Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Micheline sighed now, staring at the tray of food. She felt drained of energy these days, though she continued to hope that the combination of rest and the Cotswold hills would reinvigorate her. After all, they’d just arrived the night before, and it was a rather long trip, but tears came unbidden to her eyes as she thought of Cicely out riding with Andrew in her place. Was she even riding Primrose?

  Betsy reappeared to direct the serving girls who brought in the copper bathtub and buckets of steaming water. After scolding Micheline for not eating, she stood over her mistress and watched as she managed to swallow a few bites of gingered bread. Mary came to wash her hair, then Micheline asked to be left alone for a soak in the tub.

  Resting her head against the copper rim, she closed her eyes, helpless to resist the strong pull of fatigue. This longing to sleep was entirely new to her, and extremely frustrating. She wanted to dress and hurry out to join Andrew at the stables when he returned from his ride, but even the thought of so much activity made her wait to attempt it. Just a few more minutes of rest… Micheline sighed, and a tear slid down her cheek, but she did not stir.

  “You look altogether too sad for one so lovely,” Sandhurst’s voice remarked from the doorway.

  Her eyes flew open. “Andrew!”

  “None other.” He was leaning against a carved dresser, the picture of casual strength in the fawn doublet, breeches, and boots he’d worn the first night at Fontainebleau. His brown eyes watched her intently. “What ails you, sweetheart?”

  Micheline searched for her soap in an effort to avoid her husband’s gaze. “You know well enough what ails me—and how much I wish I felt otherwise… but after all, it is for a good cause!”

  “I wasn’t speaking of your recent passion for sleep,” Andrew said, walking over to sit back on his heels beside the bathtub. Gently he traced the course of her tear with one fingertip. “What’s all this?”

  Laying her cheek against his warm hand, Micheline sighed. She had no intention of burdening him with her insignificant worries. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m just not myself, and I don’t like it any better than you do.”

  “Michelle, I always like you.” Sandhurst flashed a grin then and her heart melted. “I’m in need of a bath. Do you suppose there’s room for me?”

  Copying his tone, Micheline smiled radiantly and assured him, “My lord, there’s always room for you!”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  June 9-11, 1533

  Each morning, Micheline would wake when Andrew rose at dawn, but then a tide of sleep would pull her under for more long, dream-filled hours. As if drugged, she would drift upward toward consciousness every so often, then sink back into oblivion. Her greatest challenge during early June was summoning the resolve to get out of bed to bathe and dress.

  So when Micheline found herself outdoors in the garden before eleven o’clock one morning, her mood was self-congratulatory. Clad in a pretty summer gown of white and azure silk, she wound her way through the formal walks and shady alleys, past knotbeds and borders of damask roses, columbine, purple bugles, snapdragons, and red campion, cutting flowers and dropping them into the basket looped over her arm.

  “My, don’t you look the country gentlewoman!”

  Micheline glanced up to see Cicely approaching from one of the clipped expanses of lawn.

  “I love it here,” she replied simply, ignoring the hint of derisiveness in the younger girl’s voice. “It’s especially enjoyable this first year, since I am never certain what nature will unveil next.”

  Cicely selected a fragrant damask rose from the basket and held it to her nose. “You’ll be happy to know that your filly, Primrose, is well. I’ve been exercising her in your absence and just came from the stables; they’re going to see about mating Zachariah, the white stallion, with a mare who’s in season. I don’t imagine Andrew will be back for hours.”

  In spite of a twinge in the area of her heart, Micheline managed to smile. “I appreciate your help with Primrose. I’m sure this is only a phase of my pregnancy that will soon pass. Everyone tells me that the first three months are the hardest. I yearn to take up my usual routine again.”

  “But then your body will be changing,” Cicely remarked as they walked toward a herb plot. “I mean, you may not be shaped for outdoor activity.”

  In the shadow of the charmingly mismatched manor house, Micheline bent to cut rosemary and flowering lavender, barely noticing the butterflies on the wing that flitted among a nearby shrub of honeysuckle. She couldn’t decide what Cicely was getting at, or how to reply.

