Beginnings and Memories

A long time ago, as a teenager, I read a series of four books by a woman called Jeanne Montague, called "The Loves of Carola Mountjoy." They were aimed at teens (and were, by today's standards, mildly problematic to say the least) but whilst I have reservations about the books, I absolutely loved the concept. The story went like this: a beautiful young English aristocrat by the name of Lady Carola Mountjoy is visiting her family in France when the French revolution begins, and her house is taken by an (obviously) very good looking French revolutionary officer. She decides to dress in boys clothing to become a sort of Scarlet Pimpernel character to rescue her friends and family and throughout the first three books, she fights the handsome and possibly aristocratic Captain Raoul Duchamp. At the end of the second book, Raoul is shot in battle, only then to reappear in London six months later using the name Chevalier Raoul D'Eyncourt, posing as an aristocrat and clearly up to no good. Over time, I've amused myself by writing scenes using these characters because I always liked them and thought that they were fun. This is one vignette, and if anyone likes it I guess I can add a few more.

"Caro!"

Lord Ramley turned to her and rose, taking her arm and drawing her to the table. "Caro, you must join us."

But her eyes were on the dark, elegant beau sitting back on the other side. She could feel the blood draining from her face, her entire body trembling. If Ramley hadn't been holding her up she would have collapsed. As the tall figure rose from his seat and gracefully bowed, she devoured his face with her eyes, trying to take in every detail. It was him. She knew it was him. But he was dead. She had seen him die!

"Caro, my dear, this is the Chevalier d'Eyncourt. He's a refugee from those riff-raff over the Channel. Chevalier, this is my niece Carola. Lady Carola Mountjoy."

As if in a trance, she curtseyed and automatically held out her hand. He bent his dark head and she felt those firm, warm lips gently brush the backs of her fingers. An electric thrill coursed through her. He had kissed her hand before, the first time they had met - and it had burnt like fire, just as it did now.

She had felt those finely carved, sensual lips on hers, that last time in France, just before – She lifted her eyes to his and for a long moment, the noise of the ballroom faded away to silence. She looked into the depths of that cool, narrow gaze, and, with a thrill that coursed up her spine, saw the icy silver darkening to stormy grey, deep and dangerous.

"M'sieur." She murmured. "Welcome to England."

She seated herself and gratefully took the glass of champagne that Anthony passed her. She drank hungrily and from under her lashes, examined the man sitting across from her. It was him; she knew it was him. She didn't have to note the tiny scar at the corner of his eyebrow to know, she could feel his presence and touch as strongly as if he had physically reached out to her. It was just that - he was so different. The Raoul she remembered had been aloof, his cool, mocking smile disguising the intense passion that pulsed beneath like an underground torrent. He had dressed in black, where this man was a dandy, fashionably attired in colorful silks, his thick black hair cut into a Brutus style, charming her uncle with amusing anecdotes and expressing sadness with a truly Gallic shrug at the death of the queen. For a second she wondered if perhaps Raoul had had a brother but as he glanced at her, she rejected the notion as impossible.

She trusted her instincts. What was he doing in England? Was he there to work, somehow, to spy? Had he abandoned the revolution? Or perhaps, and the thought sent the blood flushing to her cheeks, what if he had come seeking her? He had asked her to wait for him. What if her wait was over? She put down her champagne glass, and the Chevalier courteously leant over to refill it. She thanked him and lifted it to her lips, praying that nobody had noticed how her hand shook. She had to make it through the evening, somehow. If she could only excuse herself, she could avoid him for the rest of the night. Only then she realized that he was speaking to her.

"Lady Carola."

"Y-yes."

"May I request the pleasure of a dance?" He was perfectly grave, but his eyes were mocking her.

She nodded and rose to her feet, following him blindly as he took her hand and led her into the throng of dancers preparing for the next waltz.

