Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “You followed me to Fontainebleau, didn’t you?” Andrew demanded coldly.

  “Of course I did! Not that I thought there was the least chance you’d fall in love—but it did seem wise to try to nip the thing in the bud. I did my best, but unfortunately madame was frustratingly resilient.”

  “It was you who shone that mirror and frightened my horse!” Micheline cried as the pieces came together.

  Nodding, Sandhurst interjected, “And he doubtless put something in your wine the night you dined with Rabelais and became so ill.”

  She was aghast. “Rupert! You pushed me down the steps at Aylesbury Castle! The same steps where the duchess met her death.”

  Topping merely shrugged in reply. Then, shocking everyone, he suddenly drew his own sword and spun around awkwardly to face Sandhurst.

  “You think me a coward?” he cried.

  A brow arched coolly. “Indeed.”

  “I am more a man than you know.” He swung his blade up against Sandhurst’s with surprising force.

  “You make me a gift, mewling.” Laughing, he caught the sword with his own rapier and deftly thrust the smaller man away.

  Rupert wore a slightly crazed look as he began circling. He held the side-sword out and made an awkward lunge toward Sandhurst, who responded with a soft chuckle.

  “Come here, little one,” he taunted. “Let me remind you of the sharpness of my steel.” In the next instant, he thrust his blade out, just missing Rupert’s chin, and cut the laces on his doublet so that it fell open.

  “You mock me!” His face was red and wet with sweat.

  “At your invitation, good sir.” Watching as Rupert hopped in an awkward circle around the room, Sandhurst merely stopped and raised his eyebrows.

  Suddenly, Rupert summoned all the skill from years of practice and came forward with a flurry of thrusts that made Micheline cry out in alarm. Steel met steel, flashing, until Sandhurst drove him back. Then, unable to resist, he flicked his sword out once more to pare away three ruby buttons that decorated the front of Rupert’s jerkin. They clattered to the floor and rolled away.

  Rupert was panting hard now and his arm had begun to tremble. “Why don’t you just kill me?”

  “And put you out of your misery?” Sandhurst drove him back against a wall embellished with gilded panels and held the razor-sharp tip of his blade under Rupert’s quaking chin. Torchlight from a nearby sconce threw shadows over the beaten man’s face. “That sounds far too merciful for you, and far too messy for me. I’ve far better ways to spend what’s left of this night.”

  The king had summoned guards who now came forward to haul Rupert Topping off to the Tower of London. Henry gave instructions that he should have one of the rat-infested cells in the Bell Tower rather than accommodations befitting a gentleman.

  Micheline ran to her husband, clinging to his neck as he slipped his sword back into its scabbard.

  “Quite an exciting entertainment, eh, my sweetheart?” Henry was saying to Anne as he heaved himself to a standing position.

  “I’m glad it all turned out so happily,” agreed the queen.

  Wrapping a strong arm around the shivering form of his wife, Sandhurst said, “My heartfelt thanks for your help, sire. And I hope you’ll overlook my premature departure from the Tower.”

  “Considering the circumstances, yes. And I won’t even ask how you came to be out on that balcony! Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

  “Perhaps Lord and Lady Sandhurst would prefer to sleep here at Whitehall after their ordeal,” Anne wondered.

  “You are gracious, Your Majesty,” Andrew replied, laughing softly, “But I mean to spend this night in our own bed!”

  *

  Sandhurst was suffering from the kind of extreme exhaustion that kept him wide awake. He lay on his back in the great bed at Weston House, bathed in the moonbeams that come just before the dawn. The night was balmy, and all he needed to keep warm was Micheline. She curled against him, soft and trusting as a kitten, her rich hair spilling over his bare chest.

  Andrew’s left arm was bent behind his head, while his right encircled his wife’s back so that his fingers rested on the curve of her hip. From time to time he opened his eyes, thinking about the events of the last few days, about his marriage, about Micheline, and what lay ahead for them.

  It was difficult for Sandhurst to realize that they had known each other only a few months; life before Micheline seemed hazy to him. She was the center of his existence, yet the time they’d shared so far had been mostly fraught with turmoil.

