“That’s very touching, Micheline, but I don’t believe it.”
“That is very unfortunate, m’sieur!” she exclaimed. “And now it is my turn to ask you a question!”
“I can’t wait,” Sandhurst said dryly.
“You told me the other night that you painted the sister of the Marquess of Sandhurst. Please tell me what you know about him.”
“Surely you don’t expect me to sing the praises of my rival!”
“You and I are supposed to be friends, aren’t we? I wasn’t aware that you were competing for my hand in marriage.”
He had to admire her nerve. Smiling, he murmured, “Now you know my secret.”
“Do not tease me! I would appreciate it if you would simply be kind enough to answer my question!”
Color stained her cheeks and her eyes sparkled in a way that Sandhurst found frankly arousing. So much passion was hidden within Micheline that even she was not aware of.
“You ought to find out these things for yourself before you pledge your heart, fondling,” he said gently, “but I can tell you that Lord Sandhurst is not an ogre. He’s not old and fat and boring, if that’s what’s worrying you. As for his positive qualities… I’m not really qualified to list them.”
Micheline watched in frustration as Andrew rose to check the pigeons. Helplessly her eyes wandered over his lean hips below the white shirt that was tucked carelessly into his breeches.
“They’re almost ready,” he announced, turning to find her gaze fastened on his body.
“Oh. I should prepare the apples. Then we’ll eat.”
“Yes,” he murmured, suddenly ravenous for Micheline. “I suppose we shall.”
Chapter Fourteen
March 11, 1533
Dusk was wrapping the cottage in a mauve embrace. Micheline looked out the leaded-glass windows as she put dishes and candles on the table and thought that the snowflakes looked like fluttering pink primroses against the twilit sky.
Andrew’s pigeons were delicious and juicy in their sauce of red wine, complemented perfectly by potatoes with parsley and butter, baby carrots, and sautéed apples. Hungry as they were, both of them also craved this opportunity for relaxed conversation, and they spent most of the meal talking about books. Sandhurst was astonished to hear all that Micheline had read, and they discovered that they had many favorite books in common, since she was very familiar with English authors and poets.
“That was part of the reason I learned other languages,” Micheline explained, her hair agleam in the candlelight. “Papa speaks and reads everything from Latin to German, so our library was filled with books in every language. I loved to read so much that once I’d exhausted every printed word of French, I begged him to help me with the others.”
“How old were you?”
“Oh, still a child. I remember speaking English quite competently even before Maman died. I must have been seven or eight when I began exploring other languages.” She paused, sipping her wine with a smile. “I think it’s easier when one is very young, don’t you?”
“Yes, and easier still for the child who has the desire to learn. Languages were forced on me by tyrannical schoolmasters, so naturally I hated every minute.”
“Typically male!” laughed Micheline. She wanted to ask him about his education, even about his childhood, but feared that he might be embarrassed to tell her. She had concluded that Andrew’s family had been part of the lower class, and that he had raised himself this far by dint of hard work, innate intelligence, and talent. It was a pleasant surprise to hear that he had gone to school.
“I brought my parents considerable grief in that respect, I’m afraid,” he was saying reflectively. “I never wanted to do what I was told; I always had a better plan. Now, of course, I’m grateful that an education was pressed on me against my will. If I’d never learned to speak French, I probably wouldn’t be here, would I?” He gave her a smile across the candles, but his thoughts were far away, remembering the years he’d spent at Corpus Christi College at Oxford. So much of the time Sandhurst had rebelled against being told what to read, write, and learn, for he often had interests in any subject except those being taught at the moment. The rift between him and his father had widened dangerously during that period, since the duke had insisted that he stay. They had been on such bad terms when he finished at Oxford that his mother had arranged the year of art study in Florence. Now, after talking to Micheline, Sandhurst momentarily softened toward his father. He’d been fortunate to have received so fine and extensive an education, and fortunate to have a parent who did not bend under the unusual force of his son’s will.
