A ripple shuddered through Fabien at her words, their gentle whisper piercing a tiny hole through the hardened shell surrounding the place he'd once known his heart to be. Who was this woman, this intriguing, maddening creature who kept turning everything he thought he knew about her onto its head - and in the process burrowing deeper into the recesses of his mind, making him doubt his own convictions?

Sophie had saved his life, at great risk to her own. But what he could not fathom was why. Why she'd attempt such idiocy - to gamble her own future away on behalf of a man who was not worth saving. His demise would have ensured her freedom, an opportunity to forge a life free of his influence, free of the shackles of Versailles. And yet despite that monumental reward, she'd returned.

Unable to resist, his fingers gently brushed across the creamy expanse of her cheek, compelled by some unknown force to discover for himself whether her skin was indeed as silky smooth as it appeared. It was.

"Do you imagine that saying it enough times will alter my position?" he uttered, knowing he should let her go, but his hands unwilling to comply.

"Perhaps," she smiled tentatively, then frowned. "Although you seem determined to believe otherwise."

"I trust only my instincts," he said, tilting her head back slightly, fascinated by the graceful arch of her neck. He noted the rapid beat of her pulse at the base of her throat and felt an irresistible urge to place his lips there, to sweep his tongue across the erratic fluttering of her heartbeat.

"What do your instincts tell you about me? That I am your enemy?" she whispered.

They were both still as they gazed at one another, locked together in a breathless moment. Sophie's eyes, so dark he could drown in their depths, searched his, prompting him to murmur, "They scarcely know what to make of you."

His honest admission startled them both. Fabien knew better than to convey any weakness, and yet Sophie seemed to draw his thoughts forth, unfiltered. His brows furrowing, he withdrew his hand and averted his gaze, relieved when she said nothing more. Instead, with what appeared to be an unsteady hand, she resumed her earlier task of cleaning his wound. It was no longer bleeding but she nonetheless wrapped a strip of clean linen around his arm before tying it snugly. When she finally let go of his arm and turned away to face the stream, her physical touch was gone, but the memory of it somehow lingered. Righting his clothing they sat in silence while his eyes, sharp as daggers, scanned the surrounding woodlands, though he felt no imminent threat. Their pursuer would certainly follow, but between overcoming the colossal ache to his head and the injury to his leg, they would not see him too soon.

The rushing water intermingled with the ubiquitous sounds of the forest appeared to have a soothing, hypnotic effect on both of them and Fabien soon felt his shoulders relax. Sophie brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, lost to her own thoughts. When he eventually cast an eye in her direction, he noted that the hood of her cloak had slipped off her head and hung down her back. Her dark hair was twisted up and secured behind her head in a simple knot. Her face was resting atop her updrawn knees and rotated slightly towards him. Her eyes had drifted closed and it was not long before he could tell by the steady rise and fall of her chest, that she'd fallen asleep.

His gut twisted at the sight of her. At rest she looked young and innocent and uncorrupted - everything she claimed to be and everything her involvement with him would certainly erode over time. Guilt gnawed at him, stabbing at his conscience and harder to ignore in light of her recent deeds.

Hating the way she affected him and yet unable to escape its cloying hold, he jumped to his feet and went to check on the horses. Stuck in the side of his saddle bag he saw the hilt of the dagger she'd plunged into his attacker. He removed it, the bloodstained blade another reminder of Sophie's sacrifice. After rinsing the blade in the cool water of the stream, Fabien glanced up at the angle of the sun; it was time to press on. Reluctant to disturb Sophie, but having little choice, he rose to rouse her.

When he lightly touched her shoulder her eyes snapped open instantly, slightly disoriented as they focused on him. "I am sorry. I did not mean to fall asleep."

"We must leave."

Slowly she unfurled and stood. He found himself watching, entranced, as she rolled the stiffness from her neck and shoulders. Rays of sunlight filtered down through the trees and glistened off the auburn highlights in her hair. When she turned her face upward towards the sky, the light seemed to brighten, cascading down in sharp silhouettes to worship the pale perfection of her features. Catching himself, Fabien jerked away. This madness needed to end.

"Do you think we will find anything incriminating at the duc's residence?" Sophie asked when she reached his side.

"It is irrelevant as we can no longer proceed to Calais."

Her eyes flew to his. "Whyever not?"

"We have been compromised and whatever hope we had of finding evidence to support Cassel's treason will no doubt be destroyed before we get there."

"Then we are headed back to Versailles?" she asked, a thread of anxiety in her tone.

"Not at present. But we must get off the roads."

"Oh." She paused. "Then where shall we go?"

"Someplace no one will think to look." A plan had already formed in his mind, had been ruminating from the moment they'd fled Amiens and had guided the current path they travelled upon.

