This was a colossal mistake.

The thought swirled around Fabien's head on an unending loop as he silently cursed inside the claustrophobic confines of the carriage. En route north towards St. Denis for far longer than he would have preferred, he was cold, agitated and irate – the inclement weather doing nothing to soothe his dour disposition. Soon after leaving Versailles behind, the heavens had opened up, bombarding their carriage roof with relentless, driving rain. Sudden and unavoidable, the current conditions were also unwelcome as it slowed their middling pace even further.

Sitting across from him, the main focus of his ill temper was at present staring in an almost hypnotised manner at the water cascaded down the outside of the carriage window. Other than to acknowledge his presence when she'd first stepped into their conveyance, Sophie had not so much as uttered a word in his direction. Fabien should have been pleased by her restraint, but for reasons he did not want to fully understand, it vexed him even more. If she was not speaking, that must mean she was ruminating on inconsequential matters or worse, potentially plotting – a dangerous notion.

Through the inky blackness of the carriage interior he could discern her outline, her slim figure huddled in the corner, shrouded in shadow. He could tell she was cold by the way she clutched her cloak around her body, her fur trimmed hood up and around her face. He could also tell she was grossly uncomfortable. Not even the dusky obscurity could disguise how tense she was, how her hands constantly braced on either side of her to prevent herself from toppling over whenever they hit a rut in the road. Their carriage was built for distance and speed, not for luxury. It contained none of the amenities that she was accustomed to such as liberally stuffed seats covered in soft, rich fabrics and a generous allotment of leg room to languish in style and ease. Instead, they were sitting on practical, well-worn seating in an enclosure cramped enough to ensure that their lower extremities bumped together every so often. Perhaps he'd been deliberate in his choice of transportation. He'd had the option of a larger, more lavish carriage, but he'd wanted to test her resolve and so had foolishly not given any thought to how he would manage having her within his immediate proximity for hours on end.

To her credit, he was forced to grudgingly admit that she bore their current circumstances well - at least for now. He'd not missed the dismayed look on her face when she'd first set foot inside, however she'd not uttered a single syllable in protest. He was convinced she did not like their rather rudimentary mode of travel, but she seemed determined to keep her dissatisfaction to herself. Much to his annoyance.

"You are unusually quiet," he said above the cacophony of hooves, wind and rain.

Her head swung around. "He speaks at last. I had feared we would make the entire journey without attempting any conversation at all."

He frowned at the thread of amusement in her tone. "Should I be flattered that you would consider my wishes before engaging in any manner of discourse?"

"Hardly. I would call my reserve a form of self-preservation, rather than an endeavour to please you." This time he did not mistake the laughter in her voice. "Furthermore, I assumed you would support an atmosphere which was mute and devoid of any form of communication."

He'd thought so too. Apparently not. "You continue to mock me."

She sighed rather dramatically. "Do you truly possess no sense of humour, monsieur? Not everyone strives to insult you. Though I imagine there are a great number of people who would wish to, but are merely too afraid."

His brow shot up. "I am the guardian of His Majesty's safety, not a harlequin. It is essential that others fear me."

"I am not implying that you adopt the mannerisms of a court jester," she huffed. "I am merely suggesting that everything need not always be taken in such a serious light. It must be arduous to be so…rigid."

Fabien was taken aback. No one ever spoke to him in so casual a manner. Or had the audacity to criticise the way he conducted himself. "Thankfully my character and temperament does not require your seal of approval."

"Your tone implies you are o-offended," she stuttered, her nails digging into the threadbare cushioning of her seat as the carriage hopped over a rise in the road. "That was not my intention."

His eyes narrowed, trying to discern her features through the dim interior. "Is it the dark that encourages the liberation of your tongue, or have you always been this bold?"

She laughed lightly, the delicate, breathy sound washing over him like a gentle summer breeze. It seemed to have substance, touching his face, the back of his neck, the palms of his hands, sending a startling bolt of sensation down the length of his spine. "I will concede that not being able to see you glare at me in disapproval does bolster my courage."

