“The drawings resembled you?”
“In a flattering way, yes.”
“Bon!” François beamed. “I can’t say I’m surprised, however. He brought a painting of the Marquess of Sandhurst’s sister to show as an example of his work, and it was splendid!”
Micheline was still digesting this information as the music ended. The king bowed; she curtsied and took his arm to return to the crowd. No sooner had they parted than Andrew Selkirk appeared before her and requested the next dance.
Micheline was about to refuse, but there was something in his deep brown eyes that gave her pause. “If you wish, m’sieur.”
“I do wish.”
The music began and at least two dozen couples milled into the middle of the hall. Sandhurst and Micheline came last and stood facing each other for rather a long time, their eyes locked. The music had begun and the other dancers had advanced, bowed, and retired once before Sandhurst made a move. When he did, he only stepped forward, touched her hand, and declared, “I want to talk to you. Alone.”
Micheline blinked in surprise, then blushed. “That is not possible, m’sieur.”
“What’s amiss? Are you afraid I’ll go mad and ravish you?” He almost asked if she wished it, but held his tongue. “I wish only a few moments of private conversation in the courtyard.”
Caught in the spell of his eyes and the pressure of his hard male hand on hers, Micheline capitulated.
“Alors,” she whispered. What harm could there be in a few moments alone with Andrew Selkirk?
Chapter Twelve
March 2-6, 1533
It was past midnight and the sky was black, covered by a ruffled blanket of silvery-blue clouds. The exit Sandhurst had chosen at random led into gardens rather than the courtyard, so Micheline found herself alone with the Englishman in a green tunnel of clipped hedges.
“Everyone was watching us leave!” she whispered in distress. “I could feel their eyes on us!”
“Why should you care? You’re quitting France in a few weeks, aren’t you?”
“Oui, m’sieur!” Micheline was confused over why she was so angry with him, except that it helped to distract her from his nearness. She could see his eyes, intent as always, in the moonlight, and if she took one step, their bodies would meet.
“Do you speak English?” Andrew asked suddenly.
“Of course!” Micheline replied in his native language. “And I am fluent in Spanish and German as well.”
Her accent delighted him. She spoke with confident perfection, and each word was quite clear, but all the same there was a French lilt in her English that was utterly appealing. Sandhurst laughed softly, and the sound was low and masculine in the darkness. Micheline’s heart stirred involuntarily.
“What was it you wanted to say to me, m’sieur?” she inquired sternly. “I hope I have not made a spectacle of myself before the entire court so that you could ask me if I know English!”
He wanted to touch her, to press her soft body against his hard one, to taste her mouth, to open her gown… but all of these things were out of the question.
“I realize that I told you I would not speak of your betrothal to the Marquess of Sandhurst unless you raised the subject first, but the events of this afternoon compel me to break that promise.” The square bodice of Micheline’s gown revealed high curving breasts, displayed before him in the moonlight. “I want to know how you can justify marrying a man you’ve never seen!”
“Why are you so concerned?”
“I do not care for games, Michelle. You and I are not strangers. Indeed, I have begun to feel that I know you and the more I know, the harder it is for me to comprehend how this betrothal could have happened. You simply don’t seem the kind of woman who would commit to wedding a stranger, regardless of his title or wealth.”
Micheline turned from his gaze, her face in profile as she replied softly, “It does not matter if he is a stranger. Nor do I care for his title or wealth. Even if I were acquainted with Lord Sandhurst, I know now that I could not judge him, because believing you truly know another person is the mark of a fool… or a person in love.” She glanced up to find him staring hard at her, and gave him a sweet, rueful smile. “Perhaps people in love are fools, and in the future, I intend to be neither.”
“You’re quite disenchanted for so young a lady,” Sandhurst murmured.
“I’ve lived more than most my age, and I like to think of myself as realistic now. I have lost my appetite for dreams.”
“And for romance?”
“Yes.” Micheline looked away again.
“Appetites have a way of returning,” he remarked thoughtfully.
