Chateau de Versailles, France

1670

From now on, I own you.

Those words, uttered by Fabien Marchal, the head of the king's personal guard, reverberated through Sophie de Clermont's mind as she navigated her way through the underbelly of Versailles. She'd never been in this part of the palace before, had not even known it existed before now. There were no halls of glass here, no sumptuous tapestries and wallpaper, none of the golden splendour she was so accustomed to seeing throughout the rest of the king's residence. In contrast, the series of tunnels that ran beneath the royal chateau were dark and damp, the bare stone fortifications free of any decoration save the occasional patch of moss. Along the upper slopes of the walls were flame torches at irregular intervals illuminating the passageway ahead, but even the soft glow cast by the lamplight could not mask the cold gloom surrounding her. She was certain there were traces of vermin underfoot, and God knew not what else, so as a precaution against soiling the hem of her gown, she lifted it a few inches off the ground before continuing down the narrow corridor.

The hour was late and while there was still an abundance of entertainment for the nobles at court to enjoy into the early hours of the morning, Sophie was not in the mood to gossip or play cards. Not when her world was slowly crumbling around her. Her mother was gone, but to where she did not know. Apart from being fraud, Beatrice de Clermont had also been a Huguenot spy who'd conspired against the king. The news had come as a heavy blow to Sophie, particularly after so recently discovering that she was not of noble birth as she'd been lead to believe, but rather the daughter of two protestant nobodies. She had always known her mother was shrewd and ambitious, but she had not for a moment thought her a traitor. Was she presently locked up in a dungeon somewhere being tortured? Or had she been banished to some dismal part of the country where no one would ever find her? Neither scenario was particularly comforting.

And now, after so recently being taken into the royal household as a companion to Princess Henriette, Sophie's position hung in the balance. The princess had taken ill after collapsing at the masked ball held in her honour the previous evening, and if rumours were to be believed, her life was in danger. Guilt washed over Sophie as she listened to her heels echoing off the stone walls. Though nothing had been confirmed, she knew Her Royal Highness was thought to have been poisoned and the meal in question was one Sophie had prepared. She knew she'd done nothing wrong, but that did not make her feel any less responsible. She liked the princess and would not wish to see her come to any harm.

Though, this was not the first time her position at court had come under threat. When Monsieur Marchal had visited her apartment, ordering her to leave Versailles after her mother's deception had come to light, she'd panicked. She had nowhere to go, no one to call on for assistance and no means of supporting herself save one - Benoit.

She'd been flattered by the attention of the handsome builder even though her mother had disapproved. Their budding romance had been sweet, their embraces tender and chaste. When Sophie had realised that she'd been kicked out of court, she'd gone to him for help, explaining everything. She would happily have married him, but he would not take her. Benoit had been furious, calling her a liar and a cheat and Sophie could not blame him. While she had not understood or condoned her mother's deceit, she'd done nothing to put stop to it either. She'd been too afraid of the consequences.

Madame de Clermont's ambition for her daughter had always been clear: Sophie was to catch the king's eye and thereby secure their futures. This had never been Sophie's desire, for while she thought the king a handsome man, she did not love him. Nor did she relish the idea of being his possession for only as long as he deemed her worthy; her heart would not survive such callous treatment. But since she'd loved her mother and tried to be obedient, she had done as she was told. She'd worn the expensive gowns she was certain they did not have the coin to pay for and uttered barely a word of protest when her corset was tightened to such a painful degree that it hurt to breathe. You must suffer for beauty, my dearest. The sentiment had been repeated ad nauseum as numerous maids spent hours curling her hair into the latest, elaborate styles and various creams and potions were applied to her skin to keep her complexion fair and free of imperfections.

But how she'd resented it at times. Deep down, she was a romantic at heart. She'd craved love and understanding, had dreamed of a family of her own, of a man's unwavering devotion. Her mother was far more practical, but had not been against the notion provided the man belonged to the upper crust or better yet, was the king himself. Her parent had wasted no time in ruining any fantasies Sophie might have had of choosing for herself, regardless of rank and station. She did not doubt that her mother loved her, and perhaps it was that love that made her so determined and at times, even a little cruel.

