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 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. He is invited down to a house party at Lady Carola's country home in Sussex, and – things happen. 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.

The air still held the chill of the early morn, and as she climbed down over the rocks, landing with a thump, the wet shingle slipped under her booted feet. Walking slowly, whip swishing against her leg, she dragged her feet lazily in the pebbles, the sand. The wind was sharp against her cheek, but after two frustrating days shut up in the house the cold was invigorating. Looking up, she stared across to the distant smudge of France on the horizon.

It seemed so long ago since she was there last, the wet darkness, the clamor of steel in the night, the pounding, relentless sea. It was fresh now, the salty wind whipping the waves into white peaks, the roar and clatter of the shingle loud in her ears. She felt alone and alive, the thoughts that troubled her melting away in the freedom of her solitude and the clear sea light. Above her, the gulls swooped overhead, calling shrilly to each other. Idly, she dipped her booted toe in a thin rivulet twisting its way through the sand, until all at once she felt the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Turning, she saw him, his eyes fixed on her. Raoul was sitting on the dry sand by the rocks, his long legs folded in front of him. Fatalistically, she stood rooted to the spot as slowly he rose and walked to her. He simply stood for a moment, looking down at her, so close that she had to tip back her head to look up at that dark, unreadable face. Defiantly she tossed her hair, her voice taut and unfriendly.

"What are you doing here?"

He shrugged and looked towards the horizon. "Looking homeward."

She couldn't help a spontaneous pang of sympathy. "Do you miss it?"

He shrugged again. "Perhaps. The revolution, the war… they feel a long way away, here."

He walked to the water's edge, looking down at the waves lapping at his feet. Without quite knowing why, she followed him, looking out at the heavy clouds drawing in. She had promised herself that she would not be alone with him again and yet here they were, she thought fatalistically. It was as if something drew them together against her will. He turned his dark head to look at her, and suddenly she knew that they were both remembering that night in France, that beach in Normandy.

Tiny goosebumps rose all over her and without thinking the words slipped out.

"Does it still pain you very much? From when you were shot?"

He hesitated and then replied to her almost absently, staring at her with that strange, inscrutable intensity. "No. Not anymore."

They stood in silence for another long moment, their eyes fixed on each other until she said desperately "Were you hurt very badly?"

He looked back down at the waves again. Silence seemed to fill the air before abruptly he answered "I almost died."

She wrapped her arms about herself, her face appalled, pain stabbing through her heart. "Oh, Raoul, I'm sorry."

An odd little smile softened the lines of his ruthless mouth. Her face must have shown her bewilderment, for he said, "I like it when you call me by my name. You did it once before in France, the first time."

She looked away, her voice taut as she battled that terrible yearning to move closer, to feel the shelter and warmth of his huge body. "Which name? D'Eyncourt? Or Duchamp?"

He paused then unexpectedly moved close, so close that his breath stirred the wispy curls at the nape of her neck, his long fingers gently closing around her biceps. "Don't you like Raoul?"

A sudden crack of thunder boomed above them and with appalling suddenness the rain flooded down.

"Come on!" Raoul grabbed her wrist, tugging her to action. They ran, his stride so much longer than hers that he was almost dragging her in his wake to the cave mouth that nestled dark behind the rocks. They ducked under the overhang and into the shelter of the cave, as dim and liquid inside as though they were deep underwater. Gasping, they turned, and silently stood there together, watching the fat raindrops stream down before them in a wall of water.

With both hands she pushed the curling mass of dripping hair back from her face, wiping her face with her sleeve. Even though they had been quick, she was still drenched.

He watched her for a moment, then pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her.

Hesitantly she took it, and dried her face, noticing the clean lemon, sandalwood scent of his cologne with reluctant pleasure.

"Thank you." She handed it back to him, and he mopped his face, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.

Shivering, they stood there, the roar of the rain mingling with the crash of the waves and seeming to echo the pounding of her heart, far too aware of the nearness of his huge body. The walls ran with water, the dampness seeming to permeate her bones and she shivered. The cave mouth was wide enough to let in some light, but the clouds above darkened the sky into a dull lead, and they stood mostly in shadow. She was trapped alone with him, her enemy, yet it was not fear that drove the tension she could feel coursing through her body, but something much more complicated and unsettling. She wrapped her arms about herself protectively, trying to quell the sick feeling at the pit of her stomach.

