Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

*

  As it turned out, St. Briac was able to persuade Aimée that Micheline should be reunited with her true love, once she was convinced that her friend truly did love Andrew, but when he told her of that day’s journey to Paris, she took a stand.

  “I hope you do not entertain thoughts of leaving me behind, Thomas!”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He pretended to be busy selecting clean clothing for the journey.

  “I’m going,” she declared.

  “You must stay and look after the babies. Besides, I shouldn’t be away more than two days.”

  “Suzette can care for the girls, especially for so short a time. I will not be denied this adventure! What if something goes wrong? Micheline may need me! Besides, I want to visit Nicole. I miss her.”

  St. Briac tried to repress a smile as he thought back to the last time he had ordered her to stay behind like a good wife. Aimée had followed him to Paris anyway—pregnant and dressed as a boy.

  “I may be lord of a village and all the surrounding lands, but I cannot master my own wife,” he sighed.

  Aimée crossed the room and stood on tiptoe, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Don’t be silly. I shall be happy to allow you to master me—as soon as we’re alone in bed tonight.” After kissing him sensually, she added, “In Paris.”

  *

  Micheline’s final task before leaving Fontainebleau was to meet with King François in the royal bedchamber so that she might make her farewells. Thomas was there to back her up, but Micheline needed little support. With newfound confidence she stated her case to the king, expressed her gratitude for his hospitality and friendship, and told him that she hoped he would wish her well.

  François’s hazel eyes clouded as he beheld Micheline’s radiance. If only… he thought. It was bitterly ironic to him that a penniless English painter had managed to succeed where he had failed, but a part of him realized that Micheline could never have been happy as a mistress—even to the king of France. Of course, François thought that Selkirk was unworthy, but to point that out would only alienate her. She was clearly in the throes of romance—a condition that the king had learned was intense yet fleeting. He harbored a secret hope that she would come to her senses one day and return to the French court.

  Summoning a regal smile, François murmured, “You deserve all the best in life, madame. My thanks to you for gracing my court.” He pressed a lingering kiss to her hand. “I wish you joy.”

  Micheline was surprised to feel tears stinging her eyes. “I will never forget your kindness, sire, and I shall always remember my time here at Fontainebleau with great fondness.”

  She hurried off to the stables then, but St. Briac remained with his friend until she had disappeared from sight.

  “I wouldn’t worry about writing to Henry the Eighth just yet about this if I were you, sire,” he advised. When François glanced over in surprise he added, “I mean… the outcome is still uncertain. Why not wait until I return from Paris and can make a full report.”

  Then Thomas took his leave and the king went to the window. Anne d’Heilly appeared, as if on cue, to console him, but as they watched the trio emerge from the stables and ride under the Porte Doree toward the forest, a satisfied smile curved her pretty mouth.

  *

  The daylong journey to Paris seemed endless to Micheline. The travelers rode northward over the broad King’s Highway, which was paved and lined with majestic plane trees. During a midday pause at an auberge, where they rested the horses and partook of food, Micheline found that she couldn’t swallow a bite. She was completely focused, body and soul, on reaching Andrew.

  When at last Thomas, Aimée, and Micheline approached the walls and ramparts of Paris, the sky was violet. Soft, lacy snowflakes had begun to swirl down, dusting their hair.

  “I’m so excited!” Micheline exclaimed. She sat up straighter on her horse, already aware of the energy of the city that lay beyond these three-hundred-year-old walls. “I’ve never been to Paris before!”

  Aimée beamed at her friend, remembering her own first visit to the city.

  “At least the smell isn’t quite so repulsive at this time of year,” St. Briac allowed.

  Of course, a large portion of Micheline’s excitement was nervousness. She didn’t really care that much about Paris; it was thrilling to be here because Andrew was somewhere within the city’s walls. The road from Orleans, which passed Fontainebleau for the king’s convenience, entered Paris through the Porte St. Jacques. As Micheline rode through the gates, she imagined Andrew doing the same a few hours earlier.

