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The sea was a dull pewter grey in the morning light, pocked by the splattering of persistent rain that had been falling since they reached the English coast. The Seagull had made good time across the English Channel, but for at least one of her passengers it had not been good enough.

Lurching down the gangplank, Jean Pierre staggered onto dry land with a groan of relief and clutched at a mooring bollard for support. His knees were still convinced they were at sea and his stomach wasn't about to stop heaving yet. "Ah, dry land at last," he sighed gratefully, resisting the urge to fall to his knees and kiss the ground. For one thing the cobbles didn't look too clean and for another, this was foreign soil.

"Smell zat bracing air, Jean Pierre!" His companion said cheerfully, inhaling deeply enough to threaten to pop one of his new silver buttons off his dark blue greatcoat.

"It smells of fish and seaweed," Jean Pierre complained.

"Ah, but zis is Angleterre. You will like it 'ere! Ze women are beautiful and friendly. And ze men are rich and stupid!"

"You also said it was summer! But it is raining!"

"Zis is summer," Robert assured him, coming to his partner's side and beaming down at him. Unlike Jean Pierre he had made the crossing without so much as a qualm and was looking forward to finding an inn and getting a hot meal.

"'Ow can you tell?"

"Ze rain, she is warmer," Robert explained. "Do not worry. It will not last for long. 'Ow do you feel?"

"You do not want to know," Jean Pierre groaned, forcing himself to straighten up and eye the deckhands bringing their luggage down the gangplank. "Zey should build a tunnel under ze channel, zen we would not 'ave to use ze ferry!"

"Rest," Robert said consolingly, patting his shoulder and wondering if Jean Pierre was delirious if he was having such fanciful ideas. "I shall attend to our lodgings." Glancing around, he spotted a burly fisherman and a red haired young woman in deep discussion and headed over to join them. "What ho, chaps!" he carolled in greeting. 

The fisherman met him with a disgruntled glare. "Bloody frog," he muttered darkly and turned away, spitting over the quayside before he stomped away. The woman however stayed, eyeing Robert approvingly. He cut a dashing figure in his new coat and butternut breeches.

"Hello, sailor. What can I do for you then, luv?" she greeted him with a quick sashay of ample hips and a welcoming smile.

"I seek an inn, a tavern, a hostelry, lodgings for ze night."

"What? All of them?" she asked in amazement.

"Any one of zem will do," Jean Pierre sighed wearily, having followed his friend. Robert's English was better than his was, but he wasn't the most practical of people and he did tend to get carried away by enthusiasm at times.

"Oh," she eyed Jean Pierre for a moment, taking in his pale face and dishevelled air. "Have a rough crossing, did you luv?" she said sympathetically.

"Oui," Jean Pierre agreed.

"Non," Robert corrected. "Ze weather was fine, Jean Pierre. Per'aps you did not notice when you were below decks…"

Jean Pierre gave him a murderous look at the reminder.

"Per'aps you should have listened to zat sailor with 'is remedy for ze sea sickness?"

"Robert…" Jean Pierre said warningly.

"You know ze one, about swallowing ze fatty bacon and…"

Jean Pierre turned green and raced desperately for the quayside. Robert gazed after him in forlorn confusion.

"Never had sea sickness, have you?" the red head observed dryly.

"Non," Robert admitted. "But 'e said it was a good remedy."

"For sadists and masochists," she snorted. "Best thing for your friend is a bed on dry land. 'The Anchor's' a good place to stay. Food's good, ale's cheap and the beds are the cleanest in Dover."  Going on to give directions to the inn, she ended by giving Robert a nudge in the ribs with one elbow and grinning at him. "And when your friend feels better, maybe the two of you can look me up?"

"We would be delighted, mademoiselle," Robert assured her, catching up her hand to his lips for a kiss.

"Aw, get on with you!" Giggling, she sashayed off down the quay in search of her errant fisherman.

Robert gazed after her wistfully for a moment then scurried to join Jean Pierre. His blond friend was sitting on one of their trunks and gave him a filthy look as he came up. "Zat was not funny," he complained.

"I am sorry," Robert said contritely. "But I 'ave found us a place to stay."

"Good." Jean Pierre hesitated, studying him. "Why did zat man call you a frog?"

"Zey called me zat ze last time I was 'ere. I zink it is because of my long legs…"

"Ah," Jean Pierre nodded wisely. It was true. A lot of Robert's height was in his legs, but it still seemed strange to call him after an amphibian. Never mind. He would chalk it up to the English being strange and worry about it later. He was too tired to care right then.  "Well, Robert, lead me to zis inn zen."

"I zink it is zis way," Robert said quickly, setting off along the quay.

"Robert?"

"Oui?"

"Ze luggage?"

"Oh…" Neither of them were used to having luggage, but Marie had insisted that if they were to pretend to be well to do French citizens then they should look the part. Borrowing some of her trunks was a part of their disguise, the money she had made them spend on clothes another that Robert considered wasted.

Levering himself to his feet, Jean Pierre came after him. "We shall 'ave to find a coach," he decided.

"Zat will cost money," Robert protested.

"Would you rather we carry it? Marie suggested that you should act ze part of my servant, non?"

"Non!" Robert said firmly. "Why should you not be my servant?"

Jean Pierre raised an eyebrow at him. "Because you are an idiot, Robert!"

"Most of ze aristocracy are idiots!"

"Which is probably where you get it from. So, we will find a coach, n'cest pas?"

"Oui, Jean Pierre." Robert gave in with a sigh, knowing when arguing with Jean Pierre was pointless. His friend was tired and irritable and now was not a good time to cross him. "I will get ze luggage…."

                                                            * * *

Fresh air and a long nap on a bed that didn't rock made Jean Pierre feel better and by the time Robert rousted him out for the evening meal, he was back to his bright eyed self. Robert was bouncing with enthusiasm, having spent the afternoon exploring Dover while his friend was asleep.

"So, you did not get press ganged while you were out?" Jean Pierre asked as Robert flung a long leg over his chair and sat down at the rough wooden table with him. Robert had been press ganged before he met Jean Pierre and had spent a few months in England once he gave his ship the slip. From what he had told Jean Pierre he had romanced his way from one end of the country to the other.

"I am not going to let zat 'appen again!" Robert assured him. "Ze last time was not so bad. I learned ze language and 'ow to get around and about ze English roses…I made enough money to get 'ome."

"Flowers?"

"Women!"

"Ah…"

"Zings 'ave 'ardly changed," Robert went on happily as he chewed on a chunk of fresh bread while they waited for their stew to arrive. "Zere are a few new buildings, ze market is bigger, ze women are…still friendly…"

"You met someone you knew?"

"Non," Robert laughed wickedly. "But she was still very friendly, uh?"

Jean Pierre looked up from his ale with a smile. So that was why Robert was bouncing; he had found a woman to indulge him.  "Ze ale is warm," he commented mildly.

"Zat is traditional," Robert answered. "You will 'ave to sample ze cider. You will love it."

"I am not 'ere as a tourist, I am 'ere to find Chantal and ze Comte De Mars," Jean Pierre reminded him.

Robert's grin wavered and drooped. Jean Pierre hadn't mentioned his missing lover all the way across from France and he had entertained the vague hope that he might have given up on the Lady Du Lac at long last.

"Tomorrow, I shall 'ave to see where she might be. I zink finding ze Comte will not be so 'ard."

Robert forced a weak smile as a buxom serving girl came over with their bowls of richly scented strew, still steaming from the ovens. He was surprised and gratified that Jean Pierre barely waited for the girl to leave before he started to eat. Obviously his appetite had returned with a vengeance.  Tucking into his own meal, Robert started to plan how best he could delay his friend in finding his lover and hopefully stopping the Comte from killing both of them.

                                                            * * *

"I 'ad not thought it would be so difficult," Jean Pierre complained as he and Robert trudged despondently back to the inn the following afternoon. They had spent the entire morning seeking information about the Comte De Mars but no one seemed to know anything. "In France, everyone knows what ze aristocrats are doing. 'Ere zey do not seem to know or care."

 Robert gazed down at him affectionately. Part of him sympathised with his friend, knowing how deeply he cared about Chantal, but another part was relieved that the confrontation was delayed again. For all his apparent strength, Robert knew Jean Pierre's wounded shoulder still bothered him. Jean Pierre was unconsciously cradling his arm now, supporting it against his ribs with his left arm. Robert didn't want to think about what might happen if he decided to confront De Mars in his present condition. He was in no shape for a duel and it went totally against the grain to take the safe option of killing the Comte in cold blood.

Laying a careful arm across his friend's shoulders, Robert pulled him a little closer. "We should eat and zen return to ze search," he suggested. "You always zink better when you are not 'ungry."

Jean Pierre sighed heavily. "I zink it would be better if we moved on. 'Per'aps to London? Ze Comte will not 'ave stayed 'ere for long if 'e was 'ere at all."

"We cannot roam all over Angleterre willynilly!"

"Qui?"

"Er, it means randomly," Robert translated.

"Zen why did you not say so? Zis English she is a stupid language!"

"London is like Paris. It is a big place and we know no one zere. It is best to stay 'ere for a while. You need to rest."

"I do not!"

"Jean Pierre, you are weary. I can see zis."

Jean Pierre snorted and pulled way from him, stomping on ahead of him into The Anchor. He blinked in the beer scented gloom, his eyes taking a moment to focus after the brightness of the afternoon.

"Zut alors! " Robert gasped from behind him.

"Oh good," Jean Pierre murmured in relief. "Zen I am not zeeing zings…"

"Robert, my darling! 'Old me!" A French voice cried and a dark haired whirlwind whisked past Jean Pierre and flung himself into Robert's arms. Robert staggered back, instinctively catching the valet as Herman turned his face up to his. "Kiss me, mon chere!"

"Mais non!" Robert yelped, striving valiantly to free himself and failing miserably. "You are an octopus!"

"Ah, you even 'ave ze pet name for moi!"

Biting back a grin that was sure to earn him a clout from Robert if he saw it, Jean Pierre ambled over to the scarred wooden counter and ordered three ales.

"You French are a funny lot," the innkeeper observed, dubiously eyeing the wild gyrations going on behind Jean Pierre as Robert clawed his way out of Herman's arms.

"Only some of us," Jean Pierre murmured as his grin escaped him. "'Erman more so zan most."

"Nippy little lad," the innkeeper added. "That's three times they’ve been round that table already, by heck."

"Who is 'eck?" John asked curiously since the inn was empty apart from innkeeper and his own friends.

The innkeeper gave him a funny look.  "You go stop your friends before I chuck a bucket of water over them. I’ll have none of that funny stuff in here."

"Oui, monsieur," Jean Pierre said amiably and trundled over with the ales, breaking up Herman's hot pursuit of Robert by stepping between them and handing a tankard to each. Robert drained half of his in a thirsty gulp while Herman sipped cautiously.

"What is zis?" he asked warily. "Do zey not 'ave decent wine?"

"Not zat I 'ave 'eard of," Jean Pierre admitted ruefully. "Zey 'ave something called zider."

"Cider," Robert corrected.

"Zat is what I said; zider," Jean Pierre sniffed and turned back to Herman. "What are you doing here, mon ami?"

"Marie sent me. Come over 'ere." Taking Jean Pierre's arm, the valet led him over to a corner table. Robert hesitated, but seeing the look Jean Pierre gave him, he followed them and sat deliberately on the other side of the table from Herman. "Now, I will say zis only once…" Herman began.

"And I will say zis only once," Robert said firmly. "Do not play ze footsie with me under ze table, 'Erman, or I will 'urt you."

Hermes fluttered his eyelashes at him. "It is only zat I 'ave missed you. It as been so long zince I 'ave 'eld you, zat I find you irresistible!"

"Make 'im stop, Jean Pierre!" Robert turned instantly to his friend for support. Jean Pierre however gazed back at him curiously.

"When did 'e 'old you?" he asked. "And is zis something I should worry about?"

"Jean Pierre!" Robert wailed.

Jean Pierre sighed. "Leave 'is feet alone, 'Erman, and tell us why Marie sent you."

Herman pouted and settled back in his seat. "It is about De Mars."

"She 'as found 'im?" Excited, Jean Pierre sat forward, his eyes ablaze.

"Oui," Herman said slowly and shot a quick look at Robert.

Robert sobered at that look. He had a feeling Jean Pierre wasn't going to be happy about what he was about to hear.

"A messenger came shortly after you 'ad left.  She sent me to find and 'elp you."

"Magnifique," Jean Pierre exclaimed although Robert would have called it something else. "What did ze messenger say?"

"'E said," Herman paused, bit his lip, looked anxiously at Robert and then spat it out. "'E said that ze  Comte De Mars is to marry." 

"So? Who is 'e to marry and what does zis 'ave to do with anything?"

"I am sorry, Jean Pierre. But 'e 'as asked ze Lady Du Lac to marry him and she 'as agreed.…."

The silence that fell was so complete that Robert wondered for a moment if he had gone deaf. Seeing the shocked glaze in Jean Pierre's eyes however, he leaned forward and waved a hand in front of his face. Jean Pierre didn't even blink.

"I do not zink 'e is taking it well," Herman said nervously.

"Non," Robert admitted anxiously. "Jean Pierre? Speak to me, mon ami?"

Jean Pierre made a small squeaky noise and blinked. He focused on Robert's worried expression first. "I 'ad a 'orrible feeling zat 'Erman said Chantal is to marry ze Comte."

"I am afraid zat it is true," Herman said sadly.

"I do not believe it. It is a lie!" Jean Pierre shoved violently to his feet, almost tipping the table over in his fury. Grabbing his wrist, Robert pulled him back down. The innkeeper gave them a suspicious look, then went back to polishing his counter top.

"Jean Pierre, do not be foolish. Why would 'Erman lie to us?" Robert soothed, patting his friend's hand comfortingly.

Jean Pierre shot an anguished look at the valet. "Per'aps it is a rumour zat ze Comte 'as spread…"

"Ze messenger was reliable," Herman said steadily. "He checked on ze story. 'E even brought ze wedding announcement from ze paper."

"When?" Jean Pierre demanded.

"I am not sure. Ze paper was old…"

"Fool! When is ze wedding?!"

Herman gave him a miffed look and sat back in his seat, frowning at Jean Pierre petulantly.

After a long moment of frustrated glaring back at him Jean Pierre took a deep breath and apologised. "I am sorry. You are not a fool. But when!"

"I do not know. It will take time to arrange. I know ze Comte. He will want a big wedding. But it will be soon I zink. 'E will 'ave plans zat zis will be a part of."

"Zen we will ruin 'is plans," Jean Pierre growled, downing the last of his ale rapidly. "Innkeeper, more drinks!"

Robert frowned, watching his friend in concern and worried by the ruthless light in his eyes. Jean Pierre on a crusade was a dangerous man. He almost felt sorry for the Comte for crossing him. Then Jean Pierre winced, holding his shoulder as he eased the joint for a moment, and Robert forget any sympathy for De Mars as he remembered how he had felt when the Comte had shot his friend in front of him. Common sense had tempered his urge to kill then, but the urge to revenge still lay cold and deep inside him. Waiting for the right moment…

                                                            * *  *

The following morning, Robert tugged at the covers of his friend's bed and eyed the blond mop of hair that was all that could be seen of Jean Pierre uncertainly. "You 'ave to get up, mon ami," he urged. "We 'ave much to do."

"Go away, Robert, or I will 'ave to 'urt you." Jean Pierre answered from the depths of the bed, his voice muffled by the blankets.

"You want to find Chantal, do you not?" Robert continued determinedly. "I 'ave sent 'Erman out to discover when ze coaches leave. 'E will book us passage if 'e can find one."

Jean Pierre pushed down the covers and peered at him groggily. "What was in zat ale? I 'ave never felt so terrible!" 

"Zat is because you never drink so much usually," Robert chided. "You must get up."

Jean Pierre groaned and sank back into the pillow. "You are a cruel man, Robert."

Robert smirked. "Zat is because I can remember how often you 'ave done zis to me. Now, get up and come down to breakfast."

Giving him a dirty look, Jean Pierre turned over and burrowed back down under the blankets. Robert was almost tempted to leave him there, but the longer they delayed going after Lady Du Lac, the more miserable Jean Pierre would become and the more miserable he was, the more bad tempered he was. With a sigh, Robert grabbed the covers and yanked them off with a powerful pull. Jean Pierre sat up with an indignant howl and hurled the pillow at him as his friend retreated hastily to the door.

"Get up, Jean Pierre, or I will send 'Erman to 'elp you…" he threatened and ducked out quickly, slamming the door as the water pitcher crashed into it on the other side. "I see your temper 'as not improved!" he called through the solid wood, then hastened down the stairs as Jean Pierre screamed abuse at him. 

