew Selkirk again. Her confidences seemed safe with him.

  “Well, let’s see…” She sighed, remembering what must come next. “That twelfth birthday marked the end of my childhood. The next year my mother died, and Paul went away to Paris, leaving me alone with Papa. I don’t know what I would have done then without Bernard. I had to take care of my father, and he barely took the time to talk to me unless it was to ask for something. So Bernard and I became closer than ever, and we were growing up. I stayed with Papa as long as I could bear it, then married Bernard when I was seventeen. We had four years together.”

  A hand touched Micheline’s wrist, then covered her fingers. Tears sparkled in her iris-blue eyes as she looked over, to find Andrew Selkirk sitting back on his heels next to the chair.

  “I’m sorry, Michelle.” He spoke her name in this shortened form without thinking. “I never meant to cause you pain when I encouraged you to tell me about your past.”

  “Don’t apologize! I feel better somehow. Sometimes here at Fontainebleu my old life seems like a dream. Taking to you about those years helped to make them real again.”

  He reached up with a forefinger and caught a tear that spilled onto Micheline’s cheek. Staring into his deep brown eyes, she felt a inexplicable tremor at her core.

  “The light’s going,” Andrew said gently. “Why don’t we borrow two of the king’s horses and have a good long ride.”

  *

  To Micheline the cold wind on her face and the strong, rhythmic movements of the horse provided the perfect tonic for her spirits. She and Andrew rode full out across the fields that skirted the dark forest, a bright midday sun beaming down on them to soften the chill in the air.

  From time to time Sandhurst glanced over at Micheline, admiring her skill with an expert eye. It was clear that she rode well, and with great enthusiasm, but she also rode properly. There was an undeniable elegance in the motion of her body; she and the horse were one. The combination of abandon, feminine grace, and rapport between Micheline and her steed struck a chord within him. Horses were one of the great passions of his life. In the past he’d known women who had enjoyed riding, but they’d always pretended to adore it, hoping to win his favor. Unfortunately Sandhurst had an instinct for spotting artifice. He’d long ago given up hoping that a woman might simply be herself, for better or worse, and have faith in her own worth, without resorting to a lot of elaborate games.

  “M’sieur!” Micheline called gaily over her shoulder. “Are you holding back to make me feel better?”

  “I think you took the faster horse!” He laughed. Leaning forward so that his knees pressed hard against the stallion’s sides, Sandhurst drew alongside Micheline, then slightly ahead. She was laughing, too, as they raced, and he felt a wave of pleasure at the sight of her curling auburn-gold hair, which waved behind her like a banner. Micheline was clad all in rust-colored velvet. A soft velvet cap set with emeralds puffed sideways in the wind, while her gown was covered by a matching cloak trimmed in sable.

  “Stop showing off!” she cried as he gradually passed her. Never one to lose without a fight, Micheline urged her steed forward faster, but it was not enough, and even in her frustration she had to admire his skill and masculine beauty as he rode.

  Sandhurst brought his horse slowly to a walk and waited for Micheline to reach them. “Let’s have something to eat,” he suggested, swinging down from the stallion’s back.

  Seeing a pond nearby where the horses could drink, she nodded breathlessly. He had walked over to help her down, and though she certainly didn’t need his aid, she capitulated and slid down into his waiting arms. The sensation of his strong hands encircling her waist was pleasurably unsettling.

  “I apologize,” he said with a smile. “If I were a gentleman, I’d have let you win.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Micheline declared. “I don’t like people who do that. I certainly wouldn’t have let you win if I could have helped it!”

  “I know.” He appeared pleased by this knowledge.

  Together they took the bundles of food down from behind his horse’s saddle, then the two steeds wandered off to rest and drink at the pond.

  Sandhurst, with Jeremy’s expert help, had raided the chateau’s kitchen while Micheline changed clothes for their ride. Her eyes widened now as he spread a cloth over the long grass and produced a slender, fragrant baguette, apricots and strawberries grown in the king’s greenhouses near Paris, slices of young chicken and ham, a little rush basket of curdled Vincennes cheese, and a generous stoppered flask of wine. There were even cups, serviettes, knives, and butter.

  “Oh, m’sieur, it is a feast!” Micheline exclaimed. Suddenly she was ravenous.

  “Wait.” Sandhurst held up a hand. “Before we eat, I want to settle something.”

  She paused in the act of tearing off a piece of bread and waited.

  “Are we friends?”

