Fabien was enraged.

He'd been striding through the palace corridors en-route to the salons when he'd caught a glimpse of someone familiar out of one of the large, looming upstairs windows. He'd halted, his gaze wondering over Mademoiselle de Clermont's lustrous dark hair and trim figure, housed in a becoming gown of deep orange that glinted with hints of gold in the sunlight.

Unfortunately he'd also immediately recognised her escort.

Standing at the Latona fountain, his young spy had been pointing out some feature that the Duc de Cassel was not particularly interested in, because he steered her down the stairs in the direction of the lake. Fabien should have been pleased to see her with the duc, but for reasons he refused to examine too closely, a chill went down his spine when he noticed the possessive hand the duc had placed on her back. It was pure instinct that drove him to follow them, exchanging hasty words with a passing Bontemps, who'd fortuitously been in the vicinity, before cutting a path through the gardens toward the tall hedgerows.

What he stumbled upon nearly froze the blood in his veins. Cassel had a hand over Mademoiselle de Clermont's mouth, smothering her cries of protest whilst his other hand burrowed beneath her skirts. She was fighting valiantly to fend him off, hitting and shoving him, but with little success. For a slight man, Cassel fairly towered over her, making her appear unusually small and defenceless as she struggled to break free.

Fabien's mind told him that he'd been expecting this very thing to happen, that it was in Cassel's nature to force himself upon innocents. In fact, he'd even warned his newest spy that she ought to encourage his attentions. But Fabien had not known how he'd react to seeing it happen. He could not have predicted the staggering rage that swelled within him, filling him with an overwhelming desire to crush, to quell, to vanquish. He may not trust his young ingénue, but it certainly incensed him to see her assaulted.

"If you value your life," he heard himself say, his voice clipped and deathly cold, "you will let go of the lady this instant."

The duc went still, rendered inert by the sudden, unexpected intrusion. His head whipped around, his eyes narrowing to slits when he recognised Fabien. He let go of the lady and took a step back, his face a mask of repugnance. The lady, however, remained motionless but for her hands which reached behind her to wrap around the vines at her back. It appeared to be the only thing holding her upright.

"I wonder if His Majesty is aware that his watch dog is spying on his betters?" Cassel drawled.

"Of course," Fabien said, barely resisting the urge to ram his fist down the duc's smug throat. "That is, after all, the entire purpose of my existence."

Cassel's eyes glinted with malice. "Your presence is not needed here."

"But I think it is." Fabien took a slow, intimidating step toward the duc, who backed up. "Rest assured that His Majesty will be made aware of his nobles accosting innocents against their will."

The duc's already pale face turned a little green. "You have no right—"

"I act on His Majesty's behalf. I have every right," Fabien interrupted, his voice dangerously low.

While he did not match any of the nobles in rank, his position as the king's chief of security was enough to command the highest respect. His word, in many instances, was considered as good as the king's. He did not mind if he was disliked by most, so long as he was feared by all.

"You will pay for this intrusion," Cassel intoned.

"Really? Just what are you going to do about it?" Fabien now stood before the duc, his superior height and size used to its best advantage. He knew he was intimidating up close, could already see Cassel's mind whirling, wondering if it had been in his best interests to antagonise the man who was, perhaps, closer than anyone else to the king.

Cassel's mouth twisted. "I am a duc of France and I say that you have no business here."

"That depends on the lady." Fabien glanced at Mademoiselle de Clermont. He'd been avoiding looking at her for fear of losing the tenuous grip he had on his restraint. A disturbing first for him. If there was one thing he excelled at, it was remaining aloof and unaffected at all times.

Mademoiselle de Clermont appeared stunned, her eyes large and brimming with moisture as they clung to his. He'd known her for some time, had seen her display a spectrum of emotion, from anger and resentment, to hurt and despondency. But he'd never seen her looking so vulnerable, so utterly terrified. His heart gave a surprising lurch and his gloved hand subconsciously moved and settled on the hilt of the blade at his side. Her stare held him captive, the fear in them reaching across the distance between them and punching him in his gut. He wanted to look away, wanted to bury the tide of guilt that rose sharply within him, whispering that this was all his fault, but he could not.

Then unexpectedly she blinked, and her expression went blank. "I am well, monsieur." Her voice trembled slightly, belying her words. "I am in no danger from the duc."

Fabien flinched. She was holding up her end of their bargain. She thought he expected it. And he did. Had he not told her so himself? Then why did he have a ball of flames smouldering away in his belly?

Cassel smiled, pleased. "As the lady says, you waste your time here."

