Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “I’m glad you like it,” Micheline returned with a touch of irony. “This gown has special meaning, since Andrew’s mother wore it when she married the duke.”

  “That’s very sweet, yet so innocent. Rather misleading, isn’t it? Everyone knows you aren’t a virgin, after all.”

  Micheline lifted her lightly clefted chin. “It was Andrew’s wish that I wear this gown, my lady.” She turned away. “Now, if you will excuse me…”

  No sooner had Iris Dangerfield taken her leave, complete with a venomous glance that went unseen by her hostess, than Cicely was on her feet.

  “How dare you wear my mother’s dress?” she cried. “This is outrageous!”

  “I only dare because your brother bade me do so,” Micheline replied as quietly as she could.

  “You’ll never take her place!”

  “Cicely, my only intent is to be Andrew’s wife. As for your mother, I revere her memory. I would never think to replace her. I can only be myself and do my best.”

  The girl seemed not to hear. Eyes blazing, she vowed, “You may think you love Andrew, but you barely know him! I’ve known him for thirteen years! You’ll never understand him the way I do!”

  Micheline was saved from losing her temper, or answering at all, by the timely appearance of Patience Topping. She seemed to assess the situation immediately, and gave Micheline a sympathetic smile.

  “The guests are arriving,” she announced. “Cicely, dear, you’ll have to leave our new sister so that she can complete her preparations.”

  The girl stamped across the chamber, pausing in the doorway to declare, “I have no sisters!”

  *

  The nuptial mass was held in the chapel, located in the castle keep, which boasted a barrel-vaulted nave, stained-glass windows, and wall paintings. Despite the fact that the bride and groom cared little whether anyone else was present besides themselves and the priest, the wedding guests were the finest England could offer. King Henry and Anne Boleyn, glittering with jewels, were seated next to the Duke of Aylesbury and his family, and behind them were ranged the cream of British nobility. Every seat in the chapel was occupied, for friends and villagers had flocked from the countryside of York at Andrew’s invitation.

  As Micheline walked down the aisle, however, she saw none of the sumptuously garbed guests. All her attention was focused on the man she loved.

  Even from a distance she basked in the loving warmth of Sandhurst’s gaze, and thought that he had never looked so dazzlingly handsome, not even the night they met, when she had thought him more attractive in his plain fawn garb than any other man at the French court. For his wedding he wore a doublet and haut-de-chausses of dove gray and blue velvet sewn with silver thread. White silk showed through the slashed sleeves and made a snowy fraise against Sandhurst’s tanned jaw. His dark hair shone in the shafts of sunlight that poured into the chapel. He wore a smile, too, which grew more irresistible as Micheline neared.

  As the bride drew closer to altar, the guests beheld Micheline’s beautiful face and her gleaming cognac-hued locks, pinned up softly yet freeing curly wisps to frame her face and brush her bare shoulders. The garland of bird’s-eye primroses and buttercups encircled her hair like a crown. To Sandhurst however, most lovely of all was the joyous smile that lit the face of the woman he loved. It called up all manner of fierce emotions within him, ranging from intense love to the burning ache of desire.

  Currents of warmth flowed between their bodies when Micheline put her slim fingers in his strong hand. They were both oblivious to the crowd that filled the chapel, and Micheline was only dimly aware of the priest’s voice. She knelt beside Andrew, trying to pray, but all she could think of was the nearness of his hard body.

  At length they rose, and Sandhurst’s gaze held her near.

  “I, Andrew, take thee, Micheline, to my wedded wife,” he said, his whole heart exposed in the tone of his voice.

  “I, Micheline, take thee, Andrew, to my wedded husband,” she vowed softly.

  Sir Jeremy Culpepper, grinning from ear to ear, stepped forward to present a band of solid gold to his friend. Sandhurst held it deftly between two fingertips. In a voice so intimate that it seemed they were alone together, he told Micheline, “With this ring I thee wed. This gold and silver I thee give. With my body I thee worship.” He paused to smile almost imperceptibly. “And with all my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father”—he slid the ring partway down her thumb, then withdrew it—“and the Son”—now Micheline was staring at his masculine fingers as they tantalized each of her fingertips in turn with the golden band—“and the Holy Ghost.” Reaching her wedding finger, he gently slid the ring down to its proper place and concluded, “Amen.”