"Do you think that - it will last long?" And cursed herself. Why was it that with him, she could only think of such a stupid sort of thing to say, she thought resentfully. But anything was better than that tense stillness.

"I don't know." He paused. "It'll pass over. Don't worry."

She scowled at him. "Why would I be worried?"

"That's what I said."

He looked around, finally settling himself against a reasonably dry patch of rock, his legs stretched out, bent, in front of him. She glared at him, but he only looked up at her with that dark, infuriating smile, his eyes mocking. "You look just as you did in France, half drowned. You were in breeches, though, last time."

She came and sat next to him, feeling almost as though she were in a dream.

"Did they find out that you helped me? Your leaders, I mean."

"No. I don't think so."

"I never thanked you. I'm sorry that you were shot."

He shrugged. "If you hadn't stemmed the bleeding, I would have died. So I would say that we are even. You were injured, I think?"

"My hand." She showed him. "Margot."

"Ah." He took her hand in his, running his finger down the long scar. "She died."

"I know." She looked up curiously into his face. "Were you sad?"

He watched the rain, listening to the thunder roll out above them. Should he tell her, he wondered, that the woman's death had been a relief? That her brutality and cruelty had revolted him? He doubted that she would believe him, his memory flitting back to France and her violent reaction to his dismissal of Margot, her compassion towards the other woman even after she had threatened her, tried to have her brutalized, murdered. He looked down at that pale, aristocratic profile, as perfect as a medieval angel, the copper hair curling about her cheek. How could one woman be both so soft and sympathetic, yet so fierce and defiant?

"We were not friends. But I am never happy to see anyone die."

What did she think of him, he wondered. How did she feel being trapped here with him, her enemy? He watched as she ran her fingers slowly through the dry sand, her expression somber.

"What did you think, when you saw me at the ball?"

She glanced up.

"At first I thought you must be a ghost. But I knew, straight away."

"You were so sure?"

"Oh yes. You have a scar above your eyebrow." She gestured to her own head. "Right there. And I could just tell, anyway."

Involuntarily he reached up to touch it. "I fell out of a tree when I was ten."

"You didn't get it in battle?"

He smiled across at her a little dryly. "I am not just always the soldier."

"No, sometimes you're a spy." Her voice was taut, sharp.

"That's quite the accusation."

"You told me that you were a spy!" She exclaimed. "You told me that you had been to England on government business, so it's not altogether unnatural that I suspect you of it now."

He was regarding her with an odd expression on his face "When? When did I tell you?"

"In France," she hedged, remembering exactly when he had told her that, aghast at her own impulsiveness. He hadn't known that it had been she who had drugged him, or had he? Would he be angry? And why even try to lie, now?

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, his dark brows drawing down in a scowl. "When exactly in France? I thought that I remembered every time that we've spoken and I don't remember that."

"I cannot help you." She snapped, goaded. "I think it was when - when you remarked that the countryside in Northern France was very much like that of England, and that you had visited there. To spy!"

"I do remember." He said slowly, his eyes fixed keenly on her face. "Although that conversation wasn't with Lady Carola. It was with a very sweet, alluring little blonde girl in a gaming house. The night I was-"

He watched her intently, his eyes boring into her, seemingly intrigued as the pink begin to flood to her cheeks. Then suddenly, he laughed, abruptly, incredulously.

"My God. That was you." It was not a question.

She tensed, ready for flight. "Was it you?" Hesitantly she nodded at the harsh demand, her mouth twisting in an unwilling smile, even as the adrenaline raced through her, her heart thumping in her chest.

"You little – did you drug my wine?"

"Yes." She hesitated, and added with slightly shamefaced defiance. "And I took your keys. We went to your house, and found Du Charnot, smuggled him out. I know it was a low trick, and I'm sorry, but there was no other way. You were not hurt. I could have poisoned you. Or stabbed you while you were unconscious."

"That is true." He agreed, his tone mild, settling himself back more comfortably onto the sand. "Thank you for not murdering me. So what did you do then?"