"Nevertheless, His Majesty has requested to see you."

Surprise, then suspicion flickered across the duc's face. "Now?"

"Immediately," Fabien said. "Bontemps awaits your presence at the palace."

Cassel ran a hand over his hair and tugged his jabot into place before glancing at Mademoiselle de Clermont. "I am sure we shall meet again, soon," he said with a hint of something that made Fabien want to skin him alive. Then, "Marchal." He departed, with Fabien's hawkish gaze trailing after him.

He heard a gasp and glanced back at Mademoiselle de Clermont. She'd sunk to the ground, her palms flat, her fingers curling into the neatly trimmed grass. He strode quickly to her side, then paused. For the first time in his life, he was unsure of how to proceed. "Are you alright?"

She remained silent, her face turned away from him. In the distance he could hear the voices of nobles laughing and talking as they strolled across the grounds. They could not be caught like this. "Mademoiselle?" Still she said nothing. He tried again, "Mademoiselle de Clermont?" When she once again failed to react, he knelt beside her. "Sophie!"

Her name on his lips startled them both. It was the first time he'd ever used it. She turned toward him, her eyes wide, her cheeks stained with tears. She was shaking. "I-I am sorry. I cannot seem to s-stand."

"You have to. There are others about. We must not be seen alone together."

"Then go," she said. "I shall manage. I just need a moment."

Fabien dismissed her words. In her current state, if found, she'd only rouse more gossip. Sophie attempted to push herself up, but she was trembling so badly, she swayed sideways. Fabien swore.

"Hold on to me," he said gruffly, reaching for her.

He placed one arm around her shoulders and the other beneath her legs, lifting her easily into his arms. At his touch, she tensed, going stiff as a board. "Easy," he soothed, as though he were pacifying a skittish filly. He made certain his touch was impersonal and non-threatening, a consideration that took him aback. It was certainly a first for him. He usually specialised in being as threatening as possible.

His long strides carried them away from the circulating nobles and down a deserted path separated by tall trees. It was away from the crowds and while the odd amorous couple occasionally ventured that way if they wished for some privacy, it was mostly abandoned save for gardeners and a few of Fabien's men who kept watch from a discreet distance. They would need to circle back in order to re-enter the palace, but Fabien knew the grounds like the back of his hand and was confident they could do so unobserved by anyone of importance.

After a few minutes, he felt Sophie relax against him, her head cushioned on his chest. She felt slight in his arms for she weighed no more than a feather. The faint traces of her lavender scent wafted up towards him, tickling his senses, its allure unsettling. Outside of his cold and clinical sexual liaisons, he was never overly familiar with women. Intimacy, a concept that was as foreign to him as the idea of love, was for poets and fools. Allowing anyone close enough to know his weaknesses, was, in his experience, asking for betrayal. Though for someone who prided himself on his ability to keep his emotions firmly contained, the peculiar yet alarmingly appropriate sensation of holding her, filled him with an array of feelings that were both alien and unnerving.

"Thank you for coming to my aid," Sophie said, her voice soft and thick with emotion. "I know you expect me to play my part, but—"

"Be quiet," he snapped, though he did not know if he was addressing his thoughts or her words.

She lifted her head. "Are you angry with me?"

"How I feel is irrelevant," he said, when their eyes met.

"You are angry." She pushed against his chest, bristling with annoyance. Good. He'd rather have her anger than her sobs. Anger he could manage. Feminine tears he had no patience for. "Set me down, please."

He hesitated for a split second before placing her on her feet. She grasped his forearms to steady herself, her touch light and soft…and then it was gone. She stepped back. Her eyes, dark like burning coals and filled with fire, pierced him in place.

"How have I displeased you now?" she demanded. "Is it because I did not allow that lecherous man to, to—"

"Do not be ridiculous," Fabien said curtly, stepping around her. The path they were on was not particularly wide, but certainly broad enough for the two of them to walk side-by-side. At present, he was striding away from her.

"Then what?" she pressed, stomping after him. "Why do you always have to be so surly and ill tempered?"

"You are hysterical," he dismissed. He was not in the mood to explain himself to her. He never explained himself to anyone, save the king. And even then, it was done reluctantly.

"Hysterical?" she echoed. He felt a sharp tug on the back of his coat and whirled around to face her. "You try being mauled by some depraved, lewd old man and see h-how you like it!" Her voice quivered, a sign she was not as impervious as she was pretending to be. For the second time that day, his heart lurched unexpectedly. "I swear, you are the most callous, arrogant and…and uncouth man I have ever had the misfortune to meet!"

