*
Micheline slept fitfully in her comfortable feather bed. She would doze and dream, then wake to change positions, staring up at the two narrow windows that overlooked the Yorkshire countryside. Bright shafts of moonlight streamed into the room, annoying her to the extent that she finally scrambled up to close the bedcurtains on that side.
Mary occupied a little truckle bed nearby. It was good to have her there; since Hampton Court, Micheline dreaded the idea of being alone in the darkness. However, the little maid breathed loudly in her sleep.
Midnight came and went. Micheline dreamed that she lay in Andrew’s arms, soaking up his warmth, nestling against his lean-muscled chest and listening to his heartbeat as he slept. In reality she felt lost in this huge bed, and was unaccountably chilled in spite of an abundance of covers. Half-conscious, she turned onto her stomach and burrowed into the pillows, pretending they were Andrew.
A distant sound, a rattling, gradually brought her awake again, wondering fuzzily what could be making that irritating noise. It seemed to be coming from the door.
Her eyes opened and her heart began to pound. The rattling had stopped, and she reminded herself that she was safe, for Andrew had attached a heavy iron lock to the bedchamber door, not unlike the one that Henry VIII took with him from castle to castle to ensure his privacy and security.
Had someone been trying to open the door in spite of the lock? Memories of that terrifying night at Hampton Court returned in a flood.
“Mary? Mary, are you awake?”
“Hmmm?” the girl mumbled.
Micheline threw back her covers and rushed over to the maid’s little bed. “Did you hear that noise just now? That rattling at the door?”
Mary propped herself on an elbow and blinked in the moonlight. Her mistress was positively wild-eyed. “No, ma’am, I heard nothing! Was it like that scratching sound at the king’s palace?” She’d been told that story the next day and ever since had felt rather uneasy about sharing Micheline’s rooms. Now, however, Mary began to wonder if the Frenchwoman might have an overactive imagination.
“No—no, it was different, as though someone were trying to open the lock.”
“Pardon me for saying so, ma’am, but I wonder if you might have dreamed this. You’re still nervous after that other night. Perhaps the sound you heard was part of your dream and it only seemed real.”
“You’re absolutely certain that you heard nothing at all?” Micheline persisted.
“Nothing.” Mary’s voice was firm.
“Well,” she sighed, “perhaps you’re right, then. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”
“That’s all right, ma’am. I’ve had nightmares myself. You know we’re safe with that lock Lord Sandhurst put on the door. Why don’t you go back to sleep and order up a happy dream about your bridegroom?” The girl beamed in the shadows. “You ought to be far too happy to let a little rattle at the door disturb you!”
“You’re right, of course. Thank you, Mary.”
“Good night, ma’am.”
Micheline crawled back into her bed and closed her eyes. Silently she repeated, “It was only a dream,” until sleep came at last.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
April 19-20, 1533
The new day dawned so replete with buttery sunshine that Micheline was able to laugh with Mary about the noise she had heard during the night. Now she ascribed the entire incident to an understandable case of nerves.
After a refreshing scented bath, she dressed in a favorite gown of yellow silk that flattered her spicy-bright hair and iris-blue eyes. Mary was just brushing out her curls when a knock sounded at the door.
The maid opened it to admit Lord Sandhurst, who further enhanced the cheerful atmosphere. Looking rakishly handsome in the morning light, he was carrying a large orange and a bouquet of daffodils and bluebells.
“Good morrow, ladies! Have you ever beheld a finer day?” White teeth flashed against his tanned face as he presented Micheline with her gifts. When his hands were free, he cupped her face and kissed her warmly. “One thing’s certain. No man has ever beheld a more beautiful woman.”
“You’re biased, my lord.”
“But truthful. Honesty is but one of my sterling qualities.”
Micheline was radiant with love as she gazed up into his warm brown eyes. “ ’Twould seem you lack only modesty,” she teased.
Sandhurst gave a mock serious sigh. “In my case, it’s difficult to be honest and modest at the same time.”
She laughed as he bent to brand her throat with his mouth. “What accounts for this lighthearted mood?”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m in love!” Stepping back, he reclaimed the orange and began to peel it, smiling at Micheline as she buried her nose in the blooms.
