Her heart was pounding as he turned her deftly in his arms. The instant her breasts met his steely chest they tingled and sent a current of warmth through her body. Even during the most intimate moments of her marriage she had not experienced such intense, and unexpected, sensations. Without thinking she reached up and touched Andrew's face... and then he was kissing her.
Often Micheline had stared at the mouth that now touched hers. His lips were warm, firm, practiced—gentle at first, tasting and savoring, then opening more forcefully as passions stirred and swelled. Micheline lost herself in the bliss of his utterly masculine embrace. He was harder, warmer, and more agile than Bernard had been, her senses confirmed. Andrew even smelled better—his clean male scent was intoxicating, and he tasted wonderful as well. He kissed her now, long and hungrily, his thumb rubbing softly along her cheekbone. Micheline was hungry too. She strained against him, longing to be closer still, and then her horse stamped beside them, whinnying, and she broke free.
"It's only the horse," Sandhurst murmured in amusement. "He won't tell anyone."
Feeling his warm mouth on her throat, and the accompanying shiver that traveled down through her body, Micheline stiffened.
"Let me go!"
He drew back in surprise, his brows raised.
"You always mock me with your eyes!" she accused him irrationally. "Loose me!"
Sandhurst sat back on his heels and held up his hands in surrender, achingly conscious of the proof of his desire that was outlined against his breeches. "The last thing I was meant to do was 'mock you with my eyes,' " he protested. "What's amiss?"
She suddenly felt vulnerable and humiliated, lying there in the leaves. Struggling to her feet, Micheline cried, "You attempted to use me, m'sieur, like some kitchen wench, out here in the woods in broad daylight."
"I intended no such thing."
"You think that I am a loose woman because I have been married before, that I must now burn for the touch of a man, but I can assure you that I haven't missed it at all!"
He rose lithely, brushing leaves from his velvet doublet. In response to Micheline's outburst he glanced up and murmured satirically, "Indeed? Well, perhaps that's the problem. Perhaps you have been missing a man's touch all your life..."
"You flatter yourself!" she interrupted, outraged. "In any case, I'd say that's a matter for my husband to consider, m'sieur. I am betrothed to another man, you know."
Sandhurst swung easily onto his horse, then coolly lifted both brows in a way that made her face burn.
"How quickly we forget...."
Chapter 11
March 1-2, 1533
Arriving back at the chateau, Sandhurst turned to Micheline in the courtyard and told her flatly that he wouldn't be making any more sketches that afternoon. Then he went to the appartements des bains in an attempt to scrub and sweat away the edginess and desire that lingered from their encounter in the forest. Jeremy, summoned to bring fresh clothing, waited for his friend to dress, and the two of them walked back to their chamber together.
Sandhurst, his damp hair brushed back from his face, wore a brooding look that few people ever saw. Jeremy knew it well. He didn't like the signs: a muscle moved in his jaw and the scar above his mouth was almost white.
Hoping that a bit of humor might help, Jeremy ventured, "Is something wrong, master? Have I been lax in the performance of my duties?"
Without slowing his pace or looking over, he did smile slightly. "You're a twit."
Jeremy was unable to think of an appropriate response. Upon reaching their chamber, Sandhurst went to the table that sat before a window overlooking the courtyard.
"Make yourself useful, Jeremy, and take a look at these."
He walked over to find that his friend had spread fresh pen drawings across the table. "Is this—"
"Micheline. Yes."
"God's teeth, did you really do these?" he demanded in astonishment.
The sketches, though simple enough, were remarkably lifelike. The artist had conveyed a sense of depth, of rounded grace emerging from the flat page, with a rain of parallel hatchings slanting from left to right across the paper in the shadowed areas. Culpepper could almost feel the delicate curves of Micheline's face: her high cheekbones, rather abbreviated nose, the tiny cleft in her chin, the sensual fullness of her lower lip, and the sweep of long lashes over eyes that were beautiful, intelligent, and somehow sad all at once. In contrast, her hair and shoulders were only suggested compared to the telling detail of her face.