Sandhurst drew her into his embrace and they knelt pressed together for long minutes, exploring and tasting each other’s mouths. He fit himself between her legs so that she could feel the power of his need for her. Yearning broke in long, exquisite waves over Micheline’s body as she melted against him, her fingers traveling over each taut muscle in his back and shoulders, then down to the hard curves of his buttocks.
Soon they were lying amid the fragrant spring flowers. Micheline loved this extra gift of sight, for in the past they had made love in darkness. She basked in the warmth of Andrew’s caramel-colored eyes and gazed euphorically on his candlelit face, the corded muscles that joined his neck and shoulders, the strength of his arms, and the lean beauty of his chest. Even as Micheline gloried in the scorching kisses he trailed over her body, she was watching him move. Never had she imagined such a combination of strength and elegant grace.
Sandhurst knew exactly where and how to touch her. His mouth found the sensitive nape of her neck, the bend of her arm, her inner wrist, then lingered over her breasts before blazing a trail down her belly to the insides of her thighs. His fingers slipped into the nest of curls between her legs and she throbbed, aching, as he touched her in ways more intimate than she had ever imagined.
“So, so beautiful,” he murmured, kissing her there.
Micheline writhed against him until the waves of sensation drew her up higher still and carried her to a place she had never known existed. She lay gasping, pressing against him. Sheer passion had burned away all intruding thoughts. As much as she wanted to touch and kiss Andrew’s body, the need to feel him inside of her overrode all else.
“Please!” she whispered. Her eyes were drawn helplessly to his erect manhood. How beautifully he is made! she thought, aching for him.
When Sandhurst finally rose to deeply kiss her mouth, Micheline reached to wrap her fingers around him. His member was hard as steel, yet warm, pulsating slightly against her palm.
“Oh, Andrew,” she whispered, her voice breaking on a sob, “I love you.”
He drew back to stare at her. “Michelle, you are more than my wife. You are my mate. For all our lives.”
And then he came into her into her, filling her, moaning aloud at the sensation of her sweet, moist warmth tightening around him. They arched together, moving fervently, the sound of their gasps filling the room, until another wild surging climax shook Micheline’s very soul. Sandhurst found his own shuddering release in the next instant. When his breathing slowed a bit, he lifted his face from the cloud of her hair and ran the backs of his fingertips over her damp brow. Their bodies were still united, and a slow smile spread over his face that said more than words ever could. Micheline felt as if she were floating on a cloud of utter bliss.
Later, after they had shared quiet caresses, Andrew poured one goblet of wine for them both and they lay against the pillows, sipping. She arranged flowers over his chest, then he went a step further and put primroses in the damp curls between her legs.
The sight of his flickering grin ignited a fresh fire of love inside of her.
“I have never been so pleased to be a woman,” she exclaimed suddenly, “a woman mated to the most splendid of men…”
He laughed, basking in her radiance. “Life is sweet, indeed.”
“I am so happy, Andrew. That’s what frightens me. Does anyone deserve to be so happy?”
“Only you, my heart,” Sandhurst assured her. He reached over to set the goblet of wine on the table by the bed, then returned to find Micheline’s lips parted in anticipation of his kiss. Unable to help himself, he obliged, adding, “And me, of course!”
Chapter Thirty-One
April 25-26, 1533
Gloucestershire, England
To reach Sandhurst Manor, traveling as they were from the northeast, Andrew and Micheline had to pass through Stratford-upon-Avon, a quaint town of fewer than two hundred half-timbered houses. Accompanied as usual by Finchley, Mary, and two squires, they spent the night at a cozy inn on Chapel Lane.
Micheline slept little that night. Snuggled in the circle of Andrew’s embrace, she thought about the first happy days of her marriage and wondered what life in her new home would be like. Three times she heard the watchman pass, calling out eventually, “Give ear to the clock, beware your lock, your fire, and your light, and God give you good night: three o’clock.”
In the morning Micheline was radiant with energy and anticipation.
“Every day is an adventure,” she told Andrew as they broke their fast, “because I am seeing places and things for the first time!”