  They made slow progress up the rue St. Jacques, which was crowded with carts, livestock, and students from the university. The latter occupied much of the Left Bank, a maze of colleges, spires, convents, and lecture halls, with the attending hostels, taverns, open-air book stalls, and shops of those engaged in the academic trades. Micheline had never imagined houses and buildings crowded so closely together, or such a labyrinth of narrow lanes.

  “There is the Sorbonne,” Aimée told her, pointing. “It was Thomas’s college.”

  Micheline stared through the dimming twilight and sprinkling snowflakes. She saw a massive Gothic structure, with towers flanking the high arch of the main door, and a steeple rising above. Beyond were the shapes of many more buildings, and the figures of students and officials rushing to and fro over snowy cobbled pathways.

  “I have heard about the Sorbonne from my father,” she told St. Briac. “He said it was the finest college in the university, and that there is a Latin library with over one thousand volumes!”

  “That’s true.” He nodded. “The Sorbonne has always been an excellent college, but I must give credit to King François for improving not only the Sorbonne but every college in the university. The curriculum has expanded, the professors receive salaries—”

  “And now the king should decree that women may attend!” Aimée interjected.

  Her husband smiled. “I agree in theory, miette, but I fear we won’t live to see that happen… and unfortunately neither will our daughters.”

  Micheline thoughts were with Andrew. “Are we nearly there?” she queried.

  “Patience. It’s not far.” St. Briac heard the urgent note in her voice and prayed silently that nothing would go amiss.

  They turned left on the Quai St. Michel, which bordered the Seine. All along the river booksellers were closing up their stalls for the night. The Pont St. Michel took the trio across the Seine to the Ile de la Cite, the island that was the heart of Paris. Passing to the right of the dark pepper-pot towers of the Conciergerie prison, Aimée and Thomas exchanged glances, remembering the day they had risked their lives to rescue Georges Teverant from his condemned-prisoner’s cell.

  They were caught in a crush of horses and carts on the Pont au Change, the bridge that connected the Cite to the Right Bank. Micheline paid little notice. She gazed out over the Seine, which shimmered in the moonlight while snowflakes danced downward through the night sky to melt when they touched the water. Four-and-five-story houses huddled close along the riverbanks, their windows beginning to glow, one by one, with candlelight. After the sameness and solitude of Fontainebleau, Micheline felt happy to be in Paris.

  When they emerged on the Right Bank, the light had gone, and she was left to her mixed feelings of apprehension and elation.

  “I am so grateful to both of you for coming with me,” she said after a time. “I never realized that Paris was such a tangle of streets!”

  “We’re your friends, ma petite,” St. Briac replied. “It’s our pleasure to help you if we can.” What he didn’t say was that he had come not only to aid her in locating Andrew but also to bring her back to Fontainebleau if the Englishman had changed his mind, either about staying at Nicole’s or wanting to marry Micheline.

  He turned then into the narrow alleyway that led to the stables behind his sister’s house. Even as they were dismounting, Michel Joubert came out of the rear door of the narr
ow four-story dwelling.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  “It’s Thomas, Michel. I have Aimée with me—and a friend of ours.”

  They went to meet him in the light of the doorway. Michel was a dark-haired, slender man in his mid-thirties. Always an artist, he now taught painting at the university as well.

  “How good it is to see you both!” he exclaimed, embracing them fondly. “Nicole will be ecstatic!”

  “Michel, I’d like you to meet Micheline Tevoulere,” St. Briac said, putting an arm around the girl.

  Warm greetings were exchanged, and then they came into the kitchen. The first thing Micheline noticed was a tiny vase of crocuses on the long, bleached table. It prepared her for the charming beauty of Thomas’s sister, who seemed not a bit surprised by this unexpected visit from her brother. Nicole Joubert looked very like St. Briac, in a feminine way. She was tall and graceful, with gleaming sable curls, bright blue eyes, and a merry air about her.

  After introductions were made, they sat down at the table and accepted bowls of galimfree, a fricassee of poultry sprinkled with verjuice and sauced with spices. Even though they had eaten heartily at Barbizon that afternoon, Micheline found that she was suddenly quite ravenous.

