Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “You flatter yourself!” she interrupted, outraged. “In any case, I’d say that’s a matter for my husband to consider, m’sieur. I am betrothed to another man, you know.”

  Sandhurst swung easily onto his horse, then coolly lifted both brows in a way that made her face burn.

  “How quickly we forget….”

  Chapter Eleven

  March 1-2, 1533

  Arriving back at the chateau, Sandhurst turned to Micheline in the courtyard and told her flatly that he wouldn’t be making any more sketches that afternoon. Then he went to the appartements des bains in an attempt to scrub and sweat away the edginess and desire that lingered from their encounter in the forest. Jeremy, summoned to bring fresh clothing, waited for his friend to dress, and the two of them walked back to their chamber together.

  Sandhurst, his damp hair brushed back from his face, wore a brooding look that few people ever saw. Jeremy knew it well. He didn’t like the signs: a muscle moved in his jaw and the scar above his mouth was almost white.

  Hoping that a bit of humor might help, Jeremy ventured, “Is something wrong, master? Have I been lax in the performance of my duties?”

  Without slowing his pace or looking over, he did smile slightly. “You’re a twit.”

  Jeremy was unable to think of an appropriate response. Upon reaching their chamber, Sandhurst went to the table that sat before a window overlooking the courtyard.

  “Make yourself useful, Jeremy, and take a look at these.”

  He walked over to find that his friend had spread fresh pen drawings across the table. “Is this—”

  “Micheline. Yes.”

  “God’s teeth, did you really do these?” he demanded in astonishment.

  The sketches, though simple enough, were remarkably lifelike. The artist had conveyed a sense of depth, of rounded grace emerging from the flat page, with a rain of parallel hatchings slanting from left to right across the paper in the shadowed areas. Culpepper could almost feel the delicate curves of Micheline’s face: her high cheekbones, rather abbreviated nose, the tiny cleft in her chin, the sensual fullness of her lower lip, and the sweep of long lashes over eyes that were beautiful, intelligent, and somehow sad all at once. In contrast, her hair and shoulders were only suggested compared to the telling detail of her face.

  “What do you think?” Sandhurst queried, not bothering with his friend’s question.

  “I think you’re a genius!” Jeremy exclaimed, his fair curls bobbing with the force of his nods. “I had no idea!”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Sandhurst said slowly, his own gaze fixed on the series of drawings. “What do you think about the girl?”

  “Oh! Well, she’s beautiful! I’ve caught glimpses of her here and there, and I’d say that you’ve captured her looks with extraordinary accuracy.” He paused, remembering their conversation in London, and chuckled. “She’s certainly a far sight from what we imagined in England! No fourteen-year-old with spots, or a fat widow that the king longs to banish! In fact, I heard last night that François rather fancies her himself. I was talking to one of Anne d’Heilly’s maids, and she thinks the king’s mistress might be responsible for finding an English husband for Madame Tevoulere. She was worried that the girl might eventually come out of mourning and respond to François’s advances….”

  Sighing shortly, he arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? If that’s the case, Anne may have complicated all our lives for nothing. It’s doubtful that Micheline is capable of responding to anyone’s advances.”

  “Oh!” Dumbfounded, Jeremy wondered if it was possible that the Marquess of Sandhurst could have just suffered his first rejection… at the hands of his betrothed. What irony! “Am I to assume that your outing in the woods—uh—took an unfavorable turn?”

  He shot him a menacing look. “Oh, the meal was fine! I was beginning to rather like the chit! It was later, after she took a spill from her horse, and I, ah—comforted her.”

  “I see!”

  “No, you don’t. She liked it all well enough for a while. Perhaps too much! At that point she began reminding me that she’s betrothed to another man.”

  “But that’s you! I should think you’d be pleased!”

  “Well, I’m not.” Sandhurst tossed down the drawing he’d been staring at and began pacing. “How would you like to be put off in favor of a stranger?”

  Jeremy was becoming confused. “But that’s you!” he repeated.

  “Micheline doesn’t know that.”

