"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