  “How good it is to see you all enjoying my cooking!” laughed Nicole. “Your friend, M’sieur Selkirk, ate with equal enthusiasm before he went out this evening.”

  St. Briac, sensing Micheline’s questions, held his hand up to silence her. “So, Andrew arrived?”

  “Mais, oui! He came this afternoon!” Nicole paused to give her brother a puzzled glance. “Didn’t you know, cherie? I thought you sent him here!”

  “I did. I only wondered if he would take my advice.”

  “Oh, absolutely. What a charming man—and so handsome! He almost made me regret my marriage!” She laughed then in a way that caused Michel to bend down to kiss her.

  “Incorrigible wench,” he murmured.

  Micheline was hoping that all this activity would distract the Jouberts from her flaming cheeks, but Nicole missed nothing.

  “Ah, Micheline! I see that I am not the only woman whom M’sieur Selkirk has charmed!” she teased.

  “Darling sister, you have a busy mouth,” St. Briac remarked.

  “A family trait!” Nicole parried.

  “What woman could be oblivious to Andrew Selkirk?” cried Aimée. “But, are we not in danger of being overheard?”

  “Oh, no. M’sieur Selkirk and his manservant went out earlier, to a favorite tavern of theirs from years past. I had the feeling that he was longing to drown his sorrows. He’ll doubtless be out late, and if a fille de joie gets her hands on him, he won’t be back at all tonight!”

  Aimée decided that it was time to take matters into her own hands.

  “Thomas, don’t you and Michel have some manly subject that you should discuss alone?”

  “Yes! Now that you mention it, we do!” Having no idea at all what this subject might be, St. Briac led his brother-in-law off to the next room and closed the door.

  Since Andrew Selkirk might return at any moment, Aimée decided that there was no time to be lost. Even though she knew nothing of his true identity, she described the situation to Nicole in a way that brought tears to the eyes of all three women. Nicole knew what it meant to marry for love rather than wealth or position, since she had done just that herself. Michel’s career as an artist had had its twists and turns, but she had never regretted her decision.

  “How wonderful for M’sieur Selkirk!” she declared, smiling approvingly at Micheline. “Since the moment he walked through the door, I have thought that he looked like a man in need of love.”

  “I mean to give it to him!” Micheline vowed. “In that way, we need each other. I never knew what a man’s love truly meant until Andrew came into my life, but now that I’ve made this discovery, I realize that nothing else is really important.”

  Nicole wiped a tear from her cheek. “You’ve learned the most important lesson of all, cherie, and it cannot be taught, only experienced.” She paused, gathering her thoughts for the more practical details of the current situation. “How shall we effect this reunion? I gather that M’sieur Selkirk may need to be persuaded that Micheline is in earnest.”

  Mentally Aimée counted the bedchambers in the Joubert household. “Perhaps all they need is an opportunity to be alone,” she suggested.

  Nicole laughed. “That may be unavoidable unless you wish to share a bed with Micheline while Thomas sleeps with Andrew. I’ve made a small chamber for Playfair, the manservant, in one of the hanging rooms built out over the street, but that’s the last spare bed.”

  “Good!” Aimée proclaimed. “It’s a perfect solution!”

  Both women looked to Micheline for approval, and she managed to smile and nod in spite of the tremors that shook the pit of her stomach.

  Chapter Nineteen

  April 1, 1533

  Happily Aimée crawled naked into bed beside her husband that night. The sensation of his arms drawing her near filled her with joy.

  “Thomas…?”

  His mouth was blazing a trail from her mouth to her breasts, tasting the sweetness of her skin and enjoying each inch of the journey.

  “Mmm?” he managed to answer, then raised his head to inquire, “Is this any time for a conversation?”

  “I only wanted to tell you that I had another reason for wanting to accompany you to Paris… and return to your sister’s house.” Happiness swelled Aimée’s heart as she continued. “Do you remember what I told you the first time we came here? When we had to hide in the attic from Chauverge?”

