Micheline nodded bravely and even managed a smile as he tucked the covers snugly around her. Her eyes followed him as he donned hose and a white shirt, then took a candle and went into her chamber. Barely a minute passed before hereappeared. After bolting the connecting door, he sat down beside her on the bed.
“Naturally whoever it was has gone.” He held up a small square of parchment. “This is the note, I take it.” He stared at it broodingly. “I can’t make sense of this. Who would want to threaten you? And why?”
“I don’t know!” Her voice broke on a sob. “There’s only one person I can think of.”
Andrew glanced over at her. “Iris? No, she’s simply not capable of such a thing. Underneath her feline facade, she’s really rather sweet and loving.”
“I don’t mean to cast aspersions on your former mistress,” Micheline heard herself reply tartly, “but you don’t know how it feels to be in love with you!”
His brows went up slightly. “Pardon?”
“I can appreciate Lady Dangerfield’s agony, because I can imagine my own devastation if you were to suddenly tell me that you loved another woman and wanted to marry her instead. I might contemplate murder myself!”
“There’s a tremendous difference between thought and deed, Michelle.”
“Perhaps she hopes only to frighten me off.”
“So you think Iris was scratching at your door tonight?” he countered in disbelief.
“Who else could it be?”
Sandhurst gave a harsh sigh. “I don’t know.”
Softly Micheline asked, “Will you let me stay here tonight? With you?”
“Of course you’ll stay here. Tomorrow morning we leave for London, and until then I promise not to let you out of my sight—and this time I mean it! You can even hold my hand while I shave if you like.”
He gave her a reassuring smile, but his eyes were on the menacing piece of paper he’d set on the table. Absently he drew his shirt over his head, then reached down to pull off his hose, unaware of the blush that was spreading across Micheline’s cheeks.
Her gaze wandered helplessly down his long, tapering back and lingered on the hard curves of his buttocks. When Andrew stood to blow out the candle and place it on a chest, she caught a fleeting glimpse of his manhood in its nest of dark curls. At that instant he felt the heat of her gaze and forgot about the mysterious note.
When Sandhurst drew back the covers and climbed into bed beside her, Micheline was eager to put that frightening message out of her mind too. She snuggled against him, shivering, as if she couldn’t get close enough.
“You’re ice cold!” he exclaimed softly as her bare foot found its way between his calves.
“Andrew, I love you.”
“And I love you, Micheline.”
Glorying in the warm strength of his embrace, she sought his mouth with her own and kissed him passionately. She wrapped her arms tight about his neck and held fast, as if she were drowning and he was the shore. As they kissed, with Micheline’s tongue the aggressor, she felt him harden fully against her thigh.
“Christ!” he gasped at last when she turned her hungry lips to his jaw, neck, ear, and eyes. “What are you doing’?”
She giggled. “Don’t you know?”
“What happened to your vow of chastity?” He knew, of course. She was trying to blot out the terror, and would regret it tomorrow if they made love now.
“Must we talk?” Micheline was kissing her way down his corded neck.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but yes, we must.” He groaned and glanced heavenward while prying her arms from his shoulders. “Remember this next time you wonder how much I really love you. I’m astonishing myself here!”
“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to—”
“I did. I do! But not like this, Michelle.” Turning onto his back, he held her cradled against his chest. The throbbing heat in his loins was torture. “You’re just upset right now, and it would be selfish for me to press my advantage.”
Embarrassed by her brazen behavior and the fact that she, too, was fully aroused and aching for release, Micheline grew suddenly motionless. Tears stung her eyes.
Sensing her humiliation, Sandhurst reached up to stroke the soft hair back from her face. “Cheer up, fondling,” he coaxed, kissing her brow with smiling lips. “You’ll thank me, you know… in our marriage bed!”
Chapter Twenty-Six
April 15, 1533
Yorkshire, England
The day that brought Andrew and Micheline to Aylesbury Castle began leisurely, for they had spent the previous night at the Starre Inn in York and were little more than an hour’s ride from their destination.