He took her in his arms, the closeness of his body almost too much, bewildering her. Everything about him was so familiar, yet as though from a dream. Perhaps it was the champagne that made her feel so lightheaded, so pleasurably reckless. She had wondered, in France, what it could have been like had she met him at a ball, danced with him, felt his hand on hers, her eyes on his. Spoken to him - been wooed by him. She felt the flush rise to her cheek and looked down, hating this crazy effect that he had on her.

"You are very quiet, Lady Carola." His lips were close to her ear, his deep murmur stirring the curls and sending shivers down her spine. "What are you thinking about?"

"You." She replied, boldly lifting her head to look up into his eyes. He smiled down at her, lifting her and swinging her round as though she were made of thistledown. She felt an unwilling pleasure at the hard muscular strength of his large body. She was unusually tall for a girl, and yet she barely reached his shoulder. It was rare to feel so small in comparison, so fragile. As he drew her closer, she realized how hard her heart was pounding, too aware of the familiar clean, heady scent of his skin.

"I'm flattered." He murmured gently. "In what respect?"

"You remind me of someone I… I used to know."

"A friend of yours?"

"I don't know."

Those familiar grey eyes teased her "Did you like him?"

She smiled unwillingly "I don't know."

"What happened to him?"

"He died." Her voice was muted.

"I'm sorry. That must have been very upsetting for you." His tone was grave and she felt a sudden flash of anger. How dared he?

"Not particularly." She lied, brightly. He looked down at her, his mouth twisting, his eyes gleaming. "Then you cannot have liked him that much."

"I never said that I did."

They danced in silence for a moment, then she asked coldly "You are enjoying the ball, Chevalier?"

"Yes, of course. Lady Julia is a charming host." His tone was bland, and she looked at him wonderingly. Perhaps she was wrong, and yet she knew she was not. Everything about him called to her, yet he was different. She couldn't help herself, the words slipped out.

"Why are you here?"

He shrugged innocently. "To dance. To be introduced into society?"

"I meant, why are you here in England?"

"Just another refugee from the horrors of the revolution, Milady." He bowed his head ironically.

"I don't believe you." She hissed. He smiled down at her mockingly. "But what other explanation could there be?"

The music came to a stop but they remained pressed together in the thick of the crowd.

"Perhaps we will see each other again soon. I must thank you for the dance, Milady, you dance delightfully."

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. The jolt coursed through her like lightening. His grasp tightened and she knew that he had seen her response, her shocked eyes held captive by his for a long moment until he bowed, turned and walked away, leaving her more bewildered than she had ever been in her life.

"Caro."

She turned her head, her fingers anxiously gripping the reticule that sat in her lap, turning it convulsively. After their dance she had returned to the table, seating herself and attempting to regain her composure. Anthony seated himself next to her, his blue eyes solemn. "Do you want to return home?"

"No." She shook her head vehemently. "I'm fine."

She wasn't fine. She had to speak to him. She had to see him alone. She had to be sure.

"Would you like to dance?"

"No." She realized she had been brusque and summoned a smile, although it quivered on her lips. "I'm sorry, Anthony." Her eyes searched for him in the crowd and she stiffened as she saw him go out onto the terrace. "I think I just need to get some air."

"I'll come with you."

"No!" She checked herself "I mean, no, it's all right. I would just like to – compose myself a moment."

"If you're sure." His eyes were regarding her speculatively now, but she rose and, trying to remain unhurried, passed through the crowd to the long white doors, unobtrusively slipping out onto the square paved terrace. The night air was cool, and it seemed very quiet out there, the darkness and silence in marked contrast to the noise and brilliance within, almost as if she had passed from a dream into cold reality.

She looked around and saw a tall shape looking out across the garden, his form outlined in the moonlight.

"Raoul."

He automatically turned his head, then stiffened as he saw her. "Lady Carola."

She took a deep breath. "Raoul Duchamp."