  The one oasis of peace had been the few weeks they’d spent alone in Gloucestershire following their marriage, and he looked forward to returning there to share a lifetime of contented tranquility with Micheline, and soon, with their child. Smiling ironically, Andrew thought of the years he’d spent trying to elude the specter of boredom. He’d believed then that tranquility and boredom were synonymous somehow.

  Caressing Micheline’s silky hair, Sandhurst considered the tumultuousness that always seemed to color their lovemaking. Tonight had been no exception. Passion had crackled in the air as they came together, expressing physically all the emotions that had no words. There was never time to linger. It seemed that whenever they touched, mutual arousal flared almost instantly into a storm of wild proportions.

  Andrew wondered if the future would bring calmer times. He longed to explore each inch of Micheline’s body with tantalizing slowness. He wanted to savor her. Given both their passionate natures, it seemed unlikely that the storms generated by their love would ever repose for long, but the prospect of variety was definitely appealing.

  Micheline made a soft purring sound in her sleep. Glancing down at her parted lips, and then to the creamy curves of her naked body, Andrew smiled to himself. Slowly he turned on his side, brushing his mouth over the satiny line of her neck and caressing her breast with exquisite gentleness.

  “Mmm…” she murmured happily.

  “My sentiments exactly, Michelle,” Sandhurst whispered. “There’s no time to begin like the present.”

  Epilogue

  Thou walkest with me when I walk;

  When to my bed for rest I go, I find thee there

  And everywhere;

  Not youngest thought in me doth grow,

  No, not one word I cast to talk.

  But, unuttered, thou dost know.

  – Mary Herbert, Countess of Pembroke

  1561-1621

  ~

  Gloucestershire, England

  October 10, 1533

  Micheline, accompanied by Percy the spaniel, came over the brow of the hill and gazed down over the curving slope. The meadow grasses were still covered with daisies, wild marjoram, and pink clover. There had been a frost just three nights before, though, and the trees were turning yellow, crimson, and russet.

  Winter would soon be upon the Cotswolds. It was a time to savor each fine day, like this one. The sky was a clear, vivid blue, the air was crisp, and in the vale below, Andrew and Hampstead were one as they galloped and then sailed over a wall of golden limestone. Cicely, who was riding Primrose, appeared to challenge her brother to a contest, though there was never any real question as to which horse would win. They raced across the valley, jumping four successive walls, then retraced the course.

  Smiling, Micheline settled down amid the wildflowers to watch. For an instant she was reminded of herself and Bernard, in the days when they galloped in unspoken competition through the woods of Angouleme. Her present was so full that she spared little time for thoughts of the past, but now Micheline remembered Aimée telling her that one day she would remember Bernard with fondness. At last she was able to separate the good memories from the bad. Bernard had not been a villain—only immature and misguided. And for a time he had loved her, and she had loved him. Who could say what would have become of Micheline if Bernard had not helped her bridge the gulf from adolescence to womanhood?

  With a bittersweet sigh she looked d
own at the letter in her hands, rereading it. She was engrossed in the ending when Sandhurst called her name.

  Looking up, she saw him leading Hampstead up the hill. Her heart contracted in a familiar way at the sight of his strong rider’s body, clad today in slate-gray velvet, and his hair ruffling back from his handsome face in the breeze. Reaching his wife, Sandhurst gave Hampstead a light slap to send him back to the stables, Percy frolicking behind, then dropped down into the fragrant grass.

  “My God, you’re beautiful,” he told her softly.

  Micheline wore a simple low-necked gown of yellow velvet, cut high at the waist to drape over her ripening belly. The sun brushed her loose brandy-hued curls with fire, and her eyes shone as she smiled.

  “So are you, my lord.”

  “Beautiful?” He frowned in mock consternation. “That’s an opinion best kept in the family. Speaking of which—how fares my offspring?”

  “Very well!” Micheline lay back in Sandhurst’s embrace, watching as his hands curved expectantly over her belly, waiting. When the baby kicked, he flashed a grin.