Not only were they accompanied on their journey by Mary, Finchley, and squires for their coach and horses, but Sir Jeremy Culpepper had joined them as well. Micheline hadn’t been surprised to discover that Jeremy had grown up on the estate bordering Aylesbury Castle. Since childhood, he had been as close as a brother to Andrew, and now he was eager to combine a visit with his family in Yorkshire with the opportunity to attend Sandhurst’s wedding.
With Jeremy along, the journey northward had been fraught with amusement, yet crowded as well. The two men shared a chamber at every inn, while Mary slept with Micheline, and the remaining three servants had a third room to themselves. Sandhurst and Micheline were rarely alone. Because of intermittent rain, he insisted that she ride in the coach with Mary. Mealtime conversation, which Culpepper cheerfully monopolized, was generally the only opportunity Micheline had to share Andrew’s company.
On this last morning they both rose early by previous arrangement and met in the common room of the inn. When Sandhurst put an arm around her waist and bent to graze her lips, Micheline flushed with excitement. It seemed that their moments of intimacy belonged to another lifetime, for now each casual touch sent currents of fire over her nerves.
He took her on a brief walking tour of York, and both of them were heady with mischief, like adolescents who had escaped the watchful eyes of parents. First, they walked up Stonegate, Andrew explaining that the oft-used suffix of “gate” in the city of York was derived from the Scandinavian word for street. It seemed that the Vikings had captured York in the mid-800s, and their influence was still felt.
“You’re probably descended from a Viking yourself! It would be very fitting,” Micheline exclaimed.
“That’s the rumor,” he said, smiling. “In fact, Aylesbury Castle stands on the site of a Viking fort. Unlike most of England, which was overrun with Danes, Yorkshire was conquered by Norsemen.” Laughing softly, Sandhurst added, “My mother used to tell a story about a beautiful Saxon maiden from York who was taken prisoner by a handsome Viking and brought to the fort—now our castle—where he surprised everyone by making her his wife. According to Mother, the Westons sprang from that tempestuous union.”
“That must account for your wild streak,” she mused.
“If so, I take after my ancestor. Even he, celebrated as a heathen, was susceptible to the mellowing power of love.”
Micheline tucked her hand through his arm and leaned against his velvet-clad shoulder. Clad in a doublet of slashed buff-colored velvet set with only a handful of round emeralds, Andrew seemed to grow more handsome with each passing day.
Content just to be together, touching, they strolled north to Petergate, where Micheline viewed the great minster for the first time. Sandhurst took her inside the cathedral for a proper look at the spectacular ninety-foot-high vaulted nave and the stained-glass windows that were justly celebrated. In the nave was the great west window, with tracery in the form of a heart, while the south transcept boasted the rose window, which commemorated the end of the War of the Roses nearly fifty years earlier. Andrew and Micheline knelt together, praying silently but with one heart, then lit a candle before leaving the cathedral.
On Low Petergate, Sandhurst stopped to buy warm sugared buns for them to eat, and then a nosegay of violets from an old flo
wer woman. Micheline was wearing a gown of rose and lavender silk, and the violets made a charming accessory.
Petergate wound into the Shambles, an especially narrow street lined with butcher shops whose overhanging eaves nearly touched at some points. The sun was fully visible over the River Foss when they began to circle back to the Starre Inn. He chose a meandering route which eventually brought them back to their lodgings in Stonegate.
“I like York,” Micheline told him, “and all of England!”
“I’m glad,” he said, pausing outside the Starre’s doorway to hold her against him. “That was one of my chief concerns before we left France. There is so much for you to become accustomed to…” He sighed, breathing in the fragrance of her hair. “A new country, new customs, a new family, friends, potential responsibilities dealing with a new king—it’s a great load.”
“I’m up to the challenge, my lord,” she declared, amusement infecting her voice. “Why, I’m even learning to like dumplings!”
Laughing, Sandhurst led her into the inn, where they found Jeremy and the servants waiting for them and eager to compete the journey. So within the hour the band of travelers passed through the towered Walmgate Bar, the eastern gate to the city, bound for Aylesbury Castle.
