The Invisible Savior

As Marguerite lay there in the dark, she first thought it would be impossible to sleep. There were too many thoughts reeling in her mind. Learning of Armand's death... Blakeney's secret identity as the Pimpernel... Chauvelin's determination to kill her... Tony's interference at the theatre all those years ago... Blakeney's idiocy the past few years... the picture Armand had carried with him until he was shot... why no one had notified her of Armand's death sooner... Fleurette's safety... where Andrew was... Blakeney lying so close to her... this tiny room where refugees had hidden... Blakeney...

Dieu, but his body simply radiated heat, and the bed was so warm and toasty that she could barely remember being cold in that wretched cabin, or as she crawled through tunnels.

Nor was it just the delicious heat. She could feel the male strength from his body, seeping across the sheets, and a part of her wanted to curl up against him and feel safe. A part of her wanted to forget everything: Chauvelin, the Nazis, Armand... even Blakeney himself, damn it all.

How long had it been since she had felt safe? Not since she had lived in the convent as a child. She had always felt protected behind those huge, iron-studded doors and the massive blocks of masonry. It had been a simple life, but after she moved back in with Armand, and the more she learned of the world, the more Marguerite half-wished she could return behind those walls and live in peace and tranquility.

And despite having men fawn over her constantly, she tended to shy away from them. Before the war, she hadn't had time. Her work had simply been too demanding. During the war, she had been too afraid. Now, after the war, she didn't trust anyone. It wasn't that she despised love, or didn't want to fall in love. It was just that she knew the cost. Many professed love without knowing what the word meant, without actually meaning it. The word love was tossed about flippantly. It was just another thing to say, like I'm hungry or Isn't the weather nice? The only person she had ever truly loved was Armand, and she didn't even have that hope anymore.

When her brother had failed to return after the war, Marguerite had still hoped, day after day, that he would. But by 1948, the realist within her had accepted that he was likely dead. She had grieved upon the realization, cried, and tried to hope otherwise. But deep down, she had known he must be dead; else he would have returned before this. Hearing Blakeney tell her what had happened hurt, but at least the confession provided finality. The truth felt like a prick in her heart, but not as devastating as it would have been in 1945. She was still frustrated with him for not telling her sooner, but she found she couldn't even hold that against him – not really. He had been right: crossing borders was insanely dangerous during the war, and even if he had showed up on her doorstep, she would have never made the connection between Blakeney and the handsome, young blonde who had tried to see her at the theatre. She may not have believed him if he had come to her; she may have thought it to be a trick, especially considering Chauvelin's duplicity. No, she couldn't really blame Blakeney for not telling her before now.

But oh, she had plenty else to blame him for. She thought back to when she'd known him as an idiot. The night she'd met him in Cannes came to mind immediately. How she had hated him then! Not because he was unattractive, but because he was so infuriating, so stupid, and so ridiculous. In all actuality, he was very attractive in the physical sense: he was tall, with close-cut blond hair that a slight wave to it. It would be curly if he let it grow out, she supposed. He was strong, muscular, slender, and well built. No, she had hated his personality, not his appearance. When he played an idiot, he was absolutely grating.

And that bothered her, too – the fact that he could change personalities so easily. It made her wary of him, for he was obviously a man who could play any role. She had watched him play German soldier to such perfection that she believed it. She had truly believed it! What other roles had he played that she was unfamiliar with? Had he played a role around her without her knowing in the past? Her skin prickled. If he was such a good actor, he could have been around her at any point without her knowledge. She was a good actor herself, but she wasn't that good. She had to ask him about that – if he had been around her without her knowledge at any point before. Because that would really rile her up, and a part of her wanted to argue with him.

But the next thing she knew, she was dreaming – she was standing on a quiet, rear balcony in Paris, with ivy trailing up the walls. The balcony overlooked a tiny, secluded garden...and the twinkling lights of the city sparkled just above the trees. Behind her, a man's arms circled her waist; his lips touched her neck, and she sighed with happiness. What a feeling! her dream-self thought. To be happy! She turned in his arms; she saw the lights of Paris reflecting in his eyes – blue eyes. She kissed him gently, and then pulled him back into the dark room. He whispered her name hoarsely: Margot, not Marguerite, and she sighed again and rested against him, relishing the strength that soaked into her body from his as his hands moved up her torso, down her arms, over her back...

