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him in the tone a mother uses to a hurt child.
    Michael caught only the words froid and brfiW. She was so close that he could smell her; the natural musk of a healthy young woman sweating with the exertion of hard riding was mingling with a perfume that smelled like dried rose petals. Michael tried to speak, to thank her, but he was shaking with shock and pain. His lips wobbled and he made a little slurring sound.
    Mon pauvre, she cooed to him, and stepped back. Her voice was husky with concern and exertion, and she had the face of a pixie with huge dark Celtic eyes. He wondered if her ears were pointed, but they were hidden by the dark bush of her hair. It was windblown and kinked into dense springy curls. Her skin was tinted by her Celtic blood to the colour of old ivory and her eyebrows were thick and dark as her hair.
    She began to speak again, but he could not help himself, and he glanced down again to that intriguing little shadow under the silk. She saw the movement of his eyes and her cheeks glowed with a dusky rose colour as she snatched up her muddy skirts and whipped them around her waist, and Michael ached more with embarrassment at his gaffe than he did from his burns.
    The overhead roar of Andrew’s Sopwith gave them both respite and they looked up gratefully as Andrew circled the field. Painfully and unsteadily Michael clambered to his feet, as the girl settled her skirts, and he waved up at Andrew. He saw Andrew lift his hand and give him a relieved salute, then the green Sopwith circled out and came in on a straight run not higher than fifty feet above their heads, and the green scarf, with something knotted in one end, fluttered down and plunked into the mud a few yards away.
    The girl ran to it and brought it back to Michael. He unknotted the tail of the scarf and grinned lopsidedly as he brought out the silver flask. He unscrewed the stopper and lifted the flask to the sky. He saw the flash of Andrew’s white teeth in the open cockpit and the raised gauntleted hand, and then Andrew turned away towards the airfield.
    Michael lifted the flask to his lips, and swallowed twice. His eyes clouded with tears and he gasped as the heavenly liquid flowed scalding down his throat. When he lowered the flask, she was watching him, and he offered it to her.
    She shook her head, and asked seriously, Anglais?”Oui, non, Sud Africain. His voice shook.
    Ah, vous parlez franqais! She smiled for the first time, and it was a phenomenon almost as stunning as her pearly little bottom.
    A peine, hardly. He denied it swiftly, staving off the flood of voluble French that he knew from experience an affirmative would have brought down on his head.
    You have blood. Her English was appalling, only when she pointed to his head did he understand what she had said. He lifted his free hand and touched the trickle of blood which had escaped from under his helmet. He inspected his smeared fingertips. Yes, he admitted. Buckets of it, I’m afraid. The helmet had saved him from serious injury when his head had struck the side of the cockpit. Pardon? She looked confused.
    J’en ai beaucoup, he tianslated.
    Ah, you do talk French. She clapped her hands J-n_ nn endearing, childlike gesture of delight and took his arm in a proprietorial. gesture.
    Come, she ordered, and snapped her fingers for the stallion. He was cropping the grass, and pretended not to hear her.
    Wiens ici tout de suite, Nuage! She stamped her foot. Come here, this instant, Cloud! The stallion took another mouthful of grass to demonstrate his independence and then sidled across in leisurely fashion.
    Please, she. asked, and Michael made a stirrup of his cupped hands and boosted her up into the saddle. She was very light and agile.
    Come up. She helped him, and he settled behind her on the stallion’s broad rump. She took one of Michael’s hands and placed it on her waist. Her flesh under his fingers was firm and he could feel the heat of it through the cloth.
    Tenez, hold