He raised a brow. "I thought that honour belonged to Cassel."

"No, definitely you," she said, sharply. She looked furious, her colour high, her eyes shooting daggers at him. Her hair, which had come loose as a result of the assault she'd endured at the hands of Cassel, hung down her back, in a thick, shiny mass, with a few strands dangling around her face. She should have appeared a bedraggled mess. Instead, she looked uncommonly pretty.

Frowning, he said, "Mere seconds ago you were expressing your gratitude towards me."

"I take it back. I do not thank you. In fact, I do not need you to find my way back to the palace." She raised her chin, crossing her arms over her chest. "I will get there on my own."

Well, at least she was no longer on the brink of tears, he thought, relieved. "Then by all means." He set off again. "I will send a note to the gardeners shortly."

"The gardeners?" she called after him.

"They will be the ones who eventually uncover your decomposing corpse," he tossed over his shoulder.

"My decomposing corpse…?" Then, without warning, she burst into laughter. Fabien froze. The sound was foreign to him, particularly because it was seemed so out of place at Versailles, where almost everything and everyone was artificial, manufactured to play a role. She sounded so…pure, without guile or artifice. He had not heard its likeness in a very long time. "You are truly without any charm."

He turned, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Are you about to swoon?"

"No, no, I am not," she said with a grin, then sobered. "I do not know what exactly gave you away, but I have uncovered your plan." She cocked her head to the side, studying him in a way that made his skin prickle. "You have been antagonising me, quite deliberately, to ensure that I do not succumb to feminine histrionics." Stunned by her insight, he did not acknowledge her words, merely followed after her when she resumed walking. They walked in silence for a while, the only sound the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the distant hum of birds in the trees. After some time she added, "Whatever your motivation, I am grateful for what you did today. Thank you."

They were now walking abreast, but she was not looking at him. In fact, she was staring straight ahead, as though she preferred not to have to address the words directly at him – but her sincerity was unmistakable. Fabien felt uncomfortable with her gratitude, unsure of how he ought to respond.

While he pondered his reply, her arms lifted to wrap around her waist. It was then that he noticed she was shivering. She had no cloak. He glanced around, taking in the tall trees on either side them, their leafy canopies obstructing the warming rays of the sun. With a scowl, he untied the chords at his neck, and removed his cloak, dumping it unceremoniously across her shoulders.

"Oh!" she yelped.

"Try not to trip over the hem," he said, without breaking stride.

"Thank you," she said, clearly surprised. She quickly burrowed into the warm folds and lifted the bottom into her arms, preventing it from dragging on the floor.

"You are the third man to insult me today," she continued conversationally, as though it were perfectly normal for them to find themselves in their current position. "And if I were indeed prone to fits of melodrama, I think I would be throwing quite the tantrum now. In fact, I would most likely have earned the right to."

"Third?" he questioned, unable to subdue his curiosity.

She wavered, as though no longer wished to finish the thought. Fabien waited.

"Well, Cassel you know of. And you, of course" she said pointedly. "Also, uh, Benoit."

He glowered. "The builder?"

"Yes."

"Did he accost you as well?"

At his fierce tone, her head snapped around. "No, not at all."

He waited a beat, then forced his next words out in a calmer, more rational tone. "Then how did he insult you?"

"Our paths crossed this morning. It was the first time I'd seen him since…." Her voice trailed off before she added, "Anyway, he took the opportunity to chastise me for my poor choices." He did not miss the stab of pain in her voice. "It seems that you and he have at least one thing in common."

Fabien could not imagine what similarities he and the builder might share. He'd dug into Benoit's background some weeks before and apart from a self-righteous streak and a mild affinity for drink, the younger man seemed harmless enough. "And what is that?" he heard himself asking.

"You both despise me," she said softly.

Their eyes clashed - hers filled with naught but the truest belief in her words whilst his was carefully guarded. He ensured that he projected nothing that would provide any clues to his inner thoughts. Heat crept up her neck and suffused her cheeks before she glanced away, running a hand self-consciously over the top of her mussed hair.

Despise her? Of course he did. She was an unknown entity, someone whose loyalty he could not ever be completely certain was allied with him. And yet, even as he thought it, the waters somehow seemed murkier, as though the answer was no longer as simple as he'd once imagined it to be. Perhaps he no longer felt as though she were inherently bad, though his mistrust of her was still strong. Even if he were to remove her outward innocence from the equation, another pertinent fact counted against her: she'd been raised by a woman who'd proven to be one of his most formidable opponents. Surely it was impossible to suppose that she had somehow failed to adopt her mother's scheming and cunning nature. Only suddenly he no longer felt as confident about that assertion as he once had.