With her mother gone and Benoit's rejection still smarting, it had dawned upon Sophie that she had one choice left. She still possessed something of value that she could use in order to secure a small measure of protection: her innocence. It had been a hard decision to come by, had been even harder to utter the words knowing it would be the end of all her childhood dreams of love and romance, of flowers and poetry. But with no other choices left to her, she'd somehow mustered the courage to approach Monsieur Marchal with her offer. Because he was already aware of her past, he was the only man she could think of who might be willing to take her on. It didn't matter that she suspected that he'd been her mother's lover. If accepting his advances meant not having to wallow in the gutters, then she'd force herself to endure his attentions a hundred times over.

But much to her surprise, and even greater relief, he'd declined. Instead he'd offered her something else, perhaps something far worse - a chance to maintain her ruse, to keep up the pretence of respectability in exchange for her absolute autonomy. His bargain had sounded like salvation at the time, but the longer she'd pondered it, the worse off she knew she was. Instead of merely being his lover until he tired of her, she would now have to play the whore and more, whenever and with whomever he demanded. Was that not selling her soul for a roof over her head and food in her belly? But she was trapped, so of course she'd agreed, there was nothing else she could have done, no other options available to her. She had no skills, no money, no family. She either submitted or starved. In the end she'd chosen self-preservation over certain death.

Though, as she neared her new master's chambers, she did not feel certain that she'd made the correct decision. Could she be all the things he'd told her she must? Spy, charmer, liar…seductress? The latter made Sophie shiver, drawing the folds of her cloak closer around her body. She'd never been with a man, did not know how she would find the courage to do so with someone she did not love.

Up ahead she could see the end of the corridor, a sign that her destination was near. Inside her hand was the note that had been thrust under her door instructing her on the time and place she was to meet Monsieur Marchal. Her nerves frayed, she stopped and took a fortifying breath, hoping for some semblance of calm. She had not exactly endeared herself to him earlier that day. He'd been asking questions about the princess' meals and their preparation and Sophie had been uncooperative and antagonising. It had obviously not been the best strategy to employ when dealing with a man of his reputation, but she'd been desperate for news about her mother's whereabouts. She knew her impertinence had angered him, she'd seen it reflected in his cold stare, though he'd given no outward sign of it. Knowing she was moments away from facing him again, this time alone, made her regret her earlier impulsive behaviour. Praying for the courage to endure whatever lay ahead, she ventured forth.

Making her way down a steep set of steps she entered a cavernous room. It was an office of sorts, dimly lit by candles and filled with all manner of curiosities. There was a sturdy wooden desk topped with books, ledgers and writing implements. Behind it, fixed to the wall was a large, impressively detailed map of France. Venturing deeper she was struck by the notion that it was a very masculine domain, more practical than luxurious, free of any comforts save a few pieces of furniture and the roaring fire in the grate. Drawn to its warmth, Sophie stood with her back to it, relishing the heat seeping into her bones while she surveyed the rest of the chamber. To the far left and right of her position were two archways branching off into different directions, but without going to investigate, she could not be certain where they lead to. Her eyes falling back on the desk, she spied an open book, a magnifier lying across the faded pages. Stepping forward she reached for it, cradling the copper handle in her palm as she admired the etched engravings upon it. Curious, she held it over the page, the letters increasing significantly in size, making it much easier to read.

"I would thank you to keep your hands off my property."

Startled, Sophie dropped the tool and whirled around, gasping when she came face to face with Monsieur Marchal. Alarmed at his proximity; he was so close she could smell the soap on his skin, she shrank back, the edge of the desk biting into the backs of her thighs. With the candlelight behind her, it brightened his features, casting them in stark relief – a high, wide forehead, a long, sharp nose and a full set of lips beneath a neatly trimmed moustache. His cheekbones were well-defined, his brows like two dark slashes above deep, penetrating brown eyes that glinted mysteriously in the flickering glow. They were cold, emotionless pits of nothing as they stared at her, devoid of any feeling, any trace of warmth. The sight of them made her heart pound.

