Chapter 3

Athos had spent the afternoon keeping company with Roger – they had enjoyed a long gallop through the rough countryside surrounding the city. Now both spent, Athos found a secluded spot beneath the boughs of an old willow, the long branches caressing the small bubbling river that ran, tranquil beneath. All was silent, and the sun shone warm on his face. Tethering his horse where he could eat and drink his fill, he peeled off the warm leather doublet and pulled his shirt free. Lying on the bank he rested his head on the soft moss, contemplating his life, or what had become of it.

For the last two days, he had been only minutes from the garrison entrance. So what had prevented him from crossing that threshold, and taking what Treville had offered with both hands? Would it be so bad? He had enjoyed working with the cadets, though he had to admit he had enjoyed the rest of his time at the garrison more – apart, that was, from when he was in the infirmary, he hated the infirmary. However, the memories of a fussing Aramis and a scowling Porthos, bought a momentary smile to his face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, like a cloud covering the sun. It was peaceful on the river bank, just the sound of Roger tearing at the grass, whilst early bees buzzed somewhere nearby. Eventually, the peace and warmth suppressed his immediate worries, and he drifted off to sleep.

As his master lay in blissful ignorance, Roger had wandered closer, deciding he had waited patiently for long enough. Nudging the idle form with his long black nose, he blew hot air onto his master's cheeks. Athos awoke with a start. He sat up, abruptly shaking his head when he realised what, or rather who, had woken him. He reached up, stroking the soft nose, as he acknowledged the gentle hint. By now, the sun had sunk low in the sky, its light now golden as it played amongst the leaves, dappling the green bank.

'I suppose you are ready to go home?' He rested his head against the warm neck. 'Where is home boy? Do you care? Probably not. Perhaps we expect too much from the institution. Maybe you have it right – warmth, food somewhere to sleep. Why confuse the issue with companionship, purpose, or love?' He patted the horse, and pulled on his jacket, not bothering to tidy his shirt. The air was still warm, and they had several miles to cover before they reached Paris.

oOo

Milady stood in the cover of the church doorway, the irony not lost on her. A small boy hurried across the street and skidded to a halt in front of her. She arched a dark eyebrow, waiting to receive what she had paid for.

'So, what do you have for me?' All the time the boy talked, she scanned the streets, never missing the chance to identify something of interest.

'Same as before. Went to the tavern, only this time he didn't stay long. Came out behind two coves, then followed them to another tavern. This time he stayed. By the time he came out, he was well in his cups. Then to the stable like before.' Her informant stood there, hopping from one foot to the other, as though the church steps were hot coals, burning his feet. She considered the information.

'How, do you know he was following the men?' The boy rolled his eyes and huffed.

'Please, it's wot I do, lady. I know when someone is followin' someone else. He kept back, but only enough to keep 'em in sight. He was followin' 'em awright.' She lifted her chin, contemplating the boy.

'Did you recognise the two men?' This time he narrowed his eyes, standing as if frozen, both actions telling her that he knew something he was reluctant to admit. Sighing, she reached into her purse and pulled out another shiny coin. 'I will ask you again. Did you recognise the two men?' Eyes darting back and forth, the boy made to grab at the coin. 'Not so quick. Talk,' she ordered. The boy sighed.

'I seen 'em before. They turned up some time back, faces always covered, so I don't know who they are – honest. They go into the taverns, one after the other, don't stop long enough to drink nuthin' though, then they come back out and go to the next. Word is, they are gettin' money. If the landlords refuse...' he shrugged his small shoulders and, smiling her catlike smile, she handed over the money.

'Very good. Now I have another job for you. How are you at stealing purses?'

Once the boy had gone, she leant back against the wall. Oh, Athos, always one to have to right a wrong. How predictable you are. What does it matter to you if someone has found a way to make money, even if it is at somebody else's expense? You always did have to help the underdog – to interfere. Well, your interference will be your undoing, it is time you were no more. I have waited, I have been patient, but I have become restless. You are a thorn under my skin, and it is time you were removed.

oOo

Roger safely ensconced with Monsieur René, he wondered if he would happen upon a repeat of last night's events. He would be on the alert – whoever they were, it had to be stopped. A thick mist was beginning to settle over the city, and there were few people on the street. The dense spring fogs were a godsend to those desperate inhabitants of the city wishing to hide their sins and debauchery. God-fearing people, on the other hand, kept to their homes, filling their rooms with light, as if it would keep evil at bay, and if they heard a cry from outside, they crossed themselves and prayed.

Athos swaggered down the quiet thoroughfare, his haughty stance easily recognisable from a distance. She watched closely, hiding in the shadows as usual; where she now belonged. He appeared more dishevelled than usual, jacket open, shirt barely confined within his breeches. Her pulse was racing – not long now. If his appearance beckoned memories of long, passion-filled nights, she refused to admit it. Forcing herself back to the present, she hardened her heart – now was not the time for distraction, no matter how pleasurable.