  “Why don’t you just tell her and put an end to this madness? We can take her home to England with us and everyone will live happily ever after.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Shaking his head, Jeremy sat down on his meager bed. It all seemed perfectly simple to him, but as usual Sandhurst couldn’t settle for the easy route.

  “Have you decided, then, that you don’t want to marry her?” he queried rather weakly.

  “I’m certainly not in love with her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “When did love become a prerequisite for marriage?”

  “Perhaps it needn’t be, but if I’m going to spend the rest of my life with one woman, it would be much more agreeable if we cared for each other. The thought of leaving my wife in the country while I enjoy a separate life in London is distasteful to me.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, but would you mind telling me what you’re going to do? You won’t tell the girl who you are, you’re not in love with her, she’s being loyal to a stranger that she doesn’t know is you….” Jeremy’s voice trailed off as he began to sense what was ahead.

  “I haven’t decided,” he muttered. “Perhaps I’ll just wait for a bit and see what develops.”

  Jeremy nodded dolefully. His instincts suggested that Sandhurst might risk everything to discover if Micheline Tevoulere would fall in love with a penniless artist and choose him over an English nobleman. He sighed miserably, wondering how long it would take for this situation to resolve itself one way or another.

  “You needn’t moan and carry on, because it won’t do any good,” Sandhurst said edgily. “After all, this is a matter of principle.”

  Jeremy managed a rather sickly nod. “I was afraid of that….”

  *

  Wisps of steam drifted upward as Micheline reclined in her bath. Extending a slender, shapely leg, she soaped it leisurely, enjoying the faint lily-of-the-valley fragrance that enveloped her. The water was very hot; in fact, the serving girls who had filled the tub had warned her against getting in too soon, but she welcomed the heat. Her breasts, gleaming at the water line, were rosy, and she felt warm all over. How she wished she could wash away the memory of Andrew Selkirk’s touch, but a slight, unsettling throb returned to her lips when she rembered his intoxicating kiss.

  “Bonsoir!” Aimée called from the corridor. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, of course.” Micheline smiled, thinking that her friend, always full of energy and conversation, would be a perfect distraction.

  Aimée was already dressed for the evening. Her hair was swept up and studded with amethysts, and she wore a beautiful gown of lavender silk. “How was your day? Did you enjoy posing for the portrait?”

  “Well enough, I suppose.”

  Aimée sat down in a caquetoire, a chair with a trapezoid-shaped seat and arms that bowed out to accommodate her voluminous skirts. Micheline’s tone had suggested that she didn’t wish to discuss the matter further, and now she appeared totally engrossed in washing her left arm.

  Never one to be put off easily, Aimée persisted. “Were you posing for M’sieur Selkirk all day? I didn’t see you once after breakfast!”

  “He did sketches of me until the sun made the light too harsh,” Micheline said carefully. “Then, we, umm—went riding for a while.”

  Aimée leaned forward in an effort to get a look at her friend’s face. “That explains why you both were absent during the midday meal! Did you take a dejeuner?”

  Micheline onl
y nodded.

  “What fun! You and M’sieur Selkirk would seem to be cultivating a friendship.”

  “It grows cold in this bath. Would you hand me the towels?”

  She spread two on the floor for Micheline to stand on, then delivered the rest. “Why don’t you put on a nice warm robe and join me in some wine, cherie? I’ve a feeling it might do you good.”

  Micheline obeyed silently, taking a plainer chair that Aimée had moved opposite her own. For a long minute she didn’t move, sipping the strong wine and gazing into the fire.

  At length Aimée leaned toward her and touched her hand. “I wish that you would tell me what is bothering you. Did that Englishman do something to offend you?” She had a sudden frightening vision of Selkirk forcing himself on Micheline in the woods. Please, God, not that!

  Micheline began combing out her damp hair. “Andrew is not dishonorable, if that’s what you mean,” she said tentatively.

  Aimée blinked when she heard her use Selkirk’s Christian name. “Something happened. I can sense it! Micheline, you should talk to someone. It will help you to sort out your feelings.” She was thinking, too, that they really knew very little about this English painter. Devastating good looks and charm were well enough, but could the man be trusted?