“I appreciate that bit of advice, m’sieur. I shall be on my guard.”
Sandhurst reached out slowly and encircled her slim arm with his fingers. He felt her stiffen, her eyes still averted.
“Have you no feelings, madame?”
Stung, she turned to retort, and found herself in his arms. What had passed between them that afternoon had done nothing to abate her yearning; in truth the taste had left her hungrier than ever. Micheline’s efforts to keep such feelings at bay were quickly overturned and, like a butterfly in a net, she yielded to his strength.
Andrew’s hands were touching her. One was on her back, seeming to burn through the velvet as he pressed her against his hard chest, and the other was at the nape of her neck, where strong male fingers laced through her hair. She could feel the muscles in his arms flex against her softer flesh, and then his mouth captured her own.
Quel splendeur, Micheline thought. They kissed gently, over and over, learning the texture of each other’s lips. When he kissed her more purposefully, his mouth opening on hers so that she could taste him, Micheline thought that she could not stand if he were not holding her. Her bones seemed to melt, while an odd, exquisite heat began to radiate from the place between her legs. Bernard had never made her feel this way! Was Andrew Selkirk a sorcerer?
As she answered his kiss, her lips parting in a sweet, instinctively sensual way that made Sandhurst’s blood pulse, he slid his hand caressingly down from her neck. How soft her throat was! Micheline’s subtle fragrance drifted upward as he touched all five fingertips to the swell of her breast. Instinctively she pressed nearer, and he felt the tautness of her nipple through the velvet bodice. Her breast was lush and firm against his palm.
“Your heart is beating madly,” Sandhurst whispered as he raised his head.
Micheline couldn’t speak. She stared up at him with huge blue eyes, her cheeks flushed, lips rosy. Finally, as his mouth scorched the base of her neck once more, she gasped, “Oh… what am I doing?”
“You’re feeling, Michelle,” Andrew murmured. “Relax.”
Somehow she found herself on a stone bench farther into the garden. He was caressing her arms through the velvet of her gown, kissing her temples, her eyelids, her throat, her shoulders, and then the first curves of her breasts. They felt swollen, aching in the same way as her woman’s place. Andrew was unlacing the front of her gown just a bit.
“You smell delicious,” Micheline heard herself whisper as she buried her face in his gleaming hair. She wanted to tell him how much she loved his hands.
“So do you, fondling,” he returned, looking up with an engaging smile that melted her heart. “And you taste even better.”
“Sangdieu!” She uttered St. Briac’s favorite epithet when Sandhurst’s mouth touched her suddenly bare breast. Liquid fire seemed to course through her veins, leaving showers of sparks in its wake. First he tenderly kissed the taut nipple, then circled it with the warm, moist tip of his tongue. Micheline felt faint. His hand moved to cup her other breast while he kissed the first hard peak in the way he had kissed her mouth.
Micheline had never dreamed of such arousal. She could feel Andrew’s heart beating against her midsection, and suddenly she realized that he, too, was aroused. The thought of his manhood made her tremble with excitement.
“
Selkirk!” It was the voice of St. Briac, calling from the chateau. “Are you out there?”
Micheline plummeted back to reality as they abruptly separated.
“Help me, m’sieur!” she cried frantically, fumbling with the laces on her gown.
“We aren’t obliged to answer, you know,” he told her in a low voice, his brown eyes searching her face.
“Yes! We must go back!” Her cheeks were flaming. “I am so embarrassed! What shall we say?”
“We don’t have to explain to anyone, Michelle. You and I are adults.” Her obvious humiliation bothered him, but he brushed her hands aside nonetheless and laced her bodice neatly.
“It’s cold. We shouldn’t have come outside at night!” she exclaimed. Suddenly she was shivering all over.
Sandhurst blinked, but helped her up and put an arm around her. “I apologize, madame. It was thoughtless of me.”
“No, no, I was foolish. I just didn’t think!”
Glancing down at her, he saw the familiar distracted expression on her lovely face and knew that the barriers had gone up once again.