"You arrested Lucille. I couldn't let her suffer for what I'd done so I – we had to go to the Abbaye to get her out. Which we did. We were almost back when you caught up to us." She hesitated and added, rather shyly "When we fought, that first time, did you know it was me? You could have killed me, but you – didn't."

"Perhaps." He looked down at her, a small smile touching his lips, then looked out to sea. "I recognised you, yes. I was – surprised. But I only began putting it all together after." He looked down at the hand he still held, palm up, gently touching the fingers with his fingertips. "The first time we met, when I took your hand, I felt the callouses on your fingers. It struck me as odd. It was only later I realized they were from using a sword, that I have the same."

He turned his hand to show her, looking down into her face. She looked up at him suspiciously. "Are you angry?"

He shrugged, looking down at the sand, tracing a pattern in it with one long finger. "I'm – impressed. I was angry. But not anymore. It's wartime, after all. You're a formidable opponent, Lady Cat."

"So are you."

He looked at her for a moment, his hard mouth tilting in a small smile, his face softening as he regarded her. "Of course it was you. I knew, almost. I knew – something. But it was a very convincing disguise. You're a good actress. I thought I was just – seeing things." He laughed suddenly "Going mad, perhaps."

"I was afraid that you would realise." She admitted, "I thought you had, at one point. I was in a quake the entire time."

His expression changed suddenly, his gaze suddenly intrigued, intent. "You asked me about Margot."

"I don't remember."

"You did." He looked at her for a second, then shrugged and looked towards the sea.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I thought it was a strange question, but that it was you who asked, now that is interesting."

"What are you trying to say?" She snapped, facing him fully now. His eyebrows rose in amusement. "Only that you must have had an interest in finding out one way or the other."

"Not at all." She retorted. "I was - simply trying to find out as much information as I could. She could have been coming to join you."

"She wasn't my mistress."

"She lived in your house."

He grinned at her waspish tone. "Oui, she lived in my house but she was never my mistress." He saw her sceptical look and insisted "C'est vrai. I do not lie. I never did so much as kiss her."

"I don't care!" She interrupted fiercely, her face flaming.

He slid her a smile. "Had you not drugged me I might well have paid for your company."

"I told you then I wouldn't do that!"

"Oh, so you do remember."

"It was a disgraceful thing to ask!"

"Not particularly, considering it was part of the service of the house." His eyes danced at the blood flooding into her cheeks. "Did you not know?"

"I mean… I rather suspected. I suppose you were a regular customer!" Caro retorted hotly, gasped, and then stopped herself, horrified. "I do beg your pardon." She said in a stifled voice. "That was - unforgivable. It is none of my business."

"No." he agreed, somewhat haughtily. "But if it makes you easy, I haven't been, let us say, involved with any woman for some time. Although no doubt it wounds my reputation to admit it."

"Oh!" She digested this for a moment, then shyly, "Why not?"

He shrugged. "I learned not to trust women. And I never met any woman to make me believe differently."

"Then you are meeting the wrong women." She retorted heatedly. "Most women are perfectly trustworthy." He said nothing, but she scowled at the look of polite incredulity on his face. "It is true!" She insisted. "I do not lie."

"You have rarely been honest with me since we met! Always I knew that you were lying to me. And especially disguising yourself and drugging me so that you could steal my keys and break into my house. What else have you done to me that I don't know about?"

"That was different!" she protested.

"How was it different?"

"It was wartime. That was as enemies, not as…"

"Lovers?"

That mocking smile twisted his mouth and she flushed "But, yes, indeed, you are doing much the same thing now!" She pointed out. "If I have lied to you, then so have you to me."

"How dare you?" He folded his arms, his face darkening with fury. "Nobody calls me a liar!"

"You're not a liar? When you come here lying about who you are? You're using a fake name, the noble Chevalier D'Eyncourt, masquerading as an aristocrat."

He glared at her, his eyes blazing with anger. "Not that I have to justify myself to you, but D'Eyncourt is my name. My real name. My real title."

"It is?"

"Yes."

"Then you are an aristocrat?" She accused roughly, aware of a strange plunging sense of disappointment.