  He laughed and kissed the sensitive spot below her ear. “How could I forget? Never have I felt such a mixture of anger and exultation as I experienced that moment when you told me you were with child. Only you would dare to travel to Paris in that condition—”

  “I haven’t changed, my darling,” she interjected, running her hands over the hard muscles of his back.

  Suddenly St. Briac tensed, lifting himself up on steely arms to stare at Aimée in the darkness. “You don’t mean—”

  Nodding, she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. “Yes. And it’s a son this time. I can feel it.” Aimée’s mouth curved against his skin. “Not that I have anything against girls, but it would be nice—”

  “I can’t believe it!” he shouted, not caring who heard him. “You rode all this way to Paris, when you knew—”

  “Shh!” Aimée put a finger over his mouth and grinned when he bit it lightly. “Your son wouldn’t want to be coddled. Besides, he’ll need a head start to keep up with his sisters.”

  “What am I to do with you, miette?”

  “I have an excellent suggestion, monseigneur.”

  *

  In Andrew’s darkened bedchamber across the hall, Micheline barely heard St. Briac’s raised voice. She lay on the far side of the curtained bed, her thoughts occupied by Andrew Selkirk. Where was he? It was past midnight! When would he return? And when he did enter this chamber, what would happen?

  She imagined women twined about him in the corner of a tavern. One would not need to be a fille de joie to lust after Andrew Selkirk! Perhaps he had gone home with a willing lady and would not even return to the Joubert house tonight!

  At that moment the door swung open, revealing a familiar male silhouette, then closed. Micheline held her breath, heart pounding, as she watched Andrew strip away his clothing before the meager fireglow.

  He is here! she thought joyfully before another sudden wave of fear washed over her. It had been days since she had been fully conscious in his presence, and in all that time Micheline had dreamed of nothing else. Still, now that Andrew was truly present, walking naked and splendid across the darkened room to clean his teeth and bathe his face in a basin of cold water, Micheline wished that the floor would open and swallow her up.

  She wished that she were the kind of woman who could thro
w herself across his body when he got into the curtained bed, but she wasn’t. Instead, Andrew slid between the covers and instantly sensed her presence. His first thought was that it must be the Jouberts’ serving girl, Rosette, who had blushed, stammered, and finally tried to kiss him that afternoon.

  Turning on his side, he touched a cheek that felt hauntingly familiar. “You really cannot stay. I’m sorry,” he said gently.

  Micheline was totally undone by his nearness. The sensation of his fingers against her cheek sent her in search of his mouth. No sooner had their lips met, Micheline’s opening helplessly, than Sandhurst drew back.

  “I must be dreaming!”

  “I’d be tempted to agree, m’sieur, except I have dreamed so long of this moment that I cannot be confused.”

  “Micheline? Is it really you?”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. “Yes. Yes! Of course it’s me!”

  “Just a moment. Don’t move.” He scrambled off the bed, felt for a candle on the table, lit it in the fireplace, and returned to hold the flame before her face.

  The light illuminated his expression, too, and she smiled fondly at the sight of his brown eyes, so wide with shock. His mouth open, closed, then open again as he tried to find words. A lock of hair fell engagingly over his brow.

  “How good it is to see you,” she whispered. Impulse prompted her to lay her hand on the hard-muscled expanse of his chest. “You’re warm. It’s so hard to realize that this is not another dream.”

  Micheline’s touch released a long-suppressed flood of yearning inside of him. He reached back to replace the candlestick on the table, then caught her up in his arms. His mouth slanted hungrily over hers, tasting and plundering, while Micheline matched his ardor. They were both naked, kneeling on the feather tick, their bodies pressed together. The soft curves of her breasts burned his hard chest, and farther down their hips met, Sandhurst’s fully roused manhood hot against her belly and between her legs. Micheline’s hands gloried in the rich texture of his hair and the breadth of his shoulders, while he ran his fingers down the elegant curve of her back before molding her buttocks and drawing her closer still.