She awoke gradually, trying to cling to the dream, because it was so peaceful and pleasant that she didn't want to let it slip away just yet.

And then suddenly, she became fully awake.

Startled, she discovered she was pressed against Blakeney, with her head nestled against his chest. She had rolled over during the night, towards him, and he had moved at some point as well. He was now turned towards her and he had his arm around her waist. She was pressed snugly against him! At first, she felt horrified; then she realized her hand was cupping his shoulder in sleep, while her other hand was clutching his thin shirt. She could feel the hardness of his chest beneath her palm. His warmth was overwhelming. And she was as much to blame as he, because her dreams had betrayed her and pushed her towards him out of desperation.

There was no way to move without waking him, but she noticed that it wasn't as dark as it had been when she'd gone to sleep. The dim light in the bathroom was on again. Perhaps he had woken in the night and turned it on. She listened intently, but heard nothing, so she looked up at his face instead. It was gray in the faint light. In sleep, she could see a couple of small lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. He was tired, that much was obvious, but she could also see the teenager who had visited the theatre in the chisel of his chin, the strong cheekbones, and the straight nose. He had filled out since then, but that was no wonder. He had been young then, as had she. They were both older now, both worn with the weight of the world. Both had done something they were ashamed of.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth. It was firm and long, and without thinking, she released his shoulder and gently touched his lower lip with her finger, tracing it slightly. She had kissed many men, but she had never felt anything before. Of course, there was always the body's response to pleasure, but she had heard of women who spoke fondly of fireworks or bells or a special feeling when they kissed the right man. She had written such nonsense and fairytales off long ago.

Without warning, Blakeney's eyes fluttered open. Marguerite froze. She was pressed against him, touching his mouth with her fingertips, and he was awake. There was little way to get out of such an awkward situation.

"Margot?"

He whispered her name, sleep-laden and heavy and low, and the word vibrated against the pads of her fingers and made her shiver despite the heat.

"Forgive me," she whispered in response. "I did not mean to wake you. Go back to sleep. You need the rest."

But instead of heeding her words, he rolled over onto his back, releasing her in the process, and lifted his arm to look at his wristwatch. Then he groaned, apparently at the time, and his arm dropped across his eyes and forehead, as though wishing to block the dim light.

"Forgive me," he muttered. "I didn't realize I rolled towards you last night."

"I also rolled over," she reminded him. She was still lying on her side, facing him; she had not sat up or moved back to her side of the bed, even though he had put a few inches of distance between them.

"Yes, but..." He paused, as though choosing his words, and then said deliberately, "I'm not a very strong man, Margot, and –"

She interrupted him. "Why do you call me that?"

"Marguerite," he amended.

"I don't mind if you call me Margot." She went on thoughtfully, "But why do you think you are weak? You are quite likely the strongest man I have ever met. Don't misunderstand – simply a statement of honesty."

His lips curved and he dropped his arm back to his side. "There is a difference between physical strength and mental strength."

"Ah, so you are a stupid fool?" She smiled slightly when his head turned enough so he could see her.

He chuckled, fortunately recognizing the jest in her tone. "Where you are concerned, yes."

"I make you a fool?" She felt her eyebrows lift at that idea.

"Margot, listen to me. I'm afraid if you touch me, I'll… lose control. Of myself," he clarified.

She didn't move. She was much less inclined to argue and fight with him this particular moment, unlike the night before. Instead, she reached across a gap that seemed miles wide, but was in reality only a few inches, and cupped his chin to make him look towards her.

He jerked to a sitting position in record time, deliberately looking in the opposite direction. "I should go take a shower," he said quickly.

"You took one a few hours ago. I don't think you've gotten dirty between now and then."

"Stop it, Margot." His tone was pleading. "Don't make me explain –"

"I am a grown woman, Percy. I can guess what you meant by needing a shower. Lay back down. I know you won't do anything. Besides, you said yesterday we could not go anywhere until you heard from your men. I won't touch you if you order me not to."

He hesitated. "It isn't that I wouldn't like you to touch me..."