“I’ve already heard that rumor, my lord.”
“Have you? Well, let me try another. Have you also heard that I’m to be married… tomorrow?”
She nearly dropped the flowers. “What? Do you jest? How can such a thing be possible?”
He took the daffodils and bluebells from her and stuck them into a nearby pitcher of water, then laughingly put a segment of orange into her mouth.
“It’s possible because I made it so, fondling,” Sandhurst explained blithely.
Because her mouth was full, she couldn’t speak, and then he was kissing her, sharing the juicy orange. A wave of passion broke over Micheline’s body as his strong hands slid around her hips and drew her hard against him. There were moments, like this one, when the combination of emotional and physical sensation seemed almost impossibly explosive. She half expected her heart to simply burst one day.
“God’s death,” Andrew muttered harshly while kissing her ear with burning lips, “even one more day seems an eternity. I don’t know if I can survive until tomorrow.”
“You must!” she warned shakily. Her skin was so sensitive that each brush of his mouth touched off lightning currents of arousal. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow!” She repeated the word in wonder, caressing the hair that curled behind his ears.
“It may as well be next year for all the good it does me now!” The ache in his loins had begun to annoy him.
“Andrew, what shall I wear?! Will I be reduced to borrowing Patience’s wedding gown after all?”
He drew back and stared at her with raised brows. “Now we’re getting serious, I see!” Suddenly remembering Mary, he looked over a shoulder to discover her pressed against the far wall, staring at them. “Mary, you’re blushing! Compose yourself and show your mistress what she will wear for her wedding.”
The girl bobbed her head nervously in response, then darted out of the room. Sandhurst, meanwhile, released Micheline and perched on the edge of the bed. In the interest of his health, it seemed wise to avoid prolonged contact between his hips and Micheline’s.
“Eat your orange, sweetheart,” he advised. “You need to keep up your strength for the marriage bed.”
She offered him a segment of fruit and watched as he ate it, the picture of nonchalance in his fitted burgundy velvet doublet, breeches, and boots of black leather. Longing to sit beside him and suck the juice from his tanned fingers, Micheline tried to content herself instead with the orange.
“You’re wearing boots,” she remarked. “Have you been out riding already?”
“I had a few calls to pay,” Sandhurst nodded, “most notably to our parish priest. He’ll be here tomorrow, which was naturally my only real concern. I also stopped at Greenwood, the Culpeppers’ home, to alert Jeremy and his family, and I’ll ride farther afield this afternoon.”
“What does your father have to say about all this?”
“Why do you ask such questions when you know you won’t like the answer?” He sighed when she merely lifted her brows at him in imitation of his own favorite wordless response. “You can probably guess what the duke said. My father is an incurable curmudgeon, and since it’s impossible to please him, I stopped trying years ago.” His expression sof
tened as he watched Micheline bite into the last piece of orange, her lips and fingers wet with juice. “Now, of course, I have your interests to consider, and they far outweigh any opinions Father might have.”
“Well, you certainly know him better than I. All we can do, I suppose, is hope that one day he’ll thaw. Does the duke like babies?”
Sandhurst shrugged. “I do seem to recall seeing him smile on occasion when Cicely was tiny, but he was different then. My mother wouldn’t have tolerated this unstinting irascibility.”
“Did he love your mother?”
“I suppose he did. She was one person he never found fault with; that much is certain. He thought Mother was the epitome of womanhood.”
Micheline went to sit beside him on the bed. “Well, then, perhaps there’s hope for him. We’ll just have to be patient.”
“Patient?” He lifted her slim, orange-scented hand and kissed each finger. “If you don’t mind, I’ll leave that to you.”
“Have you given any more thought to Cicely?”
“Now I know why you crept over here next to me! It’s a plot to weaken my defenses!” Still, he was smiling, exploring her fingers and palm with his mouth as if this were the most intimate part of Micheline’s body. “Frankly I thought you would change your mind about Cicely, but if you’re determined that she live with us, I’ll agree to a compromise.”
