I don't suppose I've really changed. Do you remember the day I told you that there were doors I'd kept shut inside of me?"
"I remember everything, fondling," Sandhurst replied, kissing her fragrant hair.
"I was afraid to open those doors, because I couldn't be certain what lay on the other side. As my love for you developed, courage came with it, and I couldn't hide any longer."
"What did you find on the other side?"
"Freedom. Freedom from the past and all the fears that were suffocating me. I feel as if I've shed a tremendous weight. My heart is light now, perhaps for the first time."
Andrew was silent for long minutes, lost in thought, until Micheline turned her face up to gaze at him.
"You haven't changed your mind, have you?"
"About loving you? Marrying you?" He smiled and kissed her tenderly. "No. No, I haven't changed my mind. I'm just digesting all of this. Why don't we get some sleep, and hopefully I'll have sorted out a few things by morning."
That wasn't quite what Micheline had hoped to hear, but it was difficult to worry when they snuggled down under the covers and she lay in Andrew's warm masculine embrace. Sleep seemed impossible, yet moments later she was breathing evenly, one slim hand curled around his forearm.
Sandhurst, meanwhile, stared into the darkness, thinking.
* * *
Blinking against the sunlight that flooded the bedchamber, Micheline turned her face away and attempted once again to open her eyes.
"Good morrow, Michelle." Sandhurst sat in a carved chair near the bed. Washed, shaved, and dressed, he was eating an apple and looking exceedingly handsome.
"What time is it?" She pushed back her mane of curls and rose on an elbow.
"Ten o'clock. Don't look so guilty! You must have needed the sleep." He, in turn, had needed the early morning to speak to St. Briac. Andrew had suspected that word of his true identity had slipped out, but the Frenchman had reassured him that he was the only person who knew. Most important, Micheline still thought Sandhurst was a painter named Selkirk. St. Briac swore that love alone had prompted her to travel to Paris in search of the man she meant to marry.
"What of you?" she was asking. "You claimed that you needed to sort things out. What have you decided?"
He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, offering her the apple, which she nibbled at solely because it was in his hand.
"I've decided to take you back to England with me, fondling. How could I refuse?"
"Oh, Andrew, I love you!" She reached up to trace the sculpted line of his cheekbone, and felt that she would die of happiness when he caught her hand and brought it over to his mouth.
"And I love you, Michelle." He kissed her sensitive palm. "I've never said that to another woman, nor have I even considered marriage in the past. I'm deadly serious now, though, and for that reason I want to put off our wedding until we're in England."
She looked stricken. "But—!"
"We're both rather besot at the moment, but we have to keep in mind that there's more to marriage than love." He paused, smiling ironically. "In truth, until I met you I wasn't even sure that love was necessary! The point is, I want you to see what your life will be like while you still can change your mind. There's a great deal you don't know about me—"
"I know enough! I know what kind of man you are!"
"There's much more involved than that. England is quite different from France, and my usual life is different from the one I led at Fontainebleau."
"Andrew, I could be happy with you if we lived in a hovel!"
He had to laugh. "I appreciate that... and I can reassure you that my circumstances aren't quite that desperate, but all the same, I want you to see for yourself. I have relatives that even I have trouble tolerating—"
"I shall love them all!" she vowed.
"I doubt that. I'm quite serious about this, so you would do well to save your breath. We'll go to England, you will see for yourself what lies in store for you if you marry me, and then, if you remain certain, we'll have the proper sort of wedding you deserve."
Micheline sighed, pretended to pout, then suddenly gave him a blinding smile unlike anything Sandhurst had seen before.
"I yield, my love," she said. "But can we depart for England without delay?"