"Ah. You are afraid I would seduce you because you're the only man in the room? Now that I've been around you for longer than a few minutes, it is easy to see that you are a man who wants only one woman in life. Tell me, do you believe I prefer multiple men instead of one?"

"Much as I loathe to admit it, I don't really know what you prefer." His brow furrowed.

"Lay back down, Percy. We have hours to talk, and we obviously need to."

Slowly, he did as she asked, but she could tell he was tense, and he kept one knee up under the quilts so she wouldn't notice if he were aroused or not. The thought that he was so embarrassed about the situation was rather endearing. Most men would have pounced on her by this point, instead of keeping their distance.

So she said calmly, "I prefer one man, who is faithful, and has no interested in using the word love freely. I do not prefer a film actor, because God knows I'm sick of them. I'm rather sick of acting myself, except that it makes money, and I have no one else, so I must support myself. Are we on the same page so far?"

"I believe so, yes." He twitched slightly as he stared at the dark ceiling.

"Now, I do have one question which I am most curious about. Would you mind telling me why you wrote that ridiculous movie script? And why you are forcing me, of all people, to act in it?"

"Are you complaining because you don't think it will be a hit?" He looked genuinely confused.

"Oh, I'm sure it will be a hit," she said dryly. "But I still need to know why you wrote such an idiocy of a script."

"Is that all? Andrew wanted to meet Suzanne."

Marguerite stared at him incredulously, and felt her ire rising. "That was the reason? You went through such a roundabout series of tactics just for that?"

"I often do things in a roundabout way," he admitted. "And it wasn't just Andy wanting to meet Suzanne. I wanted to meet you again. I wanted the chance I missed before the war. I am a selfish person, I'm afraid."

She huffed at the very idea. "A man who has saved hundreds is hardly selfish, Percy."

"I don't want you to love me just because of that." He sounded annoyed now, too. "I don't want to be loved because people believe I'm a hero, or some such rubbish. Very much like you wish people would love you for whom you are off screen."

"Then why don't you be Percy around me, instead of acting!" She whacked his arm lightly, growing more and more irritated with him. Could he at least have a conversation with her in which he didn't drive her up the wall?

His eyes flared slightly and he looked directly at her. "You want me to act like myself?"

"Yes, damn it!"

"Fine." He changed, almost instantly, and twisted to lie on his side, facing her. Propping his head up with his elbow, he said baldly, "What do you want to know about me?"

"Oh, for goodness sake! Anything you wish to tell me, damn it!"

"Very well." The very briskness of his voice was so different from the lazy, infuriating drawl he normally used when he was at posh parties. It belied how rapid his thoughts were moving. Was this really who he was?

Without waiting for her to say anything else, he went on, "I hate being dirty. It's an occupational hazard of being the Scarlet Pimpernel, but I'd rather be clean. And my men always complain that I josh around too much, that I act too idiotic, but I do it deliberately. I don't want people to see how much I feel inside." He suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"What do you mean?"

"My mother, before she died, used to tell me that I felt the grief of the world. That I saw suffering all around me and that I absorbed it into my heart... that I hurt for the downtrodden and would do anything to help them. She told me once it would kill me unless I found someone to share the burden."

"And do you share that burden with the League?"

"No." He smiled sadly. "Mother was right – I refuse to share it with anyone. I would do almost anything to save anyone in the war. Eventually, I believe my heart will probably just burst from seeing the pain of others. My biggest weakness is that I feel too much."

"That isn't a weakness, Percy," she whispered, reaching out and gently touching his cheek.

He closed his eyes, his jaw tightened, but he didn't push her away. Instead, he changed topics, and murmured, "And quite honestly, I hate it when you wear those low-cut designer gowns – not that you don't look smashing, but I prefer you in those worn out, too big flannel pajamas."

"Dieu. These don't show a girl's figure. They're shapeless."

"No, but you look comfortable. Relaxed. You are just like me, Margot. You put up a false front to trick people, to make everyone around you believe you are perfectly fine inside. In fact, it is the furthest thing from the truth."

She became quite still. He was right, of course. It bothered her that he was right, but they were very similar, she and Percy.

He continued, "I'd rather know you, and not Marguerite the Actress. I want to know the young woman who desperately helped her brother pay the rent, even if it meant working in a sleazy vaudeville theatre. I want to know the woman who wears a plain gray dress to dinner in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the French Alps. The woman who willingly followed me through a series of tunnels to escape Chauvelin."

