Greetings, all. Thank you for reading the last chapter and leaving comments. Apologies for the couple of errors that crept through though. Hope there are none here as I've just done a proof-read.

So, Milady presents a vengeful threat to Athos. What will she do here?

CHAPTER 72

Athos was still the man with whom she had fallen in love; a few years older, admittedly, and hardened by his life as a soldier but, in sleep, he seemed so young and free from the cares the waking world had foisted upon him. Some of the scars and calluses of his military existence were evident as he lay there on his back, his voluminous white shirt untucked from the waistband of his breeches and caught beneath him where it had ridden up, revealing a swathe of bandage. His left arm was draped lightly across his stomach, subconsciously protecting the wound to his side whilst the right arm and hand hung limply over the side of the cot.

She so desperately wanted to touch him: to feel the warmth of his skin, the firmness of his muscles, the dark chest hair, the roughness of his beard against her cheek and to stroke the soft, unruly curls from his forehead. He needed a haircut, she thought; he had always been so well groomed … before.

A wave of unbidden memories of a past life threatened to wash over her and she blinked away the tears. He had destroyed their happiness in the instant he looked down upon his dead brother and would not believe her when she told him what Thomas had tried to do. She had been forced to murder her brother-in-law to stop his lies and to save the love that she and Athos had for each other.

Except that Athos would not look at her, ignoring her hysterical pleas to believe her as she sobbed out her love for him. Instead, he had ordered the servants to lock her up whilst he acted as her judge and juror, refusing her appeals to visit her, ears closed to her story and cowed in his grief by the screaming invectives of that vile woman, Catherine, who was to have been his sister in marriage when she could not have him for her own.

From then, he had not been the man she married. How soon his love for her had died! She had seen the inscrutable expression on his face as she stood on the back of the cart beneath the tree, hands bound and the noose around her neck. He was such a coward that he could not wait to see his justice meted out by others on his behalf.

So he had turned his back and ridden away; away from Pinon, his responsibilities, his life and the precious memories they had created there.

Athos the coward.

She had not thought him capable of such weakness but then she saw him for the first time - and quite by accident - some three years later in a Paris tavern; he was in his cups and eaten away by melancholy and guilt for his rash judgement of her, or so she presumed. It served him right and she had no sympathy for him.

He wore the recognisable pauldron of the King's Musketeer regiment, so he'd gone on to rebuild his life there then. How quickly he had moved on whilst she ... She had done what she had to do to survive, no thanks to him. Now, then, he had an even greater excuse to kill people. Perhaps he had acquired a taste for it when he gave her the death sentence so easily. In the meantime, she had found employment with Richelieu, proving her usefulness to him time and again so that she rose quickly through the ranks of his trusted spies and assassins.

And all the time, bitterness festered in her heart. She watched him and she learned all she could of his new life without her, scoffing at the irony of his earning the admiration of his commanding officer and peers that culminated in his recent promotion to lieutenant. She knew of his friends, Aramis and Porthos and now, the Gascon d'Artagnan. She must be able to use that connection somehow to best effect.

She watched and she learned, and she plotted.

That she would have her revenge upon him one day for what he had done to her was never without doubt. She had come so close to that vengeance when he had been framed for murder, facing a firing squad for his crimes and for bringing the King's regiment into such disrepute. But then his meddling friends had discovered the truth and saved his miserable life at the very last moment. She had witnessed it all from an upper room at the Chatelet, her anticipation and excitement giving way to….what? When the execution had been halted by a shout from Aramis as he ran down the steps waving the King's pardon, she had felt something but, even now, she could not give it a name. Was it disappointment? Anger? Did she feel cheated? Was it all of them or something else? She was unsure.

What she did know was that her thirst for violent retribution had increased but she knew what patience was and so she had bided her time.

Until now.

She fingered the bejewelled choker at her neck that hid the rope burn forever marring her soft, white skin. He had done this to her, scarred her emotionally and physically, and he would not escape her. In his absence, she had tried, judged and sentenced him and now was the time for settling scores.

She quietly unsheathed her dagger and took a step closer.

How would she do this?

That was the moment when he stirred, and she froze. Shifting in his sleep and wincing at the sudden discomfort the movement caused him, he let out a sigh and settled again, his breathing soft and rhythmical once more. His slight change in position had stretched the opening of his shirt, untied as it was, causing it to lay bare his heart, that same heart he had once sworn was hers and hers alone.

She raised an eyebrow at the symbolic, sacrificial gesture. How easy it would be! One blow from a dagger held aloft and he would never know what had happened.

Or should she slit his throat? She could leave a mark upon his neck akin to the one that had been branded into hers.

He would never know!

She hesitated at the thought. He would die not knowing that it was by her hand, that she had lived despite his instruction to the contrary.

Milady frowned. Where was the satisfaction in that? She wanted the man who had left her to hang to know that she had survived, had bribed her executioner. She wanted him to realise that she was stronger than he was, that she could decide upon the justice he would suffer and that, unlike him, she had no qualms in delivering it. There was no need for anyone else to be involved. She no longer required the services of a firing squad for she was resolved to do the deed herself and whereas he had ridden away, unable to watch her die, nothing would give her greater pleasure than to see the light of life fade in his eyes as he looked at her, to hear and feel the last breath upon his lips.

She would kill him, and he would know it was her.

There was her satisfaction, her retribution but not today. Not now.

She slid the dagger into its sheath and, resisting the temptation to bend and kiss his warm mouth, she slipped out of the tent and disappeared.