The innkeeper was becoming an expert at the dubious look, Robert noted, as he gave him a cheerful wave and trotted past him into the sunshine. The rain had cleared up leaving the sky a brilliant blue that shaded almost to white in the distance. Robert inhaled deeply, his mood improving as he noted a pretty young woman watching him. Sensing her interest, he flexed his muscles, allowing his white shirt to gape open down his chest.

"Robert!" Herman's wail sent shivers of instinctive alarm down Robert's back and he looked round with a curse as the valet hurtled across the yard and flung himself into his arms. "Sa-ve me!" the valet wailed, clutching desperately at him.

"Come back here, ye sassanach!" a male voice bellowed in a broad Scottish accent. The man who stalked into the yard was tall, with a similar build to Robert's but with long dark hair swept back into a ponytail and intelligent dark eyes. He looked around him carefully, resting his hand on his sword before spotting Herman and stalking towards him with a frown.

"Protect me, Robert," Herman begged as he hid behind Robert.

"What did you do to 'im?" Robert hissed, having visions of having to duel with the outraged Scot.

"I did nozing!" Herman protested. "I bumped into 'im in ze market, zat is all!"

Robert rolled his eyes despairingly, having encountered Herman's idea of bumping into someone himself. "Did you pinch 'im?"

"Non, Robert! 'Ow could you zink such a zing of moi? Zere is only you!"

Robert snorted and turned warily back to the Scot. "I zink zere 'as been some misunderstanding, monsieur," he began.

"Och no, he's the one I've been looking for. There can be only one of him."

"Zat is true," Robert admitted. "But 'e is 'armless - mostly. What do you want with 'im?"

"I got a few questions for him. Nothing ye need to worry yourself about."

"Zat that depends what you want to ask him," Robert said carefully.

"None of yer business." The Scot fixed Herman with a stern look. "Ye didn't 'ave to run away from me."

"With you pointing zat great sword at me? What else could I do?"

The Scot blinked, frowned and eyed the valet with a flicker of uncertainly before he looked at Robert. "Is e'..?"

"Oui," Robert said grimly.

"Oh…" The Scot thought about this then gave him a wary look. "And are ye…?"

"Non!" Robert growled dangerously. "And if you seek to challenge my 'onour…"

"Now why would I be doing that?"

"I do not know. You were ze one pursuing 'Erman!"

"Are you saying that I'm….?!" The Scot tightened his grip on his sword.

"If ze 'at fits, monsieur!" Robert reached for his own sword and pushed a fluttering Herman firmly behind him.

"Och, so that's how it is." The Scot snorted. 

"Robert! What are you doing?!" Jean Pierre's voice cut through the air, halting Robert in his tracks. "I 'ave warned you about duelling!"

"Ah, Jean Pierre, 'e impugned my 'onour!"

"You mean you were in ze mood for a fight!" Jean Pierre corrected imperiously as he strode up to his friends, positioning himself between Robert and the Scot. "Is zere some difficulty, monsieur? We are strangers 'ere."

The Scot was gaping at him open-mouthed, a touch of alarm in his dark eyes. "Ye? It's ye? Ye're here?!"

Jean Pierre blinked at him in bewilderment and glanced at Robert. "Is 'e mad?"

"I zink 'e is Scottish, sometimes it is 'ard to tell."

The Scot sent a glare at Robert, then moved a step closer and eyed him uncertainly. "Ye look familiar too…" he said slowly then turned back to Jean Pierre. "Why are ye here?"

"I could ask you zat. But I am looking for something," Jean Pierre said cautiously, wondering if De Mars had sent this madman to find them. He wouldn't put it past him. Jean Pierre and Robert knew far too much about the Comte's activities for De Mars' peace of mind.

"I told ye I’d find it for ye! There's no need to get violent."

Jean Pierre glanced over his shoulder at Robert. "'Ave I done anything violent?" he asked, puzzled.

"Not yet - zat I know of," Robert grinned mischievously.

Jean Pierre frowned at him in exasperation and turned back the Scot.  "I zink per'aps you are mistaking me for someone else," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "It is not as if I am ze king of France."

The Scot laughed. "Och aye, that's good one. Ye the king of France! I thought we agreed ye'd stay in Greece until I found it for ye."

"I 'ave never been to Greece," Jean Pierre said slowly, feeling an inexplicable sensation of deja vu for a moment. 

"Ye've never…" The Scot paused and frowned, looking from one to the other of them. "Ye mean ye're not - ? Come to think of it, ye dinna feel like him."

"And 'ow would you know 'ow I feel?" Jean Pierre asked suspiciously. "We 'ave never met before!"

"'E was chasing 'Erman," Robert offered helpfully.

"Mais oui," Herman agreed. "'E was yelling at me in 'eathen."

"That was Gaelic, ye sassanach," the Scot rumbled. "I only wanted to talk to ye. I’d have brought ye a drink if ye'd stood still long enough."

"I am not zat cheap!" Herman sniffed haughtily, folding his arms primly across his chest.

"Zat is not what I 'ave 'eard," Robert muttered.

"Robert, I am 'urt!" Herman wailed, but Robert only smirked, unimpressed and not believing him for a moment.

Jean Pierre sighed heavily and turned back to the bewildered Scot. "I zink zere 'as been some misunderstanding…"

"That's what yer froggy friend there said…"

 "I am 'ere looking for a woman…"

"Aren't we all?" the Scott surprised Jean Pierre with a rich chuckle and a broad wink as he nudged him in the ribs. "Dover's full of them if ye know what I mean."

Jean Pierre ignored the comment. "And you are 'ere to ask questions of 'Erman?"

"Aye, that I am."

"And zese questions would be about what?" Jean Pierre asked carefully.

"Why should ye care?"

"'Erman is a friend of ours. I would not wish 'im to get into trouble."

For a long moment the Scot simply gazed down at Jean Pierre thoughtfully, then he grinned. "T'is a simple enough tale. I'm looking for a sword that belongs to a friend of mine. He's likely to get a little stroppy if I dinna bring it back soon. Yer friend Herman there was valet to the Comte De Mars, right?"

"Oui…" Jean Pierre admitted.

"Och then, the Comte's the man who's got the sword. I thought I had it in France, but then he did a runner and he's had everything shipped over here. I knew Herman there was his valet so I figured he'd know where he was. I saw him in Calais but he gave me the slip."

The Frenchmen exchanged thoughtful looks.  "We also are looking for ze Comte. Per'aps we can 'elp each other. I am Jean Pierre, zis is Robert and you 'ave already met 'Erman. Why don't you come in and 'ave a drink with us and per'aps we can discuss zis further," Jean Pierre offered.

"Ye buying?" the Scot asked.

"I'm buying."

"Then I'm drinking" the Scot answered cheerfully and thrust out his hand to be shaken. "The name's Duncan…"

                                                            * * *

Robert moaned softly as the motion of the hired coach lurching over the rough roads made his head pound and his stomach surge in protest.

Jean Pierre turned his head from studying the English countryside to study his companion with equal interest. "You are a very funny shade of green, Robert," he noted with what Robert considered downright evil glee. "Did you per'aps drink too much ale last night?"

Robert gave him a lethal look, suffering from the morning after the night before. Having discovered that their new companion was something of a drinker, Robert had not been inclined to let his reputation as a Frenchman be sullied by letting a Scotsman out drink him.  "I zink I am travel sick," he complained feebly. "It is ze motion of ze coach…"

"Ah, oui, ze way it goes up and down, up and down…"

Robert clamped one hand over his mouth and gave him a pitiful look.

"Or per'aps it is ze side to side…?"

"Stop ze coach!" Robert roared, grabbing at the door and flinging it open as the startled coachman hauled the coach to a halt.

"Touché…" Jean Pierre murmured smugly. "I 'ave not forgotten ze boat, mon ami…"

"'Ere what is it?" the coachman asked in alarm as Robert dived out and disappeared into the bushes.

Jean Pierre climbed out into the bright morning sun and stretched, coming round to the front to smile up at the coachman sitting on the box. "My friend is a little, 'ow you say, over bung?"

The coachman gazed back at him blankly until Jean Pierre mimed tipping a tankard to his mouth. Then he chuckled broadly. "Ooh ah, one too many, ay? Needs the hair of the dog, he does?"

"Ze 'air of a dog will 'elp 'im?"

The coachman went blank again, but before Jean Pierre was forced to attempt further conversation, Duncan and Herman arrived on horseback. The valet had refused to ride in the coach, preferring to ride with the Scot to 'keep an eye on him'. From the harassed expression on Duncan's face he had been doing that only too well.

"Where is Robert?" the valet asked as he reined in beside the coach.

"Off in ze bushes. 'E is coach sick."

"Oh, mon poor Robert!" Herman wailed, dismounting with alacrity and diving into the bushes swiftly. "Let me mop your fevered brow! And anything else zat is fevered!"

"Get away from moi!" Robert screamed a second later.

"Non, non, non! Let me take care of you…"

"Eeek!"

Seeing Duncan's disbelieving expression, Jean Pierre hastily wiped the grin off his face.  "Is something wrong, Duncan?" he asked innocently.

Duncan gave him a doubtful look. "Are they always like this?"

"Oui," Jean Pierre said cheerfully. "It is fun, non?"

"With friends like ye who need enemies?" Duncan muttered.

Jean Pierre tilted his head to one side and gazed at him thoughtfully. "Do you not 'ave friends zat you tease?"

Duncan blinked, reflecting on the question. There was Fitz, he supposed. Their friendship was marked by constant bouts of one-upmanship. "I see yer point, mon."

"Mon what?"

"Mon…Ye're a mon."

Jean Pierre's blue eyes rounded in confusion. "I am not yours," he said guardedly.

"No, mon, mon!"

"Robert!" Jean Pierre wailed in French. "Zis Scot is being confusing again! He keeps calling me 'is!"

Robert staggered out of the bushes, looking several shades paler than when he had gone in. He gave Jean Pierre a baffled look then turned to Duncan. "Uh?"

"Hoots, mon, the mon doesn't understand me!" Duncan complained.

"Ah! Oui. He means homme, Jean Pierre."

"Mon is homme?"

"Oui," Robert ducked his head in a nod and eyed Herman warily as he scrabbled out of the undergrowth.

"Zis is a stupid language!" Jean Pierre pouted.  "Zis English she is 'ard enough. Let alone whatever it is 'e speaks!"

"I zink 'e 'as a very nice accent," Herman purred. "It gives me ze shivers."

"Ye give me the shivers too," Duncan muttered, glaring at the valet.

"Ah, really? You are only saying zat to make me 'appy!" Herman gasped in delight, fluttering his eyelashes at the alarmed Scot.

"Look, mates," the coachman interrupted, having been watching in increasing bewilderment. The Scots were bad enough in his opinion, but these damn Frogs were downright incomprehensible. "Do you want to move on or stand around here blathering all day waiting to get robbed?"

"We should move on," Jean Pierre said quickly. "Robert, you…"

"I will take 'Erman's horse and 'Erman can ride in ze coach with you," Robert said quickly.

"I could ride pillion," Herman offered swiftly. "Zen I could continue to mop your fevered brow…"

"It is not fevered!" Robert said hastily.

"It felt so to moi…"

"Get in ze coach, 'Erman." Grabbing the valet's arm, Jean Pierre hustled him over to the coach and shoved him inside. He gave Robert a exasperated look. "You really should not lead 'im on so…."

"Moi? It is all in 'is imagination!"

"A likely story," Jean Pierre snorted as he climbed in after the valet. "Drive on, coachman."

Muttering darkly under his breath, Robert stomped over to the valet's horse and mounted up beside the Scot.

"Is he always this bad?" Duncan asked.

"Who?"

"Herman…"

"Oui," Robert sighed as he gathered up the reins.

"Then why do ye keep him around?"

Robert shrugged. "'E is 'armless and 'e is very loyal. Do not mistake moi, Duncan, 'Erman has 'is faults, but 'e is a friend."

Duncan considered this as they rode on together. "Ye're not Aristocrats, are ye?" he said at last.

Robert shot a quick look at him. "Why do you say zat? We are fleeing Madame La Guillotine."

Duncan snorted. "Ye're as noble as I am," he retorted. "Ye're only pretending to be Aristocrats. Why?"

Robert hesitated, surprised by the astuteness of the Scot. He wasn't sure whether to answer or not. He usually left such problems to Jean Pierre. But for some reason, he felt he could trust Duncan. "We thought zat it would be easier zis way to get close to ze Comte."

"So which is it? Are ye looking for the Comte or a woman?"

"Both," Robert answered and finally decided on telling him at least part of the truth. "Ze Comte is to marry ze Lady Chantal Du Lac. She is Jean Pierre's lover and she thinks 'e was killed - by ze Comte."

"And she's marrying him? What's the bitch made out of? Ice?"   

Robert gave him a look that was part approving, part disapproving. "'Erman believes she is doing it so zat she can get close enough to kill 'im."

"That takes some cool," Duncan observed. "Assuming that is what she's up to."

"Assuming so…"

"Ye don't think so much of her yerself then?"

"Non, Jean Pierre loves 'er too much for 'is own good I zink. She 'as betrayed 'im once. I zink she will do it again, but Jean Pierre will not listen to reason where she is concerned."

"So that's why ye're along for the ride? To pick up the broken pieces?"

"'E shot Jean Pierre and for zat I wish to kill 'im."  Robert answered, his eyes glittering angrily.

"He shot him over the woman?"

"Something like zat, oui." Robert bit his lip thoughtfully and shrugged. "It is a long story."

"It's a long ride," Duncan coaxed. "And I’d like to know what I'm getting into."

Robert sighed, glanced at the coach rumbling ahead of them and nodded. "It began when ze Comte kidnapped Jean Pierre…."

                                                            * * *

"You look ravishing as always, ma cherie," Henri De Mars' voice was like the ripple of velvet over satin, tantalising her body with every word.

Chantal looked up from her embroidery, half-smiling at her fiancée. De Mars was undeniably handsome with his brooding dark looks and shoulder length, black curly hair. He stood now in the doorway of her private rooms, showing an elegant turn of leg in his black satin breeches and white lace ruffed shirt. He had been riding and he exuded a powerful physical presence.

 Since they had arrived in England, Chantal had been well aware of the envious looks she had been receiving from the local landed gentry. More than one of the nobles had been offered their own daughters to be his wife, but Henri had turned them all down as he pursued Chantal. Flattered though she was, she wished his pursuit had more genuine motives. Henri always wanted what he could not have and when Chantal had turned away from him after he killed Jean Pierre, his desire for her had increased instead of receded.

Feeling his dark eyes devouring her slender body, her smile widened a little. Frustrating though it was to deny him when her own needs sang like sirens, it was downright satisfying to watch his lust build. The marriage offer had stunned her and it had been days before she accepted the offer as genuine and agreed to be his wife. Love as always had been overtaken by practicality. Much as she had yearned to kill him, she knew it would be like cutting off her nose to spite her face. Jean Pierre was gone. She could not change that. Killing De Mars would only brand her a murderess and leave her with nothing. Marrying him on the other hand gave her access to his considerable fortune and there were other ways to destroy him.

Nor was De Mars above clarifying her position for her. Her previous marriage to a beheaded traitor could cost her her life if her identity was revealed, let alone her part in De Mars' conspiracy to replace King Louise with an impostor. If she returned to France with the scent of revolution in the air, she would soon find herself with a personal introduction to Madame La Guillotine. She was alone in England with no one to turn to except De Mars, himself now an exile from France. In a way they needed each other and the fact they knew enough about each other to get them both beheaded only added the spice of danger to their relationship.

Henri stirred, striding across the room and ignoring her maid who quickly scrambled out of the way. Scooping up Chantal's hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed her fingers sensuously. "Embroidering your wedding dress, are you?"

"My wedding dress remains out of your sight, Henri," she answered, coyly lowering her eyelashes.  "Zis is a little something for…afterwards."

De Mars smiled wickedly, squeezing her hand before allowing it to drop back into her lap. "You will need to bring nozing but yourself to my bed to make me 'appy," he told her huskily, flinging himself into a dainty chair that creaked under the sudden addition of his weight.

Chantal coloured, ducking her head to examine her fine embroidery. It would not be so bad being married to Henri, she reflected. He was a vigorous man in bed and not ungenerous. She had little doubt that if he lost interest in her, then they would both discreetly seek their pleasures elsewhere. A momentary pang as she thought of Jean Pierre made her close her eyes, remembering the sweetness of his kiss.

"Chantal?" Henri was watching her with a flicker of suspicion.

"It is nozing. Zere is so much to do, to prepare for ze ball, ze wedding..."

"Zis is so. I miss 'Erman. 'E was a good valet." Henri stretched his long legs, grinning as her eyes approved his muscled calves and thighs. "You should come riding with me, Chantal," he purred. "You need some exercise."