  “I do not intend to become an invalid for the next seven months,” she said at last.

  Examining the folds of her soft pink skirt, Cicely murmured, “I hope, for your sake, that you will not. I mean, we both know how active my brother is. Already he’s begun to show signs of restlessness, what with your new habit of retiring early and rising late. I’m not suggesting that he doesn’t care for you,” she suddenly assured a stricken-looking Micheline, “but Andrew’s always been a selfish man in that he’s used to having his needs met.”

  A cold chill ran down Micheline’s spine and her heart began to pound. “What are you saying?”

  “I only meant to caution you. You weren’t here in England prior to your marriage, and you may not realize how many ladies would happily supply my brother with female companionship.”

  “I’m not a fool, Cicely. I am fully aware that Andrew is immensely attractive to women, but I also know that he loves me. He would not stray just because—”

  “Not without encouragement, perhaps, but he is human.” Cicely started toward the manor, then turned on the path to stare at Micheline. “I’m not saying these things just to hear myself talk. You were not at Whitehall Palace the other night; I was. I may not have proved myself a very affectionate sister to you in the past, but I assure you that I would rather see Andrew with you than with Lady Dangerfield!”

  *

  Waves of nausea swept over Micheline as she stood next to the herb plot, watching Cicely disappear from sight! No! she thought wildly. It could not be true! Not Andrew!

  Staring down at the basket of flowers in her arms, she was reminded of the day in the gardens at Fontainebleau when she’d learned of Bernard’s infidelities. Until that moment it had been impossible for her to imagine him capable of betrayal, but he certainly had been. Were all men alike?

  Her imagination burned with possible scenes that might have taken place at Whitehall that night. She saw Andrew in her mind’s eye, bored and lonely, succumbing to Iris Dangerfield’s entreaties that he dance with her. She saw him responding to Iris’s open desire, imagined him putting her from his mind as Iris pressed her hips against his.

  No. No, she must not condemn Andrew based on the words of a resentful thirteen-year-old girl. In the past the possibility had even occurred to Micheline that Cicely might have been responsible for the threats on her life, though she’d been quick to dismiss such thoughts. Still, in this case, it was easier to believe that Cicely might tell stories out of spite than accept the fact that Andrew had been unfaithful since their marriage. The mere thought seemed to stab Micheline through the heart.

  She found a bench in the shelter of blooming apple trees and tried to calm herself. Finally it came to her that Patience and Rupert had also gone out to Whitehall Palace that night. Perhaps Patience could throw cold water on Cicely’s horrible tale.

  Bolstered with hope, Micheline went into the manor house through the kitchen door and discovered Patience herself working at one of the long, bleached tables.

  “Hello!” she managed to exclaim.

  “Oh, good morrow, Micheline. You’ve been out in the garden, I see.”

  “It’s just glorious, and a beautiful day too. There’s no need to stay indoors, Patience. There are plenty of servants to see to the meals.”

  Lettice, who was chopping parsnips next to Patience, spoke up. “Mistress Topping’s showing me her recipe for stewi
ng venison in ale. Nothing like this in France, I’ll warrant, eh, my lady?”

  “No. No, I suppose not.” Micheline was beset by a sinking feeling. Why was she beginning to feel like a stranger in her own home? “Lettice, I saw some lovely ripe cherries on the trees outside. Why don’t you go out and pick them and we’ll have tarts tonight?”

  “Oh. Of course. As you wish, my lady.” The cook cast a curious glance in her direction but wiped her hands and took a basket out into the garden.

  Micheline drifted over to stand beside Patience, who was much taller and somehow intimidating in her horse-faced inscrutability.

  “I’m nearly done trimming the venison, then it must marinate in ale for an hour.”

  “I see.” The dish sounded particularly unappetizing to Micheline. She sighed. “Patience, can I be frank with you?”

  “By all means, Sister. I hope that I’ve made it clear that I am your friend.”