  Moments later, after a benediction from the priest, Micheline gloried in the sensation of being gathered into Sandhurst’s embrace. One of his hands came up to hold the back of her head, while the other completely rounded her waist, and then their smiling lips met. It was a gentle, loving, sensuous kiss, filled with promise. Micheline felt weak with elation.

  They stayed in the church to drink from a loving cup with wine sops, then accepted the first flurry of congratulations from Henry, Anne, and the other guests. Only Cicely, Iris, and the Duke of Aylesbury held back. The two females watched the bride and groom with resentment, but the sharp-boned old man was staring at his new daughter-in-law with tears in his eyes. Finally, when Andrew glanced over questioningly, the duke came forward. First, he extended a hand to his son, then turned to Micheline.

  “You look every bit as beautiful as my Jessica when she wore that gown thirty-five years ago. Buttercups and bird’s-eye primroses…” His voice was thick with emotion. “I’ll wager she’s watching right now and is as proud as I am to welcome you to our family, my lady. My son is a fortunate man.”

  Sandhurst felt a long-forgotten stirring of emotion as he watched his father. When Micheline replied by kissing the old duke’s parchmentlike cheek, it seemed a symbolic gesture of peace. Somehow, Andrew managed to speak.

  “I have you to thank, Father,” he said softly. “You brought us together.”

  Part Four

  Now welcome, night, thou night so long expected,

  That long day’s labour dost at last defray,

  And all my cares, which cruel love collected,

  Hast summed in one, and cancelled for aye:

  Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,

  That no man may us see,

  And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,

  From fear of peril and foul horror free.

  Let no false treason seek us to entrap,

  Nor any dread disquiet once annoy

  The safety of our joy.

  – Edmund Spenser 1552?-1599

  Chapter Thirty

  April 20, 1533

  The wedding party adjourned to the great hall, a long, magnificent room with an oak-beamed ceiling, a huge fireplace with an elaborately carved overmantle, and white stone walls hung with priceless tapestries.

  The marriage ceremony now seemed but a prelude to the real purpose of the day: serious gluttony and merrymaking. The next few hours passed in a blur for Micheline. She could scarcely hear the conversation at her table over the shouts of laughter. Meanwhile, dish after dish was offered, and it seemed that most of those present partook of them all. There was oyster pie; lettuce stuffed with forcemeat; spinach froise;; venison stewed in beer; salad of watercress, herbs, and cabbage; honey-glazed capon stuffed with apple, raisins, and almonds; and fried artichokes flavored with orange. More dishes were passed that Micheline declined, plus bowls of juicy new strawberries and an assortment of cheeses.

  Throughout the feast, wine and ale flowed freely. Micheline sipped fragrant Burgundy wine from a jeweled goblet which intensified the currents of warmth she felt when Andrew’s lean-muscled thigh pressed through her skirts under the table. Every time their hands brushed, color stained Micheline’s cheeks. Even during their first supper together at
Fontainebleau, she had not been so undone by his nearness. Shyness mingled with excitement in her breast when she thought fleetingly, constantly, of what lay ahead for them that evening.

  Dozens of toasts were proposed, including several by Rupert Topping, who appeared to have imbibed too freely. At one point he staggered to his feet and shouted, “I propose a toast to the most splendid brother any Englishman has ever known!” He took a hearty swig, spilling on his doublet of purple satin, while the similarly overfestive guests drank along with him. “And a toast to Lady Sandhurst, whose beauty and charm make her the only woman in the world worthy to become my brother’s wife!”

  “Hear, hear!” exclaimed the king, drinking heartily. He and Anne Boleyn were seated across the table from the bride and groom. There had been little chance for conversation, but now, as the toasts subsided, Henry leaned forward, his beefy face ruddy with wine, and addressed Micheline. “I can scarce find words to tell you how pleased we are that you are now an English marchioness, Lady Sandhurst!”