"So you do fear me?" he noted with satisfaction, discounting the unwanted flicker of awareness.

"Scarcely a laudable achievement," she remarked. "Not when one considers that it is the norm."

He hated how her forthrightness disarmed him, stripping away his talent for probing and digging and poking until he uncovered his opponent's weaknesses. He was also not entirely certain how to handle her unpredictability. He understood women to be manipulative creatures who used their feminine whiles to bend men to their will. But thus far Sophie had made no demands on him other than to be treated as an equal. It might be that she knew he'd see through any games she devised and therefore did not bother to try. Either way, while he still did not trust her, he had to admit that it was growing increasingly difficult to keep her confined within the category of master conspirator.

"Have you seen much of the countryside?" he asked suddenly, changing the course of conversation.

"Unfortunately the current weather conditions prohibits much sightseeing," she quipped.

Before he could stop himself, his lips twitched, a worrying habit he'd developed around her of late. Bracing his feet against the base of her seat, he effortlessly maintained his balance as the carriage swayed from side to side. "You do realise that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit?"

"That may be so, but it does not make its use any less satisfying," she asserted smoothly. Rearranging herself into a more comfortable position, she turned, angling her body towards him as though she wished to remain conversing. "And to answer your question, no, I have not seen much of the countryside."

"But you have been at Versailles for three years," he stated. There was nothing but countryside encircling the château.

Sophie seemed to hesitate before saying, "My mother was rather strict and would not permit me outside of her purview. So while I may have spent the past few years at court, I have in essence seen very little of what surrounds the palace." They hit another rut and she bounced in her seat, landing with a soft 'oomph!' "It look us nearly three days of travel to reach the duc's estate the last time. I think it safe to say we shall be there a lot sooner."

"Two days at the most, less if I can help it." The horses would need to be changed every few hours to make this possible, but Fabien did not foresee any impediments to his plan. He glanced out of the rain slicked window into the dense shrubbery beyond. "Once the rains cease, we will recover some time."

"I assume that is why you have not brought your own trusty steed along? Because he'd not be able to traverse the full distance?"

He nodded and then realised she could not see him. "I did not want to leave Minos in the care of strangers." The pace would be too bruising for one horse to manage without injury.

"I had a horse once. Or rather a pony," she confided, pulling her cloak closer around her. The temperature outside was dropping, and while they would certainly not freeze to death, the carriage was hardly well insulated. "He was a deep chocolatey brown with a patch of white between his eyes. I loved him right up to the moment I was forced to give him away."

She sounded almost wistful. "What happened?"

"Mother sold him so we'd have the money to travel to court," she replied softly.

Even without the benefit of clear sight, he heard the tinge sadness in her voice. He pushed it aside. He did not want to feel any sympathy for her.

"What of your father?" He asked the question even though he already knew the fundamentals, having completed an investigation into her paternal parent's background when he'd uncovered her mother's duplicity.

"He died when I was a young child." She rubbed her gloved hands together. He could tell she was more chilled than before because her teeth occasionally rattled as she spoke. "I always thought that I remembered him, but now I am not quite certain if my recollections are truly of him or if they are merely a product of mother's stories that have woven together into a tangle of false memories." Fabien did not want to talk about Beatrice de Clermont and was glad when Sophie continued, "Leaving Pau behind felt very final. If I had known then what I know now, I swear I would never have left."

Their murky surrounds played with Fabien's senses and because he could not see her eyes, it was a great deal harder for him to gauge her sincerity. "You cannot be displeased with your position at court?"

"Of course I can," she replied indignantly. "It is not what I wanted."

Again, she surprised him. Most young women relished the opportunity to mingle amongst those with wealth and influence. How could she be any different? From what he now knew of her mother, Sophie had been bred with a view to use her beauty and charms to attain the ultimate position of power – as the king's mistress. It was hard to imagine that this idea had been completely one-sided. "To be caught in a lie?"

