Of One Heart

chapter 19





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 throw 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.

Micheline was moaning, her breath warm in his mouth. Every fiber of her being craved the union of their bodies. As one, they fell back on the pillows and she arched her hips against him, aching until with one hard thrust he filled her. They moved together with a rhythmic violence, breathing harshly, passion seeming to crackle in the air that surrounded their straining bodies.

Finally Micheline was jolted by a climax that swept out in wildly pulsating currents, down her thighs, over her breasts, even to the tips of her fingers and toes. Moments later Sandhurst found his own release, and the two of them lay entwined in the aftermath, gasping for breath.

Slowly the storm receded and coherent thought seeped into his consciousness. He forced himself to withdraw from the addictive warmth of Micheline's body and lay on his back a few inches away from her.

"I cannot believe that I just did that! Damn!" he cursed.

"Andrew, what is it?" Micheline reached out to him in confusion.

"Don't touch me! For the past twenty-four hours I have steeled myself to live without you, told myself to forget you, tried to convince myself that I am strong enough to put all that was between us in the past and get on with my life. Tonight I went out with Jeremy and saw a few old friends, and enjoyed myself for a moment or two! I was beginning to feel quite proud, thinking I was conquering heartache with the sheer force of my own will. Don't you find that amusing? I walked in here, found you, and the force of my will and all my resolutions went right out the bloody window!"

"If you'd just allow me to explain—"

"Yes, that's right, explain! Did you come here for one last good-bye, since you weren't in any condition to send me off properly last night?"

Stung, Micheline reached out and slapped him sharply, but Sandhurst caught her wrist in a punishing grip. "Spare me the dramatics, madame, and tell me what brings you to Paris... and to my bed."

Emotion boiled up within her and sent tears spilling down her cheeks. "I—I came here to tell you that I love you! I love you, Andrew! You must believe me!" She sobbed. "I don't even remember talking to you last night. The king's physician kept giving me sleeping draughts, and after a while everything seemed a dream. When I awoke today, feeling well, and learned that you had left Fontainebleau, I had to come after you. Andrew, I love you! I was wrong before, and I admit it. I want to marry you more than anything in the world... if you'll still have me."

Sandhurst rubbed both hands over his face, then folded them and pressed his mouth against the clenched knuckles. "Oh, God."

"Is that all you can say? Have you changed your mind?"

"Michelle, this is all well and good, but I can't just wipe out everything you've said in the past on the basis of your new, more welcome sentiments." He turned to stare at her through the shadows. "You were so adamant about choosing marriage to the Marquess of Sandhurst over my simpler but heartfelt proposal. What happened to your resolution never to love again... and your lifelong devotion to your dead husband? It's certainly gratifying to hear you change course again and say that you do love me, but how do I know that you won't reverse this position tomorrow, or next month?"

"I swear to you that I am sincere. I simply couldn't face my true feelings before."

"Why not?" The softness of his voice was belied by a steely undercurrent. "Tell me, Michelle. I've seen that haunted look in your eyes. If you expect me to believe that you love me, you'll have to start by being honest."

"Alors. I will explain." She shivered in the darkness and Sandhurst relented and reached out to draw her into his embrace. Safe in the warm circle of his arms, Micheline rested her head against his chest and haltingly told her story.

She spared no detail, revealing all that St. Briac had heard that morning and more. Somehow, it was easier than she had expected. What had caused her such desperation in the past now seemed a fading memory.

"I see my marriage in a different light now," Micheline whispered at one point. "After I learned of Bernard's infidelities at court, and it dawned on me that I had been clinging to an illusion, I felt disgraced. Every time I thought of Bernard, and our marriage, a knife twisted in my heart. It wasn't until you came into my life that I saw the past clearly. Bernard brought me happiness when we were young but it was an immature love that we shared, and he changed as he grew older. I'm not bitter anymore about Bernard. I feel sad for his sake, but in my own case, I've grown up only these past few months, learning first of all to rely on myself, and then... what real love can mean."