His lips were scorching the tender inside of her wrist and her heart was pounding. “Why do I feel naked even though I am fully clothed?” she moaned halfheartedly. “Must I wear gloves as well?”
Ignoring her, Sandhurst went on. “I want a few weeks alone with you at Sandhurst Manor, but Cicely may join us in London in time for Anne Boleyn’s coronation the end of May. She can return to Gloucestershire with us in June—on a trial basis. As long as she behaves and the two of you get along, she can stay, but I won’t have her making life miserable for you in your own home. Your happiness is of greatest importance, fondling.”
Finished with that serious speech, Andrew returned to her hand, kissing it once more as he raised his eyes to meet her own. Micheline sighed, thinking that his compelling gaze had the power in itself to arouse her.
From the doorway Mary cleared her throat loudly.
“I have the gown, my lord!” Her arms were laden with masses of ivory satin.
“Thank you, Mary.” Sandhurst went to relieve her of her burden, returning to spread the gown out over the dark green counterpane.
Micheline came to stand beside him. She stared, speechless, for a long minute while he watched her, waiting for her reaction.
“I realize it’s not the current fashion,” he said, beginning to worry that she didn’t like it, “but I thought—”
“Oh, Andrew!” she breathed. “It’s perfectly lovely! This is the kind of gown I used to dream of as a child!”
It was true. The gown was of an older style that Micheline adored. Fashioned of rich ivory satin, it had a very low round neckline edged with delicate embroidered flowers of gold and rose. A collar of lacy golden net, called a neck whisk, stood up in back. The sleeves were puffed down to the elbows, then tight-fitting at the forearm, and a trail of embroidered flowers and tiny green leaves meandered down their length. The gown had a narrow, pointed waistline over a skirt that was pleated at first before belling out and ending in a long train. Unlike the fashion of the day, this skirt was closed in front; no underskirt would be displayed.
Micheline leaned forward reverently to touch the dainty rose and gold flowers that outlined the gown’s pointed waist, then brushed her fingers over the romantic neck whisk. “It’s absolutely exquisite.”
“You wouldn’t prefer a gown covered with jewels?”
“Oh, no!” She looked up in alarm and found him smiling at her. “I love these little flowers. I love everything about this gown! Where did you find it?”
“It was my mother’s. I think Father may have forgotten it exists, but I never did. One day, when I was a child, I was helping Mother look for something in a storage room in the keep. She opened a chest and took this out to show me, almost as if she’d forgotten where it was stored herself. She told me that the rose-colored flowers were supposed to be bird’s-eye primroses, which only grow in Yorkshire meadows, and the golden ones represented buttercups, for those were her favorites. Then Mother stood up and held the gown against herself… I can still see her in my mind’s eye. Odd, isn’t it, that you should say you always dreamed of a gown like this, because for years I assumed that this must be what all brides wore.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “ ’Twould seem we’ve been of one mind all our lives.”
He gathered Micheline near and kissed her shining hair. “Well said, my love.”
“I’m so pleased that you remembered this gown and I’ll be honored to wear it, but are you certain the duke won’t mind?”
“Stop fretting about Father. I’ll be surprised if he even recognizes it. It’s not as if you look at all like my mother, so I doubt he’ll think he’s seen a ghost. At any rate, I know that it would please her above all things.”
“It will feel a little as if she’s with us after all.”
“Well, now that that’s settled, there’s a great deal more to be done today, and I’d better be off.”
“I’ll go with you to the courtyard. I think I may walk on the hills for a while.”
Arm in arm they emerged into the corridor. She glanced toward the solar and caught her breath at the sight of a tall slim woman with coppery hair.
It can’t be! she thought wildly.
Slowly the woman turned, and Micheline found herself staring into the icy green eyes of Lady Iris Dangerfield.
*
Feeling Micheline stiffen, Sandhurst looked down, then followed her stricken gaze to the solar.
“Iris! What are you doing here?”
“Shame on you, Andrew.” She pouted. “Is that any way to welcome one of your oldest and dearest friends?”