"D'Eyncourt." He corrected her, leaning back against the pillar. "But I am almost flattered that you recalled the first part."

"No." She shook her head. "I know that it's you. Your name is Raoul Duchamp."

He looked down at her, a mocking smile touching those firm lips.

"I must beg to differ, My Lady, but you are mistaken. Captain Raoul Duchamp is dead."

"Why are you pretending?" She stamped her foot in frustration. "Didn't you think I would recognize you? That I would have forgotten so easily?"

His dark eyebrows rose, his teeth showing very white in the moonlight as he smiled.. "You seem very sure."

She glared up at him. "I am."

"But if I am who you think I am? What would you do then?" He raised a mocking eyebrow, his mouth twisting ironically.

"Surely I would be in England under false pretenses, a rebel soldier masquerading as an aristocrat."

"Yes." She had turned very pale, "But you are an aristocrat, aren't you?"

"I don't seem to have convinced you."

She lifted her chin challengingly. "Then convince me. Prove to me that you are not Duchamp."

"And how do you suggest that I do that?"

She took a deep breath, knotting her fingers together, trying to quell the inner trembling that was churning her stomach. What she was about to do was reckless, she knew that, but she knew that she only be certain, certain, this way. "K-kiss me."

At that she saw a spark flare in his eyes, and he moved almost imperceptibly closer. "And how will that convince you?"

"It - just will."

"Did Duchamp kiss you so memorably, then?" He was mocking her now. "I did not know that that was his reputation."

Caro swallowed painfully, aware that the trembling had spread to her hands, a strange heat coursing up her spine.

"What was his reputation?"

"Oh, la." He shrugged. "A brute, I'm sure. Ruthless. But no libertine that I ever heard."

"He kissed me – once."

"He was a lucky man, then." His voice had lowered, become husky.

"Then you would not object?"

He hesitated, but she raised her chin and glared defiantly at him, deliberately closing her eyes.

Delicately, he reached out and cupped her chin in his long fingers, angling her mouth up to him. In that moment, she became aware the music inside had stopped. He looked swiftly to his left and with a suddenness that astonished her, he disappeared around the corner of the house into the shadows. At that very second, Claire stepped out onto the terrace, sighting her with surprise. "Caro, what on earth are you doing out here?"

"Just taking some air." She hoped that she didn't look as dazed as she felt. She walked over to her friend and sat down by her, thankfully sipping the drink handed to her by Anthony. All of a sudden the terrace that had been so silent and intimate seemed full of life and chatter, lanterns brought out as the servants laid small tables with plates and glasses. Anthony watched her narrowly. He had watched her follow Duchamp out onto the terrace; had restrained himself from intervening only with great effort. Turning, he saw Duchamp walk casually out onto the terrace from the ballroom, conversing amiably with Lord Ramley.

But, thought Anthony, there was nothing casual about the way those cool grey eyes searched for Caro, lingered on her with that curious, focused intensity.

Anthony felt his heart sink. He had suspected something between them that last time in France, astute enough to note Caro's defensiveness and read it correctly, as he was able to shrewdly interpret the way Duchamp had looked at her, taken pains to engage her only when there was the least chance of interruption. His memory uneasily flitted back to those last desperate days when he had interrupted them in that barn, walking in to find them lost in each other's arms. Caro had been crushed in his embrace, her arms wound around his neck, her body pressed against him as they ardently kissed. His eyebrows rose at the memory, his mouth tightening. There had been little doubt that he had arrived just in time. At first he had thought in horror that Duchamp was forcing himself on Caro, but at second glance there could be no mistaking her response. There had been no question of coercion. They had been so engrossed in one another that they had only broken apart when he had said her name. And then at the beach, when all had seemed lost, he had seen Duchamp grimly dragging Caro from the sea, had seen her passionate agony when he was shot. She had screamed for him in her sleep every night for a week on their return, had refused to admit or remember the fact, and she had never, never mentioned him. On the rare occasion that Anthony had even casually brought him to her memory, the stricken look in her eyes had made him refrain from pressing her. But now Duchamp was back and he had an uncomfortable feeling that their relationship was darker and deeper than he had suspected.

