villages were set amid willow-hung canals, while wooded hills curved gently in the distance. Micheline wished that Jeremy would disappear and that she and Andrew could pause for a leisurely meal under one of the romantic-looking willow trees.
Instead, they ate quickly at a village tavern, then continued the long ride to Calais. Dusk was upon them when their destination appeared on the horizon, its towers and battlements seeming to rise straight out of the sea. The walls were broken by Lanterngate, the broad archway that led into a town Micheline found quite charming. The crowded, winding streets were lined with wooden houses with crow-step gables and pleasant gardens. They passed Our Lady Church, with its tall, graceful spire, and the cobbled marketplace, which boasted wares brought in on the ships, then stopped before the swinging sign of the Cross Keys tavern. Andrew dismounted, then helped Micheline down from her horse. She savored the sensation of his hands about her waist.
"Well," he said, "the worst is over. We'll sail at first light, and you can relax the rest of the way to London."
Relaxing wasn't exactly what Micheline longed to do, but there seemed little to be gained by arguing. Later that night she looked out the window of her solitary chamber, observing the shadowy ships that crowded the wharves along the foreshore. Moonlight played over their various shapes as they swayed in the glittering blue-black ocean, their pennants streaming in the wind.
Which one would carry her to England? And what waited for her there?
Micheline slept alone again, dreaming fitfully of Andrew, until her door opened in what seemed to be darkness and his voice urged her gently, "Dawn is breaking, Michelle, and we must sail with the tide."
An hour later she found herself on a trim, tastefully appointed yacht called the Stargazer. The waves were rather choppy under the lavender-gray sky, but the wind was with them. Once the sails were set, Andrew joined Micheline on deck. His normal good temper was returning now that they'd left France behind and England lay just a few hours away.
"Wherever did you get this magnificent craft?" queried Micheline.
Culpepper, in the act of tying off a line, shot a look at his friend.
"That's not important," Sandhurst said in a tone that was light and firm at once. "What is important is that we have a comfortable means of travel across the Channel. Do you know, I surprise myself, but I'll own that I'm happy to be returning to England!"
"Are you happy that I'm with you?" she asked, eager by now for some reassurance.
"Yes, of course I am." Seeing Micheline shiver in the sea air, he put an arm around her and held her close, then sought what seemed to be a safer topic. "I nearly forgot to tell you—St. Briac is going to send all of your clothes and other possessions on to London."
Micheline was surprised. She'd nearly forgotten the abundance of gowns, jewels, and accessories she'd accumulated in anticipation of her marriage to the Marquess of Sandhurst.
"That's nice, I suppose... though it's a relief to know I won't really need all of that once we're married. I truly will prefer a simpler life."
"I am contrite that I haven't even provided you with a maid."
"But, I don't miss that in the least! Playfair is acting as chaperon, isn't he? And after we're married, I'd much rather have you all to myself. Servants only get in the way. Why would I want a maid when I'll have a husband to brush my hair and unfasten my gowns?" Her expression was sensually radiant.
Sandhurst shut his eyes for a moment, wishing he didn't have to think at all. "Why don't you go below? There's food and wine in the cabin, and you'll find a few books as well."
Although she would have preferred to stay with him, something in his eyes made her obey. When he took on that remote look, it worried her. Most perplexing was the fact that she couldn't explain to herself why he was keeping himself so distant. The possibility existed that he didn't really want to marry her, that she'd forced his hand with her blatant words and actions in his bed at the Jouberts'. That thought was enough to make her grateful for the distraction of books waiting below.
Rough seas lengthened the crossing, and it was dark when the yacht anchored at Dover. Sandhurst had decided that a hot supper at a small inn called the Hand-in-Hand would do them ail good, but