"No." He spat. "I'm not an aristocrat. Not by your standards, anyway. I'm a bastard. Illegitimate. Are you happy now? Have I told enough truth to please you?"

The words hung in the air between them. She sat, stricken, and he glared at her for a moment as if daring her to say something, anything, then pulled out a small silver case, taking out a long cheroot and lighting it. "I'm not a liar." He said fiercely.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, which seemed to stretch into an eternity. Finally she ventured quietly "Is that – that why you hate the aristos so much?"

He said nothing for a while, but just as she thought he wasn't going to reply at all, he said abruptly "It made me more - sensitive to the injustice. I don't hate them. I hated the injustice of their tyranny. It was wrong for so few to have everything and the rest to have nothing. Children were starving within a mile of Versailles, yet the nobles squandered their money on their pleasures and treated the peasants like slaves. It had to change."

"But to kill innocent women and children? Send them to the guillotine?"

"Innocent women and children were already dying, but because they were poor, you do not care about them! When it touches those you care about, suddenly you see the injustice! I had no rights as Raoul D'Eyncourt, simply because of my birth, was that just? Or should I have been grateful for the scraps I was deigned to receive?"

He jumped to his feet and strode to the mouth of the cave, glaring out.

"Of course not!" she snapped back, rising to her feet, crossing her arms protectively across her chest. "I care about poverty and - and injustice! I've seen it here in the slums of London, let alone Paris, but what can I do, alone? I could help my family, my friends, so I did! They were innocent!"

"Help." He mocked "When you came back the second time, that was not to help your family or friends, that was to pursue enemy action! You returned to fight, to steal, to spy! Why? Is it because you are bored? This luxury, this does not satisfy you? The balls, the parties, it is not enough to have everything, you need to play at war too?"

"If I played, then I won!" She spat at him. "How dare you? How dare you accuse me of not caring about those less fortunate and then in the same breath damn me for daring to - to try and help those I see in need? What damned right have you to comment on my behavior anyway? You don't know me!"

His eyebrows had flown up and he glared at her, but with a glint in his eye she did not quite understand. "No, I don't."

His voice was suddenly calm and she stilled, stunned, the rage ebbing from her in a wave of confusion. She stared at him as he said very deliberately "Let me learn."

"What?"

He shrugged and said "I want to know why."

"Why?"

"Why you became The Cat. Why you came back to France."

"Because I had to. Because I was asked. And – because of you."

The words left her lips before she had even realized that she had uttered them. He stiffened, his face suddenly cool and unreadable. "I hope you will not find me obtuse, but I don't see."

She looked out to the beach, feeling the heat surging to her cheeks. "You were the one who destroyed my house, arrested my relatives. It became you I had to fight. If the revolution had never happened, I never would have become The Cat. If we had never met, then I would probably be married to Stuart by now, even have a child."

He came in closer to her, and she turned around. He was so near that she had to tip her head back to look up at him. "And would that have satisfied you, cherie, to be an obedient little wife and mother?"

"No. That's why I came back." she whispered. As she gazed up into that dark, handsome face, his eyes so dark, she felt something in her blood ignite and begin to burn through her, a recklessness and deep, aching yearning that only he could spark in her.

Slowly, he lowered his head so that they were close, so close, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. "Are you sure that was the only reason?" he whispered, then, with a deep, harsh breath, his lips found hers.

She stiffened, stunned at the strength of emotion that flooded her at the touch of him, the taste of him. As his mouth captured hers, deeply, sweetly, his tongue stroking her, coaxing her lips with possessive, longing determination, at that moment they were back on that beach in France as he held her, claimed her, the rain mingling with the crash of the waves, the moonlight the only illumination in that wet, dark night as the clamor of battle around them had faded into nothing. His arms tightened gently around her, and blindly she melted into him as memory swamped her, the tender strength of his arms about her as he had carried her from the sea, his wet skin on hers as he had held her to him. Her arms slipped up around his neck, her fingers finding the dark curls at the nape of his neck with sensual appreciation, lost in him.