"To be paraded as a prize for the highest bidder!" she exclaimed. "Much as I admire His Majesty, I have never had any desire to be his possession. I could not bear to live my life at the mercy and generosity of someone else – especially someone who was bound to tire of me eventually."

"Really?" he drawled, aware that she was currently living at his mercy and generosity.

"Our situation is different," she insisted.

"How so?" he challenged.

She appeared to waver. "I am not in love with you and therefore you are not in a position to hurt me."

Her words, astonishing as they were, threw him. It hung in the charged air between them, filling the small space to the point of bursting. Love. An emotion he'd never personally experienced nor ever expected to. He did not believe in its existence, or rather, he did not think that he was the type of man to ever succumb to its destructive powers.

He shifted, discomfited. "You are sentimental."

"If by that you mean I am a foolish romantic, then yes, I believe that I am. I feel no shame in admitting it," she confessed.

"You are also naïve."

"And you are hopelessly jaded."

"I prefer realistic."

"A convenient excuse, I think," she countered. "I will accept that perhaps court life could make one believe that love is disposable and fickle, but even so, I choose to trust in its existence. No matter how rare."

Unable to fathom an appropriate response to such a declaration, and not wanting to ponder her romantic inclinations, he switched his mind to her earlier statement. "If this life is not what you wanted, then what did you want?"

"Are you asking because you truly wish to know, or have you already decided that I am a liar and a cheat and so whatever response I make is irrelevant?" she asked directly.

He regarded her in silence. Fraud, fabricator, manipulator. Those were the qualities he'd attributed to her even before they'd been formerly introduced. Was she as innocent as she professed, or was she merely good at hiding her true motivation? He could not be sure. Though, whether she proved to be those things or not, she had good instincts and Fabien could not deny that he admired her candour and her courage. Not many women or men of his acquaintance had the fortitude to voice their true opinions directly to him. She was brave. "I wish to know."

It appeared that his response was not the one she'd been expecting. "Oh…well…I suppose I always envisioned a rather traditional life. A home of my own, a husband, a family, friends."

"How…quaint," he scoffed with an eye roll.

"I sense your ridicule, monsieur. Not that I expect a man such as yourself to understand the concept of simplicity when your entire existence thrives on unravelling complex webs of intrigue and espionage," she said, her tone somewhat snippy.

Faintly mocking, he gibed, "Somehow I cannot imagine you surrounded by crops and livestock."

"Well, what of you? You treat my aspirations with scorn, and yet I am certain that your own parents are far from proud of what you have become!"

His entire body tensed, even as her horrified gasp told him that she instantly regretted her outburst. He was a private man who did not speak of himself or his past to anyone. And because of who he was, no one dared to ask any questions or make any observations, at least not to his face. In the consequent silence his fists clenched reflexively, not because she'd made a statement that was painfully true, but because he'd not thought about his family in such a long time. He preferred not to. Those were feelings and emotions he'd buried many years before and he neither had the time nor the inclination to examine their veracity.

"I-I am sorry. I should not have said that," Sophie stammered in apology. "Despite our differences, I do not know your family and should not have mentioned them."

Fabien was not sure what it was - perhaps the forced closeness of their current state which felt as though they were enclosed in a dark, intimate cocoon, isolated and separate from the rest of the world, or perhaps it was the open regret he heard in her voice, that prompted him respond. "My father was a printer who ran a moderately successful business in Paris. Unfortunately he was a casualty of one of the many rebellions against the king during the early years of his reign." His mind flashed back to a time so long ago that he sometimes wondered if it had ever been real. "He was a good, honest man who met his end far too soon." His next words were cold and clipped. "You are right. He would not approve of who I am."

Sophie seemed stunned by his admission. In truth, so was he. "What of your mother?"

"Died in childbirth."