Micheline looked back out of the coach window at the banks of daffodils that rose up to touch the magnificent white walls encircling York, and wondered what sort of surprises the rest of the day held in store.
*
The sky grew darker as morning progressed. Still, Micheline found Yorkshire hauntingly beautiful. Gray clouds scudded over bright green vales dotted with trees and sheep and brightened with liberal sprinklings of buttercups. Especially interesting to Micheline were the intersecting limestone walls that seemed to snake endlessly over the windswept landscape. She chatted with Mary, enjoying the scenery, until her heart caught in her throat at the sight of a castle silhouetted against the swirling gray sky.
Sandhurst rode up alongside the coach, pointing, to confirm the fact that Aylesbury Castle was at hand. Unlike the charming, peaceful-looking chateaus of France, which were set amid parkland and gardens, this castle had a stark, wild look about it. The closer they drew to the cluster of bastions, crenellations, and towers, the more nervous Micheline felt. The place did not look welcoming, nor could she imagine it as her home.
Noticing her mistress’s apprehensive expression, Mary soothed, “It’s not so bad, ma’am, and his lordship hardly ever comes here. You’ll like Sandhurst Manor much better, I’ll warrant.”
Micheline nodded bravely, but she was thinking that the austere appearance of the castle merely seemed to forebode the atmosphere within.
A chilling wind penetrated the coach as it climbed a twisting lane to the castle. Andrew led the way as they crossed a drawbridge that led them into the barbican with its surrounding curtain wall. Servants had already begun to appear, rushing to welcome the Marquess of Sandhurst as he rode over a second drawbridge, through the gatehouse, and into the enormous inner courtyard of Aylesbury Castle.
Sandhurst swung down from his horse and handed the reins over to his squire, then made his way through the group of familiar happy faces, greeting each servant by name. Reaching the coach, he opened the door and helped Micheline down, holding her against him as he announced, “I want all of you to know Madame Micheline Tevoulere, who will become Lady Sandhurst just as soon as we can arrange the wedding!” Laughing in response to their cries of excitement, he added, “There may be some extra work involved for many of you, but I’m confident that you’ll understand my plight and take pity on me. Each day of waiting is torment!”
Sandhurst’s exaggerated expression of agony drew laughter from the servants, followed by a rush to bow or curtsy before the beautiful Frenchwoman. He introduced each of them by name, and Micheline realized that his visits must always be a cause for celebration. If the duke was as sour as she’d been led to believe, then this retinue was surely starved for the affection and respect shown them by Lord Sandhurst.
At length they were free to enter the castle. As they approached the mammoth arched doorway, a dark-haired young girl burst through the portal and ran forward to throw her arms around Sandhurst.
“Andrew! Oh, Andrew! You’ve come!” She was actually weeping with joy, her face buried against his shoulder.
He had to let go of Micheline to return the girl’s fervent embrace, a fond smile warming his brown eyes.
“Of course I’ve come, child. Did you doubt it?”
“Don’t leave me again, Andrew. I couldn’t bear it! Please, you must promise!”
“I’ll do nothing of the kind. Loose me, Cicely, and meet your new sister, Micheline.”
The girl pressed her lips together and reluctantly withdrew her arms from his neck. Micheline, who had been somewhat taken aback by the emotional scene she’d just witnessed, mustered a warm smile. Although Cicely kept her eyes averted, it was readily apparent that she was a beauty. Lustrous dark curls tumbled over her shoulders and the gently curving bodice of her pink satin gown, and her face was delicately enchanting.
“Greetings, Cicely. I’m so happy to meet you at last, for I know how dear you are to Andrew.”
Cicely raised wet sable-brown eyes and replied in a monotone, “Welcome to Aylesbury Castle, mademoiselle.”
“I’m sure you two will be great friends,” Andrew said with forced cheerfulness. Silently he remembered the words his sister had spoken that night in London: “I hope that Mademoiselle Tevoulere is a toad!” Cicely was by far the most endearing member of his family. If she would not open her heart to Micheline, it appeared that there was little chance for a happy relationship between his wife and her new family.
