Of One Heart

chapter 15





March 11, 1533



"How can you be so calm during a crisis?" Aimée demanded of her husband. "I'm worried sick!"

She was pacing to and fro in their bedchamber while little Ninon toddled determinedly in her wake.

"Watch that you don't trample the baby," St. Briac warned mildly. Seated by the window in a ray of soft dawn sunlight, he was braiding Juliette's chestnut hair. It was not yet seven o'clock, but they were all up and dressed, roused by Aimée, who had barely slept all night.

"What if they were lost in that blizzard," she cried now. "Micheline might have frozen to death for all we know!"

Thomas arched a dubious brow. "That's impossible, miette. She and Selkirk set out in the full light of day with a clear set of instructions to bring them to the queen's cottage. That man is more than capable of seeing to Micheline's safety, and in any case, I would say that she could have taken care of herself even without him."

"But it was all some sort of mistake! The queen told us herself last evening that she had never invited them to the cottage, nor was there any plan for Francois to go there!"

Gaspard Lefait, who had served impertinently and loyally as St. Briac's manservant for twenty years, entered at that moment, carrying a freshly laundered doublet. The sight of his master braiding Juliette's hair made him stop, wincing.

"Oh, monseigneur," he moaned. "What next?" With a heavy sigh he thought back to the days when he had followed St. Briac into battle and witnessed the seductions of the most desirable women in France. Since Aimée's appearance in his master's life, nothing had been the same.

St. Briac was laughing. "You're just jealous, windbag, because you haven't a pretty girl like my Juliette to sit on your lap!" Tying the last bow on her braids, he bent to kiss his daughter's rosy cheek, then lifted her down. She promptly went to Gaspard and raised her arms, thinking to console him.

The old man's heart melted. He handed the doublet over to St. Briac, then lifted the little girl into his arms. When she kissed his cheek, Gaspard blushed and cleared his throat. "Perhaps the children would enjoy it if I bundled them up and took them out to play in the snow," he suggested gruffly.

"That's very kind of you, Gaspard!" Aimée approved, while Ninon and Juliette squealed with excitement.

St. Briac only smiled, his turquoise eyes agleam with fond amusement.

When they were alone, Aimée began to pace again.

"I wish you would stop that," he complained. "Micheline is a grown woman! How would you have felt if someone had hovered so protectively over you?"

"I'm only worried about her safety."

He sighed. Setting down the doublet, he walked over and put his arms around his wife, then tipped up her chin and kissed her soundly. "You know what has happened as well as I. They've spent the night together in that cottage, which was the wisest thing the way the snow was coming down last night. There is always more than enough food there, and I'm sure they've been perfectly comfortable. The snow has stopped now. I've no doubts that they'll return this morning, but if they are not here by noon, I'll go to the cottage myself. Now do you feel better?"

Her green eyes were still worried. "Oh, I know that you're right...."

"It's not Micheline's safety from the storm that concerns you so much, is it, miette?"'

She shook her head, then rested it against his broad chest. "No, I suppose not. I saw them together yesterday, I saw the way she looks at him. Oh, Thomas, what if—"

"They are both adults, Aimée."

"But—"

"You can't live Micheline's life for her. I know it's hard, but you can't interfere. Besides, she's an intelligent girl—"

"Who knows nothing about her own heart! I admit that I felt this betrothal to the Marquess of Sandhurst was a terrible mistake, but this—this romance, or whatever it is, with Andrew Selkirk may be even worse! What are the chances of him proposing marriage? And if he did, what could he offer her?"

"I'll agree that Micheline's life has become rather complicated of late, but you're going to have to let her resolve matters herself."

"I'm going to pay a visit to M'sieur Selkirk's manservant," Aimée said suddenly.

"What?"

"I want to see the portrait he brought from England. I told you how impressed I was by the way he had captured Micheline's spirit on canvas. If that quality is missing in this other painting, I'll feel better."

"Go, then, if it will set your mind at ease. I'll finish dressing and get something to eat." He cupped Aimée's little face in his hands and kissed her, wishing that she could spare him a fraction of the attention she lavished on Micheline.

* * *

Jeremy Culpepper chewed a bite of greengage plum and wondered what Sandhurst was up to now. He'd said the queen had invited him and Micheline to her cottage, but kitchen gossip had it that Queen Eleanor hadn't ever intended to leave Fontainebleau and was professing complete innocence about the note Andrew had received. No one really expected the couple to come back last night considering the snowstorm, but all the servants were buzzing about what the betrothed Madame Tevoulere might be doing alone in a secluded cottage with that dangerously attractive English painter. Quel scandale!

A knock sounded at the door and Jeremy jumped. Sandhurst would never knock, and the only other person who might visit him was the amorous little saucemaker who liked to purr that she found him adorable. It was awfully early in the day for that sort of social call....