Micheline rose to cut wedges from a cylindrical Auvergne cheese. She arranged them on a plate with sweetmeats, then split a pomegranate and placed it in the center. At the table Andrew was pouring more wine for both of them, but he glanced up as she approached, noting the gentle sway of her hips. He envied the emerald that nestled warmly between her breasts, its delicate gold chain glinting in the firelight.
Micheline’s cheeks warmed under his gaze, and suddenly she wondered how they would pass the hours that stretched before them.
“Do you play chess?” she asked abruptly.
Sensing the reason for her question, Sandhurst warred unsuccessfully with an amused smile. “Naturally, madame.”
“I saw a lovely carved board and ivory pieces in the chest!” she exclaimed. “Would you care for a game?”
“Your whim is my command.”
Micheline rushed to bring the board and pieces while Andrew casually selected a wedge of cheese. He’d never seen anyone look as relieved as she did as she placed the board between them and divided the white and black pieces. Smiling to himself, Sandhurst thought that he ought to be offended, but oddly enough her eagerness to seek a diversion from being alone with him only warmed his heart. How different Micheline was from the other women he’d known!
“I warn you,” she was declaring, “I’m awfully good at this!”
“No doubt…” His eyes captured hers and held them until she blushed.
Micheline thought that the game of chess would be her salvation, but the opposite was true. Before her marriage she had played so often with her father that she often won, but this was much different. The silence combined with Andrew’s nearness to unnerve her. She found herself more aware of his fingers on the chess pieces than she was of their destination. He snacked on cheese and pomegranate seeds while she tried to concentrate on her moves, and Micheline couldn’t resist the urge to study him under her lashes. Watching him rub a drop of red juice from his mouth with his fingertip, she felt a frightening surge of desire.
Occasionally he would look up, catching her in a moment of lust, and Micheline would stare at the board, her cheeks on fire. She was shocked at the longings of her own body. Still, these hours at the queen’s cottage felt like an interlude out of time. With each passing minute she found it increasingly difficult to remember past and future, promises and responsibilities. The barriers she had so carefully built against Andrew in her mind and heart were melting away.
“Check.” Sandhurst lightly moved his black knight to capture her queen.
Micheline was aghast. How could this have happened? She saw the board clearly for the first time and burned with embarrassment as she remembered her boast at the beginning of the game. Without one superior word or glance Andrew had casually played so well that now she had no choice but to resort to a defensive strategy. Sipping her wine agitatedly, Micheline surveyed the possibilities. She tried to protect her king with her rook, but he was steps ahead of her.
“Bad luck, fondling,” Sandhurst murmured with a rueful smile. One move of his bishop allowed him to tell her softly, “Mate.”
Breathing anxiously, Micheline glanced down to see that her breasts were moving in rhythm with her heart. She attempted a cheerful smile. “It must have been all the excitement of the day. I just couldn’t concentrate!”
“Perfectly understandabl
e.”
When he spoke in that low, masculine voice, tiny shivers of pleasurable panic ran over Micheline’s nerves. Slowly, she looked up to find Andrew staring at her. Golden firelight played over his face, casting soft shadows and accentuating each chiseled feature. His eyes, though, were what rendered Micheline literally breathless. He looked at her with a warm, melting gaze that was both compelling and sensual.
“We shall have a rematch,” she managed to whisper.
“Certainly, but not tonight. It’s getting cold and that bed looks like the place to be.”
“Why don’t you put on your doublet? And your jerkin?”
“I can’t sleep with clothes on,” Sandhurst told her with a small, slightly wicked smile. “Besides, those furs on the bed look warm enough.”
“I didn’t mean in bed!”
“I know what you meant, Michelle.” Lifting his cup of wine, he drained it. “Don’t look so nervous. I have myself under control. Didn’t I just prove it during our game of chess?”
What was going to happen? she wondered wildly. “Do you intend that we should sleep in the same bed, m’sieur?”