Chantal blushed even redder, knowing the kind of exercise he meant only too well. "I 'ave too much to do. And you know zat I ride every morning."

"With zat wench Carlyse…"

Chantal gave him a reproving look. "Lady Elise is a sweet girl and a friend. She 'as 'elped me with ze wedding preparations. Without 'er zere would be no wedding."

Henri frowned. "You are not changing your mind, are you?" he asked sharply. "Zat would not please me."

Swallowing nervously, Chantal beckoned to the maid to fetch her some wine and gave him a cool look.  "Nor would it please me," she said quietly.

Henri pursed his lips, considering her for a moment then he leaned across and captured her chin in one hand. "You're mine," he said with a growl of content and kissed her hard on the lips, plundering her mouth with his tongue until she moaned in desire. Satisfied, he pulled back and pushed to his feet. He took the wine the maid had brought and downed it in a gulp. "I shall go to the Cavern tonight," he announced. "Do not wait up."

Chantal said nothing, still breathless from his kiss as she watched him stalk out. Finally, she looked up at her maid whose eloquent sigh echoed her own feelings perfectly. "What are you staring at, girl?" she demanded impatiently. "Fetch me some more wine…"

As the blushing maid hurried to obey, Chantal sat back and picked up her fan, absently wafting herself with it as she frowned thoughtfully. This marriage meant a lot more to Henri than simply securing her. She was sure of it.  Henri was up to something. He question was, what?

                                                            * * *

"You told 'im?" Jean Pierre swung from the window open on the busy street below and stared at his friend in shock. "You told 'im?!"

"'E did not seem surprised. 'E is very philosophical for a Scot. It is almost as if 'e 'as seen it all before. 'E 'as a right to know if 'e is going to 'elp us," Robert soothed.

"I do not need 'is 'elp! 'Ow do we know zat 'e is not in ze pay of ze Comte!"

"You asked 'im to come with us," Robert pointed out placidly.

Jean Pierre glared at him for the reminder. "Where is 'e now?"

"'E took 'Erman to ze market. I zink 'e muttered something about selling 'im."

"Robert!"

"Oh, do not flap so, Jean Pierre. I am joking. Ze English do not 'ave slavery like zat. 'Erman wished to buy fresh food. You know 'ow 'e frets that we do not eat right. 'E is part of our cover."

Jean Pierre groaned and sank down on the window seat, resting his chin in his hands.

Robert strolled over and sat down beside him, draping a long arm across his shoulders. He knew exactly why Jean Pierre was peevish. So close to Chantal and yet so far, he wanted to find her immediately not be delayed yet again. "Zey will also ask ze questions about ze Comte and Chantal. We will find zem soon, mon ami, do not fret."

Jean Pierre ran one hand through his blond hair, released from the velvet bow he usually tied it with at his nape. "And what zen, Robert?" he said softly.

"Why, we rescue 'er."

"And if she does not wish to be rescued?"

Robert blinked. "I thought you 'ad no doubts zat she wishes you to rescue 'er?"

Jean Pierre laughed shakily. "I 'ave doubts, Robert. 'Ow could I not? She is to marry 'im. Is zat ze act of a woman planning to kill a man?"

"I could always kill 'im."

"Robert!"

Robert shrugged and grinned, then sobered at the pain he saw on his friend's face. "Jean Pierre, you know zat I 'ave never approved of zis woman," he said slowly and held up one hand when Jean Pierre started to protest. "She 'as caused you nozing but trouble and 'urt. I zink zat if she chooses to stay with ze Comte, zen you must let 'er stay. I do not zink she is ze right one for you, mon ami. You must let 'er go."

"But what if she 'as been trapped into zis? She was before…"

Robert frowned. "Zen zere is no problem, non? We rescue 'er and kill ze Comte. It is simple, non? Come now, Jean Pierre, you must rest. Your shoulder is 'urting you, is it not? Rest until 'Erman returns. I am sure it will not be long until you are reunited with 'er…"

Jean Pierre sighed heavily, wishing he could see everything so clearly as his friend. But his thoughts were full of doubts. If Chantal had come to England to kill De Mars as Herman had said - and he had no reason to doubt the valet's word - then why was she about to marry her enemy? Did she calculatingly plan to kill him to obtain his land, money and title? Jean Pierre shuddered at the thought. He was starting to wonder how well he knew Chantal after all.

                                                            * * *

Chantal took a deep breath of the crisp morning air. She was glad to be away from the manor house and the hurly-burly of the preparations for the ball and the wedding. Lady Elise was full of gossip as usual. An attractive tawny haired young woman with a buxom figure and an eye for a new husband, she was considered something of a hoyden by society. Chantal found her charmingly refreshing and open.

"Men, they are all the same," Elise was saying as she patted the neck of her chestnut filly. "You let them sleep with you and they consider they own you, or worse, that you love them."

"Zat is true I suppose," Chantal admitted.

"Compare your first lover with your last, can you honestly say one is better than the other? Lord or peasant; does it make a difference?"

Chantal felt a swift flush of heat warm her face.  "Zere is something to be said for ze peasant…" she said slowly, thinking of Jean Pierre and ardent adventures in the haystacks.

Elise chuckled. "I knew you weren't as prim as you pretend," she giggled. "These rough and ready types usually know how to treat a lady. A lord now, they’re so busy fawning over your hand that they miss the vitally important other bits." She hesitated, then hurried on. "Not that your Comte is like that of course. Now there's a real man."

Chantal gave her a slow look and watched her friend blush. She had little doubt that Henri had slept with her. He had an eye for a lovely woman and urges that needed to be satisfied. She also had no doubts of his self-control. She was fairly sure that once married his philandering would cease. They had discussed his desire for an heir and she knew he didn't want any bastard rival cropping up in the future. She had also heard rumours that he had a bastard half brother somewhere in France.

"Indeed," she said dryly. "'E is most…vigorous, is 'e not?"

Elise blushed even harder. "I…well…"

Chantal laughed and reached out to pat her arm. "In your position I do not believe zat I would be able to say no to 'im either."

Lady Carlyse relaxed a little. "Husband hunting does have its rewards. But since the announcement of your marriage, I assure you I have looked elsewhere."

Chantal nodded. "I zink I can keep Henri satisfied," she purred.

They rode on together in companionable silence, each viewing their own thoughts. Elise was the first to hear horses behind her and glanced back warily, relaxing as she saw two young gentlemen coming up behind them on horseback. They were both fine looking specimens - and the horses weren't bad either. Murmuring a warning to Chantal, she lifted one hand to pat a tawny curl back into place and contemplated how to get them to stop. She needn't have worried as the two riders separated and came up one each side of the two women.

"Greetings, mademoiselles," the taller, brown haired young man announced, touching the brow of his hat. "Per'aps you will permit is to ride with you for a way? We are strangers 'ere."

"Oh certainly, sir," Elise said swiftly, smiling back at him as he grinned winningly. "Chantal, I do believe these gentlemen are compatriots of yours."

"Oui," Chantal said in a squeaky voice.

Puzzled, Elise glanced at her friend and then at the blond man riding beside her. There was an enraptured look in his blue eyes that made Elise want to melt until she realised it was aimed at Chantal and that the intensity of his gaze was setting Lady Du Lac herself all of a flutter. "Chantal? Are you all right?"

Chantal dragged her eyes away from the blond rider and focused on her with an effort. "Oh, oh, yes." She paled slightly as she saw the second rider and then hurried on. "You are correct. Zese gentlemen are indeed compatriots of mine." Somewhat shakily she made the introductions.  

"Enchante, Lady Carlyse," Robert purred, taking the hand Elise offered and bending to kiss her fingers. "I 'ad 'eard zat ze English countryside was full of roses, but I 'ad not realised truly what beauties zey are."

Elise blushed, letting her hand rest in his far longer than was proper. "You flatter me, sir."

"Non, mademoiselle, I do not flatter, I speak only ze truth…"

As Robert and Elise flirted with each other, riding on ahead Chantal turned slowly to look at Jean Pierre. She had recovered somewhat from her initial shock at seeing him alive but her stomach was fluttering with nerves. "You are alive," she whispered.

"So it would seem." Jean Pierre said steadily, controlling himself now.

"But I thought… 'Enri told me…"

"It was a shoulder wound. As you would have known if you 'ad stayed to find out."

"'Ow could I? 'Enri was all ready to leave immediately…"

"You did not 'ave to go with 'im!" Jean Pierre protested with more than a hint of pain.

The hurt in his eyes cut her like a knife. "What would you 'ave 'ad me do? Stayed and faced ze guillotine for my part in ze attempted assassination of ze king per'aps?" she hissed. "I 'ad nozing left, Jean Pierre. Only ze urge to avenge you and kill ze Comte."

"And 'ow do you plan to kill 'im? With kindness per'aps? Exhaustion in your bed?" Chantal's hand flashed out to slap the anger from his face but he caught her wrist, glaring back at her.  "Did you expect me to be 'appy for you?" Jean Pierre demanded bitterly. "You left me with a bullet in my shoulder and did not even care enough to find out if I lived or not!"

"'Enri said…" she repeated lamely.

"And you believed 'im? I came 'ere zinking to rescue you, to stop you becoming a murderess without reason, instead I find you 'appily in bed with my enemy."

"It is not what you zink…"

"Is it not? Do you intend to marry 'im?"

"Oui," she admitted. "But what choice did I 'ave? I am only a poor, 'elpless…"

Jean Pierre's bitter laugh made Robert and Elise look back at him, Elise with unease, Robert with suspicion.  "You are neither poor, nor 'elpless, Chantal. You always land on your feet. You left me once because you said you 'ad no choice, and now you betray me again. 'Ow am I supposed to feel?"

"Jean Pierre, I am sorry…"

"Are you?" Jean Pierre finally released her arm and she drew back her hand, rubbing her wrist sadly. "Tell me zis, if I ask you to go with me now, will you?"

Chantal stared at him, feeling the colour leaching out of her face in panic. "'Ow can I?" she whispered. "'E would kill us both."

"If 'e could catch us. We could be back in France before 'e could even begin to look…"

"Zey would execute me," Chantal protested. "If not for assassination then because my 'usband was a traitor…"

"If not France zen anywhere…" Jean Pierre said desperately. "Chantal, please…"

"Hist!" Elise was riding back to them. "The Comte is coming!"

"What?" Chantal looked up in alarm, spotting her fiancée's well-known figure on a his pure black stallion riding towards them. 

"Merde," Jean Pierre said bitterly.

"We 'ave to get out of 'ere," Robert said quickly.

"Chantal…" Jean Pierre turned a pleading look to Lady Du Lac.

"Non, Jean Pierre, zere is no time for zat!" Robert said grimly and snatched at the reins of his friend's horse, dragging him off into the trees. They were barely out of sight before De Mars trotted up to the two women.

"Who was zat?" he asked suspiciously.

"Only friends of mine," Elise said swiftly, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

"Why did zey ride off in such a hurry?"

Elise giggled. "I really couldn't say," she answered, leaving De Mars to draw his own conclusion. From his exasperated expression, he drew exactly the conclusion she expected him too and assumed that one of them at least was her lover and who didn't want to be recognised.

"More scandal, I suppose," he grunted to Chantal in French. "I hope she doesn't plan on involving you." He switched back to English while she was still floundering for an answer. "Well, I shall ride with you for ze rest of ze way. Zere are far too many riff raff for my liking around 'ere."

                                                            * * *

"Well?" Robert demanded as he and Jean Pierre slowed their horses from a gallop to a trot, letting them cool off as they made their way back through the park.

"Well what?" Jean Pierre replied darkly.

"What did she say?"

"She did not say anything. Zere was not enough time."

"'Ow long does it take to say oui or non?" Robert asked irritably.

"Too long it would seem," Jean Pierre sighed. "I do not zink zis was a good idea of Duncan's."

Robert shook his head and sighed. When the Scot had come back with the information that Lady Du Lac and Lady Carlyse always took a morning ride alone together, Jean Pierre had been all for the idea of riding out and intercepting them. Now that they had done so and Chantal hadn't immediately fallen into his arms, he seemed to have changed his mind again.

"I need to talk to 'er alone," Jean Pierre murmured.

"I am sure zat if you did, you could seduce 'er," Robert commented dryly. "But is zat ze answer you want? Do you want 'er love or 'er body?"

Jean Pierre turned an ice blue glare on him. "What does zat mean?"

"What I said. Someone wise once said, zat if you love something you should let it go free, if it comes back to you, it is yours, if it does not, zen if was never yours to begin with." 

"I love 'er. I could make 'er 'appy."

"But will she make you 'appy, mon ami?" Robert asked gently. "Ask yourself zat, Jean Pierre. Ask yourself zat."

                                                            * * *

Henri De Mars paused in the doorway of the Cavern, his nose wrinkling at the smell of stale ale that wafted towards him. Steeling himself, he stepped inside the tavern, waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom and then made his way across the dirty floor towards the tables at the back.

Two of them were there as usual. The four filthy young men with the shaggy haircuts and the odd style of dressing tended to 'hang' out at the Cavern, constantly muttering that they were meant for better things. Henri had started visiting the Cavern to find exactly their kind and had met them when they attempted to rob him one night. The black eye Paul had received at the time was finally fading.

Paul looked up at the Comte as he approached, flashing him a grin. "Hey, what's happening, me old mate?"

Henri did his best to suppress his grimace of distaste. Removing a handkerchief, he flipped it fastidiously across a chair before he somewhat cautiously seated himself on it. The chair creaked dangerously but decided it would hold his weight for a while. "I 'ave need of your…talents as we discussed…" he said quietly.

"If there's anything I can do…" Paul said.

"It'll cost you…" John said promptly, glaring at the Comte from under shaggy beetle brows.

Do zey not ever get 'aircuts? Henri wondered, even as he frantically deciphered the man's strange accent.

Paul nodded. "Yeah. You ain't in nowhere land anymore."

"It is an affair of love…" De Mars said cautiously. "Ze woman we discussed…?"

"She loves ya…" John snorted.

Paul nodded again. "Yeah, yeah, yeah…If there's anything we can do, Comte baby…"

Idiots… Henri sighed silently. "I 'ave discovered zat er paramour is 'ere…"

"Paramour?" Paul questioned.

"'Er bit of how's yer father…" John supplied.

"What does 'is father 'ave to do with it?" De Mars demanded in bewilderment.

"You know," John jostled him with a grimy elbow. "Love, love me do…?"

Henri leaned back a fraction in his seat to get out of reach. He was definitely going to bathe as soon as he returned to the manor. "I wish you to find 'im and bring 'im to me…so I can…discuss ze matter with 'im. I will naturally supply any weapons you need."

John and Paul exchanged a look. "If you don't mind me saying so, you seem like a dab hand with a pistol yerself," John said slowly. "Why don't you discuss things with him personally like?"

"Because 'e is a peasant and I do not wish to stoop to 'is level." Henri leaned forward reluctantly, lowering his voice. "Zis is a matter of honour. I do not wish to sully ma belle's reputation by dealing with zis matter openly, you understand? E' as blackmailed 'is way into 'er bed and 'e must be dealt with swiftly…"

"Before yer marriage, right?" John guessed.

"Oui…Will you do it?"

"Who is this fella?" Paul asked.

"'Is name is Jean Pierre. 'Is companions are called Robert and 'Erman. Robert could be trouble…."

"This Robert, big man is he?" John asked astutely.  "Hangs out with a little blond fella? And a fop?"

"Ze fop would be 'Erman, my ex valet. 'E is 'armless. Ze blond would be Jean Pierre. I believe zey must be staying 'ere somewhere…"

"Oh, we know where they are. There's a tavern at the corner of Abbey Road and Penny Lane called The Apple," Paul said dryly.  "We've seen them around. With Duncan." He glanced at John. "I ain't dealing with the three of them and Duncan without help…"

"Duncan? Who is Duncan?" Henri demanded impatiently.

"A Scots geezer that's been hanging round them. He's trouble. We'll need George and Cockroach…And it’ll cost ya double..."

De Mars sighed and reached for his purse. Double was fair. He had been prepared for the price to be trebled. But John was an astute ruffian. He probably figured that if they scalped Henri now, he wouldn't be back. But if their prices were reasonable he would use them again. Good quality peasants were even harder to come by in England than in France. "Why is 'e called Cockroach?" De Mars asked as he counted out the money into Paul's grubby hand.

"His real name's even weirder," John explained. "Besides, he's got this thing about wanting to be a beetle…"

                                                            * * *

Jean Pierre shifted restlessly in his seat, picking listlessly at his food. Herman had gone to a lot of trouble to prepare a proper French meal for his friends, even going to the extent of taking over the inn's kitchen for the morning, but Jean Pierre wasn't hungry. He kept thinking of Chantal, of the shock in her eyes when she saw him then the indecision and plain panic in her expression when he asked her to come with him.