He opened the door to find the seigneur de St. Briac's pretty wife. God's toes! Jeremy thought. What if she's one of those married women who like a bit of diversion with the servants? Her husband's a giant!

"Bonjour, m'sieur," Aimée said charmingly. The sight of Selkirk's valet made her want to giggle. He was the picture of consternation, eyes popping while his curly, uncombed yellow hair stuck out in several directions. "You are—"

"Jeremy—uh—Playfair." He choked on the name, cursing Sandhurst silently. "How may I help you, my lady?" This really was too much. He had to not only claim that idiotic surname but also act the servant, as if he were no better than a dog she might deign to pat on the head.

"I know that this might sound odd, m'sieur, but I would appreciate it if you could show me the painting your master brought from England. I have admired the portrait he is making of Madame Tevoulere, and am curious to see more of his work."

Odd indeed, thought Jeremy, especially at seven in the morning!

"Come in, madame. I hope that you'll excuse the chamber's appearance—and my own. I didn't expect—"

"It is I who owe you an apology, M'sieur Playfair!" Aimée declared. "It is very early, and I came on a whim, hoping that you would pardon my rudeness."

Jeremy began to like the lady. She wasn't condescending in the least, and they chatted easily as he unrolled the canvas of Cicely Weston and propped it on the table by the window.

Aimée blinked. "Parbleu!"

"Quite beautiful, isn't it?" Culpepper said proudly. He wanted to give credit to Lord Sandhurst, then claim him as a friend and equal, but instead he had to continue, "Master Selkirk is extremely talented. I couldn't believe it myself when I first saw this. It's as if Lady Cicely Weston were here, alive in this chamber."

"Cicely... Weston?" Aimée was staring at the portrait, her spirits sinking. This manservant was right. If it had been love that brought Selkirk's painting of Micheline to life, then he must love this child as well. Her personality was revealed on the canvas, or so it seemed. Miss Weston appeared intelligent and willful in a charming way, and though she couldn't have been more than a dozen years old, her eyes were also filled with adoration. Of course, they held none of the sensual overtones of Micheline's, but it was love all the same.

"Weston..." Aimée repeated absently. "That name sounds familiar."

"Lady Cicely is the sister of the Marquess of Sandhurst."

Never one to use devious means to gain information. Aimée decided to be frank with Selkirk's manservant. "M'sieur Playfair, are you aware that Micheline Tevoulere is betrothed to Lord Sandhurst?"

He wanted to laugh, but swallowed instead and replied, "Yes, I have heard about that, madame."

"The lady is my dearest friend, and as you might imagine, I've been rather concerned about the fact that she and the marquess have never met."

"Perfectly understandable." Jeremy nodded.

"I hope, then, that you'll understand my curiosity as well when I ask if you know Lord Sandhurst at all. I'm eager to discover what sort of man he is."

What would Andrew want him to say? Jeremy was naturally outspoken, and this lady inspired one's confidence. "The marquess is a very fine man," he said finally, deciding that honesty was the safest course. "He's blessed with extraordinary good looks and intelligence. I doubt that there's a lady in Britain of marriageable age who wouldn't gladly take Madame Tevoulere's place. Don't waste time worrying that your friend has chosen ill. I don't think that there's the slightest chance that she'll be unhappy in this marriage—or that she won't love her husband."

Aimée thanked him, stole a last glance at the portrait of Lady Cicely Weston, and left Andrew Selkirk's chambers. Alone in the corridor, she leaned against a paneled wall and sighed in frustration. What in the world was the answer to this dilemma? Perhaps this situation wasn't fair to Micheline. How could she choose between a man she'd never seen and Andrew Selkirk? If Playfair's words were true, Lord Sandhurst might be even more appealing than this impoverished painter! Was that possible?

* * *

Sunlight bright as melted butter poured through a gap in the bedhangings. Micheline awoke reluctantly, sensing that the hours out of time were at an end. Andrew lay facing her on his side, still sleeping, while she rested on her back, nestled close in his embrace. She gazed over at his face, tears stinging her eyes. Everything about him was excruciatingly dear to her. She adored his sleep-mussed hair, the laugh lines that crinkled around his eyes, the scar that set him apart from every other handsome man, and the fresh stubble of beard that glinted in the sunlight.

Andrew's hard-muscled right arm curved over her slim body, his fingertips resting lightly on the swell of Micheline's breast. She studied his fingers, which, though sturdier than one might expect of those of an artist, were handsomely shaped. And his sensitive gift for painting carried over to the way he used his hands, mouth, and entire body, in the act of love.

A sharp pain spread through Micheline's breast. She was so afraid now that daylight had invaded their private world. It did no good to lie here mooning over him, for her suffering would only be worse later. She had to leave the bed before Andrew woke. If he opened his eyes she might drown in them and never find her way out.