Though it was clear Sophie had questions, she merely nodded, allowing him to assist her onto the back of her horse. When she was settled, he reached into his cloak and handed her the now spotless dagger. "Yours," he said.

She stared at it, then at him, her eyes flickering with surprise. "Thank you."

Their gloved fingers brushed together, the contact chasing a frisson of sensation up his arm. His eyes flew to hers, wondering if she'd felt it too when he noted the crimson stains on her cheeks. Fuck. He turned away and swung up onto his horse.

"Keep your cloak up and your face shielded at all times. No one must recognise you." She did as he directed just before they set off again, heading west of Calais towards Bayeux.

Much later as they neared the coast of Normandy, the scenery changed from timbered woodlands to whitewashed cliffs and rolling green hills. The air suddenly smelled crisper and cleaner, the birdsong louder and livelier with every gallop towards the sea. With hours of travel behind them, they were finally nearing their destination just as the sun's descent transformed the seaside landscape into swathes of green and burnished gold. Glancing across at his unlikely travelling companion, Fabien took her measure. Sophie was coping remarkably well, if one considered that she was not used to the saddle. They'd ridden hard and she'd suffered the arduous tempo with no complaints. He could tell she was uncomfortable, in pain even, but she uttered no words of protest. They'd not really conversed during most of the journey as the gruelling pace made conversation somewhat impossible. Thankfully the weather had improved and the roads were blessedly empty of anyone other than those who themselves wished to remain incognito, so they lost no time to the fickleness of Mother Nature or the curiosity of strangers.

Fabien slowed his horse to a trot when they reached a well-trodden path that cut across a lush green field. They were nearly there. And the closer they drew, the more he questioned the wisdom of bringing Sophie to this place. But as the stone edifice of a quaint, lonely seaside cottage rose into prominence, he knew there was no turning back. Even from a distance, the single-story structure appeared neat and compact, nearly hidden against the coastal cliffs. Small square windows dotted the façade, with wisps of curling smoke easing out of the chimney and upward towards the darkening skies. Beside him, Sophie perked up.

"Is that where we are headed?"

"Follow my lead and do not contradict anything I say," he warned, not answering her question. Already an unpleasant knot was forming in the pit of his stomach.

"Perish the thought." Her tone was droll and mildly sarcastic.

Despite his apprehension, his lips curled slightly upward. "I see your good humour has not yet been restored."

"If that is where we are headed," she said, pointing towards the cottage, "it means that I shall soon have both legs firmly planted on the ground. I assure you, my good humour is restoring as we speak. I swear, if I never see another horse or carriage ever again it shall be too soon."

He raised a brow. "Carriage? You did not approve of our earlier conveyance?"

"I did not," she stated emphatically. "Though I suspect you already know this."

He did not bother to contradict her. "Why not voice your displeasure sooner?"

"Because you were hoping I would and so I refused to give you the satisfaction."

For a man who guarded his motives as fiercely as some men did their wealth, Sophie's ability to read him was uncanny. "If you knew all along that I meant to test your resolve, why mention it now?"

"Because we are nearing our journey's end, at least for now, and withholding my outward displeasure has already served its purpose."

"How so?" he asked.

Sounding inordinately pleased with herself, she said, "You were expecting me to fall apart. I did not. Therefore, I win."

"I was not aware it was a competition."

She snorted. "Of course it was. Everything with you is a test - of my loyalty, my bravery, my ability. You need not deny it now."

She was correct, of course. It had all been an exercise to determine her fortitude. "Perhaps if you are well behaved I shall let you know if you have triumphed."

"However shall I bear the suspense?" she mocked, rolling her eyes.

Sophie might be exhausted and in pain, but she had not lost her spirit. He liked that about her. Liked? He shook his head, dispelling the notion.

It was officially dark when they reached the gravel pathway that led around the cliffs towards the front of the cottage. "Whose home is this?"

"An acquaintance."

She glanced at him. "I assume we will not be barging in and seizing this property in the name of the king?" At his sidelong scowl, she added, "You cannot be surprised by the question since you have yourself confessed to not having any friends."

His scowl deepened. "No one will be flung from their bedchambers."

"Good," she said, then paused. "And you will not…harm him?"

"Him?" Fabien queried.

"The gentleman owner. You will not threaten him or force him to house us against his will?"

"What makes you think it is a gentleman?"

Sophie's head swung around at that, her eyes wide. They were visiting a woman? A lover? Her stomach lurched uncomfortably at the thought. About to ask, her response was halted when the front door burst open and three individuals rushed outside. First was a tall, thin middle-aged man with a tawny receding hairline and deep-set eyes. Closely behind was a plump, slightly younger woman who was drying her hands on her apron. The last of the trio to exit was a small, elderly woman. Initially Sophie could not see her clearly, but as she stepped ahead of the other two, her narrow face and pale blue eyes became visible. "Fabien, is that you?" she called.