She isn't going to come… The knowledge hurt worse than the pistol ball De Mars had fired into his shoulder. He had feared her answer, some small part of him acknowledging that she had changed, that they had both changed and that there could be no simple yes or no anymore.  The time for that was long past, if it had ever existed at all. Deep down inside he knew that if she had ever been going to fling everything aside and go with him then the last chance had been when she saw again alive and whole in the park that morning.  If she had truly cared for him, she would never have left France to go with De Mars. The idea of killing him had probably been the spur of the moment decision and one that she must have realised she could never carry out. When it came down to it, Chantal had always been able to close over her emotions and be coldly practical. Love took second place to her own survival.  It always had… "I should 'ave realised zat long ago…"

"What was zat, Jean Pierre?" Herman asked, looking up from nibbling on a small bite of pastry. He had laid the table in their room personally, finding a snowy white linen tablecloth to cover the rickety wood and producing clean cutlery and plates so that they could eat in the style he was accustomed too even if his companions weren't.

"I was zinking aloud. It is nozing…"

"Are you sure, mon ami? You are looking very pale. Did ze ride not agree with you?"

"'Erman!" Robert protested, seeing the flash of pain that crossed Jean Pierre's face before he looked hastily away. "Do not be so tactless!"

"Tactless? Moi?" Herman gave him a hurt look. "Did you not go riding zen?"

Jean Pierre took a deep breath. "I met with Chantal in ze park," he told the valet.

Herman's eyes widened in delight. "Ah! Zen she is to…to…" his voice wandered into silence as he studied Jean Pierre's wooden expression. "Oh…"

"She 'as not yet decided if she will come with me or not," Jean Pierre said firmly.  "Per'aps if I can see 'er alone…"

"I told you zat is too dangerous," Robert argued.

"I must!"

"You will not!"

"Robert, if it was Marie, what would you do?"

Robert opened his mouth, closed it then opened it again. "I 'ope I would 'ave ze sense to know when it is over," he snapped. "And if not, I would 'ope zat you would knock some sense into moi!"

Jean Pierre sat back in his chair, pushing aside his plate. The confusion that flickered across his face gave Robert some hope that his friend wasn't completely oblivious to common sense.

"'Ow many times must you let zat woman betray you, before you accept zat you are only a mere dalliance to 'er?"

"Robert…" Jean Pierre snarled warningly. "Do not say such zings about 'er!"

"Someone must say zem," Robert retorted grimly. "You are a fool for 'er love. But she is an aristocrat when it comes down to it and she cannot be trusted. And you, mon ami, are only a peasant."

"Be careful what you say…"

"'Ave I ever betrayed you?" Robert demanded harshly. "'Ave I ever hurt you? Or nearly got you killed?"

Jean Pierre grinned. "Zere was zat time in Calais with zat woman…"

"Zat is different and you know it. I did not expect 'er brother to come home so soon. Or zat 'e would be armed…And you know zat is not what I meant. It 'as been I who 'as stayed with you through thick and thin. We are brothers in all but blood. And, as zey say, you cannot choose your family but you can your friends. I cannot stand by and watch 'er 'urt you again, mon ami. It is too much…"

Jean Pierre said nothing, his expression torn by anguish and confusion.

"And ze Lady is to be married to boot…" Herman put in.

"To Boot? Boot who? I thought she was to marry ze Comte," Robert protested.

Herman sighed. "She is, Robert…"

"Zen why did you…?"

Herman ignored him, gazing sympathetically at Jean Pierre's forlorn expression. "We understand, Jean Pierre. Love makes you do the whacky."

"What?" Robert looked at him in disbelief.

"Is it something ze English say…" Herman explained. "But it is true none ze less. We all do ze strange things when we are in love…"

"Do not flutter your eyelashes at me, 'Erman! I shall be forced to 'urt you…"

"Promises, promises, mon petit chou."

Jean Pierre smiled weakly, listening to them argue. He knew Herman had meant to distract Robert to give him time to pull himself together, but he knew equally well that Robert was playing along with the valet deliberately. They were good friends who only wanted to help him, but how could he let Chantal go?  He had loved her all his life. 

Really? A little voice inside him asked wryly. Have you loved her or only the image you have made of her for yourself? She is an aristocrat, always was, always will be. And you know it? Do you really think she will give up everything for a mere peasant?

Robert paused in mid complaint as Jean Pierre pushed violently away from the table and walked over to the window, staring down blankly at the street below. He lifted one hand to still Herman's come back, nodding towards Jean Pierre. "Jean Pierre?" he said quietly.

"I am all right, Robert," Jean Pierre answered. "Per'aps a little tired, zat is all."

"Come and finish your meal. You 'ave 'ardly touched a bite," Herman protested. 

"I am sorry. I am not 'ungry."

Seeing Herman's expression fall in disappointment, Robert very daringly patted the valet's arm. "It was ze best meal I 'ave eaten since we left 'ome," he praised him warmly.

Herman beamed at him and started to explain how he had lovingly prepared each dish with Robert especially in mind. 

As the valet said something about bananas that had Robert spluttering, Jean Pierre wearily let their voices fade into the background; the sound a familiar murmur of comfort. He had a lot to think about if he was to decide what to do next. Kidnapping Chantal was out of the question. If she wouldn't come freely, then he wanted no part of it. But how long was he prepared to go on listening to her say no? His patience was starting to wear thin, very thin indeed. His pride couldn't take much more. One way or another he wanted an answer now. No more waiting…

"Robert?" he said sharply.

"Oui?"

"Ze woman who was riding with Chantal?"

"Ze Lady Elise Carlyse," Robert supplied helpfully and shot a wicked smirk at Herman. "I never forget ze name of a pretty woman…"

"You, you…. flirt!" Herman gasped, miming shock and hurt.  "You mean, I am not ze only one?"

"You are not even one of many!" Robert replied triumphantly.

"Shut up!" Jean Pierre interrupted curtly. "Robert, I wish you take a message to 'er for me…"

"I thought Du Lac was the love of your life," Robert retorted sarcastically.

"Let me finish before you harangue me!" Jean Pierre snapped. "I wish you to take a message to 'er to give to Chantal to arrange a rendezvous with moi. If she comes, zen I know she will be willing to come with moi. If she does not, zen she must send a message back to me and I will know it over."

Robert frowned. "But will you accept it an as answer?"

"If I must…" Jean Pierre said grimly.

"It could be dangerous…" Robert murmured.

"For you? Oh Robert!" Herman wailed.

"Shut up, 'Erman. I mean for Jean Pierre. If ze Comte 'ears of it, 'e will come to kill you."

"Per'haps, but I do not zink ze Lady Carlyse will betray Chantal. She will zink zis an affair of love and she will be right, will she not?" Jean Pierre gave Robert a steady, knowing look. "And you will explain it to 'er properly, oui?"

"Oui…" Robert grinned.

"Why not send a message directly to Chantal? She would know zen it was from you…"

"And if ze Comte found it? Non, it is to dangerous for 'er."

 "Per'aps you should go to Lady Carlyse zen," Herman suggested. "A request from you will be more convincing zan from Robert…"

Robert chuckled. "Ah, but ' Erman, I can be very convincing…"

"I cannot go. Ze Comte does not know Robert by sight. It will be less suspicious if 'e goes and ze Lady will no doubt be more willing to see 'im zan me." Jean Pierre smiled in response to Robert's widening grin and turned back to the window. He wished his love life could be as simple as Robert's. His tall friend's affections were rarely engaged for long, although he suspected that Marie might be changing that.

"If you will write the message zen, I will go now," Robert offered. "I could do with some exercise…"

                                                            * * *

"I shall go mad if I 'ave to stay 'ere a moment longer," Jean Pierre complained as he paced the room. Robert had ridden off with Jean Pierre's message on one of their hired horses a couple of hours ago and there had been no sign of him since.

"I doubt if anything 'as happened to 'im," Herman said calmly, adding with a disdainful sniff. "I expect ze Lady has asked 'im to stay for a spot of tiffin."

"Tiffin? What is zis tiffin?"

"Tea and crumpets," Herman replied.

"Crumpets? As in…?"

"Oui…"

"Oh," Jean Pierre thought about this for a moment. "Zese English, zey are very….shy about some things."

"Not shy enough," Herman muttered. "Zey 'ardly know each other!"

"You are jealous per'aps?"

"I am zinking of Marie and 'ow 'urt she will be!"

"Of course you are," Jean Pierre teased gently.

Herman glared at him.  "You know she cares about 'im!"

"I know," Jean Pierre agreed. "I also know zat sometimes, you must play ze fish before you land it."

Herman considered this. "You think she plays with 'im?"

"I zink she gives 'im time to finish playing and decide what he wants."

"And 'ave you decided?"

Jean Pierre bit his lip and turned away, pacing once more across the room with his hands folded behind his back. He was learning to avoid the floorboards that creaked by now.  "'Ow can I give 'er up?" he asked aloud. "She 'as been my ideal woman since I was a youth."

"Ze needs of a man are different from those of a youth," Herman said carefully. "Per'aps it is time to seek elsewhere?"

"Per'aps," Jean Pierre agreed reluctantly, ignoring the disappointed look on Herman's face when he failed to look at the valet. "But until I close zis thing with 'er, I do not zink I could do zat."

"She 'as sought elsewhere."

Jean Pierre nodded. "She did not know I was alive."

"She leaped into ze Comte's bed soon enough."

Shocked by the valet's comment, Jean Pierre whipped around to stare at him.

"I am sorry, mon ami, but you know zat it is true. Whatever 'er plans were when she came 'ere with 'im, she 'as changed them. Do you really believe zat she will give up all ze wealth and position 'e can give 'er for a life with a peasant?" Jean Pierre opened his mouth to protest, but Herman continued remorselessly. "A life I might add zat may well come to a sudden and painful end if you are caught as a revolutionary. Zey will guillotine you if zey catch you, Jean Pierre, you and all of us; including ze fair Chantal. In fact, she may be first on ze scaffold as a traitor; an aristocrat who 'as consorted not only with peasants but with ze would be kidnapper and assassin of ze king."

Jean Pierre swung away from him, his hands clenching into fists. He had not really thought any further than to get Chantal away from De Mars and back to France. Even when he had promised to go anywhere with her when she reminded him she would be executed for returning, he hadn't really known what he was saying. But where could they go if she did come with him? She might escape discovery for a short time in France, but De Mars would be sure to send word of her return and she would soon be found. And if they did return, Jean Pierre would have to cut himself off from Robert and the rest of his friends, simply to protect them.

"Zere is always ze New World…" he said slowly. Taking a deep breath, he strode back across the room and picked up his dark blue greatcoat. "I zink I shall go out for a walk."

"But it is raining!" Herman protested. "And Robert will be back soon."

Jean Pierre grinned. "It is always raining in England. As for Robert, if you are right about zis tiffin, zen 'e will be some time yet."

Herman sighed and started to his feet. "Zen I will come with you."

"Non, I need to be alone. I 'ave much to zink about. Do not worry. I will return before dark."

                                                            * * *

"It's him," John exclaimed, leaning forward to peer from the alleyway at the blond man who had emerged from the inn and headed off towards the market.

"You sure?" Paul peered over his shoulder.

"Course I'm sure," John sniffed. "You'd better go and tell Cockroach."

Paul nodded and disappeared back off down the alleyway. The labyrinth of passageways and alleys turned this part of the town into a maze that was a smuggler's dream. Paul knew it as well as he knew the back of his hand. He would be at the market place long before Jean Pierre.

"Come on, George," Gesturing to the lanky young man beside him, John set off with all the stealth of an accustomed footpad to follow Jean Pierre.

"Ere, John," George muttered as he caught up with him. "Don't this seem a bit unsporting like?"

"Unsporting?" John gave him a disbelieving look. "Oh aren't we the ladidah one. Hark whose talking posh then!"

George coloured beneath his mop of shaggy hair.  "I was only saying, there's four of us and only one of him. Where's his mates got to?"

"Who knows? Who cares?" John snapped. Seeing the hurt way George looked at him however, he grabbed his arm and towed him along with him. "Look, the fop's still at the inn. He wouldn't be much 'elp to this fella anyway. And the big frog rode off a couple of hours ago. He won't be back for a while. Now's our best chance."

"But John…"

"You want to tell the Frenchman we couldn't do it? I don't think he'd take it too well."

George scowled and fell into step with him. "We don't have to hurt him though, right?"

"You’re a soft touch, Georgie boy. Nah, we don't. But why care if we do? He's only a frog, right? They should stay on their side of the channel and keep their rotten apples to themselves…"

                                                            * * *

Jean Pierre had an itchy feeling at the back of his neck, the one that told him he was being watched. He had kept a careful look out all the way from the inn, wondering if a footpad was after him. Not that he was carrying anything worth slitting his purse for, but the bit about slitting his throat in frustrated revenge that might follow was something else.

Buying an apple from a fruit seller, he ambled on across the market place, noting that it was starting to empty out as the day drew to a close. A blowsy female in a low cut bodice winked at him, sashaying her hips as she passed and giving him a come hither look over her shoulder as she went towards the near by pub on the corner of the square. Jean Pierre pretended he hadn't noticed. Even if she had been his type, he wasn't in the mood for dallying.

Outside the pub a wagon was being loaded by a couple of young men with funny haircuts, struggling and cursing under the weight of a heavy barrel as they rolled it towards the wagon. Jean Pierre watched them absently, remembering times when he and Robert had done some of that to keep themselves fed.

"Thief! Stop thief!"

The sudden cry made him flinch and look round instinctively, fully expecting to be the target of the cry. It was a second before he remembered that no one knew him here, then a grubby young man in black clothes rammed into him, sending him staggering back several steps and knocking him off his feet to roll over and over on the cobbles.

"Here, get off him!"

The thief was dragged off Jean Pierre and then clawed his way free from the two wagon loaders, scuttling swiftly off into the nearest alleyway with a pack of the market traders baying on his heels.

"You all right?" one of the wagon loaders asked as he helped Jean Pierre to his feet.

"Oui, I mean, yes, I zink so…" Somewhat shaken and bruised by the fall, Jean Pierre leaned on the side of the large barrel for support. Dazedly he noticed that the lid was not only off but the supposedly heavy barrel was empty. "'Ey…" he began.

"Now…"

"Now what?"  Jean Pierre lifted his head in time to see the cosh coming down on his head. There was a sharp explosion of pain then the lights went out…

Ducking under Jean Pierre as he slumped, John lifted him off his feet and, with George's help deftly slide him into the barrel.  "I thought we weren't going to hurt him," George complained as John lifted the lid into place and started to hammer it down.

"I lied," John retorted. "Did anyone notice?"

"I don't think so. They’re all after Cockroach. You think he’ll get away?"

 "Paul will be waiting for him. They’ll be fine. Now, come on. Help me load this up. We've got a delivery to make…"

                                                            * * *

"But 'e said 'e would be back by dark! 'Ow could I stop 'im? 'E wished to be alone…" Herman protested as Robert took his turn to pace the room. He had returned not long before to find a frantic Herman biting his nails while he fretted over first Robert's and then Jean Pierre's absence.

"Zen where is 'e?" Robert growled.

"I do not know! If I did, I would tell you!"

"Did you not go and look for 'im?"

"Of course I did! But I do not know where 'e was going. I could not find 'im. And you were so late, I did not know what else to do but wait for you!"

 Robert scowled and came to a halt, glaring from the window at the darkened street. Rain made the cobbles glisten slickly as they caught the lamp light from the windows below.

"'E may 'ave gone to get drunk and not realised ze time," Herman offered tentatively.

"No, 'e would not. 'E would 'ave come back 'ere. 'E would not worry us so. Besides, 'e would want to 'ear Elise's answer."

"Which was?"

"She will deliver ze message for 'im."

"It took a long time for you to persuade 'er…"

"Not really," Robert smirked in fond memory of his efforts at persuasion. "But I 'ad to zank 'er properly."

"You are disgusting."

"And you are jealous and distracting moi…"

"I distract you?" Herman perked up.

"From Jean Pierre being missing. We must find 'im."

"Per'aps 'e does not want to be found?"

"And per'aps ze Comte will find 'im first. It is dangerous for 'im to be out zere alone." Robert frowned in thought. He was used to Jean Pierre making all the plans.  "Where is the Scot?"

"Ze delicious Duncan stays at ze inn in ze market. 'E 'as stayed zere before 'e said. I zink he knows ze innkeeper. Why?"

"Maybe 'e can 'elp us find Jean Pierre…"

                                                            * * *

Duncan was enjoying his second pint of the evening with the warm comfort of the blond serving wench in his lap when Robert crashed through the doors and swept a black look around the room. Herman hovered on his heels, looking nervous.

"Och, trouble's arrived," Duncan groaned aloud.