There. A small figure darted in between the empty stalls. It was time. She crossed the street, waiting, feeling her blood practically bubbling in her veins. The boy darted out of nowhere, dashed across Athos' path, grabbed at his purse and ran, oh did he run – he bolted as if his life depended on it. She could have told him Athos was too noble to ever hurt a child; he would probably hand him over to someone to straighten out, but would never hit or lash out in anger. Though she recalled that his anger had often led to far more interesting moments!

The boy came out of nowhere. Athos was deep in thought, and before he could react or grab the child, he was gone, along with the purse. He did not stop to question his own actions – heading off after the boy he darted in and out of the empty market stalls, but the boy was quick and maintained a good distance between them. Nimbly, he darted into a darkened alley, and Athos followed. The walls on either side were tall and the encroaching mist made it difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. He walked tentatively, at last questioning the intelligence of his response.

Athos found himself at a dead end, no sign of the figure he had followed. Stopping to regain his breath, he turned, leaning heavily against the wall. As he waited, his breathing slowly returned to normal. One of the small doorways in the passageway must have provided an escape route for the thief. If he knew the area well, he would be long gone by now. There had not been much coin in the purse, it was no great loss. As he pushed away from the wall, something moved in the shadows. His breath came in clouds, the air still cold, despite the anomalous warmth of the day indicating the approaching spring. March had blown in cold and blustery, and tonight was no exception.

Shivering, he decided that finishing the evening in some dark tavern was probably his best option. It had been a quiet day, but after his earlier rest he anticipated a long night. Again, he noticed the smallest shift in the light filtering through the evening mist. He narrowed his eyes, squinting, and tried to focus on the source of movement.

She watched as the boy grabbed at his purse and launched himself into the narrow alleyway. Athos darted after the racing figure, never stopping to contemplate his actions, never considering it may be a trap. Stupid. Slowly, she followed, her heart racing. So, this was to be it, the moment she had fantasised over for so many nights. In a few moments it would be over. What would he say? Would he sneer and condemn her? Would he beg for forgiveness? No, never that. As she entered the alley, she paused and, feeling beneath her petticoats, she grasped the hilt of the small dagger. Somehow it felt alien in her hands. Though she had used it many times before to end a life, none of those lives had elicited a second thought. Tonight, she was completing her own unfinished business, and somehow, it felt like the first time.

She could see him now. He faced her at the end of the alley, breathing heavily, eyes closed. She froze, green eyes now open, he was looking straight at her. Could he see her? The mist had gathered, swaying around them like waves upon the sea. She began to move forward once more, hardly able to breathe, a mixture of excitement and dread building within her.

Now the movement was clearer. Though the mist had grown thicker, he could make out the shape of a woman. She wore a cloak or such like over her head, and appeared to glide through the wraith-like fog like an apparition. As the figure became clearer, his heart squeezed and terror took hold. Apparition indeed. No! It could not be! This was not real. Athos did not know whether to draw his weapon or pray, though he decided that either option would be futile. Suddenly she was standing before him. He stared, brow furrowed, lips slightly parted. In a voice that sounded like a broken whisper, disembodied, not emanating from his own mouth, he gasped:

'What do you want?' The apparition smiled, it was a sly, knowing smile. In the old days, it would have held the promise of fulfilled desire and satisfaction. Now it froze him to the marrow. The apparition did not speak, but instead raised its hand and reached for him. Athos held his breath, not sure what to expect, waiting for the cold hand of the dead to touch his soul.

When the warm fingers stroked his face, his confusion grew. When she spoke, he was lost.

'You think I am a ghost? Do I look like a ghost?' The words came out in a breathy whisper, a sensual purr. She continued to move her fingers down his cheek, along the soft waves of his hair, enjoying the look of consternation upon his face. 'Does this feel like a ghost?' Her hands moved around his jaw, and she could feel the rapid pulse beneath her fingers, her heart beating in time with his. As she allowed her thumb to trace the contours of his throat, she felt the chain around his neck. Looking up into his face, she noted that the terror had gone, there was no emotion there at all, but his chest heaved, and she knew he was struggling to gain control.

Good, let him suffer. But something about his expression awoke an emotion deep inside of her. Had he begged, or pleaded, or shown some sign of weakness, she would have ended it, there and then. But no, his demeanour was arrogant if anything and, despite her agenda, she felt the old familiar arousal. Though theirs had been a happy marriage for the brief time they had been together, Athos had a temper, and it had always managed to ignite her desire. On those occasions, he had forgotten he was a gentleman, and their subsequent lovemaking had been fierce and urgent, feeding their most primitive desires. She had underestimated what his anger might do for her still. When he spoke she stilled her hand.

