Synopsis: A strange young woman returned from China is the only witness to a Musketeer's death. She is the bearer of dark secrets and a scandal waiting to happen. D'Artagnan and the three Musketeers are pulled into the thick of it. Will they join her in the fight for her life?
My own Musketeers "episode", with a quirky OC keeping the boys on their toes.

Series: 1 (So excited there might be a second one…)

Rating: PG-13 / M. There is some strong language, fighting, and maybe dying, involved.

Characters: Everyone is in it and accounted for. Of our four heroes, Porthos gets to say a little more. The cardinal is also very important and, of course, there is Désirée, my OC, mixing things up. ;)

Disclaimers: I do not own any of the series' characters. The moral rights to them belong to the BBC and Monsieur Dumas. There is no copyright infringement intended. But I do own my original character. If you are interested in using her in any way, please ask me first.
Furthermore, all characters appearing in this work, including those based on actual historical persons, are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Warnings: This is my first Musketeers fan fiction and the first story I have written in over 7 years. In the meanwhile I have worked on role-playing and original writing. So I am not all rusty. But please, please be gentle with me. ;) Thank you.

Secondly, I know OCs are not everyone's cup of tea. But here is hoping Mademoiselle will not get on your nerves too much…. And now, on to the story: Enjoy. :)

1. A Green Cloak

Others needed silks to feel pretty. She only needed her sword. The long, slender Chinese blade rested in its golden scabbard against her back, well hidden from sight. It was not a lady's plaything. But neither were the oversized woolen cloak, or the wide-brimmed hat. She had taken them off a dead horseman near Le Havre. It had been a lucky coincidence. The clothes she had brought back from Cathay were simply not warm enough for the rotten French weather.

And the dead man's things had given her safety. For a lone rider in the woods, it was best not to look like a woman. The same held true for the streets of Paris. Wearily, almost silent her booted feet slid across the grimy cobblestones, nearing her destination.

She had given away the horse to move more freely, to run away when there was danger. More than any mysterious Eastern bazaar, this cold, dank city frightened her. In every step, dread mingled with sheer repulsion. But it did not matter now; she was almost there.

Or not.

"You." The voice came from close behind. It was a male voice, crisp and authoritarian.

She stayed where she was, not moving a single muscle. Perhaps it was not addressing her.

"Where did you get that cloak?" the voice demanded with a sharp undertone.

So much for that. Inwardly, she swore. The speaker had not held her up to discuss fashion. This meant trouble. In a flash, her body broke into a run.

As she moved, her eyes darted into every direction, catching sight of objects and people careening by.

Suddenly, a wheelbarrow appeared in front of her. It blocked her path, too close to evade. Out of options, she jumped. Too short. When her feet touched down inside the cart, the surface underneath rolled away. Apples. Her feet scrambled forward. Somehow she kicked free. Apples flew into all directions as she landed in the street.

Startled, she looked around. She did not see anyone in pursuit. But panic drove her on, through the passing crowd. She felt resistance as she pushed past people, snaking her way towards the next side alley.

There she took a sharp turn, her flank scraping past a coarse brick wall. She dove into the shadows of an alleyway. There she stopped. Her breath came in quivering flutters. The journey to France had been taxing enough. And now this... She touched her newly bruised side, gritting her teeth. It hurt. But at least her pursuer was out of sight.

She closed her eyes, listening to the faraway noise of the street. There was nothing unusual, no commotion. Then, suddenly there was a nearly soundless swish, right behind her.

Him again. Her senses screamed in alarm. Out of reflex she went down into a defensive stance. She never got there. At once, something hard pressed against the small of her back, snagging at her overcoat. It felt like the tip of a dagger.

"I shall ask again, boy: How did you come by this cloak?" The stranger was not letting off. His tone was even more irate now.

He was not going to stab her, yet. If she drew her sword now, that would change. She had to surrender, unless...

Suddenly, she had an idea. A distraction. It would buy her two seconds. With a quick snip of her fingers she flicked her hat into the air. In the same motion she drew the blade over her shoulder.

Her arm wheeled backwards just as the attacker spun to draw his own saber. With a swish, her blade bit into his wrist.

"Monsieur, kindly abstain from scratching my back", she said calmly.

There was a pause as the man adjusted his dropping jaw. "Not a boy after all. And too comely for it, too... My apologies, Mademoiselle." He sheathed his dagger, offering her the ghost of a bow.

She studied him. He was still rather young, probably in his thirties and not unhandsome. He was tall and well built. His brown hair fell just short of his shoulders in a slightly curled mess. The fine features of his face were partly obscured by a beard he could have done without. Then she noticed it: He wore a dark green cloak, very similar to hers. She sucked in a quiet breath.