"You know them, Duncan?"

"Ye might say that. Off you get now, Gabby love, and let me talk to the laddies. Fetch us some ales while ye're at it." As the serving girl slid to her feet to get the ale, Duncan waved Robert and Herman over to his table. Assessing Robert's glare, he scowled. "Ye looking me or are ye chewing a brick?" he demanded.

Robert blinked. "What?" he demanded.

"Ye look like ye're looking for trouble…"

Herman pushed past Robert's broad shoulder. "Jean Pierre 'as gone missing. And we do not know where 'e is! Terrible zings could 'ave 'appened to 'im! Ze Comte could 'ave 'im or worse!"

"What?" Duncan queried, not understanding a word of Herman's fast paced and heavily accented gabble.

 Robert translated. "'E said, Jean Pierre 'as gone missing and we do not know where 'e is! Terrible zings could 'ave 'appened to 'im. Ze Comte could 'ave 'im, och ay the noo, hoots mon."

"Och, aye, aye, why didn't ye say so? Pull up a seat, laddies." Duncan gestured for them to sit down as Gabby returned with ales for all three. She set them down in front of Duncan, avoided his effort to pinch her and stomped off again, clearly annoyed at the interruption to her plans for the evening. "Jean Pierre's missing, you say?"

"Oui. Do you 'ave any idea where 'e might be?"

"Me? Why would I ken?"

"Who is Ken?" Herman asked.

"It means know," Duncan translated absently, glaring at Robert. "Ye don't think I had anything to do with it, do ye?"

Robert glared back at him for a long moment then sighed and slumped. "Non," he admitted reluctantly. "But I 'ad 'oped…"

"Now, ye look here…"

"If you knew, zen I would 'ave a place to start looking. Since you do not…" Robert shrugged helplessly. "Ze Comte must 'ave 'im. It is ze only explanation."

Duncan pushed a tankard towards the younger man. "Sup that while we think about it," he ordered. "When did you last see Jean Pierre?"

"Zis afternoon. 'E went out for a walk," Herman explained. "Robert went to see a lady to get her to deliver a message to Lady Du Lac and I stayed at ze inn."

"'Erman!" Robert protested.

"So Jean Pierre went out on his own. He could have been robbed ye know. It happens all the time to foreigners."

Robert and Herman exchanged a look.  "It takes a thief to know a thief," Robert said finally. "Jean Pierre would not fall for zat."

"Ahh," Duncan pursed his lips, considering this. "Why would the Comte kidnap him? What's he got to gain?"

"Revenge…" Robert said reluctantly. "We 'ave crossed swords with 'im before."

"So ye said," Duncan sat back, cradling his foaming tankard of ale between callused hands. "All right, maybe the why doesn't matter so much as the where. Ye've got to find him."

"But 'ow?"

"The mansion seems like a good place to start," Duncan observed.

"But Du Lac is zere also. If De Mars took Jean Pierre zere she would soon find out."

Duncan gave Robert a level look. "If this Du Lac woman cares about your friend and is as close to De Mars as she seems to be, then perhaps she's the one to ask where the Comte might take Jean Pierre."

"Non…" Robert said flatly.

"'E could be right…" Herman argued.

"And if zat woman as betrayed Jean Pierre again? I cannot take zat risk," Robert retorted grimly. He turned back to Duncan. "We do not know where she stands in zis. She could betray us to ze Comte and zat would get Jean Pierre killed."

Duncan sighed. "Then there's only one thing we can do. Get into the mansion and find out for ourselves if he's there."

"Ourselves?" Robert said cautiously.

"I might as well tag along. I wasn't doing anything anyway. And there's a certain sword I want to get my hands on…"

                                                            * * *

Grunting and wheezing, John and Paul rolled the barrel down the last few steps and settled it on its base on the cold stone floor of the crypt. The old church had been abandoned when the roof fell in unexpectedly, crushing half the congregation. After that no one would go near the place and the congregation had gone elsewhere.

John had always found the place rather useful for hiding smuggled goods and other things he didn't want anyone else to know about. But its usefulness was reaching its end. People would get suspicious if he and his mates hung around much longer. It was time to move on and giving up his hideout to the Comte didn't hurt so much if it meant he got paid for it.

Cockroach and Paul had met up with them outside the village and they had ridden on to the crypt together. Too squeamish and frightened on the ghosts the locals claimed haunted the place, George and Cockroach waited nervously outside while John and Paul dragged the barrel inside.

"We should have got him out outside," Paul wheezed. "Then he could have walked down here…"

"Or he could have got away. The Frogs are damn tricky." John answered, leaning on a handy sarcophagus while he caught his breath.

Paul tilted his head to one side, straining to hear any sound of noise or movement from inside the barrel. "Here…" he said slowly. "You don't think you hit him too hard, do you? I can't hear nothing…" 

John snorted and looked round for his trusty lever that he used to pry open the trunks off the occasional stagecoach they waylaid. Spotting it on top of an old sarcophagus, he retrieved it. "I don't suppose the Comte will care too much if we have killed him…"

"What's with the we?" Paul whined. "You hit him. I wasn't even there."

John gave him a hard look and hefted his sturdy metal lever. He had noticed a disturbing tendency in Paul and the others towards going soft recently.  "It don't matter anyway. I didn't hit him that hard. More of a tap…"

Paul gazed at him doubtfully as John wedged the lever into the edge of the lid and started to pry it off. "Why don't we leave him here for the Comte then?" he suggested. "Kind of gift wrapped like?"

John looked down his nose at him. "Because if someone did see us I don't want to leave the barrel lying around. We might need it again…" After all, it wasn't the first time they'd a kidnapping like this. With a final effort, John levered the lid up, the wood giving way with a crunch and crackle of splinters. John and Paul stepped back warily, waiting for movement. There was nothing.

"You’d better see if he's all right," John decided after a moment.

"Me? Why me?"

"Cause I'm the leader around here, ain't I"?

"Who says?"

"Who comes up with all the good ideas?"

Paul glared at him and reluctantly shuffled closer to the barrel, peering into the stuffy depths. All he could see was the top of a blond head. "Here," he reached in, shaking the Frenchman's shoulder. "Here, are you all right?"

Jean Pierre exploded to his feet, spitting and snarling a string of French epithets as he punched Paul in the face. The barrel wobbled dangerously as Jean Pierre scrambled out and Paul staggered back, clutching his bloody nose.

"Me nose! He broke me bloody nose, John!" 

"Wimp!" John snorted and swung at Jean Pierre with the lever. "C'mere you bloody Frog!"

Still dazed from the blow on the head, Jean Pierre flung up one arm instinctively to protect himself and yelped in pain as the solid metal connected with his forearm and bone cracked with the impact. He kicked out without thinking, booting John in the groin and snatching his feet from under him. As the Englishman curled up in agony, Jean Pierre staggered past him and headed for the steps, lurching upwards and through the open wooden door at the top into the fresh air.  

He caught a bare glimpse of the black garbed young man from the market square, then the lights went out again as something came down hard on the back of his head…

"John? Paul? You lads all right?" George called down

A weird wailing noise made him step back in alarm before Paul answered, his voice muffled by the hand still clutched to his nose. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Did you get him?"

"Yeah… You going to come and get him?"

"Wimps…" John exploded, his voice strangely squeaky as he lurched into view and tottered gingerly up the steps. "Froggy bastard…" Glaring at Jean Pierre, he drove a vicious kick into his ribs, then made a squeaky sound and doubled up in pain.

"Here, you've gone a funny colour, John," Cockroach hissed in the sibilant sound he was convinced made him sound like a beetle.

"Good thing we were keeping watch, wasn't it?" George observed smugly. "He could have got away…."

"Get him below before someone sees him," John wheezed, doing his best not to be obvious about clutching at his groin.

"I ain't going down there," George protested immediately. "It's got ghosts and things…"

John gave him a murderous glare. "And there'll be a couple more joining them if we don't put the Frog where we told the Comte we would. Move it!"

                                                            * * *

The next time Jean Pierre woke up, he was alone. His arms were stretched painfully over his head and the feel of cold metal cutting into his wrists was one he knew all too well; he was in manacles. Bracing his knees, Jean Pierre shoved himself upright with a rattle of chains, wincing at his shoulders and arms protested the movement. His head swam with pain at the movement and for a moment he thought he might black out again. Slowly, his spinning senses subsided again and he could look around him. One feebly sputtering lamp stood on a large box across from him, dimly illuminating his surroundings; not that he could focus properly in the thick shadows anyway. He shivered, aware of a chill biting through his thin shirt. His greatcoat had vanished; no doubt taken by the thief and his companions.

Frowning, Jean Pierre pushed aside his anger at himself for getting caught like an amateur and set about assessing his conditions. His left wrist throbbed painfully and the manacles securing it definitely felt tighter than the one on his other arm. Remembering blocking the lever swinging at his face and the crack of bone, Jean Pierre winced and hastily moved on in his inventory. His ribs ached as if someone had kicked them and the back and side of his head hurt abominably where he had been coshed. 

Apart from that though, he seemed to be fine. Suppressing a somewhat hysterical giggle at the incoherent thought, Jean Pierre turned his attention to his surroundings. It smelt of dust and decay and a particular quality in the freezing cold air suggested that it was underground. Closing his eyes tight in an effort to get his focus back, Jean Pierre took another look around, eyeing the flickering lamp on the large carved stone box…

Correction; large stone sarcophagus…

He looked around him wildly, seeing the dark shadows of alcoves cut into the walls with their stone figures laid out as if they were merely resting and at any moment would come back to life…

Jean Pierre hiccuped and forced down the panic that rose inside him as it dawned on him that he was in an underground crypt.

"Zut alors," he whispered in alarm. "I zink I am in trouble…"

Swallowing on a surge of nausea, he rested his head back against the cold damp stone behind his head and studied the arched vaults of stone above him. He could barely make them out in the dim light and he suspected there might be bats up there.

And the way things are going they’ll be vampire bats…

Jean Pierre allowed himself a small unsteady giggle, knowing that the blow on the head was dislocating him a little from reality. "Zink," he scolded himself aloud simply to hear the sound of his own voice. "Ze Comte must be behind zis….At least I will go out in style…"

After all where better to murder someone than in a crypt with a ready made sarcophagus waiting to hide the body in?

                                                            * * *  

Part Two; They Seek Him Here, They Seek Him There….

Tiptoeing through the damp grass, Robert was interested to note that Duncan seemed quite familiar with the layout of the mansion's grounds. They had left Herman back at the road to guard the horses, ignoring the valet's protests that he could help. Although he would never admit it, Robert didn't want to lead Herman into danger if he could avoid it. Having one friend in trouble was quite enough and he couldn't spare the time to worry about protecting Herman and find Jean Pierre as well. He didn't like the thought of either of them getting hurt.

"Psst!" Duncan hissed at him.

"I am not!" Robert protested. "I am as sober as you…"

Duncan gave him a long-suffering look.

"Uh, zat is not what you meant?" Robert guessed.

The Scot rolled his eyes and grabbed Robert's sleeve, pulling him down into the concealment of the shrubbery. "There's a light on in yon study," he told him quietly.

Pressing down a branch of greenery, Robert studied the lighted windows of the mansion and frowned. "'Ow do you know it is ze study?" he asked at last.

"I happened to call on the Comte as a neighbourly gesture so to speak."

"You mean you wanted to know where zis precious sword of yours is," Robert sniffed.

"Ye do things yer way, I'll do them mine," Duncan retorted.  "Anyway, I managed to sneak a peak in a room or two while I was waiting. That's the study. The library is next to it."

"I don't see 'ow zis helps me to find Jean Pierre."

Duncan gave him a thoughtful look.

"Zat is why we are 'ere is it not?" Robert demanded forcefully.

"Ye help me get what I want, I’ll help ye get what ye want."

Robert took a deep breath of fury. "You have no intention of 'elping moi!"

"Och laddie, dinna fash yerself. Think on it. If the Comte has yer friend and he's got him here, then we can find him and rescue him. And I can get me hands on a certain sword in the process. If he isn't keeping him here, then sooner or later he's going to go off to visit him and all we have to do is follow him."

Robert glared at him in frustration. The thing that most annoyed him was that Duncan's explanation made sense to him. In a weird foreign sort of way, the Scot reminded him of Jean Pierre. Jean Pierre could convince him white was black at times. Almost anyway…

"I suppose you 'ave a point," he conceded reluctantly.

"And we may learn a little more about the Lady herself."

"I know all zat I need to know about zat woman," Robert spat grimly.

"Ye'd be amazed what ye learn by pressing yer ear to the right door," Duncan chuckled. "Come on…"

As the Scot slid off through the flowerbeds, Robert grimaced and slithered after him, wondering how he had let himself be talked into this. Ze things I do for you, Jean Pierre…

"Hist!"

"Snakes?" Robert said alarm.

Duncan groaned even as he dragged Robert to the ground again. The windows of the study had been opened a black garbed figure climbed out, climbing awkwardly over the sill. Behind him a shadow moved in the room and De Mars face appeared, floating ghost like in the candlelight.

"Remember, pay off your men and get rid of zem," the Comte hissed. "Zere will be a bonus for you and you alone if you assist me further in zis."

The figure nodded. "I'm with ya, man."

"Excellent. Now go, I do not wish you to be seen 'ere." 

The windows closed as the figure dropped to the gravel and limped away, mincing across the grass and vanishing in the direction of the road.

"'E walks like 'Erman does sometimes…" Robert puzzled.

"He walks like some who got kicked in the proverbials."

"I do not know zese proverbials? Are zey in ze town somewhere?"

Duncan chuckled. "The family jewels, laddie."

"My family does not have any jewels. At least, I do not zink zey do," Robert frowned. Having been born on the wrong side of the blankets, he wasn't too sure he was telling the strict truth there.

Leaning over, Duncan whispered a translation for him in slightly more vulgar terms as a thump of hoofbeats on damp earth sounded distantly though the night.

"Oh! Zose!" Robert grinned.

"How does Jean Pierre get anything done if he's always explaining things to you?" Duncan muttered.

"'Ey!" Robert protested.

"Never mind. Come on…"

"Don't you want to follow 'im?"

"Nay, laddie. He’ll be long gone…Come on…"

"Neigh?" Robert muttered. "I am not a 'orse…Yike!"

"Sssh!" Duncan hissed at him in exasperation as he grabbed the Frenchman's arm and towed him bodily off through the shrubbery towards the kitchens at the back of the mansion. At this time of night they should be deserted. If not, they would have to find another way in…

                                                            * * *

Shivering in his greatcoat, Herman hugged the shadows under the trees and watched the road carefully. He wasn't sure how long Robert and Duncan would be and he wanted to be ready with the horses should they need to make a fast getaway.

The thud of hooves on the road made him shrink further back into the concealing darkness, ducking behind a bush for concealment when there was no whistled signal of warning from Robert. 

After a few moments an ancient swayback mare trotted down the road, her rider swaying in the saddle as he cursed and flailed in a vain attempt to make the horse move faster. She ignored him, pausing to sample a mouthful of leaves from Herman's bush before she deigned to move on in response to his exhortations to hurry.

Herman held his breath, terrified of being discovered. He knew the scruffy ruffian hugging the back of the mare. He had seen him hanging around the town with his equally revolting companions. They were an unsavoury and unpopular group and the valet hadn't been able to find anyone with a good word to say about them. Rumour had it that this particular lout wasn't above taking a knife to someone's throat if they were a little slow in handing over their money.

The horse and her breathlessly swearing rider disappeared off into the shadows once more, leaving the road in silence. After a few wary moments Herman crept from his hiding place and frowned after him. What was the thug doing out here at this time of night on a road that only led to De Mars' mansion? The valet knew his ex master's habits only too well. John was exactly the kind he would hire to do his dirty deeds for him.

Nibbling his lower lip, Herman stared worriedly after the ruffian, then looked back towards the mansion. Robert and Duncan knew where the horses were hidden. And Robert had taken him to one side and warned him to keep a sharp look out for clues. And what else was John if not a clue?

The way John was riding he couldn't have gone far. He might even have fallen off by now. Slipping back into the trees, Herman untied his own sweet natured bay mare and mounted up. He might have spent his life avoiding violence and danger wherever possible but leaving a friend in trouble when he could help went totally against the grain. Robert would no doubt be angry with him, but he had no choice. If there was the remotest chance that John might lead him to Jean Pierre then Herman would follow him to the ends of the earth to help his friend…

                                                            * * *

Pressing his back against the wall, Robert swallowed nervously as they crept along the corridor. He was not used to this stealthy invasion of another man's home. Robbing a man on the open road where a quick getaway could be made was one thing, this was quite another. He felt trapped and uneasy. Jean Pierre would never have led me into such a situation. The thought made Robert smile faintly; wondering what his friend would say when he heard about this little escapade.