The room was warm and dark but for the glow of the fire but Caro lay in bed, unable to sleep for the continuous swirl of thoughts that tormented her, her eyes staring unseeing at the embroidered bed canopy. For the first time she allowed herself to remember that last night in France, recalling every detail she had suppressed, the rain beating down on them, the waves swelling against them as he had held his arms out to her. "Come! There's no time to be lost!"

She had fought him, clinging to her last remaining shreds of sanity.

"No! You'll arrest me! Guillotine me!"

"It would have been easier to let you drown!" He had answered grimly and waiting no longer, dragged her up into his hold. She had fought him, resisting, but his arms were like steel. "Stop it, you little fool! Do you want to die?" She had taken a breath to argue but he had added almost desperately "Carola, just trust me, for God's sake!" At that she had given up any struggle, allowing him to lift her up into his arms and resting her head into his neck. She was almost fainting, only aware that a touch was about her like she had never known, his arms like steel about her, infinitely tender, holding her as if by right. She was safe, now. He would not let her come to harm. He had held her tightly, fighting the waves for her, using his whole body to batter his way through the surf until finally he was wading through shallow water. Gently, he deposited her on the sand, holding her hands to keep her up. She staggered and almost fell, but he tightened his grasp and pulled her up, one hand steadying her waist. "Go! Your friends are waiting! My men are in retreat. I can't stop you!"

"You saved my life! Why?" She stared up at him, swaying as he gave her a little push.

"Need you ask that? You know the answer." His deep voice was a caress. Her gaze lifted to his, and for that one moment they read the truth in each other's eyes, that unbreakable bond of deep attraction, of intimate understanding.

"Come with me," she begged, knowing in her heart that he would refuse, but unwilling to leave him without even asking. He shook his head, a small smile touching his lips. "I can't."

Carefully he brushed her limp, soaking hair back from her face, cupping her cheekbone with one long hand. "Wait for me?"

Nodding almost roughly, her hand lifted to cover his, then impulsively she turned her cheek into his fingers, pressing an anguished kiss to his palm. He cupped her jaw, lowering his head as he drew her towards him. His lips met hers and she trembled, suddenly terrified at the strength of feeling that swept through her. She felt his arm curl about her waist and leaned into him, but he stiffened, looking over her head. She turned and the only thing she saw was the barrel pointed at them, the figure leaning in to aim through the rain, through the dusk. "Caro, come on!"

"No! Don't shoot!" Her shriek hung in the air, echoing in her own ears but she was too late. The shot thundered in her ears and even as she ran forward to somehow stop them, strong arms threw her aside, knocking her onto the soaking sand as with wide, stricken eyes she saw him thrown backwards, clutching his chest. She crawled towards him, ripping her sodden jacket from her shoulders and frantically pressing it to the wound in his chest, using her whole body weight to try and stem the bleeding, horrified by the amount of blood flowering out.

"No! Oh, no, no!" His eyes flickered open and suddenly he reached up, grasping her wrist and dragging her forward against him so that she fell onto him, turning his head so that his lips touched her ear. "My sword - take it." With a huge effort of will, his eyes fluttered open and he smiled, his long lashes matted with the rain, so close, soft now, all barriers down, no longer cold and mocking.

"Don't. Don't let anyone use it. Only for you." He reached forward painfully, pressing his lips to her mouth.

"Don't - don't weep." She hadn't realized until then that she was sobbing hysterically, the rain mixing with the tears that streamed down her cheeks, scarcely aware of the anguished words that fell from her lips, the words bypassing her head and coming straight from her soul.

"You can't leave me! You can't!"

"Cherie," he sighed "Caro, go. Go. Save yourself."