“You go inside. I’ll explain to St. Briac.”
She obeyed gratefully as they approached the chateau. Thomas made a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette against the windows, and Micheline was relieved to see that his expression was one of concern rather than anger.
“We began to walk, chatting about the portrait,” Andrew was saying casually, “and forgot the time. Micheline finds that she’s a bit chilled, so she’s going in.”
“Bonsoir, gentlemen,” she called over a shoulder, then the door closed behind her.
St. Briac stared after her. “You do know that the lady is betrothed.”
“I’m reminded of that fact hourly, it seems. Was it concern over Madame Tevoulere’s honor that sent you in search of us?”
“No. I’m Micheline’s friend, not her keeper. The king was speculating about your absence and I merely hoped to avert a problem. If François thought that you had designs on Madame, he’d banish you from court in an instant.”
“Why? Because his own designs on her have been thwarted by the lady herself?”
St. Briac smiled ironically. “Perhaps. Micheline is a fascinating woman, and all the more fascinating to the king because she was a challenge. He only agreed to this betrothal with the Marquess of Sandhurst because he’d become resigned to the fact that Micheline wouldn’t yield to him… or to any other man. He’s quite fond of her, so when she insisted that this was what she wanted, he agreed to it. I’ve seen him watch you with her tonight, though, and I assure you the king isn’t about to let someone else succeed where he’s failed.”
“For some reason I thought that this betrothal was the king’s own idea.”
Thomas shook his head. “My wife told me that the request came from King Henry—and that Micheline was mentioned specifically. It seems that Lord Sandhurst has a fetish for Frenchwomen.”
“Really!” Andrew exclaimed in surprise, smothering an urge to laugh. “And how did he happen to choose Madame Tevoulere?”
“There were some visitors from England at the court in January, and word has it that they returned home singing the praises of Madame Tevoulere.”
“I see. That’s very interesting.”
“Well, it’s none of my affair, and though I’m not certain I approve of this marriage, Micheline’s mind seems to be made up. I’d hate to see her… hurt in the meantime.”
“As you say, her mind is made up, and she strikes me as a singularly headstrong woman. It’s highly unlikely that she’ll be swept away by passion on my account, don’t you think?” Sandhurst smiled wryly. “In any event, I like Madame Tevoulere. I have no intention of harming her. I hope that she’ll be happy as much as you do.”
St. Briac narrowed his eyes slightly in the moonlight, trying to read the Englishman’s face. “Well, good. I’m relieved to hear it.”
“Now that we’ve settled all this, I’m ready to go back inside. I could use another cup of wine, followed by a long night’s sleep.”
*
The next morning the king went on a hunt with a few of his courtiers, including St. Briac. Usually a band of privy ladies joined the men periodically during these excursions, but this time cold weather prevented that. Three days without female company seemed like torture to François. He found himself thinking excessively of Micheline Tevoulere and brooding about the scene between her and Andrew Selkirk. The sight of them dancing together had elicited comments all around about the attractive pair they made, but the court had positively buzzed when the Englishman led Micheline out into the garden. What had they been doing for so long? If Selkirk imagined that Micheline was within his grasp, it was up to the king to set him right. It was hard enough for François to restrain himself, but it was easier somehow to accept defeat knowing that she would marry a stranger. He was not about to let some common painter turn her head.
The hunting party arrived back at Fontainebleau in the evening of the third day. The next morning, after his council meeting, François sent word to Andrew Selkirk that he would like to see him in the royal chamber immediately.
The message was carried two rooms away to the antechamber, where Sandhurst was at work on his portrait of Micheline. The light was perfect, soft and golden, and he was staring intently at his subject, brush in hand.
Since the night in the garden Micheline had been distant, and Sandhurst had accepted her unspoken rules. He sensed that she was afraid of the feelings he’d stirred up in her. Further, he was honest enough to admit, if only to himself, that those feelings had been reciprocated.