"How awful," she murmured. When he made no reply, she probed, "So…how did you become embroiled in this—?" She faltered, waving her hands to encompass their situation. Not for the first time he wished he could see her eyes so he'd have a better understanding of what prompted her curiosity. And yet despite not knowing, he found himself answering. "I was sent to an orphanage after my father's death, but I ran away before I turned eleven. The monks had more of a penchant for abuse and ill-treatment than they did for providing an education. I spent the next several years living on the streets, until His Majesty offered me work."

"That is unconscionable," she exclaimed, aghast. "You were just a child."

He'd been a child who'd had to learn fast. Initially he'd been appalled, terrified by what he saw happening within the Court of Miracles, the depths to which people would stoop to survive. Thieves, cutthroats, whores, murderers… everyone out for themselves. He'd learned pretty quickly that it was a kill or be killed type of world. If he did not seize the opportunities that came your way, indeed, if he did not make opportunities for himself, he would be struck down, abandoned and forgotten. "Do not feel sorry for me," he warned. He wanted no one's pity, especially not hers.

"Sorry for you?" she echoed, leaning forward in earnest. "On the contrary, you were forced into conditions no child should ever be subjected to. At eleven you were already far braver than I am likely to ever be. So no, I do not pity you, monsieur. And while I cannot in good conscience approve of all that you have done, I do admire your fortitude."

Damn her for sounding so sincere and damn her again for making him feel a moment's guilt at the long line of sins he'd committed throughout his three and thirty years. It was surely a list of transgressions that would see him safely through the gates of hell. Uneasy with the road their conversation had taken, and unsure of how to respond, he chose to forget it entirely. Turning his head away, he dismissed her, glancing out of the window into the unfathomable darkness beyond.

Thankfully Sophie said nothing more. They had a long journey ahead of them and if this start was any indication, he needed to keep their interactions to a minimum. She had a way of making him reveal parts of himself he preferred remained firmly hidden. She was a means to an end. A way to catch treasonous villains. That was all. He needed to remember that.

Gritting his teeth, he thought for the hundredth time that this entire idea had been a colossal mistake.


Sophie was exhausted. She was also cold, stiff and sore. She was not sure how much longer she could endure the unyielding pace with which they raced towards Calais. Obliged as she was for the hot brick encased in a thick fabric pouch that Monsieur Marchal had procured for her in St. Denis (an unexpectedly thoughtful gesture) and then continued to have reheated for her at every stop, it was still not enough to stave off the chill that permeated through her very bones.

The carriage was barely more than two padded seats across from one another. And even the word 'padded' seemed an exaggeration. It was more like a wooden bench with a tattered covering of fabric that's inner cushioning had been worn down to threads after years of use. After hours and hours of sitting, her bottom was so numb that she did not think she'd ever feel anything in that region again.

Curled into the corner of her seat, with the residual heat from the brick seeping into her midriff, it felt as though they'd been northbound for years. The constant stop and start seemed never-ending and Sophie had long since lost track of the amount of times they'd pulled into a small town only to have Monsieur Marchal dart out before the carriage had even come to a complete halt. He usually secured a chamber for her to see to her ablutions and also for them to scarf down a hasty meal of bread and cheese while the horses were changed. The routine had been one Sophie had initially welcomed. Now she had to physically drag herself out of the carriage when all she really wanted to do was get a few minutes of uninterrupted sleep.

Having left Versailles in the middle of the night, combined with the ensuing day's travel, she'd had less than three hours sleep in close to forty-eight hours. Her mind was weary and her back, derriere and thighs were aching so badly she wondered if she'd ever be able to stand upright again. But onward they soldiered. All she prayed for was that the duc's estate revealed something of importance that would have made this torturous journey worthwhile.

