My thanks to Baroness Orczy for creating such wonderful characters, and a really big thank you to Sarah and Zeb for all their encouragement... For those of you who have already read this story, the update is just a few minor design adjustments - I'm taking heed of my feedback!

HAD it really been just two short days since she had lain bruised and bound on a windswept cliff outside Calais? Marguerite stared out of her bedroom window at a sight so different, she almost felt her memories were nothing more than an evil nightmare haunting her. But the pain in her feet told her it was true - with a sigh she sank down on to the window seat to rest her poor, aching limbs.

The wounds on her feet were healing now, but still she felt a deep sense of melancholy wash over her. Her bodily aches and pains were nothing to the gnawing anguish of heartache that she was experiencing. She and Percy had lost so much time together than every minute, every hour apart seemed like a lifetime.

The rich, golden glow of the autumn scene before her failed to elevate her spirits as it had done in the past. She had always loved the change of the seasons, especially here in her elegant Richmond home where the beautiful gardens seemed designed to show Mother Nature at her most magnificent. But the wonder of nature could not tear her thoughts away from one man - wherever he may be.

Since her return to Richmond Marguerite had been on tenterhooks waiting for his return. Their blissful reunion on the clifftop had given them such a brief spell of happiness, and they had so many months of misery to make up for. Once Sir Andrew had arrived they had had no more time alone, the Day Dream had been full with her crew and those Percy had risked his life to bring safely to England. When they landed she had hoped their time together would begin, but Percy had instead set out for London, leaving her to come back to Blakeney Manor alone.

His duty had called him to the capital. He could not abandon those he had rescued - among them her own brother - without making efforts to secure their futures. While in her mind she honoured Percy for this devotion to suffering humanity, at the same time her heart yearned for him to be by her side. She had not had time to really take in all that his heroic other-self meant.

Marguerite knew her husband was a keen sportsman and thrilled at the risks he and his band of followers took when, taking their lives in their hands, they went over to Revolutionary France to whisk others to safety. She had heard enough of the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel and his League in the months before she had discovered his true identity to be clear about that. She would never understand it - but she knew it was so.

Her womanly instinct also told her that Percy had another reason, that his compassion for others meant he would never rest if he could help another human being. She only hoped that his compassion would also extend to her. That he would be able to forgive her for what she had done.

But as the time apart had dragged by, and the hours turned to days, Marguerite had been increasingly tortured by fears that he regretted what had happened on that lonely stretch of coast. That he had deliberately prolonged his time in London. That perhaps he wanted their lives to continue on separate lines as they had before. She didn't think she could bear the idea of living so closely with the man she adored while being kept at such a distance.

Her wandering thoughts were recalled by the thunder of hoofbeats on the sweep of the driveway. She could hear the crunch of footsteps on the gravel and the deep, muffled tones of mens' voices coming from the front of the house. Her heart gave a leap - could it be that Percy had finally returned home?

She strained to hear any sounds that would give her a clue as to who had arrived - but after the excitement and bustle of arrival all noises seemed to have died down. Once again she was alone with just the soft, gentle rustling of autumn leaves outside her window as the fading verdure gave way to the long sleep of winter.

PERCY skirted around the house and made his way slowly towards the river. Having left his horse, Sultan, in the capable hands of his groom he was free to wander where he chose, but his attention was not held by the beauty all around him. His thoughts were in the house, in whichever room she was at this moment.

His journey across the wide expanse of lawn was silent, his steps hushed by the soft grass beneath his feet. He kept to the shadows, not wanting to be seen from the house, unwilling to be called away from his dreams. Stopping at a grey, stone bench under one of the great, towering oak trees he wondered how she was after her ordeal.

Now that the latest trip was completed and all the loose ends tied up he had the time to devote to his deepest, most personal thoughts. Armand, de Tournay and the others were safely on British soil. The League had done their work well, as usual, and provided food, shelter and succour to those desperate fugitives brought back from France.

He managed to raise a half-smile when he recalled how eager Ffoulkes had been to escort the Comte to his family's new home. He sighed. How simple it had seemed - to fall in love and marry. He hoped his friend would not experience any obstacles in his path to matrimony.