"Why do you assail me over a cloak?" she inquired trying to hide the mix of dread and curiosity rising within. "Do you need a spare one?"

He smirked at the irony in her voice. "No. But this particular one belonged to a friend. And he is dead now."

She suppressed a groan. It was just her luck to run into a friend of this particular dead man. "I give you my word, I did not kill him. But without him, I would be dead now", somehow she kept her voice steady.

"Still", her assailant replied equably, "I shall ask you to accompany me. We would not want anyone to charge you with his murder."

It was unclear whether he believed her or not. At least he mistrusted her. Wordlessly, he beckoned for the sword still in her hand.

"I'm sorry, but it's mine", in one practiced swing she sheathed it back over her shoulder. "You have my word. I will not draw it on you again."

"The word of a lady..." he smiled thinly, offering her his arm.

"Perhaps", she narrowed her eyes, reluctant to take it. "And you are...?"

He raised a brow at her question as though it had surprised him. "Aramis of the King's Musketeers, at your service."

Splendid. She rolled her eyes. A tangle with a royal soldier was the last thing she had wanted. She should be ashamed. Should... Instead she just swept her feathered hat off the alley floor. It was too soiled to wear now.

"Pleasure", she muttered, taking the arm that was not merely a polite offer. "And don't fret, I won't run again."

"Not so sure about that. You are a fast one", the musketeer frowned. He got into motion, with a firm grip on her elbow.

Forced to tag along, she sighed in exasperation. "Where are we going?"

"The garrison." He only so much as half turned as he answered. "My comrades there will want to know how our friend died."

He did not seem to believe her tale after all. "Not by my hand", she snapped vehemently. It was the truth.

"So you said", Aramis replied calmly, ushering her back into the main street.

She did not reply. Something else had caught her attention. Very suddenly, her body had started tingling with a sense of alarm. Someone was watching them. She gazed around, yet she saw nothing unusual, only people going about their business. Perhaps her mind was getting tired. Her journey to had been long. And for now it seemed far from over.

Armand Cardinal Richelieu was plagued by another bout of migraines. Yet he would never allow them to stall his work. However, the news he had just received, had considerably worsened his headaches.

"Is that so?" he demanded flatly of Milady de Winter.

His personal assassin and spy leaned against a side table most languidly. "It is. I have seen her arrive in Paris with my own eyes. Do you want me to deal with her?"

"No", he rose from his desk, resisting the urge to rub his aching neck. "This is an official church matter. I will have to receive her in person first."

His creature did not approve. Very briefly her eyes flicked up towards the ceiling. "This seems quite a hassle for a missionary's bastard."

The cardinal sighed with exasperation. The case of this young woman was special, to say the least. "Not if you knew her father. Any action beyond the official will entail a scandal, for now."

"If that is what you wish..." Milady seemed disappointed. Lately, he had not allowed her to dispose of anyone. She was getting restless.

"It is", he replied with an air of finality. "Besides, her father had enough enemies. Perhaps, one of them will cause a welcome accident soon enough."

"I see", she turned away, awaiting his dismissal. "Is there anything else?"

Richelieu reached for a quill, writing out an order for his Red Guard. "I would like to find out the reasons of her visit", he said, more to the wall than to her. Once he had finished writing, he straightened, still not looking around. "You may go."

"Very well, your eminence", from the corner of his eye, he saw her sketch a rather ironic bow.

When milady had left, the cardinal could no longer abstain from massaging his temples. Their conversation had worsened the throbbing pain in his skull. His mood had darkened along with it.

Jean-Marie de Sauveterre had always been a hard, unpleasant man. When he had learned of the missionary's death in China, he had been relieved. The sudden appearance of his illegitimate daughter had destroyed every vestige of this feeling. If she was here to settle her father's scores, crisis was inevitable. And it was his responsibility to prevent it. However, he did not look forward to doing so.

"Have you seen Aramis?" Athos was becoming impatient.

Porthos knew it was getting serious with him the moment he noticed his friend's fist clench and unclench most irritably. "He'll be here soon. He probably ended up in some little adventure again."

"Right", Athos pulled a face, "It doesn't change the fact that we have a mission on our hands."

Porthos sighed. His mate was in an especially unpleasant mood today. He blamed it on yesterday night's wine. "He will come. Grumbling at me won't make it any quicker."