With conversation long since becoming a scarcity, Sophie was generally left to her own devices. After their initial exchange, Monsieur Marchal mostly ignored her whilst alternating between rifling through sheaves of parchment and reading from a number of thick leather tomes. In truth, Sophie did not really mind his neglect. Their repartee hours before had resulted in some interesting discoveries, all of which required time and introspection to fully dissect. And after an absolute age of pondering and reflection she'd come to realise that there was perhaps much more to the man than she'd initially thought. Born into what she presumed had been a stable and loving family only to be orphaned early in his formative years, he must have been subjected to an incredibly harsh and unforgiving childhood. She could not begin to imagine what he'd had to do in order to stay alive. She'd heard the nobles at court rumbling about the Court of Miracles and the miscreants who dwelled in its shadows. They were made to sound like hardened, soulless criminals who took what they wanted and destroyed anyone who stood in their way. Was it that early tutelage that had made Monsieur Marchal into the man he now was - a hard, unfeeling man terrifying accomplished in the art of violence?

And yet for an infinitesimal moment she'd sensed a vulnerability in him, thought she'd seen a hint of the scars that might mar a man who'd had to mentally tear himself from the life he'd once known in order to fully commit to his new one. Or perhaps she'd merely had too much time to mull over the life of someone who, despite her better judgement, she found infinitely fascinating. Which meant that it was essential that she maintained a calm, impartial outlook and did not indulge in any fanciful imaginings.

Cracking her eyes open, Sophie noticed that Monsieur Marchal appeared to be asleep, his head leaning against the back of the seat, arms folded across his chest. Though he said nothing about being travel weary, she could feel his restless energy permeating through the inside of the carriage, setting her own nerves on edge. The man certainly possessed a magnetism that made ignoring him utterly impossible. Glancing at him under the veil of her lashes, she noted his long legs braced against the bottom of her seat, the tops of his muscled thighs taunt as he effortlessly adjusted his stance to move with the swaying of the carriage. Man and conveyance seemed perfectly at ease, whereas she was physically drained from the constant struggle just to remain seated as their carriage barrelled towards their destination.

Yielding once more to her fatigue, her eyes had just slipped closed again when the carriage abruptly lurched sideways. Sophie yelped as she was unceremoniously tossed forward and off her seat. Expecting to land on the floor, she was instead caught up in a pair of strong arms as the carriage careened dangerously to one side. Through the haze of confusion, she was aware of Monsieur Marchal's men yelling outside before their carriage came to an abrupt halt, one side hanging slightly lower than the other. The sudden silence seemed deafening. After hours of constant noise, it was a little disorienting to be able to hear the sound of her own breathing.

Opening her eyes, she realised that she was cradled almost protectively against Monsieur Marchal's chest, one of his arms wrapped around her back, the other supporting her head. He was holding her so tightly that she could hear his heart pounding against her ear, the affirmation of life an immense comfort.

Pulling away from her, his gloved fingers raised her chin until their eyes met in the thin, silvery shaft of moonlight filtering in through the carriage window. His gaze focused and intent, he asked, "Are you injured?"

She shook her head. "I do not think so."

He glanced out of the window, but did not push her away. She could feel his arms flex around her as he leaned forward to get a better look outside. Satisfied with whatever he saw, he set her back onto her seat before letting go completely. Strangely bereft, Sophie tried to gather her wits. She was certain she looked a sight. Her hair had unravelled from its coiffure hours before and now hung limply around her face while her dress was a horrible, wrinkled mess.

"Wait here," Monsieur Marchal commanded, opening the carriage door.

Sophie glanced outside, but was unable to discern much through the dark. And though she could hear the murmur of voices, the actual words were indistinct. She waited for what felt like an absolute age before the door was wrenched back open. "We have a broken wheel and will have to ride into Amiens on horseback."

The lingering fear of their near crash moments before was the only thing holding Sophie upright as she stumbled out of the carriage. Stepping into the road her limbs felt heavy and disjointed from hours of constant sitting. Allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she saw the two men she knew only as Henri and Pierre, uncoupling the pair of horses from the carriage. Based on the awkward angle of the left front wheel, it was clearly damaged. Glancing around, she noted that they were stranded on a deserted tree-lined lane with no signs of life in any direction. She shivered as a gust of wind swirled around her ankles, drawing her cloak closer around her chilled frame and lifting the hood up and over her head to shield her neck and face. Despite the cold, all she truly wanted was to sleep. Stifling a yawn, she swayed slightly.

