A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long to update! I had to be inspired, and last night I had a dream, and the dream inspired me! So here's the chapter, and don't hate me too bad for not updating in forever. This chapter's a little dull because I was writing through writer's block. Please read and review!!

LOVERS

Chapter Three:

When Marguerite awoke the next morning, Percy was standing at the foot of her bed.

"Marguerite, I expect you're leaving for France today, am I right?" he asked when she looked up at him.

"Yes," she replied, blinking in the bright sunlight that was flooding into her room. "Chauvelin is very strict in his demands. If I do not sail back with him tonight… Well, I don't want to find out what that might drive him to do."

"Well, darling, I can't help being a bit wary of him. If he was, as you say, your lover, then don't you think me may try again to, shall we say, take you to his bed, as he once did? If he is under the impression that you care for him, he might."

"Percy, I have considered this, and I am sure of myself. I will not let Chauvelin do anything to me."

"Just be careful, my dear," Percy said, before turning and leaving her room, closing the door behind him with a sharp click. Marguerite stretched gleefully. She swung her long legs off the side of her bed and stood up, her long brown curls falling elegantly down her back. She walked over to her dressing table and picked up her hairbrush. As she ran it through her hair, she mentally made a list of the things she would have to take to France, including her stage makeup and money to buy more costume supplies, should she need them.

When her hair was sufficiently smooth, she unfastened her nightdress and changed into her light under dress. One of the maidservants came and helped her lace up her corset. Marguerite opened her wardrobe and pushed all of her dresses aside. In the back corner there was a black dress that Paul had bought for her, years ago. The bodice was entirely opaque black lace, and the full skirt was satin with a black lace overlay.

Once she had finished tying the back of the dress with a large satin ribbon, she went downstairs to join Percy for breakfast. His eyes widened when he saw her. She smirked, unsurprised. This dress was by far the most low-cut of any of her dresses, and was a much darker color than anything she had worn since meeting Percy. She smiled at the contrast: The Pimpernel, adorned in one of his most foppish outfits, a powder blue ensemble, with his hair pulled neatly back, whereas Marguerite was wearing a dark dress, with her hair loose, curling down to her waist.

Breakfast was a hurried affair. Percy ate quickly, explaining that he had to meet Andrew and Tony to "discuss…erm…strategies." Marguerite couldn't eat much, her stomach was too full of butterflies to hold much more than one buttered muffin.

After she had finished eating, Marguerite left the house and wandered the grounds, thinking of nothing in particular. Without noticing, she stopped walking in the heart of the rose garden. She sat down on the little bench there, staring at a single red rose that was blooming. She leaned back, resting against the side armrest of the bench. She closed her eyes and sighed. In a few hours, she would be sailing for France, with Paul, and would be rid of the fop, at least for a little while.

She felt a draft on her neck, and then a pair of warm lips caressed her skin. Two slender hands slid over her shoulders, down her chest, and rested around her waist.

"Hello, my love," said Paul Chauvelin's voice. His breath was warm against her neck.

"Hello," she said quietly, turning her head slightly. He ran his lips softly down her neck, and kissed her lightly on the collarbone.

"Tell me, my dear, how does the Pimpernel feel about you leaving with me tonight?" Paul asked. Marguerite struggled to remember, for the warmth of Paul's body so close to hers, and his lips against her skin, were beginning to distract her.

"He...gave his permission," she said. She felt Paul's lips part in a smile against her skin. He kissed her again, and then helped her to her feet. Still standing behind her, he ran his hands down the sides of her waist, down to her hips, and pulled her body against his. He gently ran the tip of his tongue up her neck, to her ear, causing chills to course down her spine. One hand made its way lazily up to her chest, and rested just above the neckline of her dress, one finger tracing the neckline gently. He kept this up for a while, reveling in the sound of Marguerite's breathing growing faster and shallower with every stroke.

"Paul," she breathed. He shushed her and sat down on the little bench, pulling her down next to him. She turned to face him. His emerald eyes strayed from her chocolate brown eyes, which were burning, to her lips, which were parted invitingly. He placed one hand on the her back, and the other on her knee, and pulled her against him, kissing her slowly. His hand slid up her knee, bringing her skirt with it, until the flesh of her knee was exposed. He caressed her thigh gently, slowly moving upward. His mouth left hers, and kissed a small trail down to her throat. She leaned back against the arm of the bench, and he leaned over her, kissing the hollow of her neck tenderly.

Her hands moved over his face, his hair, his neck, his chest, exploring him again, as though this were the first time. She untied his cravat, and undid the buttons on his shirt, flinging them to the ground. His well-experienced hands wrapped around her, slowly unlacing the satin ribbon of her dress. He pushed it from her shoulders, exposing the tight corset below, her bosom heaving with each breath. She arched her back, pressing her body against his. He kneeled above her on the hard stone bench, his hands simultaneously pushing her skirts up, and undoing his own trousers.

The bench was cold and hard against her back, but she could not feel it. All she could feel, all she could see, taste, smell, was him. He was everywhere, within her, around her, his face buried in her neck, her fingernails digging into his back. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in ecstasy.

Moments later, they both collapsed, breathing raggedly. He kissed her neck gently, where, seconds earlier, he had bitten her. A small bruise was forming there. He pushed himself off her, and stood up. After dressing himself, he helped her re-tie her dress. He kissed her again, and then whispered,

"Tonight, at the dock, at seven o'clock. I love you." And then he was gone