Tenderly stroking his hair back from his face, she passionately kissed his forehead, his salty wet eyelids, his mouth, the tears blinding her, choking her.

Desperately she unbuckled his belt, freeing his sword, but as it came free, she felt hands on her shoulders, felt herself being pulled away, "You've killed him! You've killed him!" She repeated, hysterical and the next thing he knew, Anthony was at her back, holding her shoulders as she swayed against him and tugged her away as she screamed his name, over and over. Sitting up, she put her head to her hands, rubbing her forehead as if to obliterate the memory of those terrible days. The worse ones that followed. And it had been for nothing. Anger flared through her. How dared he let her grieve so? How dared he not send word to her that he was alive? But even as the thoughts flashed through her head she smiled in acknowledgment of their ridiculousness. He was her enemy after all. He had saved her life, yes, but he had been the one trying to kill her. And anyway, his death – his injury, she corrected herself had been her fault. Her stomach lurched at the thought, the same that had tormented her these many months, the one she had refused to let herself think about. He probably blamed her. Perhaps he had come to London to revenge himself. But he had kissed her, she reminded herself. He held you in his arms and when you looked into his eyes… She got up, and pulling on a robe, lit the candles, pacing to and fro worriedly. Why was he here? What in hell's name was she going to do?

Chevalier Raoul Louis Donatien Benicio D'Eyncourt, erstwhile Captain Raoul Duchamp, lay back in his chair, lazily watching the smoke from his cigarette curl and waft in the air. Stretching out his long legs to the heat of the fire, he tried to dispel the tension that still strummed through him. He had returned home from the ball but had yet not changed his clothes, needing to try and recover at least a measure of self-possession after seeing her again. Lady Carola Mountjoy. His enemy, his torment! The woman he could have loved - had life dealt the cards differently. Caro. The Cat. Lady Carola Mountjoy, daughter of a French aristocrat. From the moment he had met her, his whole universe had shifted on its axis. When he had looked into her stormy, furious green eyes, emotions that he had thought long dead had smoldered and flared to life. It had been an electric shock of passionate attraction, of instant recognition of something he didn't understand. It was as if something linked them, something stronger than just physical lust. He half smiled in recollection. Of course he had wanted her, though. She had stood there, rebellious as the devil himself, the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Hands on her hips, she had screamed at him in pure defiance, blazing with rage, and all he had felt was a rush of desire and delight stronger than he had ever known. Then as he had met her on subsequent occasions, his fascination with her only deepened, the contrast between the cool, haughty aristocrat and the passionate, reckless woman he sensed underneath irresistibly alluring. Then, the shock of that wet night less than a few weeks later when they had fought that final time. The discovery that it was she who was his hated enemy, that thorn in his flesh, The Cat. And he had held his sword, allowing her to escape, risking everything he stood for. He had even kept his silence. Why? He had not wanted to betray her, as foolish as it sounded, her identity a secret that they shared, binding them together. He had known then that he would probably never see her again, but part of him had hoped, had prayed, in the secret recesses of his mind that one day she would return to him. And when she had, all the feelings had come rushing back, multiplied tenfold. Again she had fought him, lied to him, defied him and then, that crazy, hopeless night, the rain drumming on the roof of that lonely barn, she had clung to him and kissed him back so passionately as he held her in his arms, her lips captive and molten under his, her warm body tight against his in willing surrender. God, the way she had responded to him then. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortably aware of his physical response to the memory. He had never been able, would never be able to forget that passion, that all-consuming desire he had felt, had sensed reciprocated in her. Kissing her had been like nothing he had ever felt before. He had been on the verge of taking her there and then, damn the danger, damn honor, and then – then reality had crashed in on him, leading them all into that last battle. And when the fight had been lost, all hope gone, he had seen her go over the cliff, seen her drowning and had climbed down, heedless of anything other than the urgent need to save her. She had clung to him as though she would never let go, her face nestled in his neck as he fought the icy waters and then, then… he shook his head impatiently.