Out of nowhere, Monsieur Marchal came up behind her, placing a steadying hand on her elbow, before guiding her towards one of the horses. "No one will be available to fix the wheel until morning. We will need to seek shelter."

"How long before we reach Amiens?" she asked, not certain she could endure several more hours on horseback.

"Less than an hour, I imagine. Hopefully we will arrive just after midnight." Before she knew what was happening, he grasped her at the waist and hoisted her onto the front of the horse. Seconds later he swung up behind her and seized the reigns. Beside them, Henri mounted the second mare.

"What of Pierre?" she enquired as they set off at a mild trot.

"He will stay behind with the carriage until Henri can summon some assistance."

Sophie tried valiantly to remain alert and engaged. But the gentle sway of the horse, coupled with the solid strength of Monsieur Marchal's embrace proved too much to resist. Settling back against him with a defeated sigh, she place head on his chest, her eyes instantly fluttering shut. She vaguely registered the addition of another layer of something soft and warm being draped across her shoulders before his arms tightened around her, holding her securely in place. More comfortable than she'd been in too many hours to count, she drifted off to sleep.

What felt like mere seconds later, she was roused. Disorientated, she noticed that they were outside a small travelling inn named Le Cheval Blanc. "I will see to obtaining some lodgings until morning." Sophie forced her eyes open, nearly falling into Monsieur Marchal's arms when he reached to help her from the horse. He caught her easily and held on until she found her feet. Without letting go of her arm, he guided her inside and straight to an empty bench before stepping up to the counter where a portly man stood ready to encourage their patronage. She sank gratefully into the seat and tried to clear the fog from her mind. Casting her drowsy gaze about the candlelit chamber her eyes drifted beyond the small reception area where they were at present, to the large internal space beyond, which was dominated by tables and chairs where diners could enjoy their food and drink. Sophie could see a few people milling about, clearing tables and upending chairs in order to scrub the floor. The place looked clean, if not particularly modern and she vaguely wondered if Monsieur Marchal had ever been there before.

She'd barely finished the thought when he returned to collect her, ushering her up a staircase to the second floor where they traversed a narrow corridor with bedchambers leading off on either side. Halting outside the last door, they waited as a manservant exited before they stepped inside.

"It is too late to summon a bath, but the inn keeper will send up some hot water and a light meal shortly."

Sophie nodded, her belly rumbling at the mention of food. The chamber was small, but spotless and neat. Not that she thought she'd have had enough energy to protest if it had not been. Untying her cloak, she draped it over the back of the chair angled towards the hearth. Inside the grate, a newly lit fire roared, the sight a warm and welcome relief. Not wanting to sit after having been confined for so long, she stood before it, removing her gloves so that she could feel the lick of heat against her fingers.

"When do you think our journey will resume?"

Monsieur Marchal moved to stand beside her, his gaze directed towards the dancing flames. "At daybreak, when the wheel is ready."

While she was certain he did not embrace their unanticipated reprieve, Sophie most assuredly did. They stood in companionable silence for few moments, each lost in their own thoughts, before there was a knock at the door. Monsieur Marchal moved to open it, allowing two petite women in, one carrying a tray laden with food, the other a large basin of steaming water and a few items pertinent to a lady's toilette. Sophie expressed her gratitude and watched as they shuffled out as quickly and as courteously as they'd entered.

It was then that she spied Monsieur Marchal removing his cloak and jabot. Alarmed, she demanded, "What are you doing?"

He glanced at her impassively. "I realise you are travel weary, but I had thought you would still recognise the act of disrobing."

She scowled. "But why are you disrobing here? Surely you have your own bedchamber?"

"We are listed as Monsieur and Madame Marchal," he revealed, and her heart leapt into her throat. "An unfortunate necessity if I am to preserve your reputation until we return to court. And as such, we must share a bedchamber."

Monsieur and Madame Marchal. She swallowed. "Oh...I was not aware."