For Andrew’s sake, Micheline decided to try again. “Cicely, I have to confess that I have always wished for a sister. Much like you, I had only a much older brother. Perhaps we will be able to be the sisters that neither of us had before.”
The younger girl shrugged and looked away. “Pretending’s not the same, is it? Besides, I’ve been through this sort of thing before, inheriting fully grown family members. Rupert and Patience aren’t exactly my idea of—”
Sandhurst gripped her arm tightly and interjected, “Micheline is not Rupert or Patience—I can assure you of that! Let’s go inside now. I can hardly wait to see the rest of my charming family!” His voice was acid with sarcasm.
Although Cicely had always lived in dread of making her brother angry, this time her resentment of Micheline was stronger than her need for Andrew’s approval. She allowed herself to be dragged along into the castle, and when he gave her a dangerous glare, she returned it defiantly.
The trio climbed a spiraling newel staircase in single file, emerging in a broad stone corridor that passed the family apartments. Micheline looked about as she walked, noting the fine tapestries displayed on the white walls and the woven rush mats that took the place of loose rushes. She’d expected the place to be gloomy, but in fact the castle’s interior was remarkably clean and bright.
They came into the solar, which served as a private living room. Its southern exposure and high arched windows filled the airy chamber with April sunlight, while the hall, in the adjoining east wing of the castle, was too large and shadowy for the comfort of a small gathering.
Seated in a velvet-upholstered chair was a bony old man who narrowed his eyes at Micheline. A furlined satin coverlet was draped over his shrunken frame, and his feet were propped on an oaken stool. Behind him stood Rupert Topping, while a pale, long-faced young lady occupied a settle near the windows. She put down an elaborate piece of embroidery and watched the proceedings with tiny, alert eyes.
“You’re looking well, Father,” Andrew said in greeting. Holding Micheline’s hand, he drew her across the room until the two of them stood before the craggy-faced Duke of Aylesbury.
“Bah! I’m dying and you know it!” The old man briefly took the hand proffered by his son.
Sandhurst wanted to throw up his han
ds and stalk out of the solar, but instead he forced a smile. “Happy news, then. Perhaps it will improve your health to know that I’ve granted your request and brought Micheline Tevoulere here to be my bride.”
It was impossible to keep the irony from his voice since the duke had never been kind enough to make a “request” in Andrew’s memory. His father’s propensity for issuing ultimatums had resulted invariably in his refusal to comply. Now, however, he thought that peace might be served by his pretending that Micheline was here because the duke had wished it. Sandhurst would have done anything to make her new life more pleasant.
Micheline stepped forward and dropped into a brief curtsy. The lavender of her gown and the nosegay of violets tucked into its bodice served to emphasize the vivid color of her eyes. Sunbeams burnished her hair and haloed her lovely face.
“I am so pleased to meet you at last, Your Grace.”
“You speak English! Well, well. And you’re a beauty. My son is very fortunate.”
“Not so fortunate as I, Your Grace,” she replied firmly.
“Hmmph!” The old man arched his white brows. “That’s a matter of opinion, but then, Andrew always has been skilled at charming the ladies.” He turned his attention back to his son. “I suppose you’re expecting me to lavish praise on you for doing as you were bidden!”
Sandhurst’s entire body was taut. “Far from it. I am marrying Micheline because we love each other, and I had hoped that you and I might declare a truce for her sake.”
“I thought so. You couldn’t resist telling me that you are doing this because you want to, and not because I wished it! As usual, you go your own way without any respect for other people—least of all your own father!”
“Are you saying that you’d be happy if there were no love between Micheline and me?” His eyes were dark with rage.
“Don’t prattle on to me about love, boy! It’s beside the point. What I can’t forgive is the way you disappeared for two full months! No one knew where you were; it was impossible to make wedding plans in view of your record of rebelliousness. Now you turn up unannounced and declare that you’ve been a good boy and expect me to smile and pat you on the head! April’s nearly gone. It’s too late to send word of your wedding to London. I wanted every nobleman in England to come to Aylesbury Castle for this occasion, but—”
Lords of the Isles Page 54