He was a dangerous looking man, Sophie decided. She'd always wondered if the rumours about his alleged savagery were true, but looking at him now she did not doubt their provenance. There was not an ounce of softness to his features, not a hint of vulnerability, not a touch of weakness. What was she doing? she wondered, shaken to her core. She could not manage this man. Indeed, she doubted anyone could boast of ever having accomplished such a feat. Her mother might have tried, but clearly her disappearance indicated that she, too, had failed.

"I-I am sorry. I did not mean to pry. I saw your magnifier and could not resist a closer look," she explained, hating the slight tremble in her voice.

He stood still for a long time, his gaze boring into her, as though weighing the truth of her words. After what felt like an eternity, he stepped past her, his dark, wavy hair swaying gently against the sides of his face and the breadth of his shoulders as he moved. Rounding his desk, he shut the book she'd been looking at with a decisive snap, the sound making her jump. Relieved to no longer have his broad bulk hovering over her, she turned to face him, watching in silence as he carelessly discarded his cloak and jabot. Beneath, he wore his customary brown doublet over a snowy white shirt. The hint of skin showing in the vee at his throat only seemed to add to the air of potent masculinity that surrounded him.

Squaring her shoulders, Sophie raised the now wrinkled missive in her hand. "You wished to see me?"

He nodded briskly, wincing slightly as he took a seat behind his desk, a hand moving to support the left side of his stomach.

"Are you alright?" she asked automatically.

"I understand that you are acquainted with the Duc de Cassel," he stated, ignoring her enquiry.

A swell of revulsion rose within her as she followed suit, sinking into the rough wooden chair opposite him before pushing back the hood of her cloak. "Yes. I accompanied Madame de Montespan on the king's orders to convince him to attend the festivities at Versailles."

"There are rumours that he has an appetite for young, beautiful women," Marchal drawled, his eyes sweeping over her brazenly. Her cheeks heated at his insolence, aware that he wished to intimidate her. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction, Sophie resisted the urge to squirm in her seat. "I have seen the way he watches you and I would have you use that weakness to get closer to him, to gain his trust."

"Is he suspected of nefarious activities?" Sophie could well believe it. The duc did not seem like a man who was to be trusted.

"That is not your concern," he replied dismissively. "You are to do as I say without question."

Her heart sank. "Very well. What exactly would you have me do to obtain his favour, monsieur?"

Marchal gave her a look of contempt. "You are a woman, your mother's daughter. I am certain she has tutored you well in the art of seduction." His tone was even but there was an edge of bitterness just beneath the surface.

"Seduction?" she repeated faintly, momentarily forgetting his insult as his meaning became apparent. Surely he was not asking—?

"I told you when we struck our bargain that you would do whatever necessary to acquire the information I seek. I need to know what Cassel is planning and who he is planning it with. I need copies of any correspondence he sends or receives. How you go about attaining that intelligence is of no interest to me so long as you do it quickly," he said with a hard stare.

"But I did not think—" she started and then stopped, shivering despite the warmth of the chamber. Her heart was beating a mile a minute as she stared into the folds of her yellow silk gown. Seduce the Duc de Cassel? Her skin crawled at the very thought. There was something in the duc's eyes, a cruelty, which scared her even more than the incivility of the man seated before her. But how did she tell Monsieur Marchal that she'd thought there'd be more time? That she'd imagined gradually growing accustomed to the notion of engaging in an intimate relationship with a man? It was obvious that he was not the type to care for such sentimentality.

Fabien watched the play of emotions flit across Sophie's face as she sat quietly, lost in her own thoughts. She claimed to be an innocent, untouched by any man and loathe as he was to admit it, he was inclined to believe her. After all, she had no reason to lie. If she'd been willing to warm his bed then she must have known how easy it would have been for him to disprove her assertion had it been made falsely. He'd heard rumours that her mother had wanted her to become the king's new mistress. At the time he'd dismissed the whispers as idle gossip, but now he knew better. Ensuring Sophie remained chaste had all been in an effort to make the prize more alluring. Had she been successful in securing the king's affections, it would have been so much easier for her mother to destroy the monarchy from within.