A painting slid against the wall as his shoulder brushed it and Robert grabbed at it clumsily, feeling the panic welling up inside him. For a second he stared at the painting in bewilderment, baffled as to why it seemed to look like him. He jumped a foot when Duncan touched his arm lightly.

"Take it easy, laddie," he soothed, lifting his hand to beckon to him. "We're almost there…"

"Zis painting looks like me…"

Duncan frowned, peered at the painting and shrugged. "Not unless ye've gone grey in the last hour or so. Come on…."

Robert grimaced but followed close on the Scot's heels as he flitted across the main hall of the mansion and rested his ear against a door. Upstairs a door opened and Chantal's voice floated down the sweep of the staircase.

"Stay 'ere, Marie. I go to speak to ze Comte…"

"Yes, mi'lady. Shall I turn down the bed?"

"Oui, I shall go to bed shortly. And you will call me early in ze morning, non?"

"Yes, mi'lady."

 A moment later the soft murmur of silken skirts and the tap of slippers floated to Robert's ears as Chantal approached the main staircase.

"She is coming down 'ere!" he hissed anxiously to Duncan as the door behind him clicked open. Grabbing his arm, Duncan towed the Frenchman inside and hastily shoved the door almost shut.  The two of them pressed against the wall, watching the hall through the crack and both of them fearing that Lady Du Lac would choose to enter the library in search of De Mars.

"That's her? She's bloody gorgeous!" Duncan exclaimed as Chantal swept into sight, her pale green skirts shimmering around her slender figure as she briskly crossed the hall and tapped at the study door. Robert gave the Scot an exasperated look and concentrated on watching what happened. Chantal looked faintly nervous as she waited for an answer to her knock.

"Enter!" De Mars called from within the room and Chantal opened the door, walking inside with her chin held high. 

As she disappeared from view, Robert growled in disappointment and looked around him. Duncan had already moved away and lit one of the lamps, so he could better see their surroundings. His attention was currently occupied by the display of swords in a glass cabinet. Robert glared at him, then spotted the door leading between the study and library. Forgetting about Duncan's ulterior motives, he darted across and pressed his ear eagerly to the door, hoping to hear word of Jean Pierre. What he heard however made his blood run cold and his soul ache with sympathy for his friend…

                                                            * * *

"What is it, ma petite? I thought zat you were unwell?" Henri asked, masking his annoyance at the interruption as Chantal entered his study. He needed to be on his way to deal with his captive and Chantal was delaying him.

"We need to talk, 'Enri."

"Can it not wait until ze morning when you are rested?" he suggested as he held a chair out for her.

"Non, it cannot. A little wine if you please…"

Henri frowned, wondering if that was a good idea. She had been looking rather pale and shaky recently. Even before the peasant had arrived to upset her. It was…disconcerting to find himself worrying about her. "Are you sure…?"

"Ze wine, Henri!" she ordered briskly.

Somewhat startled by her sharp tone, De Mars found himself obeying in consternation and poured her a glass of wine from the decanter on its silver tray.

She took it from his fingers and sipped, her colour strengthening a little as the wine warmed her. "Non, 'Enri, I am not unwell," she said abruptly. "I am it would seem in ze delicate condition."

De Mars blinked and sat down hard, surprised to find that he had actually sat on his desk instead of a chair. He stared at her bewilderment. "You are…?" he echoed weakly.

"For goodness sake, 'Enri. Is it so hard to understand? Ze delicate condition? I am with child…"

Henri swallowed, then shoved to his feet, strode over to the salver and took a gulp of wine straight from the bottle. "My child?" he said slowly.

"You know it is," Chantal retorted primly. "Zere 'as been no one else since I left France."

"It is not ze peasant's?" De Mars demanded darkly.

"Non," she snapped with a hint of bitterness.  "I am insulted zat you would zink such a zing of me. If it was Jean Pierre's I would not be telling you. And you know perfectly well I 'ave 'ad my times since zen."

De Mars gazed at her silently for a long moment, wondering if she was telling him the truth about telling him. He didn't doubt the child was his, but whether she would tell him or not if it wasn't he wasn't so sure. Actually he was less sure that there was a child at all than anything else. She knew of his urgent desire for an heir and this little revelation was a sure way to ensure that he did marry her and not the likes of Lady Carlyse. On the other hand, he had noticed that she had started to thicken a little around the waist and she had called on a seamstress to let out a couple of her favourite gowns…

Drumming his fingers on the wooden sideboard under his hand, Henri frowned darkly. If there was to be an heir, then certain things must be done to ensure its position, as his rightful heir could not be opposed.

"Well?" Chantal said primly, studying him over the rim of her glass. "Do you believe me? Or am I to be cast out like a discarded shoe?"

De Mars focused on her, seeing the faint hint of uncertainty and fear in her wide lovely eyes. The stab of concern that went through him astounded him. Pushing away from the sideboard, he strode briskly to her side and picked up her free hand. Kissing the back of her fingers, he smiled deep into her eyes and watched his masculinity have its usual effect on her. "We are two of a kind, ma Cherie, we always 'ave been," he said softly. "I could no more discard you zan I could throw away my money. We shall bring forward ze wedding…"

"Non," Chantal blurted, blushing. "People would know and zere is gossip enough already zat I live 'ere with you…"

"Zey will know when ze child comes…"

"We could say ze child is early," Chantal said desperately. "Or we could go away somewhere after ze wedding. It is not so long to wait. And you said you 'ad another estate…"

"Oui," Henri hesitated, reluctant to leave the comfort of the mansion so soon after arriving and settling in. Still, he had yet to visit his seaside estates and there was a certain attraction to being a part of the English cream of society that frequented Brighton. He kissed her hand again, smiling. "Very well, ma petite, it shall be as you say. We shall travel for a while." Watching her relax made Henri feel strangely protective for once and his smile widened.  "All will be well, ma belle, do not fear. Now, you must get your rest. And I must go out to ze Cavern…"

"Go out? But 'Enri, why must you go to zat horrible place? It 'as such a bad reputation…"

"Chantal!" De Mars interrupted her impatiently, releasing her hand. "We are not yet married. Do not become a nag all ready or we shall not be married at all!"

"Do not bully me!" she snapped back, pressing one hand to the barely perceptible swell of her stomach.

"My apologies, Cherie.  But, you must rest and zere are zings I must do. We shall talk in ze morning."

Chantal gave him a doubtful look, but let him help her to her feet and walk her to the door, his hand resting in the small of her back. They crossed the hall together and at the bottom of the stairs, he kissed her affectionately on the cheek. "Take care of yourself and my heir, ma petite belle, " he urged. "In ze morning, I shall buy you a beautiful gift to celebrate…"

Chantal smiled at him at that, mollified by the offer even as her temper flashed in resentment at his suddenly proprietary air. She kissed him back before gathering up her skirts and making her way gracefully up the stairs. At the top, she paused, surprised to find him watching her. She waved and then made her way towards her suite of rooms and her waiting maid.

Henri watched until she was out of sight, his smile of pleasure fading. Turning abruptly on his heels, he stalked across the hall, bellowing for a servant to bring him his horse…

                                                            * * *

A soft curse from Duncan made Robert lifted his head and stare towards him blankly, bewildering to find the Scot there. His head was spinning from Chantal's revelations. She was with child? De Mar's child? Poor Jean Pierre! How would he ever cope with finding out? Come to that, how could Robert ever tell him? Perhaps it was best if he never found out...

Unless of course she planned to tell him at the rendezvous; if she came…

But what if she told De Mars and the Comte arrived instead?

"Robert! Help me..." Duncan hissed at him.

"What is it?" Robert came to his side. "De Mars 'as gone out. We must follow 'im."

Duncan frowned at him, struggling with the lock of the cabinet. "Not without the sword."

"Which one?" Robert peered through the glass impatiently; studying the swords laid out on the black velvet inside.

"That one, ye ken!" Duncan pointed to a broad bladed short sword.

"Why zat one? Ze epee is a better blade…" Robert prided himself on knowing a good sword when he saw one. A flicker of a memory crossed his mind; Jean Pierre telling him about one of De Mars' swords that he had handled that had felt as if it was part of his arm… "Ze Greek blade…"

"Aye, laddie, the Greek's blade. And if I don't get it back there'll be all kinds of trouble…" Duncan scrubbed at his black hair impatiently. "I'll have to break the glass…"

Robert snorted and dug into his pocket, fishing out his knife. Prying the lock open took a matter of moments and he felt a surge of smug pride at the expression on Duncan's face. "We French 'ave many talents," he told him. "Especially in ze boudoir."

"Pick a lot of chastity belts, do ye?" Duncan snorted as he reached in to the cabinet and grabbed the short sword.

"We call it finesse… " Robert felt the strangest sense of familiarity as Duncan hefted the sword, certain knowledge that flowed through him… "Zat is not yours," he said sharply.

"Ye want me to give this beauty back to yon Comte to rot under glass for evermore?"

"Non…"

"What then?"

"I do not know," Robert admitted. "But…."

"Look, grab the epee if ye want it. But hurry up about it…"

Robert grabbed his wrist. "Zis sword, what will you do with it?"

"I’ll give it back to its owner. That's why I'm here, remember? I told ye. Now, come on. Ye said the Comte was off?"

"To a tavern I zink…"

Duncan frowned at him as he led the way to the door and cracked it open. The hall was once more deserted. "Ye think?"

"Oui, or a cave….I am not sure…"

"Did he say the Cavern maybe?"

"Per'ap's…"

"Sounds a likely place to find a few thugs. I don't think Jean Pierre's here if he's gone off down the pub, mind. We'd best see if we can catch up with him." Duncan ducked out of the room and loped off across the hall. Robert followed him, but hesitated at the bottom of the stairs.  Duncan beckoned to him furiously, then came back and grabbed his arm when he wouldn't move.

"Have ye gone soft? What are ye mooning over now?"

"I am not mooning," Robert protested. "She is up zere. If I could get to 'er…."

"She'd scream the place down…"

"What the…? How'd you get in here?" The loud bellow of the servant who had trotted out from the serving quarters with a tray of milk and sandwiches ordered for Chantal by De Mars on his way out, startled both Frenchman and Scot alike.

"The jig's up!" Duncan yelped.

"I did not know we were dancing!" Robert exclaimed in confusion but when Duncan took off running, he was right on his heels. The servant didn't follow, but stayed in the hall, yelling for help and bringing the footmen running.

Duncan slammed through the door into the study and belted straight across to the window. It was locked.

"Robert…." he began.

Robert grabbed the nearest chair and threw it through the window with a crash of glass.

"More finesse?" Duncan gasped as the pair of them scrambled through the remains and took off across the lawn, glass crunching under their booted feet at they fled. Behind them the house was coming alight with a blaze of lamps as a trio of footmen spilled out of the study window after them.

 "Non, we call zat vandalism…" Robert panted back, then shut up and concentrated on running and staying ahead of the pack until they reached Herman and the horses.

                                                            * * *

Shifting gingerly, Jean Pierre lowered himself back down onto the balls of his feet, wincing as the pull on his shoulders returned. Agile and fit though he was, there was only so long he could stand on tiptoe before his toes started to complain. Besides, the effort was making his hips and lower back ache badly.

A rat scuttled across the floor, [pausing to sit up open plump haunches and study him, nose twitching in excitement. "Shoo!" Jean Pierre hissed at it. "Unless you want to be a pie…"

The rat continued to stare at him, beady black eyes glistening with cunning calculation.  It was a very fat rat, its coat thick and glossy in the lamplight. Jean Pierre found himself doing his best not to think about what it might be living on…

It scuttled a few steps closer, his lack of movement making it bolder. Jean Pierre waited until it got within range and then kicked it, deriving a certain amount of satisfaction from making it squeal in fright and scurry away. "I 'ave known better rats zan you!" Jean Pierre called after it. "And ze Comte is one of zem…"

The soft whicker of a horse and the thud of approaching hoofbeats from beyond the open vault door made him fall silent and peer warily through the dim light towards the steps. He wasn't precisely sure how long he had been chained up, or how long a journey it had been to bring him here, but he thought it was by now some time in the middle of the night. And somehow he doubted that anyone would be casually dropping a by a crypt around midnight for anything except nefarious purposes.

Guessing that he was about to meet his captor, Jean Pierre let himself slump back against the wall - the picture of defeat and misery - and waited.

After a few moments a tall figure wrapped in a black cloak appeared in the doorway and stood staring down into the gloom of the vault, studying Jean Pierre carefully as if to make sure he was still securely chained. Satisfied, he strolled casually down the steps and swept back the concealing hood of his cloak to reveal the darkly handsome features of the Comte De Mars.

If De Mars expected Jean Pierre to be either startled or scared, he was sadly disappointed however, "Why, Henri, how nice of you to drop in so unexpectedly," Jean Pierre greeted him mockingly. "I 'ave been waiting for you."

"Sarcasm, Jean Pierre? And so bitter…"

"What did you expect? I am after all a peasant, am I not?"

"True," De Mars mused as he propped one hip against the stone sarcophagus and fiddled with the wick of the lamp to make it burn brighter. "And zat is what makes me wonder, you are a peasant, you had nothing to gain. You 'ad escaped me with your life…." The Comte shot a narrow eyed look at Jean Pierre as his captive laughed bitterly.

"Zat is not ze way I would put it…You got away with your life. If my companions 'ad caught you…"

"You mean ze fair Marie and Robert and Francois?  Oui, Jean Pierre, I know zem all. I 'ave paid close attention to you and your companions’ doings. I may be in exile 'ere, but I am not without my contacts in France."

Jean Pierre bit his lip and rubbed his cheek against his aching arm. His wrist was screaming in pain, throbbing against the manacles that had tightened cruelly on his swollen flesh.  

Satisfied with the lamp, De Mars folded his arms across his broad chest and studied Jean Pierre thoughtfully. "Why did you come back?"

"You 'ad what I wanted."

"All zis way for Chantal?"

"Oui…"

"You surprise me. Your friend Robert came for revenge…"

Jean Pierre didn't answer. Robert's plans were his own concern.

"She ran away from you…"

"Non, she thought you 'ad killed me…"

"Zat did not stop 'er coming to my bed…."

Jean Pierre glared at him and said nothing, aware of the jealousy burning inside him.

"You know, if you 'ad not given my men ze slip in Calais, you would 'ave never have

landed 'ere alive let alone left Calais in one piece."

"Zen you 'ired ze wrong men, did you not?"

"Per'aps, but zen I never make ze same mistake twice.…"

"I do not zink Chantal will be impressed when she finds out about you kidnapping me."

 "She will not find out. All she will know is zat you do not show up at your rendezvous. She will zink you 'ave betrayed and abandoned 'er and turn to me for solace."

Fighting down the surge of panic he felt and hearing De Mars knew of his arrangement to meet Chantal, Jean Pierre spoke calmly, lowering his head to stare at the cold stone flags on the vault floor. "What rendezvous?" he blurted aloud.

De Mars smiled mirthlessly. "Ze one you 'ad Robert arrange with Lady Carlyse for you with Chantal."

"I know of no such rendezvous…"

"Do not bother to lie to me," the Comte retorted. "I saw ze note. 'Er maid saw 'er hide it in her jewellery box. It was a very romantic little missive, Jean Pierre."

"I do not believe you…"

"'Ow zen do I know of ze rendezvous?" 

Jean Pierre grimaced. "Zis is why you kidnapped me zen? You are afraid she will run away with moi."

De Mar pursed his full sensual lips. "It is a possibility zat ze sight of you would affect her resolve to marry me, oui," he admitted. "In a moment of madness she might run away with you for a while. A last fling before ze marriage bed per'aps…"

"And you 'ope she will turn to you if I am not zere?"

"I know she will. She already 'as. It is me she plans to marry…"

"So you say…"

"She carries my child…"

Jean Pierre jerked his head up, unable to conceal his expression of shock. De Mars smiled cruelly.

"It is true. It is mine. She 'as 'ad 'er time since she came to you. She is mine, peasant. And I will not give 'er up to you again."

"You sound almost jealous..." Jean Pierre managed to say.

De Mars eased to his feet, stepping lightly across to stand in front of the smaller man. "I am. Always she 'as compared me to you. But no more. I should 'ave killed you."

The blow took Jean Pierre by surprise and his head cracked back against the wall as De Mars balled fist smacked across the side of his face. For a moment the Comte stood over him, breathing hard, then he backed away, controlling himself with an obvious effort.

Gingerly licking the blood from his split lip, Jean Pierre watched him warily. "Zen why do you hesitate?" he mocked.

"You know why. Because of 'er…" De Mars shot a despising look over his shoulder at Jean Pierre, loathing his own weakness. Straightening up, he turned back to face the peasant. "Let me explain. I need 'er. I must marry before my next birthday if I wish to keep my lands 'ere in Angleterre. Ze child is a bonus. And you will not stop me from marrying 'er."