  “You needn’t be suspicious of him,” Micheline said softly. “He has actually been very kind to me. He seems to genuinely like me. We had quite a nice day.” She reached for her wine and sipped reflectively. “There’s something about him that makes one relax and speak quite freely. He encouraged me to talk while he drew me this morning, which made that much less monotonous, and I found myself telling him all about my past. I felt that he was honestly interested in everything I said.”

  Aimee was alert. She’d never heard Micheline talk this way before. All the signs were there. Whether Micheline realized it or not, she was infatuated with Andrew Selkirk, and Aimée only prayed that it wasn’t love. With an effort she spoke in an even tone.

  “Was your ride in the forest as nice as the morning had been?”

  “Yes, for the most part. Andrew shares my love for horses, and we had a marvelous time racing across the meadows. Our meal was lovely—he’d stolen all sorts of wonderful things from the kitchens! I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun.”

  Seeing the dreamy look in her eyes, Aimée felt slightly sick. How could this have happened and what could be done about it? “You must tell me the rest, cherie. Something must have gone wrong; I could see it in your face earlier.”

  “It wasn’t his fault. We were riding back to the chateau through the forest. I went ahead since I knew the way, and I suppose I wasn’t paying attention. We came around a turn and there was an enormous pile of tree branches. My horse made the jump, but it was all so sudden that I flew off—”

  “Parbleu!” Aimée exclaimed. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, no. I must have fallen correctly, and the leaves were a cushion. But Andrew rushed to my aid, and he held me against him… and he kissed me.”

  “I knew it!”

  “That’s all, though. It was just a kiss. When I asked him to stop, he did.”

  She caught Micheline’s gaze and held it. “And why did you ask him to stop?”

  “Well, because it was wrong! I—I’m betrothed to another man!” Her cheeks were flushed with emotion.

  “Are you certain there wasn’t another reason?” she asked gently.

  Micheline closed her eyes and put her hands up to cool the heat in her face. “It’s so difficult for me to even think this, let alone say it!” When she opened her eyes, they were brimming with tears. “Oh, Aimée, do you remember the day I told you I didn’t think I would ever be attracted to another man again?”

  “Andrew Selkirk has changed your mind, hasn’t he? But, my dear, this man is a painter! He’s not the marrying sort, or he would be married by now. It’s quite obvious that M’sieur Selkirk loves women and they love him. He may break hearts without intending to. Is he aware of your betrothal?”

  Micheline nodded mutely, swallowing tears.

  “And even if this did prove to be love for him, what kind of life would you have? Selkirk must travel to paint—he may not even have a home!”

  “It’s all beside the point. I’ve agreed to marry the Marquess of Sandhurst, and I intend to keep my word.” Micheline spoke with careful control, determined not to cry. “What I am feeling about Andrew is just a temporary flight of fancy. From now on I will keep my emotions in check. It will be a test of my maturity.”

  Wincing slightly at her friend’s speech, Aimée wondered, “But what if it’s not a ‘flight of fancy’? What if it’s love?”

  Micheline averted her eyes. “I don’t want to fall in love. That’s the reason I agreed to marry Lord Sandhurst. There’s more pain than pleasure in love.”

  *

  The court was sitting down to supper when Micheline Tevoulere entered the hall. The crowd was so large that no one remarked upon her tardiness. The seigneur de St. Briac made a place for her to his left and she gave him a bright smile.

  Across the table Sandhurst watched Micheline while attempting to converse with Queen Eleanor, who sat beside him. He felt sorry for the naturally vivacious queen, who had entered into marriage with François with hopes that had been immediately dashed by Anne d’Heilly. Since her arrival in France three years ago, Eleanor had felt awkwardly out of place. Queen Claude had died in 1524, and Anne had been establishing her position at court since the king’s return from captivity in Spain seven years ago. Eleanor had been used as a bargaining chip between her brother, Emperor Charles V, and François, and though she was now both queen and wife, her husband generally pretended she didn’t exist. François did not even want children, since Claude had given him seven, five of whom still lived. A woman of great passion, Eleanor nearly always slept alone; and most of the power she should have had as queen had long ago been claimed by Anne d’Heilly.