He had known then, known with complete clarity that he was going to die, and gloried in the knowledge that he would at least die in her arms, her tears on his cheek, her mouth on his. Only he had not died. Over the long agonizing months of recovery he had wondered if she thought of him, wondered if she had married, if she thought him dead. He had dreamt of her every night, awoke reaching for her. And when he had seen her again tonight, he had felt the breath stop in his chest as brutally as though he had been shot again. She had looked so innocent and beautiful, the perfect little aristocratic debutante. She had been very pale, her green eyes huge as she looked up to him. When he had danced with her, he had felt her fingers quiver and tremble under his touch, her skin flush with heat as he drew her close. Her scent had surrounded him, drugging him, his heart beating so hard in his chest he had barely been able to breathe, to keep up the façade of his indifference. It had been a relief to clear his head and step outside, the cold air dispelling the fumes from the heat and the champagne.

He had felt almost himself, and then he had heard his name. She was there, a vision in silver, a fragile moonlight nymph, ethereal and irresistible. But it had been no supernatural creature that had been so warm, so close to him, demanding what? A kiss. His mouth quirked in wry reminiscence. It had only been the music ceasing that had recollected him to his surroundings. It had been phenomenally stupid. The last thing he needed was an outraged Lord Ramley demanding his blood. He pulled out the card Lord Ramley had pressed upon him, jovially insisting that he should call the day after. He would see her then, perhaps. Why not now, though? He could see her now. Couldn't he?

He didn't have to speak to her. He could just walk by their house and see if she was sleeping.

He sat in the chair, looking into the fire and made up his mind. Swiftly he changed into plain black breeches and a white shirt, winding a black stock around his throat. As he pulled on a black jacket, he felt the tension ease from him; dressed in his familiar clothes, he felt like himself again. Impatiently ruffling his hair with its new fashionable haircut through his fingers, he ran his hand over his jaw, looking in the mirror. The stubble was starting to show, his eyes dark and shadowed. Quietly he slipped out of the apartment, and strode swiftly through the streets, keeping to the shadows, his feet fleet and silent.

Pausing for only a moment, he pulled out the card he had slipped into his pocket and looked at the address. Yes, this was the street, the house imposing and silent in the night. The candles were still lit in the upstairs rooms, the long windows curtained and quiet. Slowly, he walked around the back, examining the wall with a practiced eye before agilely climbing up onto it. Like a cat, he sat on the top looking down at the garden, before jumping down silently. Without haste, he strolled up to the house, a tall, dark shadow in the night, looking up at the facade.

It was a modern house in the fashionable Palladian style, white and sleek in the moonlight. This was where she lived, where she ate, dressed, slept. A flight of shallow steps led down to the ground floor, the rear circled by a verandah which acted as a balcony for the second floor. The floor above was adorned with smaller balconies, the windows long and framed with attractive stucco work.

As he looked up, he froze as she emerged onto one of the balconies and looked out across the garden. He was so close he heard her sigh in the silence of the night, and she stepped forward, resting her hands on the stonework before turning and returning in. On impulse he climbed deftly, shadow like, up onto the first story, then pulled himself up onto the second, onto her balcony, keeping well against the wall. In the darkness, he looked in through her window. The curtains were open, a single branch of candles burning on the bedside table. She was wearing a white cotton peignoir trimmed with lace, her feet bare, her hair loose. Restlessly, she paced back and forth, twisting her fingers in her hands, then sat on the bed, winding a lock of hair about her finger. Again she sighed, and his heart contracted. She looked so desperately unhappy, lost in her own thoughts.

He had only intended to catch a glimpse of her, to assuage his longing for a moment or so, but he couldn't resist but to tap softly on the window pane. She did not react, so he did it again and immediately her head shot up, her eyes intent and wary as they looked towards the window. Tentatively she stood and walked to the window, pulling it slightly ajar.