He had always loved her, but now something had changed. His love had been a form of worship for a distant goddess. She had always held him at a distance and he had grown used to that space between them. What would happen now?

The strength she had shown in going over to France, following that dilapidated old cart on foot for hour after weary hour, told its own tale. She was not a distant goddess, but a real, very human, woman. Percy felt unsure of his ground. A woman who could carry out such an act was worthy of the highest devotion - but would someone so strong, so independent need that love? His love.

He knew things would be different between them now. He remembered her words before he had left for France: that her life would be at his service if he could safeguard her brother's life. Perhaps she saw it as a fair exchange, to barter her affection for her brother's safety?

Percy closed his eyes. He could visualise the way she looked when last he saw her in these gardens. Wearing her beautiful, shimmering ball gown, her voice low and tender, as, with tears in her eyes, she asked him to accept her gratitude.

Now, as leaves of russet, gold and chestnut fell from the trees all he could hear was the rustle of her skirts as she mounted the terrace steps, her gown brushing against each step.

He forced himself to come back to the present day, and looked back at the manor. The sun was getting lower in the sky and touched the windows with fire, making it impossible to see if anyone was looking out. Turning, he made his way back to the house, to his private study.

MARGUERITE was determined not to end up with another estrangement, but she was afraid of having her love spurned, frightened he would no longer be able to trust her, after her betrayal. She waited and wondered if he would come to her.

As the minutes crept slowly by she resolved to go to him, to humble herself, and if necessary, to beg for his forgiveness.

In the study Percy stood looking out of the window. Here, in his own private sanctuary he was usually at ease, but now, although his magnificent figure would appear relaxed, even nonchalant, to a bystander, there was something in his face which spoke of waiting and restlessness.

He looked out at the glories of an English autumn, but he did not see the silvery glints in the river as the setting sun sent sparks across its surface, or the trees clad in their bright, vivid leaves. What leapt into his mind was the vibrant colour of her hair, and its softness, as he recalled how it felt spilling across his hand as he carried her to safety, just a few short days ago.

He was brought back to reality by a sound across the room. It was the click of the latch. Frank, his confidential valet, was the only other person allowed in this room.

"I don't...", he began. But the words died on his lips as he half-turned to see his wife glide into the study and shut the door.

She stood with both hands behind her, still on the doorknob, as though to draw strength from the heavy oak door. He was stunned by her beauty - it so far surpassed his earlier mental visions of this passionate, vibrant woman.

She looked across the room at him and once again marvelled that she had ever thought him a fool. How she yearned for his touch, one word, a sign from him that all was well between them. The sunlight touched his hair as he stood motionless by the window, burnishing it with a golden halo. His whole attitude seemed one of strength and serenity.

Perhaps he did not need her as she yearned for him. He had been alone for so long, his parents had died when he was still so young. He had been forced to take responsibility for the vast Blakeney estates with all their miriad dependants. So many lives and livelihoods were in his keeping.

And as the leader of a gallant band of English gentlemen, he stood alone at the head and made difficult decisions in an effort to save innocent lives from the bloodshed across the Channel.

Maybe he would always keep her at such a distance. Mayhap in Calais he had just been tired, surprised - the thoughts raced through her mind. Whatever the outcome she had to know. With characteristic impulsiveness, she stepped toward him.

In the thrill of seeing him again she had forgotten her injuries, but that one step brought the pain shooting back, sending sharp, stabbing sensations through her feet.

Seeing her face contort in anguish Percy was at her side with swift strides, quickly moving her into the large, comfortable chair behind his desk.

"What is it, my darling?" he asked, his voice radiating concern.

And she almost passed out - not through the pain - but in the very joy of hearing those words, spoken in a tone of such tenderness, from his lips.

Marguerite felt as though her heart would burst with pride and love for him. Even if he did not love her as passionately as she adored him, his compassion could not be held back for a fellow-creature in need of aid.

For the first time since her momentous discovery his personality seemed truly revealed to her. All of those qualities she had admired in the unknown hero were laid bare to her loving heart in this man kneeling at her side: her husband. She was determined to win back his trust, and gain his love, if it took her a lifetime. She only hoped she could be worthy of such a man.