How he hated Beatrice de Clermont. Not only because she was a traitor to the crown, but also because she'd made a fool of him. He'd succumbed to her feminine whiles, too blinded by lust to see through her treachery. Because of him, Lauren had lost her life. Instead of heeding her warnings against Madame de Clermont, he'd cautioned her against meddling in his affairs and allowed himself to be drawn in by a few false smiles and the promise of a willing body. He would not make the same mistake again.

Sophie was a beauty, he'd admit that. Her dark hair was swept up, the mass of intricate curls pinned atop her head with a single long, thick coil dangling loose across one shoulder. Her complexion was flawless, her heart-shaped face housing delicate brows that arched like graceful wings above her slanting, almond-shaped eyes. Her nose was small and pert, her lips pleasantly plump, the colour reminiscent of ripe peaches. Fabien made no attempt to hide his disdain as he catalogued her features. It was not hard to see why some imbecile would be tempted to bare his soul in exchange for her favour. The air of innocence surrounding her would be intoxicating to any man. But he was not susceptible. If Beatrice had reminded him of anything, it was that all women were fickle at heart, loyal only to themselves and to those who could aid their aspirations; they were not to be trusted. While he was certain Sophie had known nothing of her mother's plot against the king, that did not mean she was free of the inherent cunning and deceit that plagued her sex.

He grudgingly respected her courage to defy him, to remain at Versailles after he'd ordered her to leave. Fabien knew she had to be desperate if she'd summoned the nerve to offer herself to him in exchange for his protection. Though while he had no interest in sampling what he was certain many would call him a fool for passing on, he was not beyond using her to get what he wanted.

"Is there a problem?"

She seemed to have lost some of the confidence she'd displayed just a few hours before when she'd dared to call him a fool. He was certain others thought it, but thus far she'd been the only one brave enough to say it to his face. Well, Montcourt had dared too, but he was no longer alive to repeat it.

She bit her lip, her brow furrowing. "I am not the skilled seductress you seem to think I am."

He quirked a brow. "Then might I suggest you learn, and fast. You are here only because you are useful to me. If you've changed your mind, you are free to leave. Post-haste," he added deliberately. Her head whipped up at that, her eyes meeting his. He saw distress and unease reflected back at him, his irritation rising when he felt the stab to his conscience. He shoved it down. He did not possess such a thing, not anymore. In his line of work it was a weakness he could ill afford.

"No," she replied quietly. "I will do as you ask. But why the urgency? Does this have something to do with Princess Henriette?" She inched forward in her seat, clearly anxious.

"Do not concern yourself—"

"How can I not?" she burst forth. "I was attending to the princess when she took ill. At first I did not think much of it, but when you started questioning the servants and everyone else close to her, I began to wonder whether you might suspect foul play."

"And if I did?" he asked, watching her closely.

Her lips compressed into a hard line. "I would never hurt her."

"I did not say that you would."

"I was merely doing my duty, monsieur. As best I could."

"So you claim."

"But you still suspect me of wishing to cause her harm? Because I prepared the broth that made her unwell?"

"I did not say that either."

"Urgh!" she exclaimed, clearly disgruntled by his less than forthcoming responses. "Must you be so vexing?"

"I urge you to consider your tone, mademoiselle," he warned.

Chastised, she sat back. "At least tell me this: will she recover?" The note of hope in her voice was unmistakable.

"Focus on Cassel," Fabien deflected. "I want to know everything he says, even minute details you may think insignificant. I will decide what is useful and what is not, so do not bother to think, if indeed you are capable of such a feat." She stiffened at the insult and he felt some measure of satisfaction. "And work quickly. I want a report in twenty-four hours, perhaps sooner. Now leave." When she remained seated he arched a brow. "Were my instructions unclear?"

"What happened to my mother?" she demanded, looking him straight in the eye.

Not just courageous then, tenacious too. "Like I told you before, I am not here to answer you."

A flicker of annoyance passed over her features. "Why will you not tell me? Has she been banished to Paris? Sent to Pau? Or have you had her jailed?"

"You really have no idea, do you?" he asked, astonished by her naiveté.