He paused in the midst of chewing a bite of plum to give her an affectionate smile. The enthusiasm of his wife was contagious; Sandhurst felt as if he were exploring England anew because he was seeing it through her eyes.
“I would like to ride with you today!” she exclaimed. “Then we can talk and share the experience together. I am so tired of that stuffy coach.”
His brows flicked up. “People would find that quite shocking, my lady,” he said with mock severity.
“How exciting for them!” she laughed, coming over to perch on the arm of his chair and lean against him. “You must agree, my lord!”
Sandhurst fed her the rest of his plum, ignoring glances from the other people in the common room, and kissed her neck. “I yield to you, my wife.”
After Andrew settled their bill of twenty-four pence for lodging, meals, fodder for the horses, and a fire in their rooms, the group of six rode leisurely out of Stratford-upon-Avon. They kept to the river, which led them straight into the beautiful Cotswold hills, one of the loveliest areas in all of Britain.
Above them the sky was vividly azure, dotted with snowy puffs of clouds, while the air was spring-sweet and warm. There were water meadows all along the River Avon, drenched in violets, wild thyme, and yellow oxlips. The Cotswolds themselves were green hillsides that were shaped, as Sandhurst remarked, “like whales’ backs.” The light was slightly hazy, almost iridescent, reminding Micheline of the Loire Valley in France.
“I’ve never seen so many sheep!” she exclaimed at one point, which elicited a chuckle from her husband.
“This is sheep country, sweetheart. The wool merchants are getting rich from them. You see, Cotswold sheep are unique, with lustrous wool that’s really quite special.”
Before long they turned south from the River Avon.
Micheline delighted in the rolling hills fringed with beech trees, and the secluded valleys lined with pollard willows and threaded with silvery brooks. The Cotswolds exuded charm and a kind of magic that made Micheline feel content on another level from her happiness with Andrew. The softly undulating hills seemed to embrace her, welcoming her home at last.
When they rode into the village of Chipping Campden she was surprised to find all the buildings and houses composed of honey-colored stone. High Street curved ahead of them, tinted golden in the midday light.
“It’s Cotswold limestone,” Sandhurst explained, anticipating her question. “With time, it mellows from gray to the warm honey color you see here.”
They wound their way through the market-day crowds of people, carts, and livestock. Down one of the quieter lanes of town they paused at the Crooked Billet inn for a meal of pigeon pie, asparagus with oil and vinegar, brown bread and honey, and stewed apples. To Micheline’s surprise the innkeeper recognized Sandhurst and called his wife and children out to welcome “his lordship” home. When Andrew informed them that the lady at his side was the new Lady Sandhurst, they behaved as if she were royalty.
Later, outside the inn, he told her, “We’re still two hours from the village of Sandhurst. For years the villagers there have been pestering me to marry, so there will doubtless be another display of enthusiasm there.”
Fortunately they came upon Sandhurst, a hamlet caught in a fold of hills, late in the afternoon, when most people were off the streets having a rest from the labors of the day. To the others who rushed forth to
greet Lord Sandhurst, he merely said that he was eager to get home and would return soon for a proper visit. Micheline felt the curious gazes of the townspeople and smiled in return. Some of them wore looks of comprehension, as if they sensed the bond of love that existed between her and Andrew.
Micheline barely had a chance to look at the village, though it seemed much like the others they had passed through that day. The buildings predictably blushed a tawny hue, and there was a magnificent church that struck Micheline as both dignified and primitive.
“It’s Norman,” Andrew told her succinctly. “No wonder you like it!”
South of the village were more sheep-covered hills as well as fields being plowed by oxen. Occasionally one of the farm laborers caught sight of Sandhurst’s proud head and strong silhouette on horseback and called a greeting to him. Micheline’s surprise grew when she heard him reply, invariably calling each man by name.
“These people work for me,” he explained.
“But how can you recognize each one from such a distance?”
He gave a light shrug. “Instinct, I suppose. I’ve known most of those men all my life.”