'How?' Just one word. He had always had the ability to say so much, with so little. Still playing with the chain around his neck, she searched his eyes.

'You did not wait long enough. You did not have the stomach to watch me die, to see my body hang and twitch from the bough of the tree beneath which we had made love. You did not see my corpse.'

'I have stood at your grave,' he whispered. She raised a brow, the slightest trace of a smile upon her red lips. Again, she stroked the heavy chain as, slowly, she began to withdraw it from beneath his shirt.

'Anyone can dig a grave, that does not mean anything lies within. You should have waited, seen it to the end.' He looked desolate now, and for a moment she thought he was going to reach out to her, but at the last moment, he dropped his hand to his side. He felt the chain slide along his heaving chest, scraping against his fevered skin as her nails once had. At the end, hung a locket. Her heartbeat increased, she didn't think it was possible – it already hammered inside her chest like thunder in a summer storm. Neither of them spoke, nor moved, as she opened the small silver case. When the interior was revealed, she gasped. The small blue flowers, pressed forever, a keepsake of a day long past. A precious moment she had long sought to blank from her memory. But he had not. He still wore it around his neck, hanging close to his heart.

For a moment she lost her nerve. She did not even know at what point she had returned the dagger to its home beneath her skirts. One hand held the locket, the other found itself pressed to his chest, where she could feel the rapid thumping of his heart.

Athos could not believe what he saw before him. The heady scent of jasmine filled the air, and this time he knew it was not his fevered imagination. But she could not be real. When her warm fingers touched his skin, it was all he could do to stop himself from crying out. As their tips traced his jaw and made their way to his throat, he froze. How? How could she not be dead? But her hands were not those of a corpse. Then she spoke, that sultry purr, the same velvet voice she used when she had taken his hand, promising him the earth and beyond. He hardly dared breathe, in case she should disappear. But why? Why would it matter?

She could feel her treacherous body begin to respond to the closeness of his. This was not the way she had planned it. She had killed so many times, she had lost count. Now, when she needed to shut off her emotions, they were raging a war within her, and desire was the strongest.

Athos pulled at his leather gloves, which dropped to the floor as he slowly reached out to see if the vision was real, for there was still some part of him that did not believe it could be true. As his fingers touched her cold cheek, he almost recoiled, her skin was ice cold. Could she be dead? Did the dead touch and talk like the living? He moved his hand down lower, he could see the pale flesh beneath her cloak, and he shifted the heavy silk aside. Her breathing was heavy, and he could see the rise and fall of her breast, as she, too, struggled to get enough air into her lungs. She was no corpse.

What happened next, neither of them could have explained. Who moved first it was impossible to tell – perhaps they moved as one? She was pressed against him so hard, he could feel the bricks dig into his back, as she forced him against the wall. Her cheeks may have been cold, but her lips were warm, and soft. Her hands were in his hair and she kissed him with a passion that had long been hidden and suppressed. For him, also, it had been too long, and all those months of pain, anguish and loneliness exploded in a sudden longing he could not control. The kiss became more ferocious, more urgent. They clung on to each other as if their very lives depended upon it. He swung her around so that the roles were reversed and now she was forced against the wall. She lifted her head as he kissed her neck, her throat. She pulled his shirt free and reached beneath for the warmth of his chest. The sound that came from his throat spurred her on and his lips found her once more. When it seemed there was no way to prevent the inevitable, they broke apart, just for a second, pausing to regain their breath. Their eyes locked, desire evident, need raw upon their features.

Then something happened, Athos reached out and traced the side of her face. Was it the tenderness in his touch that undid her? Rough desire, animal passion, she could deal with, and match it with her own. But tender affection? She was not prepared for that. Terrified at what they had done, she pushed him away. Catching him off guard, he staggered, slightly drunk with emotion. Without looking back, she dodged beneath his arm and ran. She ran like she had never run before, and she kept running until she was sure he had not followed her. God, what had she done? Her world had suddenly crashed around her. Her plans, her revenge, gone like the spring mist. How could he? She tried to tell herself she was angry at him, but she knew deep inside that the emotion that ruled her being right now was nothing akin to anger, unless you counted its intensity.

He stood frozen, his head buzzing with questions, his body still throbbing with desire. He wiped a hand across his face. What in hell had just happened? Tentatively, he touched his face, as if he would find some evidence of her caress. The fog moved and pulsed, adding to his confusion. Had it been real? His body told him it had been very real indeed. So, she was alive. How? Why? And after all this time. A strangled sob ripped from his throat; he could still taste her, and that damned smell of jasmine still clung to his skin. He moaned. How could he have just seen his supposedly dead wife, let alone slake that long-buried desire in so base a way – though it had been a mutual desire, of that he was in no doubt. Slowly sinking to the floor, Athos looked to the darkened sky – what now?