A well of emotion seemed to rise up in her; unbidden, she felt a couple of tears slide down her face. Percy's eyes snapped back open and she sat up to hide her tears, but he sat up as well and wrapped his arms around her, soothing her mused, curly hair back.

"Damn. I am sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"I'm sorry, too. I misjudged you, and that is unforgiveable."

"Nothing is unforgivable. We both misjudged the other, I expect. Besides, I enjoyed fighting with you." He released her and sat back on his palms. "I enjoyed the way you weren't afraid to stand up to me, to yell back at me. You did that in Cannes, too. I could argue with you all night, really."

Feeling suddenly and distinctly angry, she turned and glared at him. "Telling a woman you enjoy fighting with her is hardly the way to win her heart!"

"You told me to be myself. And I love it that those top two buttons came undone."

Horrified, she glanced down – to her shock, neither button was undone at all! He was merely joking, and when she scowled at him, his lips twitched with amusement.

"Honestly! You did tell me I would never see such a sight again, remember?" he reminded her.

Marguerite had half a mind to unbutton the pajama top just to watch him break out in a sweat for such insolence. Fiddling with the top button, she mused, "And what would you do if I retracted that statement?"

His smile slid off instantly. "Don't," he warned her.

"Or what?" She unfastened the top button.

"Margot, please. I pride myself on being a gentleman, but even a gentleman has his limits."

She unfastened the second, noting the way his eyes widened and how he looked momentarily panicked. "And would you like to know about Margot, and not the screen actress?" she asked curiously.

He nodded once, though it appeared to be difficult for him. He was staring at the hollow of her throat.

"I hate being dirty, too. I prefer a quite cottage in the country, or an apartment on a lazy street in Paris, instead of the limelight of the stage and all those awful cameras. I hate being lonely. I hate the thought of growing old, without anyone in my life. I miss my brother, I'm terrified of Chauvelin, and I wish you had come back to the theatre twenty years ago, without your friends, and found me again."

"I did."

The admission startled her, and she paused.

He murmured quietly, "The problem was, I couldn't get backstage again. Your boss recognized me and ordered me out – he didn't want to lose you to some foppish rich boy. I decided to wait a few days, then go back in a disguise. But when I went back, you were gone. One of the other actors told me you had been hired for a film production two nights earlier. After that, I refused to go to your movies, because I didn't want to lose the memory I had of you from that night. Silly, isn't it?"

Well, that was an interesting bit of information. "Hmm. Very well, then. I will accept that answer. And there is one more thing you should know about me, Percy: I prefer a man who is a gentleman, yes... but I also like him to lose control every once in a while. A man who is so in love with me, that sometimes, when he sees me, he can't keep his hands to himself. Is that too much to ask?"

He looked back at her face and shifted. "No," he whispered. "I want that, too. I mean, a woman who is so in love with me that she can't keep her hands to herself. I've never had that."

"I'm still angry with you," she reminded him. "For dragging me all over the country, for toying with my life, for never telling me about yourself or Armand, and for being such an idiot when that isn't your real personality at all."

Percy suddenly grinned. "I haven't let you die yet, have I?"

"That is beside the point." She sat up fully and unbuttoned a third button.

He jolted; clearly shocked she would dare to keep up such a game. "Margot, do stop. This isn't the time or place...!"

"Then when is the time and place?" she teased.

"Not in a hidden room, where Chauvelin could burst in at any moment!" He sat up, clearly debating whether or not to stop her.

"No?" She edged over to sit beside him, facing him. He couldn't slide away from her, or he'd fall off the bed. Without waiting for an invitation, she reached out and touched his chest with her fingertips, and tugged the thin fabric of his shirtsleeves, letting her knuckles brush against his muscle through the cotton.

And without any warning, he immediately cupped her face with both hands and kissed her. She was startled for a brief second, and at first it was tentative and soft, but God, there was fire beneath his lips. She fisted her hand in his shirt and pulled him closer. She could feel the restraint in his body, taut and still... in the gentle way his hands held her jaw line but at the same time, the way his fingers trembled as though he wished he could rip her clothes off and bruise her mouth with kisses.