Confused, Sophie watched as Monsieur Marchal dismounted, then assisted her to the ground before approaching the slightly stooped figure who held a candelabra aloft. "It is you!" the woman exclaimed, before enveloping him in a fierce embrace. Was this woman family? Sophie was unsure of what was happening. She'd assumed that Monsieur Marchal had no relations left after he'd told her about the deaths of his parents.

Separating himself from the woman's hold, he said, "Helene, we need shelter for a few days. I trust this will not be an inconvenience?"

"Of course not. You are always welcome. Although we never see you," the woman chided, running frail hands down the front of his cloak. "It has been too long since last you visited."

Fascinated, Sophie watched as he removed her hands but did not let them go. He turned, motioning to Sophie to come closer. "This is Helene Mercier." He gestured to the couple at Helene's side. "And this is Thomas and Marthe. This is Mademoiselle de Clermont. She is my...travelling companion."

So not Madame Marchal to these folk, but rather a travelling companion. Strangely, Sophie did not know if she was relieved or annoyed by the distinction.

The older woman turned her attention to Sophie and gasped. Sophie felt a little awkward and uncertain, but stepped forward and dipped into a curtsy. "Good evening, madame."

Helene looked from Fabien to Sophie and back. "Come inside. There is a tale here that had best not be divulged upon my doorstep." She addressed the tall man at her side. "Thomas, see to the horses and Marthe, prepare some supper for our guests."

"Right away," the couple echoed before scurrying off.

Sophie and Monsieur Marchal followed Helene into the cottage. The room was small, but cosy, the stone floor scattered with well-worn rugs, the high wooden ceilings making the space seem more commodious than it actually was. The warmth from the crackling fire in the grate cast a cheerful glow about the room. Wandering deeper into the poky interior, she pushed off her cape and absently rubbed the back of her neck and shoulders as she looked around curiously. Her movements were slow and stiff, a testament to the day's rigorous journey.

"You have not come all the way from Versailles on horseback?" Helene asked.

"No," Sophie replied, watching as Monsieur Marchal moved towards the fireplace. "Our carriage lost a wheel in Amiens."

"Can wheels not be mended?" Helene asked candidly.

"The particulars are not important," Fabien interjected before Sophie could reply.

"It must be of the utmost importance to have prompted your appearance after a near two year absence," Helene contradicted.

The dark look on Monsieur Marchal's face did not seem to deter Helene in the slightest. Instead, she returned his look with a pointed stare of her own just as Marthe entered the room and started setting the table. She turned to Sophie. "You must be exhausted, my dear."

She has kind eyes, Sophie thought, looking into the weathered face of the older woman. Small tufts of grey hair escaped beneath the front and sides of her lace cap, giving her an air of eccentricity that made her imminently more likable. "A little," Sophie confessed.

"If you do not mind the cramped quarters, there is a spare bedchamber we use mainly for storage. Thomas will make room for you."

"Thank you, whatever you can manage would be perfectly acceptable," Sophie stated, not wishing to be a burden. Helene smiled and patted her hand gently. "Any...companion of Fabien's is welcome here." Sophie felt her face flush at Helene's words. Did they assume she and Monsieur Marchal were lovers? Sophie was mortified. "Fabien, you may take respite here by the fire, or with the horses if that better suits you."

Glancing at Monsieur Marchal, Sophie saw his noncommittal nod. He was lounging against the grate, one arm resting on the mantel, one ankle crossed over the other.

"May I take your cloak, mademoiselle?" Marthe asked, holding out her hand.

"Oh, yes, thank you." While Sophie handed over her heavy cloak, she watched as Helene moved over to Monsieur Marchal. Their conversation was hushed and Sophie wished she was privy to what they were saying. When her eyes locked with Monsieur Marchal's she glanced away quickly, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.

"Is there anything I can help with, Marthe?" Sophie asked instead.

The blonde woman who appeared just shy of her fortieth year, smiled and shook her head before disappearing from the room. Unsure of what to do with herself, Sophie resumed her earlier inspection of her surroundings. The dining table and chairs, while not large by palace standards, could accommodate four people easily and perhaps six at a squeeze. It's position beneath a square shuttered window opened up the middle of the space and allowed for other quaint furnishings to be scattered about the room. While fastidiously clean and obviously well cared for, the room was modest yet surprisingly merry. It somehow reminded Sophie of home - her real home in Pau - a lifetime ago.

