in January, and word has it that they returned home singing the praises of Madame Tevoulere."
"I see. That's very interesting."
"Well, it's none of my affair, and though I'm not certain I approve of this marriage, Micheline's mind seems to be made up. I'd hate to see her... hurt in the meantime."
"As you say, her mind is made up, and she strikes me as a singularly headstrong woman. It's highly unlikely that she'll be swept away by passion on my account, don't you think?" Sandhurst smiled wryly. "In any event, I like Madame Tevoulere. I have no intention of harming her. I hope that she'll be happy as much as you do."
St. Briac narrowed his eyes slightly in the moonlight, trying to read the Englishman's face. "Well, good. I'm relieved to hear it."
"Now that we've settled all this, I'm ready to go back inside. I could use another cup of wine, followed by a long night's sleep."
* * *
The next morning the king went on a hunt with a few of his courtiers, including St. Briac. Usually a band of privy ladies joined the men periodically during these excursions, but this time cold weather prevented that. Three days without female company seemed like torture to Francois. He found himself thinking excessively of Micheline Tevoulere and brooding about the scene between her and Andrew Selkirk. The sight of them dancing together had elicited comments all around about the attractive pair they made, but the court had positively buzzed when the Englishman led Micheline out into the garden. What had they been doing for so long? If Selkirk imagined that Micheline was within his grasp, it was up to the king to set him right. It was hard enough for Francois to restrain himself, but it was easier somehow to accept defeat knowing that she would marry a stranger. He was not about to let some common painter turn her head.
The hunting party arrived back at Fontainebleau in the evening of the third day. The next morning, after his council meeting, Francois sent word to Andrew Selkirk that he would like to see him in the royal chamber immediately.
The message was carried two rooms away to the antechamber, where Sandhurst was at work on his portrait of Micheline. The light was perfect, soft and golden, and he was staring intently at his subject, brush in hand.
Since the night in the garden Micheline had been distant, and Sandhurst had accepted her unspoken rules. He sensed that she was afraid of the feelings he'd stirred up in her. Further, he was honest enough to admit, if only to himself, that those feelings had been reciprocated.
These past three days they'd continued to converse, but not about personal matters. Occasionally they laughed together but broke off if the air grew too heavy with intimacy. That tension in the air was present all too often. At times all it took was an unexpected glance or smile and then Andrew and Micheline seemed to be touching across the room, both of them aching in silence because they were not.
When the page arrived with the note from King Francois, Sandhurst read it with a measure of surprise. He knew the king had just returned the previous night, and it was now barely nine in the morning. What was so important?
"It seems that your king wants to see me," he informed Micheline while wiping his hands on a rag. Turning to the page, he asked, "Shall I wash up first?"
"No, m'sieur. His Majesty bade me bring you immediately."
Sandhurst looked askance at Micheline and shrugged. "I've no idea what this is about, or how long it will take."
"I'll wait." She smiled. "I can study my painting for flaws."
"Since there aren't any," he parried with a laugh, "that should keep you occupied indefinitely!"
He followed the page to the royal bedchamber, pausing momentarily in the doorway to admire the great oval room, with its antique borders, rich ceiling, and magnificent chimney.
"Ah, Monsieur Selkirk! There you are!" Francois rose from a carved walnut chair, smiling in greeting.
"At your service, Your Majesty," Andrew replied with a touch of satire, "provided you'll tolerate my appearance."
The king narrowed his eyes for an instant. The Englishman looked quite dashing with his tousled hair, shirtsleeves rolled up in the absence of a doublet, and the shirt itself unlaced to reveal a portion of his chest. There were smudges of paint in various colors on not only Andrew's hands and forearms, but also a few on his snowy shirt and tanned