  “Three more months! It seems a lifetime!”

  “Anticipation is half the fun,” she replied, kissing the hard line of his jaw, then held up the parchment. “We’ve had a letter from Thomas and Aimée. She gave birth to their son last month!”

  “So they had a boy. He’s healthy?”

  “Yes. And you know they lost a son before, their first child, so this baby is especially precious. They named him Etienne.”

  “Stephen,” he translated absently. “Very nice.”

  Gazing up at his profile, she sighed a little. “Will you be disappointed if this child is a girl?”

  “You know better. As long as it’s either a girl or a boy, I’ll be content.” When Micheline didn’t laugh at that, Sandhurst watched her for a moment. “You’re not married to King Henry, you know. Just because he thinks that Anne failed him by presenting him with a baby girl last month—”

  “Odious man. I could almost smell the queen’s despair when we saw her at Greenwich after Elizabeth was born. The way the king was behaving, as if the birth of a lovely, healthy child could be cause for disappointment!”

  Andrew continued to watch Micheline as she gazed out over the hills. “What of you? Has this letter from France made you homesick?”

  “My home is here,” she returned quietly.

  “Perhaps we might visit the St. Briacs next year. Would you like that?”

  A dazzling smile lit her face. “That’s a wonderful idea! Could we take the baby? And Cicely?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Micheline buried her face against his warm neck. “Oh, Andrew, how I love you.”

  He took her back with him to lie in a bed of daisies. “And I love you, Michelle.” He smiled into her iris-blue eyes. “As always…”

  “…we’re of one mind!” She laughed.

  “And one heart.”

  THE END

  About the Author

  Cynthia Wright is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of the Rakes & Rebels series, 10 intertwining historical romances starring the irresistible Raveneau & Beauvisage families. She has also written beloved series set during the Renaissance and in the American West. Romantic Times Magazine hails Cynthia’s novels as “Romance the way it was meant to be.”

  Books by Cynthia Wright

  Cynthia says: I hope you enjoyed OF ONE HEART! I’d love it if you’d visit my Amazon page: http://littl.ink/CynthiaWrightAMAZON

  If you’d like to read Thomas & Aimee’s story, YOU AND NO OTHER, you can download your copy here: http://littl.ink/YNOKindle.

  If you haven’t read my FREE book, SILVER STORM (Rakes & Rebels, Book 1), I hope you’ll download your copy and begin the unforgettable tale of Devon Lindsay & André Raveneau! http://littl.ink/SilverStormKINDLE

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  I look forward to sharing many more stories with you in the future. THE SECRET OF LOVE is coming later this year!

  Warm regards,

  Cynthia Wright

  Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride

  Christi Caldwell

  Chapter One

  1817

  London, England

  Dearest Lord Drake,

  Though you have never directly addressed me by name, I have decided I am far too old to be called Em. I ask you to instead call me Emmaline…that is, if you ever call upon me.

  Ever Yours,

  Emmaline

  Two elegant phaetons barreled along Oxford Street, bearing down on an old woman peddling her goods. The merchant paled and tried to shove her cart up on the pavement. It tipped, swayed, and then careened into the street. Both men in their high flyers pulled sharp on the reins. Nearby, a passing gentleman pushed the lady on his arm away from certain calamity.

  A vulgar shout and frightened screams split the cacophony of mundane street sounds.

  Lady Emmaline Rose Fitzhugh paused on the pavement and raised a hand to shield her eyes against the sun’s brightness. She frowned.

  Lord Whitmore and Lord Cavenleigh. Two of Society’s most dandified fops.

  Lord Whitmore tugged hard at the reigns and leapt from the still moving conveyance. “You filthy cow!” He raged at the poor woman in the street.

  Lord Cavenleigh, jumped down from his carriage and muttered a string of curses.

  Emmaline’s skin heated at the rather descriptive obscenities they unleashed on the woman. Having an older brother, she’d heard her fair share of inappropriate words, but Cavenleigh’s litany was rather original even on that score.