  “Yes, certainly… you’ve been very kind. Now I wish that you will be honest as well.” The eyes she turned up to Patience were liquid with emotion. “Forgive me for being blunt, but Lettice or one of the other kitchen servants might come in at any moment.”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “Will you tell me what occurred during the masque at Whitehall Palace… the night when I was too fatigued to attend? I am referring specifically to my husband’s actions.”

  Patience dropped her eyes and returned her attention to the venison. “I don’t know what you mean,” she muttered in a way that froze Micheline’s heart.

  “I think you do,” she replied huskily.

  “There’s really no point in going over it; you’ll only be hurt. What Lord Sandhurst did at Whitehall was nothing personal against you. Men are just like that. Somehow they manage to keep the pleasure they take from women in a little compartment separate from their consciences.” Patience looked at her sympathetically and touched her arm. “It doesn’t mean he doesn’t care for you. He was just passing the time.”

  Micheline shook her head in disbelief, tears stinging her eyes. “But—but Andrew is different!” The last word came out on a sob.

  “Every woman thinks that at first, and I certainly don’t blame you for being beguiled by Lord Sandhurst. There’s something about his eyes that compels one’s trust. Still, he’s human, Micheline, just like the rest, and it’s probably better you found out now and learned to live with it rather than continuing in a dream world.”

  Tears spilled onto the table and Micheline wiped them away with the back of her hand. “Please—tell me—what did he do that night?”

  Patience sniffed as if that were of no real consequence and turned back to trimming the venison. “How should I know? We all saw them together in the ballroom, cuddling in a corner. Mind you, he didn’t behave as if he were besot by any means, but he certainly wasn’t discouraging Lady Dangerfield. Her husband was absent for some reason. Everyone had had quite a lot to drink. I saw them kissing at one point.” Micheline flinched at that and Patience touched her arm again. “And later they left together. Rupert and I brought Cicely back to Weston House before your Andrew reappeared. I’ve no idea what time he came home.”

  Numbly Micheline nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate your frankness.”

  “You’d have had to face the truth sometime, my dear.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Excuse me, won’t you?”

  In a daze she brushed past Betsy Trymme in the gallery and climbed the stairs to the bedchamber, where she and Andrew had been so happy. Lying far over on her side of the bed, Micheline shivered, dry-eyed, for a long while. Her mind seemed to wait, considerately, before allowing thoughts to filter into her consciousness. When they did, her imagination was activated, and tears began to flow. All of Micheline’s misery was compounded by memories of the heartache she’d suffered at Fontainebleau. Lately all of that had seemed part of another life. With Andrew she’d felt reborn, but now she knew such miracles were impossible. Faces and circumstances might change, but the pattern of life remained the same. Love was a cruel illusion.

  When her tears were spent at last, Micheline allowed hostility to form a seal over her wound. Remembering every word of love and devotion Sandhurst had ever spoken, her outrage grew. Had it all been a joke to him after all? Had he been laughing to himself in Paris when she came chasing after him? She thought of his skill at chess and felt as if he’d played her like a pawn. She felt like the most ridiculous of fools for succumbing to Andrew’s charm. Even Iris Dangerfield was wiser than she, for she dealt with the truth of the situation.

  Micheline pressed a hand to her belly, which had begun to harden, and her eyes swam with fresh, harsh tears. This baby, whom she’d thought of as a child of love, now seemed fathered by a stranger.

  *

  Dusk was enveloping the valley when Andrew burst through the front door, laughing. Percy the spaniel, caught up in his master’s festive mood, let out a long howl.

  “Look who’s come to visit!” Sandhurst shouted to Betsy as she rushed into the entry way.

  “Why, Sir Jeremy! How good it is to see you! Are you here for long?”

  Jeremy Culpepper shook his head of yellow curls. “Afraid not, Mistress Trymme. Off to London tomorrow morning. Just passing through.”

  “Then this is a celebration. You men will doubtless want some ale or wine.”