Finally they reached the curving brow of a hill and Sandhurst reined in his horse. “There it is,” he said with feeling. “That’s your new home.”
Below them, in a deep, rounded valley, lay Sandhurst Manor. Micheline could see only that it was rose-colored, rather than golden, and sprawling, with lots of chimneys. Smooth, well-tended gardens spread out to the edges of the hillsides, and there were beechwoods to the north.
“Some people call it Sandhurst-in-the-Hole,” he said with a wry smile. “You can see why.”
Micheline was already mesmerized. “It’s perfectly lovely.”
As they rode down into the vale, Andrew explained, “the manor house was rebuilt during my youth. Due to my bold mother, brick was chosen instead of limestone. As for the rest… I’ve never been certain who was responsible. If it was Mother, then she was more imaginative than I ever realized. At any rate, this house is exactly my own taste. It could have been created with me in mind.”
Their horses slowed to a walk as they passed a lily pond and clipped yew trees. Ahead, an eccentrically splendid manor house of salmon-pink brick rose up, charming in its irregularity. The house was tall, turreted, and gabled, with decorated chimneys rising haphazardly above the battlemented parapet. The half-timbered gables were of different sizes, as were the turrets crowding to the east of the front. The porch was not in the center of the facade, and even the spacious, square-headed windows seemed scattered at random.
Micheline stared, speechless, for a long minute, then turned toward Sandhurst, beaming. “I feel as if I am having a dream! Can this really be your home?”
“Our home,” he amended. Andrew followed her gaze and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “Rather odd, isn’t it!”
“Rather wonderful!” Micheline corrected him adamantly. “I love it.”
“Then we’re of one mind again.”
“It’s a happy-looking house,” she decided.
“Happy in its oddity,” Sandhurst agreed. In spite of his offhand manner, he was immensely relieved by her reactions, not just now, but all day long. With some women, he might have suspected pretense, but never with Micheline. Since the moment she’d owned up to her ill-concealed feelings for him, he’d never had reason to doubt her word.
“I think it is very beautiful in its oddity.” She was rising up to defend the house as if it had always been her own and Sandhurst were the newcomer.
“Pardon me.” Laughing, he reached out to catch her hand. “Don’t take me to task! I’m on your side.”
As they drew nearer the manor, Micheline finally noticed the long-legged horses silhouetted against one hillside, while sheep covered the rest of the valley. Dry stone walls separated the two kinds of animals. There were extensive stables to the west, and a long-suppressed thrill leaped inside Micheline at the thought of so many magnificent steeds. Surely paradise itself could not be better suited to her tastes!
Andrew himself was becoming distracted by the various elements of homecoming. He could sense the house coming to life, and, meanwhile, he was wondering if the horses had been tended properly, if the gardens had thrived in his absence, and if anything had changed within the manor.
Stableboys were rushing forward to take the horses as they neared the entrance to the house and dismounted. Sandhurst had no sooner lifted Micheline lightly to the ground than a plump, middle-aged lady with light brown hair drawn back tightly into a hood came flying out of the manor, arms outstretched.
“My lord, my lord!” she cried, tears dripping onto her pink cheeks. “Is it really you?”
“Of course it’s me, Betsy,” he assured her, holding her close. When the woman drew back to gaze at him, he reached out a hand to Micheline. “I’ve a surprise for you. This is my wife, Lady Sandhurst. Micheline, I want you to meet Betsy, otherwise known as Mistress Trymme. She’s kept this place running smoothly for years. I couldn’t leave in good conscience if Betsy weren’t here.”
“A wife!” Mistress Trymme ejaculated. “Our Lord has answered my prayers.”
Micheline extended her hand, instantly drawn to the older woman. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Trymme.”
“Oh, no, my lady, the pleasure is mine!” Looking up at Sandhurst, she nodded approval in a way that indicated a long-standing closeness between the two. “You’ve picked a marvelously lovely marchioness, Lord Andrew! And now you must know none of us will rest until there’s a babe on the way!”
He feigned exasperation. “I’m doing my best! Nan Goodwyn had already begun bothering me on this very subject in London, a fortnight before Micheline and I were even married!”