"Oh!" she said unexpectedly, cutting through his internal musing. "I found this earlier." She reached between her breasts and extracted a sheet of folded parchment. It was a cipher, etched lightly in the paper and highlighted in black soot. "I, uh, missed intercepting the duc's missive this morning because I fell asleep." Her cheeks went red again. "However, I did find this when I searched his chamber earlier. He must write with a heavy hand."

"You are resourceful," he murmured, remembering Claudine's words.

Her brow kicked up. "Was that a compliment?"

"Perhaps," he agreed, reluctantly. "Though it is by no means a ringing endorsement."

"Of course not," she said lightly. "After all, spies are not meant to be resourceful and hysterical, are they?" She glanced at him with wide eyes and feigned innocence. "Well, at least not at the same time."

He glared at her. "You mock me?"

"Never," she said far too quickly, betraying her true intent.

He felt his lips twitch and resisted the impulse to smile. She was teasing him. No one ever teased him. They were too afraid to dare.

"Have you managed to decode the first cipher?" she asked, swatting away a flying insect.

"No. It is proving harder than I had anticipated."

"What if we fail to uncover what the messages mean?"

"That is not an option," he stated decisively. He would find out what Cassel had planned, even if he had to torture every single servant himself. "The truth will be uncovered and the guilty punished."

They reached a fork in the pathway, the left heading deeper into the forest and the right back toward the palace. Together, they veered to the right where the path opened up to reveal a lone figure hunched over to the side with his back toward them, one elbow deep in the soil.

Hearing their approach, the figure turned. "Ah, Fabien. I was not expecting you."

"Jacques."

The older man pushed upward and stood, wiping his dirty hand on the front of his jacket. His other hand, covered in a brown leather glove, was immobile at his side. "And I see you have brought a lovely guest with you," he said, his keen eyes taking in Sophie's dishevelled appearance.

She must have noted his scrutiny, because her cheeks pinkened, and her hands smoothed over the front of her gown in embarrassment. She was regarding Jacques with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. Fabien could not blame her. Jacques was somewhat of a contradiction. He was certainly a gifted horticulturalist and appeared to most to be mild mannered and congenial. But there was an air about him that spoke of something deeper, something more sinister. Perhaps it was the obvious: the fact that he clearly only had one working arm. Or perhaps it was his lined and weathered face that housed deep-set, penetrating brown eyes which had a tendency to unsettle anyone who held their gaze for too long. Also, his unruly mane of hair, a mixture of blonde threaded with grey, did not help to detract from the hint of peculiarity that dogged his already intimidating countenance.

"This is…Mademoiselle de Clermont," Fabien said, gesturing toward the woman at his side. He knew that Jacques recognised her by the slight tic along his jaw. "She is a guest at the palace."

"I see, I see," he said softly.

Sophie's glance travelled between them, as though she sensed something was amiss.

"I would take your hand in greeting, mademoiselle," Jacques said, "but I fear my touch would only sully your beauty."

Sophie smiled uncertainly. "Have we met, monsieur? I feel as though you recognised me."

The gardener shook his head. "Just Jacques, please. And no, we have not met." He paused. "I am responsible for maintaining the royal gardens."

Fabien could visibly see her shoulders relax. "Your work is truly magnificent."

"Thank you," Jacques replied. He was a practical man, not in need or want of praise. He seemed to know his own worth and waited for no person to bestow upon him what he already knew he possessed. Though some might guess, few people actually knew that gardening was not his only talent. Fabien watched Sophie closely, wondering what she would do if she knew she stood before the man who'd executed her mother.

"How do you do it?" she asked, gesturing toward the greenery surrounding them. "Get all these plants and trees to bend to your will?"

Jacques looked around and then stooped to pluck a white carnation from the soil at his feet. He held it out to Sophie. "Every flower is like a soul blossoming in nature. If you show it care and consideration, it will reciprocate in kind."

"How lovely," Sophie said, sniffing the perfumed petals.

Jacques smiled. "So, what brings the two of you this far from the palace? The mosquitoes usually ensure that I work in solitude."

"We took a detour," Fabien deflected, not thinking it necessary to provide too much detail. Luckily Jacques was shrewd enough not to ask. "I take it no one else has come this way?"

"No. Not unless you are referring to His Majesty – who visited briefly yesterday."

"The king calls upon you here?" Sophie asked, surprised.

Jacques lips curved upward. "Often, mademoiselle. His Majesty seems to enjoy talking about flowers."