SO MUCH had happened between these two, so many fraught emotions, so many things unsaid. There was an almost visible tension in the room as they each sought to put their feelings into words.

Marguerite tentatively stretched out a hand and touched his hair: "Percy?" she whispered, struggling to overcome the urge to launch herself into his arms. But before she could explain her actions, her thoughts, her feelings, he had swept her into a crushing embrace, lifting her clear of the chair. His lips met hers in an intense, passionate kiss.

He scattered tiny, delicate kisses across her brow and murmured incoherently into her hair. Marguerite returned his ardour with a burning passion of her own. As he gently lowered her feet to the ground she felt suddenly shy of him, and burying her face against the cool cloth of his beautifully-tailored coat she avoided his gaze.

"My darling. Look at me." She raised her head and met his eyes. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"It is I who should ask for forgiveness - je suis désolé. How can you even bear to look at me?"

"I will never tire of looking upon your dear face. It haunts my dreams. You are a part of me now, entwined around my heart."

"But I betrayed you. You could have died. Oh, my darling, when I think of what could have happened..."

A reminiscent shudder ran through her. He gathered her into his arms and sank down into the chair, drawing her even nearer. She nestled closer and ran her hands across his chest and shoulders, as though to reassure herself he was really here, and this was not some elusive dream from which she would awake, bereft.

"You were trying to save Armand. I know how much you love him, you could not have let him die."

"No", she paused. "I felt then as though he were the only person I had ever truly loved."

"And now?" He bent his head to look into her eyes.

As her gaze met his, she broke into a half-shy smile as she whispered: "Now... I feel like the luckiest woman alive. Oh Percy, my darling, I love you so!" They embraced one another tenderly.

She broke away from him and stood, leaning against the heavy desk and he rose to stand before her. As she looked up at him her vision blurred and a single tear welled up and slowly trickled down her cheek. Overwhelmed with emotion, she could not help herself.

"Ne pleure pas, mon coeur", said Percy softly, gently stopping the tear in its tracks with his fingertips.

And here was yet another shock - no trace of a thick British accent, he spoke pure, perfect French - the language of her heart. Wonderingly she looked at him and asked: "Who is the real Percy Blakeney?"

He looked her full in the face, those blue eyes, usually half-veiled, with their habitually bored expression, shot a look of such intensity deep into her eyes that she was glad of the solidity of the desk behind her.

But that look reawakened the latent passion in her and she reached for him. As they clung together she could feel his strong, slender hands splayed across her back, and she felt as though his touch would leave an indelible brand on her soul forever.

Percy swept her back into his arms and carried her through the interconnecting doors through his dressing room, and finally, to his bedroom.

LATER he indulged in the luxury of time and, propped up against a bank of pillows with the bedclothes pooling around him, he looked his fill at his wife. She slept, unconscious of his gaze, her ardent hair spread around her like a mantle. It almost looked alive as the deep red was touched to gold in places by the flickering of the candle light around the room.

In the end the temptation was too much and he reached out to touch it, and his soft feather-light stroke woke her. Blinking, Marguerite vaguely wondered where she was for the space of a few seconds. But in a flash the memory of the past few hours came back to her.

Suddenly shy, she gathered a sheet close to her as she sat up to face him. All the things she had been planning to say seemed trivial - words were unnecessary between them now.

Her deep blue eyes seemed so dark they were almost the colour of wood violets as she fixed her gaze on him. Her eyes followed the movement of his fingers as they played with the edge of the embroidered cover. Whatever happened she would never forget those hands. Strong and slender and forever outstretched to those in need. A delicious shiver went through her at the remembrance of the touch of them against her skin.

Slowly her eyes traced along the curve of his arm and took in the strength of his powerful shoulders, before her eyes met his.

Those lazy, laughing eyes, which could hide his personality so well from the world, were now alight with humour. He leaned forward and kissed her.

"Good evening, m'dear."

Her shyness forgotten, she smiled back at him: "Welcome home, Percy."