Of One Heart - By Cynthia Wright Page 0,118

them in return."

He'd stopped in front of an open box, where a young groom was putting a bridle on an elegant sable-brown stallion. When the horse saw Sandhurst, it neighed softly and nodded its head.

"This is Hampstead." He walked forward to greet his favorite steed and Micheline was touched by the scene. Andrew, with his own lithe strength, seemed to belong among such beautiful horses. "Come and say hello, sweetheart."

When Micheline reached the stallion, Sandhurst slipped a wedge of apple into her hand and she offered it with a few gentle words of greeting. Hampstead munched the fruit slowly, as if scrutinizing her, then he seemed to smile, showing strong white teeth.

Happiness welled up inside her as she stroked his sleek mane and coat. In the past there had been few people she'd liked as well as horses, particularly her Gustave, who must be languishing without her at Angouleme.

Andrew took Hampstead's reins and led him out of the box. "Have you seen a horse yet that strikes your fancy?" he inquired of Micheline.

"Each is more splendid than the last! I couldn't begin—" At that moment her eyes fell on an exquisite long-legged filly being groomed in the sunlight. The horse was a warm shade of chestnut, with white stockings and a long white blaze accentuating the beauty of her face. As if sensing Micheline's admiration, the filly tilted her head slightly, returning her gaze.

"Aha." Sandhurst's murmur was scarcely audible. He smiled in Trymme's direction. "I'd say we've just made a match."

* * *

During the next month Micheline settled into life at Sandhurst Manor as if she had lived there always. Indeed, she had never been nearly so happy in the home where she had grown up.

Each morning Sandhurst and his bride rose early, usually sharing a piece or two of fresh fruit en route to the stables. Micheline was fascinated by the various aspects of horse-breeding and was never bored by the sometimes long conversations between Andrew and Trymme. Often she was there early enough to feed Primrose, her white-stockinged filly, a light breakfast of oats, timothy and clover hay, peas, sliced carrots, and apple peelings. Then she and Andrew would exercise Primrose and Hampstead, riding either south over the hills or north to the village. Usually they would stop at some point, leaving the horses to graze while they lay down in the meadows.

Drifts of flowers blanketed the hillsides. Micheline was enchanted by the snakeshead fritallery, a flower mottled with light and dark purple which hung its head in the spring sunshine. One day she and Sandhurst lay kissing in a sea of cowslip and forget-me-nots while Percy chased elusive green-veined white butterflies and wobbly little lambs over the sloping hill. They were far from the manor, seemingly alone in a world of their own. When Andrew loosened her bodice to free her breasts, warm and pale in the sunshine, Micheline could only stretch sensuously and bask in the shivery sensations his mouth and hands evoked. Her own hands caressed him through his buff doublet and breeches, curving around the ridge of his arousal until her skirts somehow were hitched up and Micheline felt soft hay and wildflowers under her thighs. She unfastened Andrew's codpiece and their bodies joined in a torrent of sweet desire. Above her was a sky that Andrew called "heaven's own blue," and as they mated there in the sun-drenched meadow, it seemed to Micheline that heaven itself could not possibly surpass the life they'd fashioned together on earth.

Even when they were apart, she was happy. Some afternoons Sandhurst painted or looked after estate business while she rode Primrose alone or became acquainted with the workings of her new household. The servants adored Micheline since she refused to put on airs, and even the cook, a sturdy old woman called Lettice, welcomed her into the kitchen, where they worked at inventing dishes that combined the elements Micheline liked best in French cooking with the usual English preparations.

May Day came and the manor house wore garlands of flowers and hawthorn branches on its windows and doors. That afternoon Micheline put on a gown of white muslin trimmed with thin yellow silk ribbons, and Mary helped her secure a wreath of colorful flowers in her loose fire-gold curls. She and Andrew rode into the village to preside over the crowning of the Queen of the May, an honor bestowed upon a comely milkmaid called Isabel. The townspeople danced and sang all day long, many of them cavorting

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