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Paris 1702...

The spirit of the nation was low as France buried their crowned prince. The pinnacle of the French nobility was in attendance on that mournful day. The King and Queen lay their first-born son to rest. Lui had fallen from his horse while riding the previous week and broken his neck. It was said he died instantly and felt no pain, but the pain was felt throughout the nation as the people lost their next king.

Lui had been wed recently, but his new bride had yet to bear him a son, and with no heir to the throne, the crown fell to Pierre. Their father was old and had little time left. He had felt that he had secured the future of his kingdom, and his carefully laid plans had died with Lui. Lui had been groomed from birth to be king, but Pierre, as the second son, had been free to fritter away his time on wine and women. He was in no way prepared to assume the throne at the time of his father’s passing.

The funeral had been solemn, and none cried as hard as the grieving widow. Although Pierre believed she mourned the loss of her crown more than the loss of her husband. Lui and Daniela had been an arranged marriage. His brother needed an heir, and Daniela desired to be queen. Besides their arraignment, there was no love between them. Lui preferred the company of other women, and Pierre could not fault his brother. Daniela was a horrible woman, selfish and spoiled as so many ladies of the gentry were; title-seeking harpies.

The court was in full attendance for the funeral and the upcoming ball. Pierre had returned to Paris to assume his right to the throne, and France’s new crowned prince would need a princess. Every marriage-minded mama was primping and thrusting their eligible daughters up for consideration. Pierre dreaded the coming ball when his father would select the woman that would become his bride. The idea of marriage had always seemed like a death sentence to Pierre; he maintained the belief that Lui had purposely ended his own life to escape his miserable wife.

Pierre sat lounging on the stone banister overlooking the garden below a half-eaten apple in his hand. His father and mother were trying to prepare him for what was to come. “And you will need to dress in proper attire. You are a crowned prince of France now. You cannot be traipsing around in your blouse and trousers,” his father criticized his less than regal appearance.

“Fine, I shall wear whatever it is you wish me to wear, but must I be forced into this distasteful marriage?” He grumbled.

“A king needs an heir, and for that, you must take a queen,” his mother spoke softly, her hand folded in front of her crimson silk skirt.

“But why must it be now? Why can I not wait until I am crowned?” He sighed, tossing aside the core in his hand. “What is the rush?”

“Your brother had that mindset as well, and it left France without an heir,” his father snapped. “You will marry. I have selected a lovely young woman from a prominent family. She will make you a good wife,” his father insisted.

It was clear he was never going to win this argument. The rule said he must take a wife, but there was nothing that said he could not also take a mistress. He would sire a child to appease his parents and then tuck his unwanted bride away in the country. Speaking of which, he felt the urge for a brisk ride across the countryside before he was forced into his finery for the ball.

Pierre slid off the banister and stood up to kiss his mother on the cheek. “Very well, I will marry the shrew, but for now, I will take a much-needed ride,” he said, strolling away from his parents and heading for the stables.

“Be sure you are back in time for the ball,” his father called after him.

“Have I ever let you down before?” He smiled, walking back down the corridor.

The King frowned. “Be sure you are back in time,” he called after his wayward son.

Pierre made his way through the palace skillfully dodging the nobility in attendance. He slipped through the hidden passages he and his brother played in as children. A small hall between many of the walls within the palace that led to so many places if one knew where they were going. It was built as a way for the royal family to escape if the city was attacked.

It did not take long for Pierre to reach the royal stables. He saddled his horse, sending the stable hand away. He liked to do it himself, a chance to bond with the beautiful beast. He saddled his favourite steed, a spirited black stallion he had bought his last time in Paris. It was a huge majestic piece of horseflesh that could run like the wind, a primal animal that shared Pierre’s spirit.

Slipping his boot into the stirrup, Pierre mounted his horse and spurred it out the stables at full gallop and tore off down the road toward the countryside. He leaned low over the horse, giving the beast its head, the wind whipped through his hair. He never felt freer than when he was galloping across the land.

He spurred his horse forward, rounding the bend and jumping a fallen tree. The hooves were like thunder when they hit the dirt on the other side. He raced his stallion up the hill and pulled back on the reins forcing his horse to a halt at the top. The animal shuffled side to side, eager to start moving once more.

Down in the valley, another rider caught his eye. Mounted upon a brilliant white mare racing across the valley was the most radiant woman he had ever laid eyes on, the skirt of her yellow riding habit waving behind her, her long chocolate hair was whipping in the wind. The corners of his mouth turned up in an amused smile. He had to meet her.

Pierre dug his heels into his horse’s sides and urged it forward. He raced down the hill into the valley to head his mystery rider off. She rode fast her beast, giving his own an invigorating run. Pierre pulled his horse alongside hers and noticed she was straddling her mare like a man. Her skirt bunched up unladylike in the saddle. “Bonjour Mademoiselle,” he smiled as he brought their horse's neck and neck.

Startled by his sudden presence, she screamed, and her horse bucked, throwing its rider to the ground and running off. Pierre’s heart leapt from his chest; he had not meant to frighten her. He pulled his horse to a stop and swung his leg over, dropping down. He quickly rushed to her side.

His mystery woman had landed on her back, her skirt up around her knees, her petticoat visible as she struggled with her tangled dress. Pierre knelt at her side and pulled her skirt down, offering her modesty. “Pardon me, Mademoiselle. I did not mean to frighten you,” he said, taking her hand and helping her to her feet.

“Well, you did, you boorish oaf,” she snapped with a serpent’s tongue. She brushed herself off without looking at him, her concern primarily with her ruined habit. She was, straight from the schoolroom, and beautiful with a petite curvy body, ivory complexion and a perfectly round face with a cute button nose and full bright green eyes. She was a bit tussled with twigs and grass now in her thick silken hair. “Has no one taught you it is rude to sneak up on a lady?” She hissed, looking up at him.

Her anger did not dissipate when she looked him in the face. It was possible she did not recognize him, a thought that only furthered his interest. Had she known him to be who he was, she would not be so bold to speak to him in such a way. “I am truly sorry, Mademoiselle. I only wished to meet you.”

“Well, I do not wish to meet you,” she said, looking for her horse and spying in on the other end of the valley grazing. “You frightened my horse away,” she snapped, picking up the hem of her skirt and starting to march over to her mare.

“Please allow me to escort you to your horse,” he offered, taking the reins of his stallion.

“With all respect, my Lord, I would prefer if you did not,” she said, giving him her back.

“Then, may I at least have your name?” He asked, following her with an amused grin.

“And what would you do with my name, my Lord?” She said, keeping a brisk pace.

“I would let it roll over my lips like sweet red wine ma chérie.”

She suddenly stopped and turned to face him, anger flashing in her bright eyes. “I would ask you to mind yourself, my Lord; we do not know one another well enough to allow such informality,” she then continued to her horse with unrestrained determination.

Women did not normally speak to him in such a manner. It was a novel experience. “My apologies again, my Lady, I did not mean to be so bold. You are a spirited rider,” he saw her blush as she reached for the reins of her horse. She knew that her manner of riding was unladylike, but she had not meant to be discovered. She said nothing and pulled herself up into her saddle, this time sitting side-saddle like other women of her ink.

“I bid you a good day, Sir,” she said, starting the mare into a respectable walk.

Pierre mounted his horse quickly and followed her. “You still have not provided me with your name, fair lady.”

She cast him a teasing glare over her shoulder. “Call me lost, for that is all I am to you,” then she urged her mare into a run and disappeared over the hill. Pierre smiled; his interest was peaked. If he had his way, she would not be lost for long.