Slowly Micheline edged away. When his hand slid from her breast, he made a sound and rolled onto his back, freeing her completely. Quickly but carefully, she slipped to the edge of the bed. Her torn chemise was there. She took it with her as she emerged naked in the sunlit but chilly air of the cottage. The abrupt change from the scent of Andrew inside the bedhangings sent another sharp twinge through her heart.

Fiercely, Micheline told herself that the joys of the past night must last her a lifetime. There would be pain, but in the end the pain would be less, so she must not look back!

Repeating this litany to herself, Micheline donned her petticoat, gown, and stockings. Without a chemise she felt doubly conscious of her tender breasts and womanhood. She washed with the melted snow left from last night, then stirred the embers in the hearth and added wood. Soon the cottage felt warmer. Micheline sat down before the fire to brush her hair.

Across the room the curtains stirred on Andrew's side of the bed.

"Michelle! Come back!" he moaned in mock agony.

She tried to steel her heart, wishing that she didn't have to talk to him just now... or look at him. What if he touched her?

"You must get up, Andrew," she said in as neutral a tone as she could manage. Walking over to the bed, Micheline drew back the draperies to let in a flood of sunshine. He still lay on his back, looking tanned and tempting against the white pillows. In defense against the bright light, his strong forearm came up to cover his eyes.

"It's cold," he complained. "Come back to bed."

As hot blood rushed to her face, Micheline wished that her cheeks would not invariably betray her. "Morning is passing, and everyone at Fontainebleau will be worried about us. We should go back now."

Her tone gave Sandhurst pause. Suddenly he was fully awake, sitting up and reaching for her hand.

"What's amiss, fondling?"

She perched on the edge of the bed, but averted her eyes from his penetrating gaze. "Nothing is wrong! The sun is out and we must be on our way before they come to search for us."

Wondering if this was a dream, he ran his free hand through his hair and tried to think, but thought only confused the situation further. The truth was in his heart, what he felt and what he knew that Micheline felt. Shortly after dawn Sandhurst had awakened to discover her naked body curled trustingly against his own. The sight of her face, and the contented smile she wore even in sleep, had reassured him that all they had shared in the darkness had been very real. Micheline had looked as transformed as he felt, but now that she was awake, everything seemed changed.

"Look at me, Michelle."

She managed only a quick, painful glance. "You really must rise and dress now—"

"Why are you acting as if you're afraid of me?"

"Don't talk nonsense." Instinctively she tried to free her hand from his, but he held fast.

"Was last night nonsense?"

Micheline's blush deepened. "No, no—of course not. But... it was a mere interlude of pleasure. I am not ashamed of what I did, but you should understand that I do not care to dwell on it. Last night is gone, and I would like to put it behind me. What we did changed nothing."

"Indeed!" Muscles clenched in Sandhurst's jaw. "You are not changed?"

"I am betrothed to another man. That is what I must remember from now on."

He sighed harshly. "You've evaded my question, but I'll let it go for the moment. I have something to say to you and I will say it only once. Last night was much more than 'a mere interlude of pleasure' for me, and in spite of your protests, we both know the truth." Reaching out with his free hand, he lifted her chin and forced her to look at him.

Her heart thundering, Micheline stammered, "No—I—"

"Be brave and allow me to finish." There was no charm in his voice, only determination and an edge of anger. "I have slept with enough women to know the difference between a purely physical romp and an act of love. What we shared was unquestionably the latter. Perhaps because I'm older and more jaded than you, I find myself quite stunned by the honest emotions that have grown within me since I first saw you on the staircase at Fontainebleau. Love's a precious commodity. I'd come to doubt its existence, but now I know better." He paused for a moment, searching her eyes. "I love you, Micheline, and I want you to be my wife."

Andrew's words had a violent effect on her. Trembling, she pulled free and turned away. "No! You must not say such things! It is impossible. We have to return to the chateau and pretend that none of this happened!"

He wanted to hold her and force her to tell him what was wrong, but sensed that it would do no good. "I've stated my case and I won't change my mind. If you should see the light and decide to choose love over wealth and nobility, you can come to me at any time before I leave Fontainebleau for England."

"You aren't leaving now?" She was unable to keep the panic from her voice.

"Oh, no, I'll have to stay long enough to at least complete your portrait." Sarcasm dripped from his words. "Don't say you'll miss me!"

Micheline hardly knew what to say. "I'd hate to think I'd driven you away."

"Don't worry, madame."

When Andrew ripped back the covers and emerged naked from the bed, Micheline fled to the other side of the cottage. Pain suffused her body as she listened to him dress. She longed to cry but couldn't, longed to speak the truth but wouldn't.