Before her mind could drift too far into the past, she was drawn from her musings when Helene touched her elbow. "I imagine you would like to refresh yourself before having a meal?" At Sophie's eager nod, she smiled and directed her into a small room just beside what appeared to be the kitchen. Inside there was a neat double bed and a few pieces of furniture. Resting on a low wooden table was a large white pitcher, a fresh bowl of steaming hot water, a small cake of soap and a towel. "This is my bedchamber, so you will not be disturbed. Come find us when you are ready."

Alone, Sophie wasted no time. She reached for the soap and washed her hands and face before running the damp towel around the back of her neck and around the front of her chest. The warm water was heavenly and made her feel infinitely better. After securing her limp hair back into place, she ran her hands over the front of her wrinkled gown; there was no hope for it. She looked forward to a proper bath and some clean clothing. But that could wait.

Rejoining Monsieur Marchal and Helene, she was welcomed to the table by the latter. "Come and eat. I apologise for the meagre offerings. We have already had our supper and the leftovers are long gone."

"Not at all," Sophie assured her as they sat down to a meal of warm crusty bread with thick wedges of cheese and ham. Thirstier than she'd thought, Sophie consumed two glasses of wine in quick succession before she even touched her food. Feeling slightly lightheaded thereafter, but thoroughly satisfied, she ignored Monsieur Marchal's brooding stare as she devoured her warm buttered sandwich; nothing had ever tasted better.

Whatever they'd discussed before the fire had obviously satisfied Helene, because she asked Monsieur Marchal no more questions about what had prompted their visit. Instead, she asked Sophie about palace life and entertained them with anecdotes of local gossip. By the time Helene was ready to retire, Sophie was already dosing in a comfortable chair by the fire. She knew she'd had too much wine, particularly on an empty stomach, but it was too late to lament that now. Instead, she slowly surrendered to her exhaustion.

She woke unexpectedly when she felt herself being lifted, knowing instinctively that it was Monsieur Machal when she felt the strength of his arms around her. "You smell nice," she murmured, burying her nose in his neck and breathing deeply. She was certain that for as long as she lived, she would recognise his starched linen and leather scent. It was so uniquely him.

"Sophie," she heard from far away. "I will call Marthe to help you disrobe."

"Nooo," she moaned, opening her eyes. "She has already retired. Do not disturb her."

"I am not a bloody lady's maid," he muttered, laying her gently onto the bed. Marthe and Thomas had shown her to her bedchamber directly after supper. It was a small, neat space with a single boxed straw mattress covered in fresh linens.

Sophie turned in his arms, reaching out to touch the tips of his hair. He froze, their faces inches apart, his arms braced on either side of her shoulders as he held himself still above her. She knew she was playing a dangerous game, but she could not seem to stop herself. The wine had mellowed her mood and lowered the defences.

"So soft," she breathed as she rubbed the dark strands back and forth between her fingers. She saw the flash of heat in Monsieur Marchal's eyes and felt an answering blaze deep within her belly. Her tongue darted out to moisten her suddenly dry lips, her eyes noting the way his gaze dipped to follow the movement. She swallowed, her hand moving to trace the groove in his chin. She'd wanted to do so for absolute ages. She could feel the rough texture of his hair beneath her fingertips, the prickly sensation shooting little bolts of lightning all the way down to her toes.

Monsieur Marchal moved slightly, one of his large hands sweeping her hair back from her forehead.

"How is it possible that a hand that has done so many unspeakable things, can be this gentle?"

"You think me gentle?" he rasped, his deep voice sending delicious tingles down her spine.

"Sometimes."

"I think you are drunk," he countered.

"I am," she agreed with a yawn. "Though I have never seen you inebriated."

"Nor shall you."

"God forbid you ever do anything remotely h-human," she hiccuped, her hand dropping from his face to trail down his chest.

"Oh, I assure you, I am human." His voice was even lower, the timbre dark and sensuous as his fevered gaze roamed across her face.

Sophie was so tired, her eyelids so heavy. She suddenly wished she were not intoxicated so she could fully appreciate the moment, so she might even remember it come morning. Her hand came to rest over his heart, imagining his was beating as frantically as hers. Monsieur Marchal's hand continued to caress her cheek, his touch soothing and thrilling all at once. Sophie turned into his embrace, closing her eyes. "Fabien," she sighed.

She heard his harsh intake of breath, but could not open her eyes again, her lids too heavy. On a deep exhale she turned further into his warmth and succumbed to sleep. Unbeknownst to her, Fabien watched her for the longest time, perplexed. It was some time before he pulled the coverlet over her and stoked the fire to keep her warm before silently slipping away.

The following morning Sophie was stunned to realise that Fabien was no longer there. He'd left sometime in the night for Calais and left her behind. Without so much as a word of explanation. Without any goodbye. Without any idea of when he would return.

She wished fervently that she did not care, but alas, she did. She cared far too much.