"I could go look for him", D'Artagnan offered helpfully. He had just come back from the stables, leading his saddled horse into the yard. Porthos watched him tie it up next to theirs. They had been tethered there for quite some time already. Aramis really was late today.

Athos shrugged off the young man's offer. "It won't make much of a difference now..." At once, he paused. There were steps in the lane leading up to the garrison gate.

Porthos looked up, squinting into the morning sun. He made out Aramis's hat in the distance. There was someone in his tow: A cloaked figure, shorter than him, slender and with billowing dark hair.

A woman. He laughed out loud. Aramis had always been the ladies' man. But bringing them here was a novelty, even for him.

"Is that...?" D'Artagnan frowned, looking just as baffled.

Athos was much less impressed. "It's not what we need now. He'd better have a very good reason."

"Or a decent story", Porthos added, still heaving a little from laughing so hard. "If this is another of his amorous conquests, I'm dying to hear all about it."

As they drew nearer, he knew this was probably not about love. The young woman in his wake looked neither willing, nor happy to be with him.

Once Aramis stopped in the garrison's yard, she pulled free her arm, glaring wordlessly. She was very beautiful with keen dark eyes and straight black-brown hair flowing a long way over her slender shoulders. Her poise was very erect, conveying a sharp sense of alertness. Paired with her angry gaze, this made her even more attractive.

Porthos felt her eyes dwelling on him, but only for an instant. Then they travelled on to Athos who did not look any happier. It seemed to be a feeling they shared. He acknowledged her presence with a nod. Then he turned on Aramis.

"So, what is this about?" he demanded curtly.

"Well..." Aramis bit back a cheeky grin, "we might not be riding to Le Havre so soon."

Athos rolled his eyes, "Because it will be dusk by the time we arrive?"

"No, because I have found a witness", he nodded at the lady next to him.

There was a pause as Athos took in the new information. His attention shifted towards her. "You saw how Captain Blaise died?"

Obviously irritated, she sighed. "Yes. He died because of me."

At her words, Porthos felt himself tense. His comrades reacted much the same. Their sudden weariness irritated the woman even more.

"And I will say it for a third time: I did not kill him", she growled flatly.

"Yet you took his belongings", Aramis contested, very unhelpfully.

"Not without his express permission", she sighed again. "He died, saving my life."

This was different. Yet it did not seem to sway Athos much. "We would welcome some proof of that, Mademoiselle..."

"Désirée Lévesque de Sauveterre", she curtsied with a whiff of irony.

Porthos watched the smug expression on Aramis's face derail for a moment. He snorted. As so often when he met a beautiful woman, his friend had probably forgotten to ask her name, again.

"And as your friend was so upset about the cloak, he might as well get it back", she added pointedly. Porthos watched her long fingers dance over the buttons, undoing them. The heavy riding cloak slipped from her shoulders. In a flash she tossed it into the air. Her move was so quick, Aramis had to stoop to catch the flying mass of cloth.

And she had better kept it on. She wore barely anything underneath, but a strange costume of a wrapped blue silk blouse and a matched skirt, barely touching her ankles.

"Oh god, you really needed it", Aramis muttered. But by the way he looked up and down her shapely body, he did not seem very sorry she had shed it.

Athos was disturbed by something completely different. "You're armed", he commented dryly. He disapproved.

The slender sword in its golden scabbard strapped crosswise against her back looked more like an expensive ornament. But Athos was right, it was also a weapon. With his mood today, the chances of her keeping it were slim.

"Does that trouble you, Monsieur?" she quipped cockily.

"Not as long as you surrender it now", Athos replied calmly, yet with a very warning undertone.

Porthos made eye contact with D'Artagnan. They drew closer, in case she refused.

Her body tensed and her eyes narrowed. "Am I your prisoner?" she demanded, moving closer to Athos until her face was mere inches from his.

"No, but I do not trust you", he said.

She would not relent. Now was the time to act, to catch her unawares. D'Artagnan dashed forward. He made a grab for her blade. Seconds before his fingers touched the hilt, she crouched down. Her leg flew backwards in a roundhouse kick. It snatched away D'Artagnan's legs. Stunned, he fell backwards. Once he touched the cobbles, Porthos and Aramis drew their blades. Before they were on her, she leapt forward. Her booted foot came down hard against D'Artagnan's chest. She looked ready to crush his windpipe.

"Easy", the tip of Porthos's sword scratched at her back. He was prepared to grab her any second.

Aramis was in front of her, blocking her way with his blade. Athos stood next to him, ready to draw. Their guest got the message.

Slowly she spread her hands. Her back straightened as she stepped away from D'Artagnan. "Just so you know", she said quietly, "I will always be armed, with or without my sword."

