gazing at a fresco rather than at Andrew as she continued. "As far back as I can remember, Bernard Tevoulere was my best human friend. He was a year older than I. and he taught me to ride and swim and climb trees. He taught me everything. When I was twelve, he gave me one of his own horses as a birthday gift." She smiled softly, remembering the euphoria she'd felt that day as they raced across the meadows.
"You're fond of horses?" Sandhurst couldn't resist asking.
"Oh, much more than that!" she declared. "I can't tell you how I've missed my Gustave these past months. He's getting old, but somehow that makes me love him more than ever. Sometimes I think that horses are more human than people."
Andrew's brows went up as he digested this. "I'm inclined to agree with you, madame. But please—pardon my interruption. I like this story about you much better than the first one about King Francois's hunting lodge!"
His voice warmed her from a distance, encouraging her to continue. Micheline hesitated for a moment, then told herself that after this month she would probably never see Andrew Selkirk again. Her confidences seemed safe with him.
"Well, let's see..." She sighed, remembering what must come next. "That twelfth birthday marked the end of my childhood. The next year my mother died, and Paul went away to Paris, leaving me alone with Papa. I don't know what I would have done then without Bernard. I had to take care of my father, and he barely took the time to talk to me unless it was to ask for something. So Bernard and I became closer than ever, and we were growing up. I stayed with Papa as long as I could bear it, then married Bernard when I was seventeen. We had four years together."
A hand touched Micheline's wrist, then covered her fingers. Tears sparkled in her iris-blue eyes as she looked over, to find Andrew Selkirk sitting back on his heels next to the chair.
"I'm sorry, Michelle." He spoke her name in this shortened form without thinking. "I never meant to cause you pain when I encouraged you to tell me about your past."
"Don't apologize! I feel better somehow. Sometimes here at Fontainebleu my old life seems like a dream. Taking to you about those years helped to make them real again."
He reached up with a forefinger and caught a tear that spilled onto Micheline's cheek. Staring into his deep brown eyes, she felt a inexplicable tremor at her core.
"The light's going," Andrew said gently. "Why don't we borrow two of the king's horses and have a good long ride."
* * *
To Micheline the cold wind on her face and the strong, rhythmic movements of the horse provided the perfect tonic for her spirits. She and Andrew rode full out across the fields that skirted the dark forest, a bright midday sun beaming down on them to soften the chill in the air.
From time to time Sandhurst glanced over at Micheline, admiring her skill with an expert eye. It was clear that she rode well, and with great enthusiasm, but she also rode properly. There was an undeniable elegance in the motion of her body; she and the horse were one. The combination of abandon, feminine grace, and rapport between Micheline and her steed struck a chord within him. Horses were one of the great passions of his life. In the past he'd known women who had enjoyed riding, but they'd always pretended to adore it, hoping to win his favor. Unfortunately Sandhurst had an instinct for spotting artifice. He'd long ago given up hoping that a woman might simply be herself, for better or worse, and have faith in her own worth, without resorting to a lot of elaborate games.
"M'sieur!" Micheline called gaily over her shoulder. "Are you holding back to make me feel better?"
"I think you took the faster horse!" He laughed. Leaning forward so that his knees pressed hard against the stallion's sides, Sandhurst drew alongside Micheline, then slightly ahead. She was laughing, too, as they raced, and he felt a wave of pleasure at the sight of her curling auburn-gold hair, which waved behind her like a banner. Micheline was clad all in rust-colored velvet. A soft velvet cap set with emeralds puffed sideways in the wind, while her gown was covered by a matching cloak trimmed in sable.
"Stop showing off!" she cried as he gradually passed her. Never one to lose without a fight,