These past three days they’d continued to converse, but not about personal matters. Occasionally they laughed together but broke off if the air grew too heavy with intimacy. That tension in the air was present all too often. At times all it took was an unexpected glance or smile and then Andrew and Micheline seemed to be touching across the room, both of them aching in silence because they were not.
When the page arrived with the note from King François, Sandhurst read it with a measure of surprise. He knew the king had just returned the previous night, and it was now barely nine in the morning. What was so important?
“It seems that your king wants to see me,” he informed Micheline while wiping his hands on a rag. Turning to the page, he asked, “Shall I wash up first?”
“No, m’sieur. His Majesty bade me bring you immediately.”
Sandhurst looked askance at Micheline and shrugged. “I’ve no idea what this is about, or how long it will take.”
“I’ll wait.” She smiled. “I can study my painting for flaws.”
“Since there aren’t any,” he parried with a laugh, “that should keep you occupied indefinitely!”
He followed the page to the royal bedchamber, pausing momentarily in the doorway to admire the great oval room, with its antique borders, rich ceiling, and magnificent chimney.
“Ah, Monsieur Selkirk! There you are!” François rose from a carved walnut chair, smiling in greeting.
“At your service, Your Majesty,” Andrew replied with a touch of satire, “provided you’ll tolerate my appearance.”
The king narrowed his eyes for an instant. The Englishman looked quite dashing with his tousled hair, shirtsleeves rolled up in the absence of a doublet, and the shirt itself unlaced to reveal a portion of his chest. There were smudges of paint in various colors on not only Andrew’s hands and forearms, but also a few on his snowy shirt and tanned jaw.
“Think nothing of it. I’m glad to see that you are hard at work. Sit down, won’t you?”
Sandhurst took a chair opposite the king’s. A servant brought them jewel-encrusted goblets of wine, then departed after a nod from the monarch.
The two men chatted briefly about the weather and the just-completed hunt, then François inquired about the progress on the portrait of Micheline.
“It’s going quite well,” Sandhurst replied carefully, watching the Frenchman over th
e rim of his goblet. “Madame Tevoulere is an ideal subject. Her face is not only beautiful; her spirit is beautiful as well. It is a challenge for me to capture both the inner and outer woman on canvas.”
“You seem quite taken with the lady.” François spoke casually, but his hazel eyes were slightly narrowed as he stroked his trim beard and waited for a response.
“What man would not be?”
“That’s all very well, m’sieur, but I must ask you to keep your admiration to yourself. As you are well aware, Micheline is betrothed to one of your noblest countrymen—”
“It’s hardly a love match, sire,” Andrew heard himself interrupt in an even, hard-edged voice.
“It is what Madame Tevoulere has chosen! Lord Sandhurst will one day be a duke! His reputation is unblemished; he is wealthy; he has everything to offer!”
He regarded his wine for a moment before glancing up to reply. “In short, the Marquess of Sandhurst is everything that I am not—including honorable, I take it.”
“I do not wish to quarrel with you, Monsieur Selkirk. The truth is that I like you and I am highly respectful of your considerable talent. However, you are a commoner… and you are an artist. I’ve never known a painter who was constant. What could you offer a lady like Madame Tevoulere—even if she were within your grasp?”
“Love, perhaps?”
“Now, now, m’sieur, let us be serious!” François exclaimed with a hearty laugh. “We are both men; you can be frank with me! It’s not Micheline you love, but the challenge! You’re a free spirit. I’m certain that you have enjoyed the favors of highborn, beautiful, and frequently married females in your bed, but Micheline is not like them.”
“I am aware of that, sire.”
“If that is true, then you will keep your distance. This lady is vulnerable. Her heart is mending still after the death of her beloved husband. I am asking you to leave her in peace.”
Sandhurst rose, well aware that it was rude to do so before the king dismissed him. “I appreciate your advice, sire, and in response I can only repeat what I have said to the seigneur de St. Briac. I have no intention of causing Madame Tevoulere further distress. I admire the lady very much and value her happiness.”
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