"No idea of what?" she cried in frustration. "For months my mother has been behaving strangely, secretively. Whenever I asked her about it, she would tell me that all was well, but I knew better, so I poked and prodded until she eventually relented, confessing that we were not nobles, that she had been pretending for years." Her tone gentled. "Everything I thought I knew about my life is a lie, monsieur. I am like a feather in the wind, adrift and directionless. I know nothing of my past save a few scant details and before I could get my mother to tell me more she was gone and you know to where. I beg of you, tell me the truth, please."

Fabien observed her in silence for several moments before speaking. "Your mother was a traitor, plotting with others against the king."

"I already know this," she said, exasperated. "She was a Huguenot spy, funded and supported by William of Orange. You told me all this yourself."

"But do you have any notion of what she has done in the name of her cause?"

Sophie stilled. "No. I have not allowed myself to dwell on the particulars," she confessed.

"Then allow me to enlighten you. She killed," he stated bluntly, watching the blood drain from her face. "Lauren, one of my staff had her throat slit when your mother realised her treachery was close to being uncovered. She also," he paused, gritting his teeth, "endeavoured to poison me. However, as you can see, she failed in her attempt."

Sophie's eyes were rapidly filling with tears. Her mouth moved, but no words were forthcoming. Fabien watched her swallow repeatedly, most likely in an effort to wrestle her emotions into submission.

"Do you know what happens to traitors?" he asked softly.

She closed her eyes, her head bowing when a single tear escaped to slide down her cheek. "She is dead." It was not a question.

Unwittingly his eyes tracked the tear's journey, watching as it trickled down her neck towards her throat before eventually melting into the heat of her skin. Dragging his gaze back to her face, he uttered, "Yes."

Her eyes lifted once more, her dark stare riveted to his, the waves of emotion radiating from them pinning him to his chair. "Did you do it?" she choked.

He was surprised by the urge to look away, but he resisted. "No. But it was on the king's instruction and I was there. I arranged it."

"Did you love her?"

"Love?" he spat, the taste of the word foul against his tongue. "I did not. Your mother was a dangerous and duplicitous woman skilled at seduction and deception. At Versailles it seemed she managed to accomplish both. However, she did not get away with it. I do not yet know if you possess her talents, but you would do well to remember that you will meet a similar fate should you choose to betray me."

Sophie flinched. "What have I done to make you think so poorly of me?"

Fabien's lips curled contemptuously. Was she truly so naïve? "You are a woman. I have yet to meet one of whom I did not think poorly."

"Then I shall have to work to change your mind, monsieur. At least of me," she whispered, before standing.

"Do not waste your time. You are unlikely to exceed expectations that are already exceptionally low," he shot back.

She went rigid, her hands balling into tight fists. The sight should have made him feel triumphant. Instead, he felt small and petty, like a cat toying with a mouse when they both knew the outcome was inevitable. Guilt, an unfamiliar emotion to him, pushed through his seemingly impenetrable defences, succeeding only in strengthening his resolve as he pushed back against its unwelcome pangs.

"I am not my mother," Sophie declared, her back ramrod straight.

"If that were true you would not be here now," he contradicted, slowly rising to his full height.

"Are you certain your judgement can be trusted, Monsieur Marchal?"

His jaw tightened as his carefully controlled mask slipped an inch. He hated that she was the one to give voice to his deepest fear. "I experienced a lapse which I profoundly regret and which I can assure you will never happen again. Do not think that I am blind, mademoiselle, because I assure you, I see you clearly," he said, taking a step towards her. "You were so afraid of losing your position, your comfortable bed, your fine clothing, that you chose this, a life of secrets and lies, a life which includes whoring at my command, over that of a humble builder's wife."

His words were cruel and unjust; after all, she'd had little other choice but to accept him after her suitor rejected her. But in that moment Fabien did not care for semantics, he sought only to hurt, to punish. Perhaps she was not Beatrice, but in her absence, her daughter would do just as well.

"That is n-not fair," Sophie countered, a spark of anger filtering through her shaky words even as she took a step back. "I went to Benoit. I would have married him in a trice to save myself from this fate. I told you that he would not have me."