Sandhurst gave in to low, irrepressible laughter. “I don’t see that we have a choice, madame.” He arched a brow. “Shall we be formal? Would that make it easier for you?”
Feeling foolish, Micheline tried again. “You needn’t mock me. It’s just that—”
“Don’t say it!” He held up his hand. “I know; you are betrothed to the dreaded Marquess of Sandhurst! Never fear, sweeting; your honor is safe with me. I won’t trespass on your side of the bed unless you insist.”
She straightened her back and replied primly, “In that case, we shall both sleep soundly.”
Several irreverent replies danced on his tongue, but he managed to swallow them. Instead, he pushed back his chair. When he began to gather up their soiled dishes, Micheline waved him off.
“No, no, you cooked the pigeons. It’s my turn to clean up. You’re tired and cold; go along to bed.”
He laughed. “You shouldn’t pretend to be selfless when we both know you’re hoping I’ll be fast asleep when it’s time for you to slip under those furs!”
“Don’t be rude!” she retorted hotly, clattering the dishes together.
Shaking his head and smiling, Sandhurst put a pot of melted snow over the fire so that she would have hot water to clean with, then crossed the room and began undressing. Micheline made a show of tidying up, but she couldn’t resist sneaking a guilty sidelong glance in his direction.
Silhouetted in profile against the orange flames in the other fireplace, Andrew had removed his shirt and was now bending to shed his breeches. Micheline glimpsed broad shoulders and the play of muscles over his back and arms, but when a lean hip and the hard curve of a buttock became visible, she turned away in haste. A confusing whirlpool of feelings swirled within her—and at its vortex were acute excitement and shame.
*
Finally there was nothing left to do. The cottage was truly cold now. Every dish and pot had been scrubbed and put away. Across the room Andrew had closed the bed’s velvet draperies and was presumably asleep within. Micheline put two more logs on the fire, then finished her cup of wine. It did nothing to slow her racing pulse.
At last Micheline approached the bed. She unlaced her gown, removed it, and laid it over the back of a nearby chair. Next came her petticoat. Few people wore clothing to bed, including Micheline, but the idea of sleeping naked beside Andrew Selkirk was too incredible to entertain. Still wearing a thin chemise, she parted the curtains, lifted the fur spread and the covers under it, and slid into bed with the utmost care. The velvet draperies shut out all light and evidence of the outside world. Micheline lay motionless, feeling Andrew’s warmth in the bed and hearing his soft, rhythmic breathing. She was afraid to breathe herself, or make the slightest movement that might disturb him. For what seemed like hours she remained thus, thinking her heartbeat would never slow and sleep would never come.
*
Deep into the night Sandhurst dreamed that ripe breasts were touching his chest and a soft, shapely leg was sliding over his own hard limbs. Meanwhile a hand had crept around his bare waist.
“Mmmm.” The voice’s owner pressed her face against his shoulder and made another contented sleep sound.
His eyes opened to total darkness. Iris? he wondered fuzzily, then gradually remembered that he was not in England but in France, not in his own bed but—
Silky hair caressed Sandhurst’s jaw. He held his breath and felt his heart jump. It was Micheline! Quickly he reminded himself that she was asleep. She had probably gotten cold and snuggled against him for warmth, completely unaware of what she was doing. Completely innocent, he repeated sternly, clenching his teeth against his own involuntary arousal. Micheline chose that moment to sigh, her breasts swelling against him through the thin stuff of her chemise, while her hand slipped down to Sandhurst’s hip and brushed his fully hardened manhood for one life-stopping instant.
Smothering a hoarse moan, he turned slowly on his side to face her. Micheline nuzzled his chest. It began to occur to him that whether she was asleep or not, on some level Micheline knew what she was doing.
Tentatively he brought his hand up under the covers, softly cupped her breast, and felt the nipple harden against his palm. Micheline was raising her face, searching in the dark. Sandhurst needed no further encouragement. His open mouth closed over the delicious softness of her parted lips. After a moment she returned his kiss in earnest, matching his passion, and he gathered her into an intimate embrace.