She opened her lips and shifted to crawl in his lap, placing one knee on either side of his hips. She slid up his body until she cupped his neck and tilted his face towards hers, and her tongue traced his lips until he opened them. His hands slid down from her face to her arms, gently but deliberately preventing her from actually straddling his lap, but when his tongue met hers, it felt as though her stomach exploded into a million butterflies. He tasted like heat, burning her mouth and brain to oblivion, and she wanted him to stop holding himself back and let his emotions take over.

The only problem was, it ended as abruptly as it had began. She distantly heard a click, but before she could register what was happening, Percy had dumped her back on her side of the bed and grabbed a pistol from the nightstand. He put all six foot two of himself in front of her as the baseboard to the outer room moved.

The bright light of day suddenly lit up the narrow entrance to the hidden room as the baseboard was pulled back, and she caught sight of a pair of heavy boots.

Then, a definite, but bored British voice said, "Do get up, Perce. It's nearly 2:00 in the blasted afternoon."

Percy responded dangerously. "You'd best have something demmed good to report, Philip!"

"Perhaps," was the maddening answer. "While the rest of us have been risking our arses out here, you've been shagging the most beautiful woman in Europe, so you'll forgive us if we're not in the best of moods with you. Get out of bed and I might tell you more."

"Yosef, are you out there?" Percy barked.

Marguerite heard Yosef chuckle out the word "yes", but Percy didn't wait for more. Instead, he snapped, "If I shoot Philip, are you going to report me to the authorities?"

"You can't shoot me, Perce," the man named Philip said, rather exasperatedly. "I work for MI6. Now get out here."

"I can shoot you if I wish, and for your information, I haven't been shagging the most beautiful woman in Europe." Percy slapped the gun back onto the night table and got out of bed. "I've been sleeping, damn it, and it felt good to actually sleep for a change." He began fishing in a drawer for an over-shirt.

"I'm sure Marguerite St. Just can confirm or deny the accusation," came the wicked reply.

Marguerite felt devilish, but mostly for Percy's sake. It would hurt any man's ego to admit she hadn't actually had sex with him, so she said loftily, "A lady never tells. She lets other men guess."

Percy nearly lost his balance as he slammed the dresser drawer, and she rather thought that was small consolation for what he'd put her through the past seventy-two hours.

Five minutes later, they had both changed into normal clothes – Percy into slacks, though he had only thrown a flannel button-down shirt over his shirtsleeves, and not bothered to button it up at all; while Marguerite used the small bathroom to put on a clean dress and stockings, and comb her hair out properly. Of course, she still had to lie on the floor and shimmy through the baseboard, but once she was halfway through, Percy helped her to her feet as though she weighed nothing.

Her first glance at the annoying Brit who had interrupted them, showed a tall, dark-haired man with a sarcastic smile. "Mademoiselle St. Just," he said – though not nearly as polite as she would have liked.

"And where is Chauvelin?" she asked curtly.

"That's for me to tell the Chief."

"You can tell both of us." Percy frowned.

"It's not pleasant news for a lady to hear."

"Is that what you are worried about?" Marguerite nearly snorted. "After being dragged through tunnels and rabbit holes, and mock tortured – by you, I might add," she threw in, glaring at Percy, "I think I can handle unpleasant news. Is he right outside this house?"

The man named Philip gave her a thin smile. "Actually, yes."

Her first reaction was to panic, but she noticed Percy had not moved, nor had his facial expression changed. Instead, he said quietly, "You had other orders, didn't you?"

Philip's joking mood vanished. In the wink of an eye, his smile slid off and he looked a bit haggard. "I know what you're thinking, Perce. And I don't blame you if you're angry about it. But you know I can't tell you all of my orders. I will say this: he was becoming a bit of a liability for my superiors, who didn't believe in his alleged 'innocence' any more than you did. I received my official orders from them two days ago. I don't believe Chauvelin found the entrance to the second tunnel, the one from the underpass, but he did find this cottage. He was approaching the front door when a mysteriously stray bullet hit him in the head. God only knows where it came from..."

Percy interrupted dryly, "Everybody knows where it came from, you mean! It came from five hundred yards back and you fired it!"