To Micheline’s astonishment Betsy laughed and replied, “I hope you don’t expect me to believe that you let a few simple words spoken in church hold you off!” She waggled a finger at him. “I know you better than that, my boy!”
Sandhurst blinked, then chuckled. “Would you make me out a lecher before my sweet bride?”
“Your lady looks as if she has her wits about her, Lord Andrew, and I wouldn’t expect you to marry less. Surely I haven’t said more than she already knows!” Betsy beamed at Micheline, adding, “You all must be tired, and no doubt my lady is eager to see more of her new home.”
The manor’s buildings were grouped around a square courtyard that contained charming flower beds and carved benches. Inside, there were a bewildering number of rooms: twenty bedchambers, a private dining room plus summer and winter parlors, a high-arched, two-story great hall with its connecting chapel, and not only a pantry and buttery but also pastry, laundry, and linen rooms. There was also a magnificent library and a long gallery lined with windows on one side and exquisite Flemish tapestries on the other. One of the reasons the house was so warm and inviting, in Micheline’s opinion, was the generous use of artfully refined linenfold paneling, its edges decorated with carvings to counterfeit embroidery.
The great hall was bathed in sunlight and strewn with fresh herbs and fragrant hyacinths. Paintings lined the walls and Micheline was on her way to look at them when a spaniel came bounding into the room. The dog ran straight for Sandhurst, who knelt to welcome him, laughing.
“Meet Percy,” he said to Micheline.
“That’s an unexpected name!” She came over to pet the spaniel’s sleek head, smiling. Percy was mainly white, with a few dark brown patches on his body and long, silky sable-colored ears.
“I made the mistake of letting Cicely name him when he was a puppy. She was only five or so at the time and decided that he resembled a friend of mine called Sir Percy Buckthorn. As a result, I’ve had to hide the dog the few times Percy’s visited. I don’t imagine he’d be flattered to meet his namesake.”
Percy let out a short woof of appreciation and licked his master’s cheek. When Sandhurst stood up and walked over to the paintings with Micheline, the spaniel trotted along a
t his side, attempting to assume a position between the two people.
“Oh, dear,” Micheline whispered in pretended anxiety. “I’m afraid your friend is jealous. I hope he’s not used to sleeping on your bed!”
He laughed. “Rest easy, my lady. In fact, you’ll discover a dog gate on the stairs to keep him in his place.” Bending down, he gently but firmly dragged the reluctant spaniel over to his right side. “Speaking of places, this is yours, Percy. Don’t look at me like that! The lady is my wife, and I won’t share her with you.”
Percy hung his head. “There, you see!” Sandhurst declared to Micheline. “It’s not you he’s jealous of; it’s me! Obviously the beast was hoping to steal you away from me. Edging in between us, indeed. If Percy aspires to become a true rogue, he’ll have to adopt a more subtle approach.”
Although Micheline laughed softly, she felt a twinge of sympathy for the dog. No doubt he was used to having his master’s undivided attention, for it seemed unlikely that Sandhurst had brought many ladies all the way to Gloucestershire. Instinct told her that he had kept his more socially oriented life in London apart from the quieter existence at Sandhurst Manor. Already, that very day, Micheline had begun to detect aspects of his personality that she had not seen before. It was exciting to realize that she would share in every phase of his life.
Gesturing toward a wonderfully executed painting of a dark-haired lady, Micheline queried, “Is this your mother?”
“How did you know?”
“Well, it did seem logical, and there’s a family resemblance. On the surface she looks like Cicely, but her eyes are yours exactly. Extraordinarily warm and compelling.”
Sandhurst gazed at the portrait, for a moment seeming very far away. “Odd that you should mention Mother’s eyes. She was a very proper lady, quite restrained, yet one learned to gauge her mood by looking at her eyes. When I painted this, they were the most difficult aspect to capture.” He gave Micheline a sidelong smile. “The same was true when I painted you. Even more so, I’d say.”
Lords of the Isles Page 59