A/N: Thank you to Canadian Hero, IggyUnicornSparkles (love your name), Dolly-Doll-Face, and Sora Resi for their reviews. Dolly-Doll-Face: Yea, infidelity is bad. But it'll be important for what I have planned in a few chapters. I didn't mean to sadden your soul, and I'm sorry for doing so.

So anyways, here's a nice dose of Franada fluff to start you off for the evening.

Chapter Two

By invitation of Madeline, Francis sat in a chair, trying to engage in conversation.

"Il doit être import-" Francis caught himself, quickly switching to English. "My apologies, I sometimes don't realize which language I should be speaking." He let out a soft chuckle in embarrassment.

"Aucune raison de s'excuser." Madeline said politely.

Francis' sapphire blue eyes widened considerably with interest, staring straight into the beautiful soft violet of Mrs. Jones'. "Vous parlez français?"

The young woman smiled softly. "Oui."

"Ah, such a beautiful language. It warms my heart to meet another who speaks it." The captain practically purred, leaning closer to Madeline, her cheeks dusted with a soft rose. It was almost like a magnetic pull, drawing them together.

She felt herself leaning in as well, trying to keep the conversation going, but finding it difficult when they were that close to each other, breath mingling from their open mouths. "It, it, it's a lovely language. My mother was French, and she insisted I learn."

Francis tilted his head just so, and now their lips were so close they could feel the warmth from each other. Eyes were locked, a mutual look of desire between them. Lips were a hair's width apart, almost brushing, when it all stopped with the icy shock of realization; in an instant, Madeline seemed to remember who she was and what she was doing, pulling away quickly.

Francis cleared his throat quietly, if only to fill the void of the silence. "My apologies, Madeleine. I should not have allowed that get out of hand." The Frenchman looked shamefully at his hat in his lap.

"No, no, it was my fault entirely." She said in reply.

An awkward stretch of silence followed.

Alfred returned a few minutes later, both of them happy for someone else to speak to. However, it had the opposite effect and only made every glance in each others direction horribly uncomfortable.

Nearly an hour was filled with conversation between the French captain and his host, the hostess knitting silently while listening to the exchange.

When Toris alerted them that dinner was ready, Alfred, who was never one to be late for the young chef, Feliciano's, cooking, jumped up with enthusiasm, bidding his wife and guest to "Hurry up before the crows get it!"

Needless to say, Mr. Jones was a hungry young man. On their way out of the parlor, Madeline and Francis began the short dance that one does when one is trying to pass through a door at the same time as another, both being too polite to leave ahead of the other.

In the end, it was the Frenchman who stepped back to allow her to pass. He swept into a deep bow, right arm across the front of his waist and left across the back.

"Madame Jones." He uttered with a glance up to her face.

"Why, thank you, Capitaine." She replied with a brief curtsy.

Dinner was served in the dining room, Toris standing a few feet behind his master at the head of the table, should he be needed. On Alfred's right sat their esteemed guest, on the left the lady of the house.

"So, Francis," Alfred said after the food had been served. As much as he would like to enjoy his food in silence, there were important matters that he needed to attend to. "Have you heard when that Spanish trading company will be arriving?"

The Frenchman swallowed his bite of food before answering. "Oui. In one week's time, one of their best men, an old friend of mine, will arrive. Once he confirms the arrangements in person, he will send for the money." He allowed a light smile to pass over his face. "I believe you'll like Antonio. He's rather like yourself." Francis thought it was best to leave it at that.

From the kitchen, a curious pair of amber eyes peeked past the door.

"Feliciano!" A voice hissed from behind him. Spinning around, the boy spotted his older brother coming in through the back door with a stack of cut logs, piling them next to the stove.

"Lovino!" Feli exclaimed. "I'm sorry! Please don't hit me!"

Lovino rolled his hazel eyes. "Damn it, Feli, I'm not going to hit you. What are you looking at, anyways?"

A smile spread itself on Feliciano's face. "Mr. Jones has someone over! He talks funny, and he's wearing a uniform!"

Nudging his brother out of the way, Lovino peeked through the gap between the door and frame. He took in the scene in the dining room, then turned back to Feliciano. "He's that French bastard Toris was talking about." He explained in as patient a voice as he could manage.

When the meal was over, Francis was escorted to his room by Toris. Madeline retired for the evening, claiming to be tired. But Alfred had business still on the lower level of the manor.

It wasn't often the kitchen had a visit from the master of the house, but the staff were to act with utmost respect when their employer was in their presence. At least they were told to, anyways. Lovino really thought the whole "attitude" thing was more of a suggestion than a requirement. Thus, when Alfred entered the kitchen and little Feliciano stood with his hands at his sides and a smile on his face, the older brother merely straightened his back slightly from where he lent against the wall.

"Lovino?" Alfred addressed. The Italian arched an eyebrow in question. "I would like you to stay out of the stables until further notice."

"And why would that be, sir?" Lovino replied in an unamused tone.

"Because I told you to. I want you to do whatever Toris or Elizabeta need done when you are finished attending to the other animals. Is that clear?"

"Crystal." The brunette said with a forced smile.

Elizabeta closed the door of the guest room behind her, spotting Toris down the hallway with a rather tall blond gentleman in a military uniform. So this was the Frenchman they had been vaguely told about.

The way he carried himself, confident, a slight air of arrogance. Almost like... No! She pushed the thought away. She promised herself she would get over him. Elizabeta found her mind drifting to him more and more lately. Anyways, there was work to be done. She still had another room to clean, and Madeline would be expecting her soon.

It really was better not to let herself think about the past. The past could never be changed, and stolen kisses in the moonlight and a familiar mischievous smirk were best left where they were.

At least that's what she told herself.

A beam of fierce morning sunlight trickled between the planks of the stable, landing directly in Arthur's eyes in that annoying way that beams of light so enjoy. His semi-awake mind decided to do what it would normally do if Arthur was in his bed at his parents' home: use an arm to shield his face from the blinding light. This proved to be a problem, what with both of his arms bound tightly behind his back, thus the reason for the uncomfortable sleeping position he had noticed vaguely before.

Arthur's arms tried to jerk forward, awakening him from his slumber. His eyes scanned the wooden building he was imprisoned in, taking in the hay beneath him and the coarse blanket across his body. His feet were similarly tied together. He sat up quickly,wincing at the sharp pain in his side.

Looking into the protective barrier of his dirty scarlet coat, he saw what appeared to be a torn blanket acting as a bandage, stained with dried blood.

Where was he? Who had dressed his wounds? And better yet, why was he tied up? The last thing Arthur remembered was the battle, being shot.

Horses could be heard snuffling their noses, birds outside tweeting in the first moments of the day.

A soft chuckle came from just outside of Arthur's prison, and he let out a hissing groan in another attempt to move again. "Who's there?" The Brit asked, hearing a moment of silence in reply.

The door to the padlocked area opened, revealing a tall blond man holding a bowl, spoon, bucket of water, and a roll of linen.

"Oh." The newcomer said. "You're awake. That's good. I think."

Translations:
Il doit être import(ant)- It must be important
Aucune raison de s'excuser- No reason to apologize
Vous parlez français?- You speak French?
Oui- Yes
Capitaine- captain

A/N: And that, children, is known as subplot. It screws over readers and excites readers.

Review and tell me what you think, 10th reviewer gets a one-shot.