Philip didn't deny this accusation. "Well, it saves you the trouble of killing him yourself, doesn't it? Those two German guards were with him – they didn't have time to react before I put a bullet in their heads, too. Don't worry. I'll take care of the bodies. Part of my orders. Still, I expect you'll want to see them for yourself, as confirmation?"

Percy nodded to show he understood, but Marguerite couldn't help but feel completely confused and lost. After so much running away, it was slated to end like this? Abruptly and in such a manner? This man had shot Chauvelin and ended the entire problem in a matter of seconds! Why hadn't Percy done it sooner?

"So that's it, then?" she asked. It was hard not to keep a note of anger out of her voice. "After everything that's happened, it ends like this?"

"No." Percy frowned. "That is not it. You wait here with Yosef. I'll be back momentarily. And no, you may not come with me."

He was out of the bedroom before she could argue, and she gritted her teeth as she heard his and Philip's heavy footsteps down the stairs.

"You may as well come down and have something to eat," Yosef said kindly. "Herr Blakeney will be a few minutes."

"You all seem to be taking this rather calmly! Why didn't MI6 have Chauvelin killed years ago?"

"I certainly can't fathom the way they work, but I expect there was a reason. Herr Glynde's allegiance is split between Herr Blakeney and MI6, and the League knows it well. But he has useful information. That was why Herr Blakeney recruited him. They were also boyhood friends, which helps Herr Blakeney's trust level."

"Why didn't Percy just kill Chauvelin himself? Save all of this trouble?"

Yosef stopped in the middle of the stairs and turned to look at her. Quietly, he said, "Herr Blakeney detests killing anyone. His men have often wondered about it, and he has done it when absolutely pressed, but it bothers him. I think it destroys a little bit of him inside, each time he was forced to do so. He will do nearly anything to avoid murder. Philip is different – it is his job to assassinate people and he has never had a problem carrying out such orders. However, Herr Blakeney has never ordered Philip to do such on his behalf. If Philip kills someone, it is because he was ordered to by MI6. And sometimes, like now, MI6's orders coincide with Herr Blakeney's wishes." He sighed, and started down the stairs again, "Yes, Herr Blakeney could have shot Chauvelin and solved the problem years ago. But to do so, he would have had to do much planning to avoid being caught, and accused of murder – Chauvelin walked free at his trial, remember? If MI6 ordered the assassination, there is no subsequent inquiry."

Marguerite fell silent. Yosef had a point, and she felt her anger ebbing away.

Downstairs, she could see the bright, snowy landscape and the huge Alps from the small, thick windows. Blakeney was nowhere in sight. Yosef he ladled a bowl porridge for her, and she finally sat down at the table in front of the fire. But she found she couldn't eat. Her stomach seemed in knots. It was hard to believe Chauvelin was dead after everything that had happened the past few days.

Yosef watched her for nearly a full minute before he said, "If you don't eat, you won't keep your strength up."

"What's the point?" She swirled her spoon through the thickness. "Chauvelin is dead. I shall return to France, finish filming that ridiculous script, and return to an empty apartment in Paris during the off time before my next movie."

"I doubt Herr Blakeney will allow that to happen. I expect he has other plans."

The door swung open before Marguerite could inquire what other plans Blakeney could have. She glanced up at the sharp stab of cold air to see Percy entering the room alone. He closed the door without a word, and moved to the fire to warm up. Yosef immediately stood and ladled another bowl of porridge.

"Well?" Marguerite asked.

Blakeney was quiet. He slowly sat down and picked up his spoon. Like her, however, he didn't eat. Then, finally, in a brisk and business-like voice, he said, "Yes, Chauvelin is dead. Philip will handle the bodies, per MI6's orders. I am sorry that I had to drag you all over the place, but Chauvelin would have killed you before Philip had the chance to carry out his orders, so really..."

"I understand." She sighed. "So then, it's back to France, as if nothing happened?"

"No."

"No?" Her eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"We still have some unfinished business."

When she looked nonplussed, he grinned at her. "Don't worry, mademoiselle. It's not what you're thinking."

Marguerite's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

"No. But you'll need your strength, because we will have to walk a bit to get to transportation."

She looked back down at her bowl of porridge and sighed again. "Very well. But I refuse to use any more tunnels."

Blakeney chuckled. "As you wish, madam. No more tunnels."