"How extraordinary."

"No matter a man's station in life," the gardener continued, "there is much to be discovered about ourselves when we turn to nature for answers. A good ruler knows this."

Fabien nearly rolled his eyes. He did not have the time to listen to Jacques wax poetic about shrubs and saplings. "We should—"

"Or perhaps," Sophie interrupted, beaming at Jacques, "you are just very effective at dispensing advice in the form of floral metaphors."

The gardener chuckled. "I cannot say, mademoiselle. But I fear I must get back to work. His Majesty has exacting standards and I have much to do that requires the utmost concentration."

"Of course," Sophie said.

"However, you are welcome to visit whenever you like – Fabien knows how to find me. I would be honoured to give you a proper tour of the palace gardens."

"You are very kind."

Fabien frowned at Jacques. What was he up to? Surely he did not want to admit to his role in Beatrice de Clermont's demise?

"Come," Fabien said to Sophie, giving the gardener a warning look which earned him a brief nod in return.

"How do you know Jacques?" Sophie asked as they moved off.

"He has worked here for years." Fabien could almost hear her mind working, trying to figure out how to ask the question he knew was uppermost in her mind. "How did he…you know…lose his hand?"

"You could have asked him yourself."

She gasped. "That would have been unforgivably rude. Besides, he is your friend."

Fabien scowled. "I do not have friends."

Sophie glanced at him. "Surely that is not true. There must be someone you consider a close companion?"

"No." He kept walking, his eyes focused on their surroundings.

"But what about Monsieur Bontemps? Or Claudine?" she asked, aghast.

"No," he reiterated, hoping she'd cease her line of questioning. He did not speak about himself to anyone.

"Why ever not?" she persisted.

"My reasons are not your concern."

She considered him in silence for a moment. "You are right. I should not pry."

Fabien stared, taken aback by her acquiescence. She stared back. Something stirred in his chest. Something uncomfortable and unsought. He glanced away. "We are nearing the château," he said, lengthening his step. The palace entrance was up ahead and he was eager to get inside. And away from her.

"What did His Majesty want to see Cassel about?"

"He did not."

"But you told him—"

"—that he needed to find Bontemps."

"He will be fobbed off," Sophie said, slightly out of breath. She'd lifted the hem of her gown as well as the cloak and was hurrying after him.

"Precisely." He could see their destination now, the entryway well concealed and never used by anyone other than himself and a few of his closest men.

He led the way past a series of magnificent marble statues before they reached an obscure doorway. Fabien withdrew his key and slipped it inside the lock, feeling the slight resistance before the mechanism gave way and granted them ingress. Like the rest of the château's concealed passageways, this one was equally dark, drafty and fetid.

After a few twists and turns, Fabien stopped beside an archway. "I suggest you make your way to your bedchamber and right your appearance. You appear somewhat…tousled."

He could not see her full features in the dim light, but he imagined her colour was high.

"Yes, of course."

He pointed right. "Take this passage all the way to the end. You will reach a stairwell. Go up two flights. You will emerge close to the guest's quarters. I trust you will be able to make your way to your apartments from there?"

Her reply was hampered by the arrival of one of his men striding purposefully toward them. "Girard?"

The fair-haired man handed Fabien a note. "From Monsieur Bontemps."

Fabien moved closer to a flame-lit torch, broke the seal and scanned the contents, frowning.

"What is it?" Sophie asked.

"It would seem that the king is planning to promote Cassel to Justice Minister."

"What?!"

For once, Fabien agreed wholeheartedly with Sophie's reaction. "I must go."

"W-Wait!" He stopped. "What shall I do?"

His eyes travelled over her. She looked quite regal standing there with his cloak draped across her back, hands clasped together, eyes focussed. "Nothing…for now. I will send word when I need you."

She looked as though she would argue, but said instead, "Very well."

Their eyes locked once more and lingered, both searching for that which neither of them could identify. Over the course of an afternoon, something intangible had shifted between them. Fabien could not say what exactly it was, or why he felt the change, but it was there, burgeoning between them like a delicate blossom fighting for survival. He resented it, did not want any part of it, and hated that he could not seem to stop it.

"Go. Now," he commanded, watching as she moved past him and disappeared down the hall. He turned to Girard. "Follow her. Make sure that she reaches her apartments without incident." He paused. "Then find Claudine Masson and tell her that Mademoiselle de Clermont might be in need of her company."

Girard nodded, and moved to do his bidding. Fabien did not question why, for the second time that day, he'd acted to protect the woman he was supposed to despise.