Micheline went on to explain the stages she'd passed through before facing the truth about her love for Andrew, including the odd influence Rabelais had had on her. When her story was finished, ending with her journey to Paris with Thomas and Aimée, Micheline sighed with pleasure. "I feel so different, but I don't suppose I've really changed. Do you remember the day I told you that there were doors I'd kept shut inside of me?"

"I remember everything, fondling," Sandhurst replied, kissing her fragrant hair.

"I was afraid to open those doors, because I couldn't be certain what lay on the other side. As my love for you developed, courage came with it, and I couldn't hide any longer."

"What did you find on the other side?"

"Freedom. Freedom from the past and all the fears that were suffocating me. I feel as if I've shed a tremendous weight. My heart is light now, perhaps for the first time."

Andrew was silent for long minutes, lost in thought, until Micheline turned her face up to gaze at him.

"You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

"About loving you? Marrying you?" He smiled and kissed her tenderly. "No. No, I haven't changed my mind. I'm just digesting all of this. Why don't we get some sleep, and hopefully I'll have sorted out a few things by morning."

That wasn't quite what Micheline had hoped to hear, but it was difficult to worry when they snuggled down under the covers and she lay in Andrew's warm masculine embrace. Sleep seemed impossible, yet moments later she was breathing evenly, one slim hand curled around his forearm.

Sandhurst, meanwhile, stared into the darkness, thinking.

* * *

Blinking against the sunlight that flooded the bedchamber, Micheline turned her face away and attempted once again to open her eyes.

"Good morrow, Michelle." Sandhurst sat in a carved chair near the bed. Washed, shaved, and dressed, he was eating an apple and looking exceedingly handsome.

"What time is it?" She pushed back her mane of curls and rose on an elbow.

"Ten o'clock. Don't look so guilty! You must have needed the sleep." He, in turn, had needed the early morning to speak to St. Briac. Andrew had suspected that word of his true identity had slipped out, but the Frenchman had reassured him that he was the only person who knew. Most important, Micheline still thought Sandhurst was a painter named Selkirk. St. Briac swore that love alone had prompted her to travel to Paris in search of the man she meant to marry.

"What of you?" she was asking. "You claimed that you needed to sort things out. What have you decided?"

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, offering her the apple, which she nibbled at solely because it was in his hand.

"I've decided to take you back to England with me, fondling. How could I refuse?"

"Oh, Andrew, I love you!" She reached up to trace the sculpted line of his cheekbone, and felt that she would die of happiness when he caught her hand and brought it over to his mouth.

"And I love you, Michelle." He kissed her sensitive palm. "I've never said that to another woman, nor have I even considered marriage in the past. I'm deadly serious now, though, and for that reason I want to put off our wedding until we're in England."

She looked stricken. "But—!"

"We're both rather besot at the moment, but we have to keep in mind that there's more to marriage than love." He paused, smiling ironically. "In truth, until I met you I wasn't even sure that love was necessary! The point is, I want you to see what your life will be like while you still can change your mind. There's a great deal you don't know about me—"

"I know enough! I know what kind of man you are!"

"There's much more involved than that. England is quite different from France, and my usual life is different from the one I led at Fontainebleau."

"Andrew, I could be happy with you if we lived in a hovel!"

He had to laugh. "I appreciate that... and I can reassure you that my circumstances aren't quite that desperate, but all the same, I want you to see for yourself. I have relatives that even I have trouble tolerating—"

"I shall love them all!" she vowed.

"I doubt that. I'm quite serious about this, so you would do well to save your breath. We'll go to England, you will see for yourself what lies in store for you if you marry me, and then, if you remain certain, we'll have the proper sort of wedding you deserve."

Micheline sighed, pretended to pout, then suddenly gave him a blinding smile unlike anything Sandhurst had seen before.

"I yield, my love," she said. "But can we depart for England without delay?"