Raoul was utterly lost, her warm, slim body pressed so intimately against his that every thought was driven from his mind but the feel of her. The sweet scent of her mixed with the cool salt of the damp was unbearably sensual to him, compelling him to kiss her deeper, lost in the feel of her mouth, his hand slipping up to entwine in her hair, holding her to him as he caressed her. And then she moaned a tiny little moan against him, and it was the most erotic sound he had ever heard, fire surging through his blood. He had to stop, before he went too far. He had to. He had to. He groaned and tore himself from her. "I must stop – I must stop."

He spoke in French, low as if more to himself than her. Carefully he put her from him as though the feel of her lithe body were too much temptation to bear. She was dazed, trembling and he held her up with one gentle hand on her shoulder.

"It has stopped raining. We should go."

She felt a wave of unhappiness sweep over her, "Yes." She agreed, her tone quiet and colorless. He slid his hand down her arm and took her hand. "Caro - It is difficult, this, is it not?"

"What is?"

"The situation - between us."

She nodded, her throat thick with misery. He pulled her closer and bent forward, resting his forehead against hers. They stood in silence for a second, only broken when she whispered despairingly "Oh, why must we be enemies?"

His face was sombre, his voice a low fierce undertone.

"Caro, life is a bad joke, isn't it? You're the embodiment of everything that I fight against, The Cat! Yet there's something between us, something that no time or divided loyalties can change. I feel about you a way I've never felt about anyone before. And you feel it too, don't you?"

She looked up at him, her green eyes brimming with unshed tears and slowly nodded. He looked down at her hand in his, stroking her palm, adding almost in a whisper "And you don't know what to do about it either, do you, ma belle?"

His gentleness affected her in a way his anger never could. She felt suddenly sick at heart, sick of the complications, the doubts, the fears.

"No! I don't know!" she cried, tearing herself from his grasp, wrapping her arms about herself. "I don't know what to do! I tried to forget you, I thought you were dead! Then when I saw you again I …"

"Were you glad?"

She looked up at him, stricken. "Yes. But I was afraid, too. I didn't know if you were here - to kill me."

He shook his head vehemently. "I'm not."

"You are here to spy, though, aren't you?" she cried "To blackmail Roxborough and use letters from his past to steal military secrets."

"How did you find out?"

"I'm not going to tell you that."

He smiled dryly. "I suppose I should deny it, but I won't."

"Was that the only reason that you came?"

"Yes."

She was silent. He added "It's not the reason I sought you out."

"Why did you?"

He shrugged. "I wanted to see you again."

"You did?" She could feel the fluttering butterflies in her stomach. "Even though you knew that I would recognize you? That there was a chance that I would tell everyone that you were Duchamp?"

"I could just deny it." He pointed out. "And I hoped you would recognize me. Otherwise there would have been little point." His mouth quirked in a tiny smile. "And you didn't betray me."

"I don't want to, but I can't let stand by and do nothing while you steal those secrets. There are too many lives at stake."

"English lives."

"I can't help that I'm your enemy!" she snapped. "Our countries are at war! Like it or not, I'm the Cat and you a soldier for the Republic, a spy in my country! And I should be trying to have you arrested and shot!"

"I suppose then - we are at an impasse." He shrugged.

"How can we be anything else?" She cried. "I would not ask you to betray your country, but by just letting you carry out your mission I would be betraying mine!"

"The irony is not lost on me." He agreed. "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

They stood in silence for a long moment until he said abruptly "We should go."

"I know."

They began walking slowly along the wet beach, looking down at the ground. Suddenly Raoul said "So what are you going to do?"

"About what?

"About me."

"I don't know."

"Will you have me shot as a spy?"

"No" She looked up at him, then back to the tip of her boots, studying the rocks beneath her feet. "You saved my life, last time. I owe you. I may try and stop you, but I won't betray you."

"Thank you."

"Anthony will try." She warned him. "He recognised you as well, and he has no reason to look away. He's going to try and trap you, have you arrested."

"Fair, I suppose." He shrugged.

"Don't kill him, please." She begged. "If I can just ask one thing. I have no right to ask, I know."

He paused, looking down at her "Agreed. I give you my word. But if I have to defend myself I will."

"That's fair. Thank you."

He stopped and reaching out, lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a single gentle kiss to it, saying only, lightly "Je vous en prie, ma belle."

Maybe I'll post some more, maybe not. This is my first attempt at publishing here, so idk!