With a sigh, she shrugged the scabbard off her shoulders. Elegantly, it glided into her palm.

Athos stretched out his hand for it. But she turned away from him. "Not you. I don't trust you", she snorted scornfully. Her eyes zeroed in on Porthos. They had a startling amber hue he had not noticed before. "You may keep it."

He sheathed his own weapon and took the ornate, golden scabbard from her. He had not seen such a strange longsword before. It was thin and needle-like, with silk tassels dangling from the hilt. In his large hands it looked almost frail.

"Put one scratch on it and you die", she told him in all seriousness.

Porthos roared with laughter. What a threat for someone two heads shorter than him. "I like you, Mademoiselle", he stated, totally ignoring the glare he got for it.

Aramis was amused, too. "Ouch. I say you better don some clothes or you'll die of cold soon, milady."

"I am clothed", she replied, almost sulkily.

"In very expensive underwear", Porthos could not bite back the remark.

She pulled a displeased face at him. "It's an Aoqun. In Cathay no one would regard it as underwear."

"Cathay?" Aramis smirked.

"China", she said icily. "I have traveled too far for you to mock me."

Aramis flinched at the cold in her tone. "I apologize. And I might have an idea where to find some French garments for you." He looked at D'Artagnan who was still rubbing his back from the fall.

Porthos felt sorry for the young man. First he was knocked down by a woman and now he was badgered to ask yet another favor of his dear landlady. But the notion was good. At a cloth merchant's house, they were bound to find some proper garb for Mademoiselle de Sauveterre. By now she was shivering, much as she tried to suppress it.

D'Artagnan saw it, too. "We can go ask Madame Bonacieux, unless Mademoiselle decides to hit me again", he conceded.

"She won't", the young lady nodded at him to lead the way. She appeared calmer now. "And I apologize."

"Apology accepted", D'Artagnan waited for Aramis to bring up the rear. His comrade picked up Blaise's cloak which he had dropped during Mademoiselle's little outburst. "Mademoiselle, you should be glad Aramis found you and not a Red Guard. They would have been less forgiving."

Aramis drew a mute finger across his throat to reinforce the young one's words.

She looked perplexed as though these things had not meaning to her at all. "What's a Red Guard?"

On hearing this, Porthos chuckled yet again. She really came from far, far away. He watched the three of them proceed through the garrison gate, towards the Bonacieux residence where D'Artagnan had his lodgings.

As they had disappeared, his gaze found Athos. He had not spoken since the fight. Even now he still looked sullen. If Mademoiselle de Sauveterre went on at this pace, the two of them would be on the best way to enmity.

Porthos sidled closer to his friend. "What do you make of her?"

"Nothing", Athos said. This meant he was yet undecided whether to simply mistrust, or right out loathe her. "You seem stricken with her", he observed gloomily.

Porthos smirked. "You know how I like them: cantankerous and pretty."

"Speak for yourself…" suddenly he held on and listened. A moment later there were hoof beats reverberating off the ground and two mounted soldiers in red coats rode into the yard.

Speak of the devil. Porthos's fingers curled around his pistol. What the heck did the Red Guard want here? He had no doubt it had something to do with their new lady acquaintance…

Athos stepped up to the two Red Guards. "What do you want?" he asked curtly.

"We are in search of Mademoiselle de Sauveterre", one of them responded, "we have orders to take her to the cardinal."

"I would like to see them", Athos demanded with a glare. He definitely did not like their intrusion, either.

The speaker dismounted and produced a sealed parchment. As Athos opened it and read, Porthos peered over his shoulder. Once he had gleaned the signature at the bottom, he had seen enough.

"The cardinal indeed", he muttered, scowling at the two newcomers. "And why would you look for her here?"

The guard who still sat on his horse shrugged disdainfully. "Someone gave us a hint."

Meanwhile Athos had finished reading the whole warrant. He had nothing to say against its soundness, but the look on his face betrayed deep skepticism. "It appears you have just missed her. But she will return shortly. You may wait… outside."

At that, Porthos grinned at the two hesitant guards. "You heard him. We don't like Red Guard horses defecating in our yard."

Grumbling the first guard mounted up again. Once they had walked their horses to the other side of the gate, Porthos turned to frown at his comrade. "This is getting better and better", he muttered, an uneasy feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach.

What could Cardinal Richelieu possibly want from this young woman? This smacked of trouble for her and, thanks to Aramis, for them as well. Aramis sure had to drop the habit of digging up tribulations wherever he went.

To be continued….