Awakening, Micheline could see nothing in the blackness, but she knew immediately that this was no dream, and that it was a very real Andrew Selkirk who was kissing her with such ardent expertise. Resistance didn’t occur to her. She cared for nothing except the ravenous hunger that seemed to consume both her body and soul. Now that she was in his strong arms, she didn’t want to ever leave them.
Micheline wrapped her own arms tightly around him, glorying in the taut warmth of his skin and its intoxicatingly male scent. Desire mixed with violent emotion to make her shiver. When she put her tongue into his mouth, tasting and exploring with mounting eagerness, Sandhurst could feel her lips trembling. An elemental need much stronger than simple physical passion radiated from her body, and his heart swelled in response.
He found the ribbons of her chemise and deftly unlaced them, then lost patience and tore the delicate garment open to bare all of Micheline’s enticingly curved body. Burying his face in the valley between her breasts, Andrew felt the wild beating of her heart and kissed the satiny flesh that covered it.
“How lovely you are,” he murmured hoarsely.
Micheline sank her fingers into his hair, arching against the mouth that sought her aching nipple. A moan rose from the deepest part of her when his tongue burned the sensitive peak as he kissed her there, rhythmically, until a fire seemed to spread downward to rage between her legs.
Although Andrew lingered hungrily at her breasts, his right hand strayed lower, bestowing feather-light caresses over Micheline’s slim legs, flat belly, and the curves of her hips. When, at length, he touched her intimately, he nearly groaned aloud. She was hot and slick, pressing upward against his exploring hand. For long minutes the world was reduced to her need and his deft fingers in the darkness as he brought her to a shuddering, shivering climax beyond anything she had ever imagined, and still he didn’t stop touching her. Making little primitive panting sounds, her core throbbing, she searched for him.
Sandhurst thought he might die on the spot when Micheline’s slim hand traveled over his hip and belly to find his pulsing erection. For a moment her fingers skittered away before making a bolder return. The initial shyness of her touch only heightened his agony. Never before had he known such exquisitely torturous arousal, not even with women a thousand times more experienced.
Barely able to contain himself, he kissed her shoulders, throat, ears, and eyelids before
their mouths came together again and he turned her against the pillows.
Now her fingers were caressing the muscles of his back while he cupped her buttocks. Sandhurst’s thick hardness tantalized Micheline’s moist softness before he pushed into her, intending to be gentle but unable to hold back. Her hips arched upward in a shock of welcome, then met each thrust so that their bodies joined, over and over again. She was gasping against his mouth, her slender form tensing gradually in his embrace, and then she made an incoherent sound. The incredible sensation of Micheline’s tautness contracting rhythmically around his manhood brought him to the brink.
“No,” he moaned, but she pushed up against him again, drawing him in deeper still, and it was as if a dam had burst inside his soul. In the inky light there was just that moment of utter blinding release, their bodies fused, shuddering.
Pleasure swirled up over her body like waves breaking on the sand. Never in her life had she imagined such an experience. What had happened to her? How had Andrew done it? His face was buried now in her tumbled curls, their hearts thudding in unison. She loved the sensation of him still inside her, still pulsating in the afterglow.
“Oh, Michelle,” he whispered, and let out a ragged sigh.
The hair that curled against his neck was damp when she touched it. Unable to speak, Micheline could answer only by turning her face to kiss Andrew’s mouth. Even in the darkness she didn’t have to search for it.
He was part of her now.
Chapter Fifteen
March 11, 1533
“How can you be so calm during a crisis?” Aimée demanded of her husband. “I’m worried sick!”
She was pacing to and fro in their bedchamber while little Ninon toddled determinedly in her wake.
“Watch that you don’t trample the baby,” St. Briac warned mildly. Seated by the window in a ray of soft dawn sunlight, he was braiding Juliette’s chestnut hair. It was not yet seven o’clock, but they were all up and dressed, roused by Aimée, who had barely slept all night.
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