He raised an insolent brow. "I trust there is no problem?"

"Of course not," she retorted, refusing to be unnerved by him. It was only one night. Somehow she would manage. Or die trying, she vowed.

Monsieur Marchal turned towards the food and lifted the lids off the bowls, peering inside. The delicious aroma of lamb stew and fresh bread wafted her way, making her mouth water. Thinking he'd sit and eat, she was surprised when he grabbed his cloak instead. "I have business with Henri. I would advise against dallying too long. Eat and then get some sleep. Our journey will resume with renewed purpose come morning."

Stunned by his hasty exit, Sophie nonetheless breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind him. Determined to take advantage of her time alone, she raced to the door and peered out into the hallway, catching the tail end of Monsieur Marchal's cloak as he rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight. As quickly as she could, she removed her gown and corset and stood before the washbasin in her linen chemise. Grabbing the bar of unscented soap, she lathered the accompanying sponge and bathed all her essential bits before slipping back into her cloak – just in case. She then removed all the pins from her hair, letting the lustrous mass down completely before using the comb she'd found amongst the items gifted to her to remove the myriad of tangles and snares. Feeling marginally restored, she finally she sat down at the little table in the corner and devoured her meal. The stew was perfection, as were the flaky rolls generously lathered with butter and accompanied with an assortment of sliced cold meats and cheeses. Eating her fill, she took a final sip of wine before re-covering all the dishes, certain there was plenty left over for Monsieur Marchal to enjoy.

Her body clean and her belly filled, exhaustion finally settled in. Tossing off her cloak, she threw back the covers on the large, oak canopied bed and crawled beneath them, allowing her body to relax into the mattress. It briefly crossed her mind to wonder where Monsieur Marchal would sleep before she decided that she did not care, the sweet state of oblivion claiming her almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

The next time Sophie stirred, she sighed in contentment. Curled onto her side with her hands beneath her cheek, the weight of the coverlet across her shoulders was a pleasant burden. The air was temperate and smelled of leather and soap, a strange combination. Allowing herself to wake by degrees, she slowly opened her eyes and immediately drew in a sharp breath. Monsieur Marchal was lying beside her. Still fully clothed apart from his cloak and doublet, he lay on his back atop the coverlet, his face rotated towards her.

Not quite over the shock of seeing him so close, she dared not breathe lest she wake him. With his features relaxed in sleep, he appeared younger, less intimidating, more human. Sophie took the rare moment of defenselessness to study him as she never had the opportunity to do when he was on guard. Her gaze travelled from his lush hairline down his high, imposing forehead towards his thick brows which perfectly framed his closed, deep-set eyes. His lashes were dark and long, something she'd never noticed before. She knew of several women at court who would have given their left arm to have been so naturally blessed. Continuing, her eyes wondered down his slim, sharp nose, past his high cheekbones and down towards his jaw which now housed more than a day's worth of bristles. She paused when she reached his dimpled chin, the only sign of weakness on his entire face. For a moment her fingers itched to run a single digit along that groove, to feel the dip and swell for herself. The absurd impulse was so overwhelming that she actually had to curl her fingers into a fist to avoid yielding to the compulsion.

Moving on swiftly, her gaze halted beneath his neat moustache, lingering at the thin but sensuous arc of his upper lip and the curved, chiselled fullness of his lower lip. If she was to assess him objectively, she would have to admit that he had a very agreeable looking mouth. Yes, it was certainly a cruel and cutting weapon, but in repose, it was oddly tempting. In fact, just staring at it made her feel unexpectedly restless and tingly and warm in places young women were not supposed to think about. It also made her feel uncommonly curious.

"Seen enough?"

His voice, deeper and more gravelly than she'd ever heard it before, and so startling in the stillness, made her jolt, setting off a riot of butterflies in her belly. Mortified to have been caught staring, her cheeks flooded with colour as her eyes flew up to meet his, now wide awake and fully alert and filled with enough heat to flay her alive.