  “Are you married, M’sieur Selkirk?” the queen was inquiring in Spanish-accented French.

  “No.” He forced himself to stop glancing at Micheline and turned to smile at Eleanor. “My friends tell me that I’m growing old and should take a wife, however.”

  “How sad for the rest of us,” she murmured, then put a bite of roasted lark into her mouth, regarding him as she chewed. Tonight the Englishman wore a doublet of slate-gray velvet that fit close to his tapering chest. Snowy-white linen showed through the slashings and made a pleated fraise against his tanned neck. The torch and candle light accentuated the sculpted contours of his face and the rakish scar above his mouth. Many of the courtiers had rings on every finger; Andrew Selkirk wore only a sapphire set in gold on the last finger of his left hand.

  Now his handsome face was in profile, for he was looking at Micheline Tevoulere. The queen, desperate to keep his attention, queried, “How did you come by your scar, m’sieur?”

  His brows flicked upward in mild surprise. “I took a spill from a very large horse when I was very small, Your Majesty. I’m told I fell right on my face, and a sharp stone inflicted this injury.”

  “And yet you wear no beard,” she mused. “You know, my husband first grew a beard to cover some scars on his face, and now it seems that every man has followed suit.”

  “Shall I?” Andrew wondered, amused.

  “Oh, no!” she cried. “It would be a crime to hide your face, m’sieur. And that scar is… dangerously appealing.”

  Hardly knowing how to react, he replied carefully, “You flatter me, Your Majesty!” Sandhurst then turned his attention to the lark on his own dish, sighing inwardly. He was all too familiar with the queen’s dreamy expression. The last thing he needed right now was the queen of France lusting after him!

  Micheline, meanwhile, appeared not to notice Sandhurst or his plight. She was conversing with Robert de la Marck, seigneur de Florange, who sat to her left. Florange was as old a friend of the king’s as St. Briac. Though over forty now, he was still known
as the “Young Adventurer,” and he loved women as much as ever. Tonight he basked in Micheline Tevoulere’s beauty. Clad in a gown of rich blue velvet sprinkled with pearls and rubies, she wore more of the gems on thin gold chains about her neck and studded throughout her upswept curls.

  “I shall miss you when you go to England, madame,” Florange said frankly, sipping his wine.

  “There will be another lady to take my place at court, monseigneur,” she replied. Sweets were being served and Micheline took advantage of the slight interruption to glance down at Andrew as she reached for a cluster of grapes. The sight of Queen Eleanor’s rapt expression while he spoke to her, gesturing with one hand, made Micheline’s face burn.

  “There are some ladies who cannot be replaced,” Florange was saying wistfully. “A few years back, your friend Aimée was one of those special cases. She became betrothed to St. Briac before any of us had a chance, and now you have done the same!”

  “You flatter me, monseigneur.”

  They chatted on until the last course, the boute-hors, consisting of wine and spices, had been served. People began rising from the table as jugglers and tumblers streamed into the hall. A dancing monkey capered about, behaving outrageously for the amusement of the court.

  Before long a minstrel appeared, singing to the accompaniment of a harp. To Micheline’s surprise, the king approached her and bade her dance with him. She seemed to have no choice and was happy that she was familiar with the gaillarde, a dance that consisted of advancing, bowing, and retiring in a pattern that conformed with the music.

  “You are looking exceptionally beautiful tonight, ma chere,” François remarked with a wink.

  “How kind you are, sire.”

  “I speak only the truth.” He reached up to touch her hand and struck an attitude. “How is your portrait coming along?”

  The mere thought of Andrew Selkirk made her blush, but she hoped that the king would assume that the rosemary-scented firelight was to blame. “M’sieur Selkirk has made only pen drawings thus far, sire, but I was able to look at them, and he appears to be very talented.”