  “Why, yes… I think we are, m’sieur.”

  “Then kindly do me the favor of calling me Andrew.”

  “D’accord… Andrew. Will you call me Michelle?” She blushed under his warm regard and admitted, “I liked it when you said it earlier.”

  “I liked it too.” He smiled. “And I would be honored.”

  *

  They took a more direct route back to the chateau, through the forest of Fontainebleau. In another hour the light would be favorably soft, and Andrew was eager to return to his sketches.

  “I’m glad that one of us knows the way,” he remarked to Micheline as she rode ahead of him.

  “I always use this path when I get so far from the chateau. It would be easy to become lost in these woods. It’s wider, too, than the rest, so we can go faster.”

  A companionable silence reigned between them then. Andrew watched the path unfold ahead of them, but he was frequently distracted by Micheline’s graceful form. His gaze wandered over the line of her back, admiring the fire of her tumbled curls and occasional glimpses of her lovely profile. Thus, he failed to notice a sharp turn in the path ahead. Micheline took it with barely a pause. An instant later there was a loud crashing sound that mingled with a woman’s scream.

  Sandhurst reined in his stallion in the midst of the turn in the path. The horse came to a standstill just feet away from an enormous pile of cut birch trees. Swinging down, he found that the path’s obstruction was waist-high. Micheline’s gelding was on the other side, its saddle empty, prancing fitfully about while its rider lay crumpled on a bed of brown leaves.

  He was at her side immediately. She was trying to sit up and he knelt to cradle her against him.

  “Are you hurt? What happened?”

  She blinked in confusion. “Oh, I feel so foolish! The horse—he’s all right, isn’t he? He made the jump—more alert than I—but it all happened so fast that I had no time to prepare. Suddenly I was falling…”

  “Do you have any pain?”

  Gingerly she flexed her arms and legs and moved her torso from side to side. “No, nothing’s broken, I’m sure.” Micheline looked up to give Andrew a reassuring smile, only to find him looking at her in a way that made her forget all else. Suddenly she was keenly aware of his hard thighs pressing against her, the strong fingers laced through her hair, the velvet-clad masculine chest that cast its shadow over her more delicate form.

  “Michelle.” His voice was husky. Now that she was in his arms, reason was forgotten. Her eyes were opened wide, her soft lips slightly parted, and color slowly stained her cheeks. The yearnings Sandhurst had repressed since the first moment he saw her rose up and took control.

  Her heart was pounding as he turned her deftly in his arms. The instant her breasts met his steely chest they tingled and sent a current of warmth through her body. Even during the most intimate moments of her marriage she had not experienced such intense, and unexpected, sensations. Without thinking she reached up and touched Andrew’s face… and then he was kissing her.

  Often Micheline had st
ared at the mouth that now touched hers. His lips were warm, firm, practiced—gentle at first, tasting and savoring, then opening more forcefully as passions stirred and swelled. Micheline lost herself in the bliss of his utterly masculine embrace. He was harder, warmer, and more agile than Bernard had been, her senses confirmed. Andrew even smelled better—his clean male scent was intoxicating, and he tasted wonderful as well. He kissed her now, long and hungrily, his thumb rubbing softly along her cheekbone. Micheline was hungry too. She strained against him, longing to be closer still, and then her horse stamped beside them, whinnying, and she broke free.

  “It’s only the horse,” Sandhurst murmured in amusement. “He won’t tell anyone.”

  Feeling his warm mouth on her throat, and the accompanying shiver that traveled down through her body, Micheline stiffened.

  “Let me go!”

  He drew back in surprise, his brows raised.

  “You always mock me with your eyes!” she accused him irrationally. “Loose me!”

  Sandhurst sat back on his heels and held up his hands in surrender, achingly conscious of the proof of his desire that was outlined against his breeches. “The last thing I was meant to do was ‘mock you with my eyes,’” he protested. “What’s amiss?”

  She suddenly felt vulnerable and humiliated, lying there in the leaves. Struggling to her feet, Micheline cried, “You attempted to use me, m’sieur, like some kitchen wench, out here in the woods in broad daylight.”

  “I intended no such thing.”

  “You think that I am a loose woman because I have been married before, that I must now burn for the touch of a man, but I can assure you that I haven’t missed it at all!”

  He rose lithely, brushing leaves from his velvet doublet. In response to Micheline’s outburst he glanced up and murmured satirically, “Indeed? Well, perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps you have been missing a man’s touch all your life…”