"Hello?" Her voice was breathy and apprehensive. "Is anyone there?"

She took a few more steps forward, pulling her robe tightly around her. Warily she emerged onto the balcony, looking around and he stepped back so that he was leaning against the stonework. "Carola."

She gasped, her hand flying instinctively to her throat, but he instantly stepped forward to pull her close into the shadow, one hand gently on her hip, his fingers against her lips.

"Shhhh. Don't. Don't scream."

She slowly shook her head, her eyes huge in the moonlight. He dropped his hand, holding her hips gently, so close that he could feel her trembling, her breasts heaving with agitation.

"What - what are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

"You can't!" she denied fiercely, looking around frantically. "You can't be here. Go away!"

He could smell the scent of her hair, her warmth of her skin, her closeness bewildering him. Instinctively his hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer. "You want me to?"

She hesitated, her eyes dropping and his lips quirked in triumph "You're afraid?"

Her narrowed gaze flew back to his face, wary and angered. "I'm not afraid of you!" she fiercely informed him. "I'm afraid we'll be seen!"

"Then let me come in."

Again she hesitated, and with a tiny moue of frustration, clenched her fingers and, turning on her heel, yanked away from him, pushing angrily through the windows.

He followed her, and she went to the doors, quickly closing them and drawing the thick curtains. "How did you get in? What if somebody saw you?"

"Through the garden. They didn't."

He was wandering restlessly around the room, looking around, picking up her ornaments, looking at the paintings.

It was a beautiful, very feminine room in the rococo style, the walls painted in pink and champagne, gold painted stucco relief adorning every surface. A four poster bed stood against the wall, draped in pale pink and gold silks, the delicate furniture lacquered in gold. "Did you choose the colors in here?"

She stood there warily watching him, her arms wrapped protectively around herself.

"No. Uncle's decorator did. Tell me what you want and then go."

"Why? Are you expecting someone?"

He grinned mockingly at her and she scowled at him. She looked very young and small there in her nightgown, he thought, a pang of tenderness touching his heart. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, and he had the sudden urge to wind it in his fingers, feel its softness with his lips.

She glared at him, irritated at how intimate it felt for him to be there, dominating the space with his huge frame, prowling back and forth like a caged tiger. More than that, she was aware that she had not spoken the truth. She was afraid. Afraid of him; afraid of the emotions he awakened in her, afraid of just how vulnerable her emotions were to him. Fear made her hostile.

"Will you please just sit down or stand still?" she snapped.

At that he halted, a rueful smile touching his lips, but he dropped gracefully down onto the bed.

"You see, I obey your every command, cherie."

"Not when I ask you to go," she snapped.

"Ah, but I knew that you didn't mean it." He smiled at her and she felt the force of his attraction like a blow.

He was so handsome. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed in the familiar pose she remembered from their meetings in France. He looked incongruously dark and masculine amongst the frills and furbelows, sitting there quite unselfconsciously, as if he belonged there, she thought resentfully. Belatedly she realized that he had changed; no longer was he dressed in the fashionable, colourful silks of earlier, but all in black, again the austere, intimidating soldier she remembered. A thrill coursed down her spine and in sheer self defence she turned her back to him and went to the mantelpiece, mindlessly rearranging the ornaments he had moved, her throat constricting with fear and longing.

"Why are you here? What do you want?"

He shrugged. "Do you have my sword?"

"Your sword?" She turned back to him and he smiled at her. "Do you have it?"

"Yes… yes."

A little bewildered, she went to the bed and pulled out a box from underneath. He stood as she placed it on the bed next to him, opened it and took out a bundle wrapped in a shirt covered in dark stains. Unwrapping it, she held out the sword to him, he took it and unsheathed it, touching his thumb to the blade. "You cleaned it."

"Yes. I could not leave it covered in blood."