  “Your good husband has anticipated our needs already!” Sandhurst laughed. “We’ve been toasting Jeremy’s arrival at the stables for the past two hours, but I don’t think it’s possible to be too excessive at times like these.” Leaning rather heavily against his friend, he sought Culpepper’s advice. “Is it?”

  Jeremy pursed his lips in a fair imitation of sobriety and shook his head. “Not t’my knowledge.”

  “What we need, though, is the company of my beautiful wife! Betsy, where’s Lady Sandhurst?”

  “Upstairs, my lord, but—”

  “Ahhh!” He raised his brows in Culpepper’s direction. “Her afternoon nap! Such a pleasure to wake her from those! Jeremy, find yourself something to drink and a comfortable chair. We’ll join you directly.”

  Watching Sandhurst run lightly up the stairway, Betsy Trymme was relieved to see that he was less intoxicated than he pretended. Although she couldn’t pinpoint the problem, Betsy was certain that something was amiss with Lady Sandhurst.

  *

  Entering the rose-shadowed bedchamber, Andrew made out the figure of Micheline, lying on her side at the far edge of the bed. He’d missed her that day, and would have returned long before if Jeremy hadn’t appeared. Now, although he was dusty and in need of a bath, Sandhurst joined his wife on the bed, boots and all.

  “Michelle,” he whispered gently, caressing the curve of her hip with one large hand, “are you awake?”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  He blinked at the sound of her voice. It told him that she was not only wide awake but angry. More than angry, in fact. “Sweetheart, you’re trembling! What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

  Sandhurst’s concerned tone and warm gaze made her feel as if an invisible knife were twisting inside of her. Scrambling off the bed, Micheline cried, “Yes, I’m sick. Sacrebleu! I’ve never been sicker! Sick of men and their lies, sick of disappointment, sick of—”

  “Me? Is that what you’re saying?” Andrew sat on the bed, staring at his wife in disbelief.

  “Yes. C’est vrai. I’m sick of you! Your charm and your eyes and your promises of love! You’ve played me for a fool, my lord, and I certainly was a willing victim. I, of all women, should have known better, but I succumbed to your spell just as you must have known I would. Has it failed you yet?”

  This conversation was beginning to remind him of countless others in the past, when his father had fervently listed character traits that Andrew didn’t recognize as his own. Instinctively he erected a familiar barrier. “Micheline, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I’m talking about your power ov
er women! Your ability to make one believe and trust you implicitly with just a few words spoken in that intoxicating voice accompanied by one of your famous heart-melting gazes! Is it possible that you will now have the audacity to claim that you are unaware of these abilities you possess?”

  Sandhurst was dumbfounded by this unexpected attack. He wished he knew what had set Micheline off—and further wished he hadn’t drunk so much ale with Jeremy. Anger welled up inside him, but he tried to keep it at bay. Micheline was pregnant, after all, and her moods had been mercurial of late. Perhaps there was a rational explanation for this outburst. Sliding off the bed, he came around to look down at her through the lavender shadows.

  “I won’t lie to you, fondling,” Andrew said quietly. “I’m aware that some women may find me attractive, just as you must know that you possess a beauty that makes men weak. But what does any of that mean now? We’re married. The only lady whose approval I seek is here before me.”

  “Your tongue is as seductive as the rest of you,” she answered stubbornly, and looked away from him.

  He gripped her arms. “Don’t talk nonsense! What is all this about? If I have committed some crime, name it and allow me to defend myself!”

  “Your crime, sir, is that you are a man like all the rest.” Micheline’s eyes flashed with pain and rage in the darkening room. “No wonder you are so happy these days! You have everything you needed and wanted. Your title and inheritance are safely intact, there’s an adoring woman in your bed at night, and you’ve even managed to sire an offspring during the first weeks of your marriage! If I give birth to a son, all your problems will be solved and you won’t have to continue this farce any longer!”

  “What the devil are you raving about?” Andrew’s voice was a mixture of outrage and bafflement.

  “You needn’t pretend any longer. Your seed’s been planted, hasn’t it? I can’t undo the marriage. Why not admit the truth?”