  As the street erupted with the panicked cries of young ladies, the peddler bowed her head. Stringy gray hair straggled into her eyes. “Oi’m sorry, m-my lord.”

  Cavenleigh kicked a tomato at the old woman, and splattered her skirts with the ripened fruit.

  Emmaline gasped.

  Her maid, Grace, took her by the arm and attempted to steer her away. “Please, come away, my lady.”

  Emmaline ignored her efforts and rushed into the fray. “Cease, immediately.” She stepped into the street just as the assailant launched another tomato at the peddler.

  The projectile missed its intended mark and splattered onto the embroidered lace edging of Emmaline’s ivory silk skirts.

  Hands squared on her hips, she glared at the two men. “How dare you?”

  Whitmore, with his slickly oiled and very deliberately curled red hair, stepped around Emmaline to launch a barrage of insults at the quaking woman. He brandished his riding crop. “Sorry? You’re sorry? We could have been killed and for what? Your meaningless life and rotten vegetables?”

  Emmaline threw herself in front of the aged peddler. “What manner of gentlemen would torment a defenseless woman?”

  “No, my lady,” Grace cried.

  A tall figure stepped into the fray and positioned himself between Grace and the two assailants. Society knew the gentleman as the Marquess of Drake.

  Emmaline knew him as her betrothed.

  Lord Drake wrenched the whip from the cad’s fingers, cracked the instrument in half, and tossed the two pieces aside.

  Emmaline swallowed hard. Lord Drake stood more than a head taller than her and possessed the kind of hardened masculine perfection Michelangelo would have ached to memorialize in stone. The harsh angles of his face bespoke power and commanded notice. With rugged cheeks, aquiline nose, and squared jaw, he conveyed raw vitality. The hint of a curl to his unfashionably long
golden hair seemed suited to this real life David.

  “You clearly have very little value for your life,” Drake said to the two fops who’d moments ago tormented the poor old woman.

  Emmaline’s stare collided with Drake’s emerald eyes. The green irises pierced through her with heated intensity; robbed her of breath.

  Get a hold of yourself, Em. He is just a man. A gloriously, stunning man—but that was neither here nor there.

  She looked toward Whitmore and Cavenleigh. Cavenleigh had the good sense to stagger backwards and scurry from the incident like a rodent discovered by Cook in the kitchens.

  Lord Drake returned his focus to the red-haired assailant who’d wielded the weapon. He grabbed him by the wrist and applied such pressure, the man gasped.

  A hiss of pain whistled past Whitmore’s lips. “For the love of God, man…” Whitmore pleaded.

  “Had your whip hit its mark, you’d be facing me at dawn.” Drake’s voice was a silken promise. “What’s your name, pup?”

  Whitmore swallowed, as though he’d been forced to scrape up a rotten tomato from the grimy pavement and swallow it whole. “L-Lord W-Whitmore.”

  “Beg the lady’s pardon, Witless.”

  A laugh escaped Emmaline.

  Whitmore glared at her.

  His actions did not escape Drake’s astute gaze. Lord Drake tightened his grip and the dandy whimpered like a naughty child who’d just had a birch rod put to his person by a too stern nursemaid. “Apologize.”

  The young lord turned to Emmaline. “I-I’m sorry, my lady. M-my apologies,” he croaked.

  She folded her arms across her chest and nodded pointedly at the old woman. “I say, you rather owe the both of us an apology.”

  Whitmore’s eyes rounded with shocked indignation. “You’re mad.”

  Lord Drake squeezed again.

  “M-My apologies, my lady.”

  Her betrothed jerked his chin in the peddler’s direction. “Now, the woman.”

  Whitmore blinked; his pale white cheeks flamed a crimson red to match the bright hue of his hair. “Stupid old cow and her rotten vegetables nearly killed us.” He motioned down the expanse of his peacock blue satin breeches. “And look at this stain. Why, Brummell himself would have been proud to wear these.” The young man’s whining tone indicated he considered the attack on his wardrobe to be an equally grave affront.