"What is that you have there, is that blood?"

"What? Oh, this?" She held on a little more tightly to the bundle in her hands. "It's nothing."

"What is it?"

"It's my shirt." She held it towards him briefly, then yanked it back, folding it and putting it back into the box. "My shirt from – that night."

He looked intrigued. "May I see?"

Reluctantly she handed it to him, and he ran his fingers over the stains. "Is this your blood?"

"No. It's yours."

He held it up, then refolded it and handed it back. "It feels like a long time ago now." He looked at the sword. "Thank you. For this. It is very precious to me. My grandfather had it made. It means a lot to have it back." He re-sheathed it and lay it down on the bed behind him. "You can have it back the next time I die."

"Was that all you wanted?"

He lifted his hand and gently traced the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw with one long finger, gazing down at her as though he wanted to imprint her features on his memory forever. "There was something." He admitted, his voice low. "I was asked for a kiss."

She flushed scarlet. "That was then."

"You kissed me in France, the last time we met."

"I thought you were dying," she whispered, her voice shaky, her heart beginning to beat faster as she looked bravely up into that intense, hawk face. "I thought you were dead!"

"Did you want me to be?" His eyes had darkened and she violently shook her head. "No! I never wanted them to hurt you. I didn't mean what I said – earlier, at the ball."

"Were you at least a little sad?" His eyes were teasing, softened with an expression that made her heart beat faster. She felt the warmth flushing her face. "Of course."

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the slim, pale fingers. She gasped, his touch searing her like fire. She tried to pull away, but he held her fast. She could feel her resolve weakening with every second. She wanted to give in so, so badly, and he could sense it, for he added, his voice just a low, soft growl "Caro, not a day has gone by when I haven't thought of you."

She felt her heart lurch in her chest. "Is that why you've come to England? Have you abandoned the Revolution?"

He sighed, pushing his hair back with one hand. "No. I won't lie to you. But I can't tell you any more than that."

At that she pushed violently away from him, her face anguished, the faint, flickering hope in her heart extinguishing. "Then you didn't come for me! You're still fighting, spying! Are you here to capture me? Arrest me?"

"No!" He put his hands up. "I swear to you, Caro."

"Then it was coincidence, seeing you tonight?" She challenged.

A mocking smile touched his mouth. "No. I admit, I knew that you'd be there. I was curious."

"Curious?" She felt her temper flare and crossed her arms in front of her, glaring up at him, defiant. He looked down at her, his face softening. "You look so very beautiful when you're angry."

Reaching out one long arm for her, he drew her to him with gentle, irresistible strength, so close that she had to tip her head back to look at him, but as she did, he caught her chin and kissed her. It was not like the time he had kissed her before, in anger and passion. This time he was gentle, teasing, coaxing her into complete submission. Her hands pressed against his chest, but not to push him off, sliding up to feel the strong breadth of his shoulders, the shape of his hard muscles. Feeling her response, he deepened his kiss, his hand sliding to stroke her jaw, her neck, holding her to him as he caressed her mouth.

A quiet knock sounded on the door. She started, shocked out of her blissful reverie, and he released her, looking down at her for a moment before going swiftly to the bed and picking up the sword. Quickly, he came back to her, and as the knock on the door sounded again, more impatiently this time, he bent and briefly kissed her again, hard, lingeringly, almost possessively. "Au revoir, ma belle."

When she looked back, he was gone.

As Raoul walked quickly along the streets, fleet and swift in the night, his blood sang in his veins. He had not truly expected her to have his sword, his request an idle salvo, but she had kept it, had cleaned it. She had kept her shirt stained with his blood. And when he had kissed her – twice, he reminded himself with satisfaction – she had responded, shyly, hesitantly but responded nonetheless. The memory of her kiss tingled along his senses, the taste, the scent of her infinitely arousing. Who knew what the future would bring, but he promised himself this – he would hold her in his arms again soon.