  Micheline made a demure reply, then looked at her husband with radiant eyes.

  “In fact,” Henry went on determinedly, “I wish that the two of you would consider traveling to France in the near future! What attractive ambassadors you would make! What do you say, my lady?”

  Sandhurst intervened at this point. “We mean no disrespect, sire, but as I have already explained to you, Micheline and I would like to remain in England for the time being.”

  The king’s hands clenched, betraying his displeasure, but his smile barely faltered. “Will you not allow your wife to answer for herself?”

  “I fear I must agree with my husband, Your Majesty,” Micheline said clearly. “I am eager to settle into our new life together and to enjoy England. One day I might like to return to France, but only to visit dear friends. I’ve no desire whatever to linger at the French court again. That was part of another lifetime for me.”

  Henry’s lips thinned. “I can only hope that the two of you will reconsider.” He gave Sandhurst a hard stare.

  Anne Boleyn had been watching this exchange with increasing disquiet. “Can we not speak about something more cheerful? Pardon me for saying so, sire, but I think we should leave this couple to enjoy their wedding day!”

  The king glared at her, but further conversation was interrupted by another toast from Rupert.

  Watching his half brother weave and ramble incoherently, Andrew looked at Micheline, a smile playing over his mouth. “Have you had enough?” he whispered.

  “Easily!” The mischief in his expression nearly made her giggle.

  Sandhurst leaned over to speak to his father, who nodded approval, then waved away the servants who approached with curd and cheese tarts and orange pudding. Rising, he addressed the assembled guests.

  “My wife and I would like to thank you all for coming today to share in our happiness.” He nodded toward King Henry, hoping to allay any ill feelings. “We’ll stay for one dance, then I trust you’ll understand if we take our leave.” He paused, smiling. “I have a great deal of respect for tradition, but today I hope you won’t be disappointed if we dispense with the bedding of the bride… and attendant customs. I’ve waited a long time for this day, and I’d like to undress Lady Sandhurst myself.”

  *

  The sun had just set when Sandhurst closed the paneled door to what had been Micheline’s chamber but tonight would be occupied by both of them. The white stone fireplace danced with a freshly lit blaze, sending shadows capering happily over the walls while the sounds of music and dancing drifted in from the hall.

  The first thing Micheline noticed was a delicate gold casket that reposed in the middle of the bed. “What’s this?” she wondered, picking it up.

  “Perhaps someone left it as a wedding gift.”

  Pleased, Micheline lifted the carved lid, but her expression changed to one of horror when she saw what lay inside the the little box. Nestled in folds of white satin was a gold wedding ring, broken in half. “Andrew! What can it mean?”

  Immediately he took the box from her and closed the lid with a snap. “A cruel joke, no doubt perpetrated by someone who desired to taint the joy of this night.” Gathering her into his arms, he whispered, “You must forget about it. Forget about everything save the two of us.”

  Oddly enough, Micheline was able to obey with ease. Her bliss was such that nothing else could intrude.

  “Let me dispose of this,” he said. “I’ll be only a moment.”

  In the corridor he had the good fortune to encounter Jeremy Culpepper.

  “Take this evil thing and destroy it,” Sandhurst said flatly, showing his friend the contents of the casket.

  Culpepper’s eyes widened and a cold chill ran down his spine. “Who would do such a thing? Iris Dangerfield?”

  “I know not, and for tonight I do not care.” His sculpted profile was hard with anger. “Later, though, I intend to find out. Too many sinister events have been taking place lately, and I mean to discover who is responsible.”

  With that he turned away and reentered the chamber, smiling at his wife as he closed the door. “Now, where were we?”

  Curiously nervous, Micheline perched on the edge of the bed, conscious of the hot blood that stained her cheeks. She watched apprehensively as Andrew lit a candle and placed it on the table next to the bed. The lean lines of his body in profile as he bent over filled her with a skittish passion.