"Clever man."

His gaze fixed on her, Fabien slowly stalked around the table, following even as Sophie retreated from his advances. She ended up pressed to the back wall, her body straining against the brick, possibly hoping that if she pushed hard enough she'd melt into it. She does not seem so brave now.Then, as though she sensed his thoughts, she tilted her chin slightly in an annoying display of defiance. Her show of courage only incensed him further, his façade of indifference slipping another notch. She should be cowering, wilting, begging me to leave her be.

"I did not want this; I hate the very thought of it," she insisted fervently. "But you know as well as I do that I either chose to submit to you or took my chances on the street. With the little I know of such a life," she faltered, bristling at his attempts to unnerve her, but standing her ground nonetheless, "I knew that I would not last the night without being molested… or worse."

He was close to her now, his chest mere inches from her own. Leaning in, the scent of lavender assaulted his senses. "Perhaps you should have taken your chances outside of these walls."

"I wish I could have," she admitted, licking her lips nervously. "But I do not know a different way of life. Without my mother—"

At the mention of the woman who'd almost cost him everything, the last of Fabien's control snapped. "Your mother was nothing more than a commoner playing at being titled whilst using her body as a weapon to gain whatever she needed," he sneered. Deliberately seeking to intimidate her, he planted his hands on either side of her head, trapping her within the cage of his arms. He could see the pulse at the base of her throat fluttering wildly, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "Would she be proud of you, I wonder? If she knew what you have chosen for yourself, would she cheer, knowing you were following in the family business?" he taunted, watching as she silently shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears.

Again, he felt the unpleasant stirrings of guilt, his words growing colder in an attempt to wash the sentiment away. "How you do you think she managed to pay for this gown?" he asked, his gaze dipping slightly towards her satin frock. "For those pearls at your ears? Not with coin, I assure you." He leaned even closer. "Has she taught you well, mademoiselle? Will you succeed where she has failed? You shake your head, but I guarantee that in a week, a month, a year, you will be enjoying the very thing you now claim you hate. You will love it, crave it, seek it. Before long you will savour the power you wield, the thrill of bringing men to their knees with a quick fuck."

He saw it coming, had plenty of time to react, but he could not explain why he did nothing to stop it. The sound of her hand as it struck his cheek reverberated around the room, eclipsing the gasp of horror that followed swiftly thereafter. His flesh stung more than he'd expected, but he welcomed the pain, some part of him acknowledging that perhaps he deserved it.

Fabien looked down at her, so small, almost fragile as she stood transfixed, her hands clapped over her mouth in dismay. Her eyes were wide with shock and hurt, staring up at him in disbelief as though she could not comprehend her own daring. In the grate the fire crackled and hissed, it's roaring flames casting shadows around them that appeared to lick at the exposed skin of her neck and upper shoulders. Inadvertently his eyes traced their movement, watching flares of yellow and orange as they danced across her flesh.

Scowling, he forced his gaze back to hers, the ferocity in them causing her to recoil. "Oh yes, you are your mother. In time you will be exactly like her."

With a sob, Sophie shoved past him. Lifting her skirts, she fled up the steps to freedom like the devil was on her heels, the scent of lavender lingering in the air long after the sound of her rustling skirts had faded to nothing.

Alone, Fabien closed his eyes and took a deep breath, his hands moving to cover the aching wound to his belly. Fury swept through him, unfurling in his chest and spreading throughout his entire body before settling like burning coals in the pit of his stomach. But at whom his ire was directed – whether at Sophie for daring to defy him or at himself for losing control - he did not know, and that uncertainty troubled him. Once again he'd failed in his duty. He could excuse the first time; though it did not sit well with him, he was not the first man to be duped by a cunning woman and he would certainly not be the last. But how did he justify allowing a slip of a girl, a complete innocent, to get under his skin, ripping his hard earned discipline to shreds? He had no answer. All he knew was that he could not let it happen again.

Pushing Sophie de Clermont from his mind, he ignored his throbbing belly and turned towards his desk. He had more important matters to attend to.