Since everyone in the room was watching them, he had no choice but to force a smile and guide Micheline forward to greet Iris Dangerfield.
“My apologies, madame.” He sketched a bow, then lifted her hand to brush cool lips across it. “I was merely surprised to see you.”
Another voice spoke from the settle near the window. “We weren’t following you, Sandhurst.” Timothy Dangerfield walked over to stand beside his wife. Very tall and thin, with dark hair and pale skin, he had a pointed nose and chin. “A party of us traveled up from London at the king’s behest, arriving last night after you had retired.”
“So I heard,” Sandhurst replied. “I had to leave this morning before any of you had risen, so I wasn’t aware that you were among the party. Your journey was pleasant?”
Dangerfield shrugged. “Overlong. We were all quite fatigued. Everyone’s been looking for you. The others finally went off to wander around the castle. Doubtless you’ll be pleased to learn that His Majesty and the Marquess of Pembroke will also arrive later today.”
“Micheline and I are pleased to have all our friends here for this joyous occasion.” His keen eyes met those of the younger man, remembering that Dangerfield had known of his wife’s infidelity. There was only one possible reason for him to wish to attend this wedding, and that was to punish Iris and drive home the point that Lord Sandhurst was no longer available. “I’m sure that my father is especially pleased that King Henry and London nobility will be represented at the wedding after all.”
After introducing Micheline to Dangerfield, Sandhurst drew on soft doeskin gloves. “I trust you both will understand if we leave your entertainment to the other members of my family. It’s a busy time for us.”
“Never fear!” Rupert piped up eagerly, rushing over to gain his half brother’s attention. “Patience and I have a game of chance planned for the afternoon. I’m going to teach our guests to play passe-dix and lansquenet! Of course, it won’t be as amusing as those card tricks you do, but I’ll try to be a proper substitute.
”
Micheline wrinkled her nose slightly at Rupert’s horrendous pronunciation of the French game, while Sandhurst glanced at him in mild surprise.
“Where did you learn passe-dix and lansquenet?”
“Oh, a Frenchman taught me one night in a tavern in London.” Rupert turned excitedly to the Dangerfields, gesturing with both spindly arms. “You can teach these games to the royal court when you go back! They’ll make you terribly popular, I’ll wager!”
“We’ll leave you to it, then,” Andrew said dryly as he wondered how much resemblance Rupert’s interpretation of the games would bear to the authentic versions.
As they left the solar, Micheline could feel Iris’s eyes burning the place where Sandhurst’s hand rode at the small of her back. She couldn’t help thinking about the noise she’d heard during the night, now that she knew Iris had been in the castle, but told herself that it was silly to imagine anything so farfetched. At any rate, Timothy Dangerfield was here to keep an eye on his wife, and Micheline herself was too happy to waste time brooding about Iris’s ill feelings.
When they emerged into the sunlight, Micheline looked up at Sandhurst’s thoughtful countenance. “Why didn’t you tell me about these important visitors?”
He laughed and wrapped an arm around her. “Truth to tell, I forgot! Your nearness, and the prospect of our wedding, drove all else from my mind.”
She felt drenched in bliss, but a shadow lingered. When he led his horse out of the stable into the sun-splashed courtyard and asked if she might prefer to accompany him on his errands, Micheline was tempted.
“I suppose you think I’m quaking with fear because your Iris Dangerfield is in the castle!”
He smiled fondly at the sight of her delicately clefted chin raised in mock challenge.
“She’s not my Iris Dangerfield!” he rejoined in protest.
“Well, she used to be.” Micheline pretended to pout. “And she’d still like to be.”
Sandhurst left his horse and went forward to slide both hands around her slender waist, drawing her firmly against his hard body. “She never was my Iris Dangerfield,” he corrected in a low, arousingvoice. “I was only passing time, waiting to find you.” His mouth grazed hers. “My closest friend.” Another tantalizing kiss. “My love… and, on the morrow, my wife.” When her lips parted helplessly under his, he allowed their tongues to touch for an instant. Then Andrew’s hand came up to frame her lovely face, his fingers laced through glossy hair as he stared down at her.
Lords of the Isles Page 56