  “I want to see you,” he said huskily, “the first time we make love as husband and wife.”

  “Oh.” Her lips formed the word, but no sound came out.

  “What’s amiss, sweetheart?” Sitting down beside her, he raised one slender hand to his mouth and kissed the ring on Micheline’s wedding finger. “Surely you’re not afraid of me!” This last word was emphasized fondly, as if he found her shyness rather amusing.

  “No…” She gasped involuntarily when his mouth found the pulse at her wrist, then the tender heart of her palm, his gaze as intimate as a caress. “No, of course I’m not afraid of you.” A tremor of arousal traveled downward to the place between her legs.

  “I know.” Understanding and playfulness mingled in Andrew’s smile. Now he merely held her hand and looked into her eyes. “In the past, our lovemaking was unexpected. Perhaps you’re feeling uneasy because tonight it’s inevitable… and you’re my wife.”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Fondling, try to remember that our love is all that really matters. This”—Sandhurst drew her against him and kissed her with frank desire, then murmured against her cheek—“this is just a physical expression of that love. As long as our feelings are genuine, we cannot disappoint each other.”

  Micheline warmed to his tender, eloquent words yet a part of her remained afraid. It was as if the past were trying to pull her back, back into the safety of solitary existence. The responsibility of loving Andrew suddenly seemed overwhelming. Could she possibly make him happy? Already she feared that he might be disappointed on this first night of their marriage; how could she be enough for him year after year, for the rest of their lives? The future stretched out ahead of them in her mind, fraught with risks and possibilities for failure.

  Inevitably Micheline thought back to the day she had married Bernard Tevoulere. It had become apparent to her lately that she hadn’t known then the true possibilities love held, yet she had been more confident on that first wedding day than she was now. She realized that she had been far more naive at seventeen; that fact alone gave her pause. But if she hadn’t been able to fulfill Bernard, how could she possibly be enough for someone like Andrew?

  As usual, Sandhurst gazed into her troubled eyes and guessed her thoughts.

  “Michelle,” he said quietly, “put aside the past and future. Let us deal with the present, moment by moment.”

  She sighed heavily. “But—”

  Putting a forefinger under her chin, he tilted her face up so that she could not avoid his penetrating eyes. “I love
you.” He touched his mouth to hers and their lips clung. “I want you.”

  Those poignant words were her undoing. Micheline’s doubts fell away as she gave in to the magic of his nearness. He affected all her senses. There were moments when just the sound of his low masculine laughter could set the embers of desire aflame inside her. Now, her worries were lost under a rising tide of arousal.

  “I want you, too, Andrew,” she said shakily. Reaching out, Micheline caressed the muscles that tapered down to his narrow waist. Even through the velvet doublet she could feel the vital warmth of his skin. “I love you.”

  “Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there.” His tone held a gentle note of finality.

  Micheline watched as his fingers, strong and graceful all at once, unlaced her gown. She could feel the heat and moisture between her legs, and then she was reaching to unfasten his doublet. Andrew lowered the bodice of her gown with tantalizing slowness, bringing her chemise with it, until her breasts were bared, round and glowing in the firelight. Dark rose nipples stood out and he bent to kiss each one in turn, lingeringly, until Micheline moaned with pleasure.

  Slowly he removed her clothing, savoring each precious inch of her as it was revealed to him. His fingertips traced the lines of her throat, the edges of her breasts, and down over her hips and belly, trailing fire. A hungering throb came then between her legs.

  His doublet came off, revealing the powerful contours of his torso to her. Micheline slid her arms around him and drew near to press her cheek to his warm chest. An unexpected wave of emotion swelled within her and she blinked back tears as she listened to the beating of his heart. Andrew lifted her higher, into his embrace, and kissed her in earnest. His tongue told her all that he wanted to do. The last of their clothing fell away until they both were naked and he reached out to pull back the green velvet counterpane.

  Micheline looked over to discover that the sheets were strewn with tiny colorful flowers: yellow primroses, violets, and lily-of-the-valley bells. Her eyes swam with tears.