"If you are so sure zat she will choose you, why not let me go?" Jean Pierre suggested dryly.

De Mars' dark eyes narrowed. "When she is being practical and grown up, it is moi she wants. But you? You remind 'er of 'er youth. Of past indiscretions. She feels zat she still owes you something. And if you were a gentleman rather zan a peasant, you would know zat and let 'er go. You would do what is best for 'er, not for yourself."

Jean Pierre blinked, stunned that De Mars should be able to find his conscience.

De Mars moved a little closer, gazing down at him again as he spoke softly and reasonably. "What is it you want of 'er? Revenge for what happened when you were a youth? To bring down an aristocrat to your own level?"

"Non…" Jean Pierre faltered.

"I can give 'er everything zat she could ever want. A home, happiness, money, safety for 'er an 'er child. My child. What can you give 'er? A 'and up ze steps to ze guillotine per'aps? Tell me, Jean Pierre, what will it cost me for you to leave 'er alone?"

Jean Pierre caught his breath. Up to that moment, he had been swayed by the Comte's persuasive tongue, now fury swamped his common sense. That De Mars thought his affections could be so easily bought!  "You could not pay me enough!" he raged.

De Mars sighed heavily. "I will 'ave to kill you zen and zis time I will not fail. But first…" he lashed out furiously, backhanding his captive across the face again.

Jean Pierre gasped in pain, feeling the bruise swelling his cheekbone as his eyes teared in reaction. De Mars hit him again, slamming his fist into Jean Pierre's unprotected midriff. As he gasped for breath, De Mars grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head up.

"I 'ave wanted to do zat for a long time," he explained mildly. "And zere is something else I wish to tell you, before I 'ave you killed…"

"You mean you are too much of a coward to kill me yourself?" Jean Pierre taunted dazedly.

"Non, I am too smart to 'ave your blood on my 'ands when I marry Chantal. Besides, you are no longer so important. Zis way it will look as if I 'ad nozing to do with it. Besides, I must go to ze rendezvous must I not?"

"But why?"

"So I can kill your friend personally, of course. Robert is bound to come in ze hope zat you will be zere to meet 'er. You see, you are a mere pawn in my plan. Chantal will not choose you over me. I know zis." De Mars leaned casually against the wall with one arm, fingering Jean Pierre's hair thoughtfully.  "But Robert, Robert is a thorn in my side. Do you know who 'e is?"

Jean Pierre slid a wary look up at him, unsure of what the Comte was getting at. "'E is Robert…"

De Mars nodded. "And born on ze wrong side of ze blankets, oui?"

"What does zat 'ave to do with anything?" Jean Pierre winced as De Mars seized him by the throat, his fingers digging in cruelly.

"I know who his parents are."

"Zat is clever. Not even Robert knows zat…" Jean Pierre retorted.

De Mars ignored his sarcasm. "At first I thought it was a coincidence when I saw 'im with you. But zen zere was what I knew of you. Of where you came from. Of where Robert came from. Of where 'e was born and who cared for 'im. 'E even 'as ze right name. And so I knew it 'ad to be 'im."

"'Im? 'Im who?" Jean Pierre asked in bewilderment.

"You do not know?" De Mars asked in surprise, peering at him more closely. "Non, you do not. And you are ze smart one. So per'aps, 'e does not know either…"

"I 'ave no idea what you are talking about…" Jean Pierre protested.

De Mars patted his cheek, making him flinch in pain before he stepped away. "It is very simple. I know who 'e 'is. My Grandfather got 'im on my mother. He could not keep it in 'is codpiece. And my mother…." De Mars shrugged. "She was always a sucker for a sweet tongue…"

"Robert is-? Non, it is impossible! He looks nozing like you!" 

"He does 'owever look very much like my Grandfather. And ze old bastard left half of everything he owned 'ere in Angleterre to Robert. I 'ave spent 'alf my life looking for 'im so I can kill 'im. I 'ad 'oped that 'e would not make it zis far, but since 'e as I shall look on it as a birthday present and kill 'im personally."

"You cannot! Not if 'e is, if 'e is your brother!"

"'E is also my uncle," De Mars pointed out. "But if I am to kill my uncle why should I worry if I kill my brother also? Zen all I 'ave to do is marry Chantal and live 'appily ever after."

"You bastard!"

"Non, zat is your Robert." De Mars smirked in delight. Rubbing his hands together, he glanced around the crypt in amusement. "Oui, moi plan is coming together…"

"Zat is what you zink. If Robert is at ze rendezvous, he will tell Chantal what 'as 'appened to moi. She will know it was you…"

"If by some chance I do not kill Robert before 'e gets to 'er, it will still be to late for you and she will still stay with me anyway. What choice will she 'ave?" the Comte pointed out blandly. "But 'e will not get to 'er. If 'e arrives before she does I will kill 'im and she will not know it was I who did it. She will never know Robert was even killed for she will not even see ze body." Smiling, De Mars lifted the hood of his cloak back over his head, throwing his face into sinister shadow. "A cunning plan, non?"

"Non!" Jean Pierre spat.

"On ze other 'and if she arrives early and he attempts to speak to 'er, I shall ride to 'er rescue and kill 'im. I shall tell 'er zat I 'ad 'eard of a plan to kidnap 'er. Naturally I did not know it was Robert. But when you do not arrive, she will believe zat you and Robert 'ad a falling out over Robert's plan and 'e killed you…"

"You will not get away with it," Jean Pierre protested faintly, even though a horrible feeling of dread was creeping through him that De Mars would get away with it.

The Comte smiled cruelly. "Who is there to stop moi? You? I zink not. Robert? 'E is not clever enough. 'Erman? 'E is not important. 'E is not brave enough to do anything." De Mars frowned, shaking his head, he started towards the steps. "But enough of zis. I must go. It is a long ride to ze place you chose to rendezvous."

"De Mars, wait…"

            De Mars looked over his shoulder at him. "Do not seek to delay moi it will do you no good…"

"I 'ave a deal to offer you…"

The Comte raised a dark eyebrow. "You seek to bargain for you life? I am surprised,

Jean Pierre. You may be a peasant, but I 'ad expected better of you."

Jean Pierre gritted his teeth. "Robert does not know 'e is related to you. 'E does not ever 'ave to know. Let me go. I will find 'im and we will go back to France. I will not attempt to contact Chantal again. Robert will believe me if I tell 'im it is over between us."

De Mars considered. "And why should I trust you?"

"Is it not better zan being a party to murder?"

"But it is also less sure…"

"But if you are so sure of Chantal being yours, you 'ave nozing to lose."

"Except my land if you lie."

"Do you really zink zat Robert could convince anyone 'e is related to you? And in France, it is not a good time to be an aristocrat…"

"Zat is true…" De Mars mused. "And 'Erman?"

"What of 'im?"

"I want 'im…"

"You surprise moi…"

"'E 'as betrayed me. 'Im I shall kill slowly…Agree to bring 'im to me and I shall consider it. Otherwise, I shall kill you and Robert."

Jean Pierre looked at him in horror. "I cannot do zat! 'Erman is my friend. I cannot betray 'im!"

"It is ze price you must pay if you wish your life and your freedom," De Mars responded maliciously.

Jean Pierre stared at him. "Zen I will not pay it," he hissed.

"Not even to protect your precious Robert?" De Mars mocked. "You weigh one life against another, Jean Pierre."

"Robert can take care of 'imself," Jean Pierre retorted grimly. "Who knows? 'E may kill you…"

"I doubt zat." De Mars sneered.

"Robert would not wish me to betray 'Erman to save 'im." 

"But 'ow about to save yourself? Would Robert not give up 'Erman to save you?"

"Non," Jean Pierre answered flatly. "Nor would 'Erman betray either of us…"

"'Ow can you be so sure? 'E betrayed me did 'e not?"

"'E left you. Zat is not a betrayal. It was a matter of honour. But per'aps zat is something you know nozing about. Honour is why we will not betray each other…"

In two quick strides, De Mars was back in front of Jean Pierre and punching him hard across the face in a brutal blow. The last words Jean Pierre heard as unconsciousness claimed him were De Mars';

"You are a peasant! What do you know of honour?!"

                                                            * * *

"I do not believe zat 'Erman ran away," Robert insisted grimly as he and Duncan rode back towards town together. They had managed to give their pursuers the slip without too much difficulty. Robert had had plenty of experience at such hide and seek games and Duncan, he had been interested to note, seemed to be equally adept at escaping.

"He was gone, wasn’t he?" 

"And so was 'is 'orse. But 'e 'ad left ours…"

"Perhaps he got scared…"

"Non," Robert said firmly after a moments thought. "'Erman may be many zings and 'e does not like danger, but 'e is not a coward. If 'e left, 'e 'ad a reason. I 'ope 'e does not get into trouble."

"I wasn't sure ye'd care."

Robert gave the Scot a dirty look.  "'E may be strange, but 'e is still a friend."

Duncan grunted, absently patting the sword he had tied across the front of his saddle.  "He could have followed that man we saw leaving," he suggested thoughtfully.

"'E would not be zinking of romance now!" Robert protested indignantly.

Duncan chuckled. "He seems too enamoured of ye to let anyone else distract him…"

"'Ey!" Robert began.

"But he might have thought yon man might lead him to Jean Pierre. We’d better get back and see if we can find him. I think I know the sassanach. And we need to go to the Cavern to find the Comte."

Robert frowned. It was a good idea. Herman might well have followed the man if he thought he might be useful and the urge to find De Mars and beat him bloody for information was a strong one. But Robert had another idea of his own. "I 'ave a 'unch. Jean Pierre arranged a meeting with zat 'ussy Chantal. 'E would not miss zat if zere was any way to avoid it. I zink I should go to ze rendezvous. If 'e does not show up I can explain zat 'e is missing to 'er."

"Are ye sure, laddie?" he asked in concern.

Robert nodded. "If Jean Pierre does not come, I will meet you in town and we shall look for 'im and 'Erman together. In ze meantime you should see what you can discover."

"Aye, Robert. I’ll do that for ye. We'll meet at the inn at midday and se what we’ve found out." Leaning across Duncan slapped Robert briskly on the shoulder. "Good luck to ye, laddie." He told him before he rode off into the darkened woodland.

Robert gazed after him, feeling a trifle forlorn at being abandoned. He hadn't been alone in a while and these damp, dark English woods were not as friendly as the ones of France. He missed Jean Pierre. He even missed Herman. And it all reminded him far too much of the last time that Jean Pierre had been in the Comte's hands.

Telling himself to pull himself together, Robert turned his horse away from town and set course for the rendezvous with Chantal Du Lac and the source of all his troubles.

                                                             * * *

Herman wasn't sure that horses could tiptoe, but after a quiet word in her velvety ear, he was sure that the mare was doing her best to creep along as silently as he was. It was still dark for now, but the valet was sure dawn wasn't far away. Ahead of him in the woods, John had given up riding his nag and was leading her, dragging her along with even more swearing than when he had been riding her.

"Quite biting me ya damn nag!" John bellowed at the long suffering beast.

"Go on, Cherie, kick 'im," Herman encouraged under his breath. He had followed John all the way back into town and a meeting with his cronies at the Cavern. Money had exchanged hands and, after a somewhat noisy argument in the alleyway outside the inn, the four of them had gone their separate ways. Having little interest in the others, Herman had followed John back out into the woods. He suspected that if anyone was going to lead him to Jean Pierre it would be the leader of these petty oafs.

He had stayed well back, following John by the light of the lantern he carried and the various curses that drifted back to him on the chill night breeze. He had dismounted when the Englishman had, reluctant to get too close and sure that if he gave himself away John would never go to Jean Pierre.

John seemed to have come to a stop ahead of him for his complaints had stopped. Herman hesitated, idly petting the mare's nose as she nuzzled him affectionately. Should he move closer? Or wait and see what happened next? Perhaps the idiot had noticed he was being followed at last and was waiting to see what Herman would do…

Deciding that hiding was the better part of valour, Herman led his horse into the bushes to wait…

                                                            * * *

Panting for breath, Jean Pierre sank wearily down against the stone wall and closed his eyes. There was no way he was going to be able to slip his wrists free of the manacles. His wrist was far too swollen and the metal was cutting in cruelly.

He had regained consciousness to find himself alone and confused. Finding that De Mars had abandoned him made Jean Pierre feel better, until he remembered that it meant the Comte had gone to kill his best friend and that his accomplice would no doubt be along soon to kill Jean Pierre himself. That made him start struggling again, fighting his restraints with all the energy his battered body had left.

Gradually exhaustion and pain set in, draining his strength until only stubbornness kept him going. But finally even that failed him and he slumped against the wall, miserably admitting defeat for now. He could not escape the chains without help.

On the floor the rat pattered out of hiding and sat staring up at him, whiskers twitching. The lamp that De Mars had left behind was starting to flicker as it ran out of oil and the gathering shadows encouraged the rat into emerging to hunt.  "You grow brave again," Jean Pierre observed grimly. "Though you would not be so brave if I were free. But zat is in ze nature of rats is it not?"

The rat ignored him, eyeing his ankle hungrily instead.

"If I 'ad my 'ands free I would snap you in two…" Jean Pierre told it bitterly, wondering if had the energy left to kick it again if it came close enough to sample his leg.

The creak of the door being pushed open startled them both. The rat fled back into hiding, leaving Jean Pierre wishing he could do the same as one of his captors appeared in the doorway, holding up a lamp to examine the crypt in its light.

"You…." Jean Pierre spat in disgust, recognising John. "So you are ze one De Mars 'as sent to kill moi…"

"Doesn't like to get his hands dirty, does he?" John retorted as he came down the steps carefully and set the lamp down on the sarcophagus beside the other one. Drawing a pistol from his belt, he put it down on the stone lid beside the lamp. "Been getting to know the rats, have you?" he chuckled nastily, seeing the bright eyes gleaming up at him from the shadows.

"Zey make better companions zan you..."

"Ooh, chilly," John sneered in mockery. "Cold in here, isn't it?"

"I 'ad thought ze atmosphere was quite pleasant until you arrived…"

John glared at him, at a loss for words. "Cocky, ain't you?" he said at last. "Well, you won't be so cocky soon…You'll be saying hello to the ghosts in here instead…" Drawing a long bladed knife from his belt, he eased deliberately towards Jean Pierre.

"What kind of a coward are you to kill a bound man?" Jean Pierre demanded, keeping the unease from his voice.

John snorted. "Not a coward and not a fool either. The Comte told me you were pretty good with a sword, you see…"

"But I am unarmed."

"So what?"

Jean Pierre swallowed, drawing his head back as the knife point touched his throat.

"You made me look stupid in front of me mates…"

"It was not a 'ard zing to do…" Jean Pierre bit back a yelp of pain as the wicked sharp blade traced the curve of his collarbone, drawing blood in a warm wet stream.

"So, I don't see why I shouldn't have some fun. The Comte won't care. Make it look good, he said." John wielded the knife like an artist, using the tip with a delicacy of touch as if it was a paintbrush. He inclined his head towards the sarcophagus. "No one's going to find your body…"

"Put down ze knife," the voice was cold and grimly determined and startlingly loud in the quiet crypt.

"What?" John looked over his shoulder in surprise. "Who the hell are you?"

"Your worst nightmare, monsieur. I am….ze, ze, ze  Powerful Ranger!"

"Who?"

"Oh, never mind," Herman snapped, stepping a little further into the crypt and lifting the pistol he held. "Put down ze knife and step away from 'im, or I shall blow ze large 'ole in you…"

John hesitated and, while he was distracted, Jean Pierre suddenly found enough strength to kick him in the rump. The Englishman went staggering, losing his grip on the knife. Herman promptly darted to forward to grab it.

"Non, 'Erman! Do not!" Jean Pierre yelled in alarm, but his warning came to late. Abandoning the knife, John lunged for Herman, crashing into the slightly built valet and grabbing for the gun. They landed against the sarcophagus, tumbling past it to crash into the dusty darkness beyond. 

All Jean Pierre could hear were the sounds of a frantic struggle until the pistol went off…

Then John staggered into view, backing away from the corner. "Froggy bastard…" he hissed..

"Zut alors," Jean Pierre whispered in horror as John he turned towards him and reached for the pistol on the stone lid. He didn't make it, but instead fell face downward on the stone flags and lay still.

Jean Pierre stared at him in shock, hope gradually creeping in as he saw the pool of blood spreading from, beneath the ruffian. "'Erman? Herman?! Answer moi!"                    

"Oui…"            Shakily, Herman crawled out from behind the sarcophagus and looked up at him. "Do not fear, I am 'ere…"

"Are you' urt?" Jean Pierre demanded anxiously.

Herman shook his head as he pushed himself to his feet, the pistol hanging limp from his hand. Realising he was leaning on the sarcophagus, he hastily snatched his hand away and wiped his fingers fastidiously on his leg. "Non, ze gun went off and…" Then his gaze fell on John's body and he froze in horror. "I killed 'im…"

"Erman!" Jean Pierre called. "We do not 'ave time for you to panic. 'Elp moi!"

"I killed 'im…"

"'Erman! He was going to kill moi! 'E meant to kill you!" Jean Pierre yelled then took a deep breath. "'Erman, mon ami, please? I need your 'elp…I am 'urt…"

Herman blinked slowly, focusing on him. Carefully putting down the pistol, he came towards Jean Pierre. "Did 'e 'urt you very much?" he said softly as he started to unfasten the manacles.

"Not so much. Be careful of ze wrist, it is broken I zink…"

Herman nodded. "I can see zat," he answered, his touch gentle as he freed Jean Pierre's good hand first then helped him support his wrist as he unfastened the manacle. "Zis will need to be splinted…"

"Later…" With a hiss of relief, Jean Pierre lowered his arm, rolling his shoulders gratefully despite the screaming pain of overstretched muscles. He looked up at the valet, seeing the haunted light in his eyes as he looked back at the body.

"I 'ave never killed anyone before…" Herman whispered.

"Zere is a first time for everyone and everything…" Jean Pierre teased. When Herman didn't respond to the teasing though, he frowned. "'Erman, look at me," he demanded sharply then did something he had never dreamed he would do. Cupping one hand around the valet's neck, he pulled him back to face him. "My 'ero," he said solemnly and kissed him briskly on each cheek. Herman's eyes widened in surprised delight.

"Jean Pierre, zis is so sudden!" he exclaimed, slipping his arm around his waist. "'Ere, let me 'elp you…"

"I thought Robert was ze love of your life," Jean Pierre scolded mischievously however, escaping his arm to go and check on John on the off chance that he was alive. He wasn't.

"When I'm not with ze boy zat I love, zen I love ze boy I am with," Herman quoted, his pleasure fading "I did not mean to kill 'im. 'E grabbed for ze pistol and it went off…"

"And it could 'ave killed you. I am very glad it did not…"

"Or you would be facing 'im now…"

"'Erman, do not be a fool!" Jean Pierre snapped, insulted. "I do not care about zat!"

"You do not?"

Jean Pierre sighed in exasperation. "Do you zink I want to see you killed? You are a good friend. You came 'ere to save me and risked your own life. Not everyone would do zat."

"Robert would," Herman pointed out, gazing in awe at Jean Pierre as he glared at him.

"'Erman, zink about it and do not be an idiot," Jean Pierre snapped impatiently. "'Ere, load zese for moi and take me to ze horses. We must go and find Robert before ze Comte does."

 Herman fumbled the pistols, reluctant to touch them. "Jean Pierre, I…"

"You are not going to zink about it," Jean Pierre said flatly, grabbing his arm and towing him towards the crypt steps.

"But you said…"

"Shut up, 'Erman…We will talk about zat later, when Robert is safe…"

"'E is in danger?"

"Oui…"

"Jean Pierre?"

"Oui?"

"Am I your friend zen?"

"Oui. Now, 'urry…"

Herman smiled in quiet pleasure, reloading the pistol as they hurried through the damp grass. " His smile faded as he thought of Robert being in danger however. “Jean Pierre?" he said after a few moments.

"What now?"

"Ze horses? Zey are zat way…"

Jean Pierre slammed to a halt, cursed under his breath as his sore arm twinged, then changed direction. "Why did you not tell moi?"

"You did not ask…"

                                                            * * *

Robert reined in his horse, listening to the forest starting to stir. Dawn was creeping slowly across the sky, lightening the gloom fraction by grey fraction. An early morning mist spiralled and puffed around him, turning trees into strange monsters waiting to pounce on him. He shivered, glad of his greatcoat in the chill air.

The clearing where Jean Pierre had arranged his rendezvous was a short way ahead. They had passed it when they rode back from their previous meeting with Chantal and Lady Carylse. It was a pleasant spot, full of flowers and grasses and highlighted by a bubbling stream that would attract the mist this early in the morning. It was a picture of romance…

And a wonderful place for a trap.

Nudging his horse forward, Robert started to circle the clearing, searching for Jean Pierre and checking for trouble. Someone had to watch Jean Pierre's back if he wouldn't watch it for himself.

Robert sniffed in disdain. Jean Pierre's romantic streak would kill him one of these days. What was wrong with finding a nice peasant girl? There were any number of women that Robert knew who would be willing to give his friend anything he wanted. And what did Jean Pierre do? He set off in pursuit of the unobtainable. Thank goodness he didn't have any such foolish aristocratic aspirations.

Chantal should be here soon. Time to move closer…

Zut alors, but he hoped Jean Pierre would come…

                                                            * * *

 "You should stay 'ere and rest," Herman said anxiously as he rode alongside Jean Pierre. He had taken John's mare and been delighted to discover that with the right rider she was a responsive dream to ride with a gait that was as smooth as silk. She was having no trouble staying alongside Herman's own horse, which Jean Pierre was riding. The valet was more worried about Jean Pierre than anything else. In the weak light of before dawn, he was as pale as grey silk and shivering in the chilly air.  He cradled his left wrist tucked into his shirt, since his greatcoat was missing.

"I must find Robert…" Jean Pierre argued.

"I can do zat. Direct me to zis clearing and…"

"Non!"

"You do not trust moi?" Herman exclaimed, hurt.

"Non, I mean oui! I trust you. But zis is something I must do," Jean Pierre answered through gritted teeth as the gait of his horse jarred his broken wrist agonisingly.

"Why? Because it is ze Comte? I am no longer afraid of 'im."

"'E would kill you if 'e sees you…"

"And you 'e will greet like 'is long lost brother per'aps?" Herman mocked.

"Zat is what I am afraid of," Jean Pierre retorted.

"What?"

"De Mars zinks zat Robert is his long lost brother and 'e wishes to kill 'im. 'E zinks zat Robert may take his money from 'im…" Jean Pierre slid a sidelong glance at Herman when the valet failed to respond. "Nozing to say? You believe moi?"

Herman bit his lower lip. "It is possible. I 'ave seen ze paintings ze Comte 'as of  'is ancestors. Some of zem do look like Robert…"

"And you said nozing?"

"What was zere to say? I thought it was a coincidence…" Herman pulled a face and made a little pout of distaste. "Zese aristocrats are so inbred. It would not be ze first time one 'as strayed from 'is marriage bed…"

"'Er bed…"

"'Ers?"

"And 'is…" Jean Pierre told him and explained. He was surprised that Herman looked quite shocked by the time he had finished.

"Ze 'ussy," Herman exclaimed. "And 'im, 'e was a roue! My poor Robert!"

Jean Pierre snorted. "I do not zink it will make a difference to 'im," he said quickly. "But we must get to 'im before ze Comte does. It cannot be fair. We are on ze right road. If…" He glanced uncertainly at Herman. "One of us must get to 'im…"

"Mais oui, mon ami. Forward! We ride together!" 

Jean Pierre winced as Herman kicked his mare into a gallop, but nudged his own horse forward, letting the valet lead and choose the pace. The way he felt it was all he could do to hold on and not fall off…

                                                            * * *

Chantal shivered in the cool morning air as she rode towards the clearing, wondering yet again if she was doing the right thing. She fidgeted in the saddle, rearranging her blue silk skirts around the sidesaddle.

She still wasn't sure what she was going to say to Jean Pierre. Or how she could tell him about Henri's child….

Perhaps when she saw him…

She could hear voices. They seemed to come from up ahead, but there also seemed to be echoes whispering in the trees around her. Nervously, she tightened her grip on the reins, urging the horse to walk a little faster.

A shadow loomed up in the mist ahead and she reined in, a stab of panic filling her.   What if it was one of the ruffians Henri was always warning her about? She hadn't even brought a footman for protection...

"Do not be afraid, Lady Du Lac. It is I..."

"'Erman?" Stunned, she reined in and peered towards him. The valet stepped forward, leading a swaybacked mare that was more interested in sampling the local greenery than anything else. Close by hoofbeats pounded through the mist, hurrying towards the clearing.

"Oui, c'est moi, milady."

Sliding off her own horse, she smiled warmly, extending her hand to him. "It is so good to see you, 'Erman. Ca va?"

"I am fine, zank you. And you, milady?"

"Fine also. You used to call me Chantal…"

"Zat was before."

"Before?"

"Before you changed your mind again."

Chantal was shocked by the hardness of his voice.  "You do no understand," she said slowly. "I am only a woman…"

"Do not give me zat. You are one of ze strongest persons zat I know. And per'aps she most cunning."

"'Ow dare you?"

Herman glared at her as he took the reins of her horse. "Robert was right. You are a 'ussy."

Chantal decided she didn't want to hear Herman's opinion of her. "Did Jean Pierre send you?"

"Not exactly."

"Zen you must take me to 'im. I must talk with 'im…"

"So you can 'urt 'im again?"

"It 'as nozing to do with you…Zere is something I must tell 'im."

The crack of a pistol shot made Chantal let out a little squeak of horror. Before she knew what she was doing she was running, hitching up her skirts to get them out of the way. Behind her she heard Herman curse as he struggled to hold the frightened horses, then she was out of sight and running for all she was worth to get to the clearing and find out what had happened.

She heard hoofbeats bearing down on her from behind…

                                                            * * *

Leaving his horse tethered to a convenient branch, Robert padded into the clearing, one hand resting on the pistol in his belt. Chantal seemed to be late, but that was a woman's prerogative of course. Or so Marie was fond of telling him…

The mist curled across the dewy grass that soaked his ankles, eddying around like a milk white sea and muffling all sound. 

"'Old, Robert," a deep male voice commanded and Robert froze in the shock of recognition.

"De Mars…" he hissed aloud, not daring to turn.

"Oui, c'est moi," De Mars agreed, sounding amused. "Take ze pistol from your belt and put it on ze ground…"

"And if I do not?"

"I will 'ave to shoot you in ze back…"

"Zat would not be honourable…"

"As your peasant friend Jean Pierre reminded me, I am not an honourable man. Ze pistol, dear brother…"

"What?" Baffled, Robert started to turn and heard the snick of a hammer being cocked. Swallowing nervously, he changed his mind and drew the pistol instead, lowering it carefully into the grass. "What do you mean?"

De Mars sighed. "Do I 'ave to keep explaining it?" he complained.

"Since I do not know what you are talking about, oui, you do," Robert said grimly. "But first, what 'ave you done with Jean Pierre?"

"'E is no longer of any consequence. Zis is a matter between you and I." De Mars moved slowly, emerging from under the sheltering shadow of the trees into the clearing and circling Robert. All the time he kept his duelling pistol firmly aimed at Robert's chest.

Robert glared at him, refusing to show any fear. "Ze why do we not do zis as gentlemen? We should duel…"

"You zink you can defeat moi?" the Comte mocked him.

"Oui…"

"Your aim would 'ave to 'ave improved since ze last time. You missed, remember?"

"I was angry," Robert responded. "You 'ad shot my best friend…"

De Mars inclined his head. "As I 'ave done again."

"What?"

The Comte flicked a glance at the lightening sky. "By now John should 'ave finished with 'im. 'E was very angry with Jean Pierre. But I do not zink 'e could torture 'im for very long before 'e killed 'im…"

Robert screamed and lunged, diving for his gun. He felt the heat of the musket ball sear his shoulder as Henri fired then he was rolling back to his feet and firing…

The shot missed, blasting a chunk of wood from a hapless tree that got in the way.

De Mars had moved, flinging himself out of the way and drawing a second pistol from concealment beneath his cloak.

There was nothing Robert could do except stare at him in horror…

"Vive la France!!" Jean Pierre's yell as he burst from the trees made Robert gape in surprise as his friend rode the Comte down.

Looking over his shoulder to see him coming, De Mars hesitated for a split second, his aim wavering as Jean Pierre rode towards him then he desperately flung himself aside, realising that the revolutionary had no intention of stopping and every intention of trampling him.

"Robert, to moi!" Flashing past him, Jean Pierre slowed his horse to a halt, leaning down out of the saddle and stretching out one hand to Robert as he reached him. Robert ran to meet him, reaching for his hand.

"Non! You do not escape moi so easily!" De Mars roared in fury and fired, the puff of blue smoke marking the path of the bullet.

"Non! Jean Pierre!" Robert howled in disbelief as Jean Pierre rocked back from the impact. Panic stricken by the smell of gunpowder and the crack of the shot, the horse reared, flinging Jean Pierre off.

Waving the horse off, Robert dodged around it and flung himself to his knees beside his friend as he sprawled limply on his back in the grass. There was blood on his upper arm but he was breathing. The bruises on his face and the ribbons of blood decorating his once white shirt told their own story however. "Oh, mon ami," Robert growled bitterly then abruptly remembered the Comte. Looking up, he realised that De Mars was hastily reloading his pistol. "Bastard…" Grabbing the pistol from Jean Pierre's belt, he took aim at the Comte. "Now, it is your turn…!" he snarled as De Mars froze in surprise.

"You do not 'ave ze nerve to do it…" De Mars mocked.

"But I 'ave ze anger…" Robert answered bitterly.

A flash of blue seen from the corner of his eye made him hesitate then suck in an appalled breath as Chantal raced into the clearing. For one split second she looked at Jean Pierre lying in the grass, then she flung herself in front of De Mar.

"Non! I cannot let you do zis!" she cried out, flinging her arms wide.

"Get out of ze way!" Robert commanded furiously. Behind him in the grass, Jean Pierre groaned and rolled over.

"Oui, get out of ze way, woman," De Mars growled. 

"Zink of our child, 'Enri!" Chantal begged.

"Ze what?" Robert echoed, gaping at her.

"I am zinking of our child," De Mars retorted. "I am zinking zat Robert will take 'is inheritance from it if I let 'im live."

"Inheritance?" Robert was reeling in confusion.

"Henri!" Chantal wailed as De Mars shoved her firmly aside and lifted his own pistol, now reloaded safely behind her back. Robert lifted his own pistol, staring right back at him.

Hoofbeats thumped through the mist as Herman arrived on horseback, his own pistol drawn and ready as he took aim as De Mars.

"Put down ze weapon, Comte," he ordered grimly.

"You will not shoot me in ze back, 'Erman," De Mars answered.

"Did we not already 'ave zis discussion?" Robert wondered irritably aloud.

"But as you are so fond of reminding moi, I am a peasant," Herman retorted. "Ze pistol, Comte. I can always shoot you in ze leg if my nerve fails me."

De Mars grunted in exasperation and lowered his pistol. Robert raised his and took aim.

"Robert, do not do it…" Herman protested.

"'E shot Jean Pierre…"

"Do not sink to 'is level," Herman argued.

"Oui, Robert, listen to 'Erman…" Jean Pierre's voice was tired but steady.

"'E shot you…"

"'E is your brother…You cannot shoot 'im," Jean Pierre told him wearily as he struggled to sit up in the grass, cradling his arm and peering at his forearm. "Merde," he mumbled dizzily. "Always it is ze same shoulder…"

"What is zis 'e is my brother?!" Robert demanded furiously. "I do not 'ave a brother!"

"You do now," Herman said firmly. "Tell 'im, Comte."

De Mars growled under his breath and put his arm around Chantal as she pressed nervously against him. But he explained.

Robert gaped at him, his fingers flexing on the pistol. "Mais non…"

"Mais oui," De Mars retorted. "So, what do you want?"

"Want?" Robert echoed. Helplessly he looked at Jean Pierre as his friend levered himself slowly and painfully to his feet. "Jean Pierre? What do I do? What do I want?"

Carefully Jean Pierre put a fingertip on the pistol barrel and pushed it down to point to the ground. "First, you do not want to kill 'im."

"I do…" Robert protested.

"But you cannot. As to what you want…" Jean Pierre looked towards De Mars and Chantal and for a second the pain showed in his eyes. "Zat is up to you," he said softly.

"Well?" De Mars demanded. "What is it to be? Money? Land? My title per'aps…"

"Not a title," Robert said hastily. "I 'ave no wish to be introduced to Madame La Guillotine. And I do not zink I want land. Money?"

Jean Pierre nodded. "What is it worth, Comte?"

"You said you could not be bought," De Mars sneered.

Angrily, Jean Pierre took half a step towards him and wobbled on his feet. Shoving the pistol hastily in his belt, Robert caught him, holding him against his side. "Zis is not a matter of being bought. Zis is a matter of what you owe Robert. I suggest zat a payment worth what his share of ze inheritance is worth," Jean Pierre said coolly after a moment, standing obediently still as Robert stripped off his greatcoat and wrapped it around his smaller shivering friend. "And in return, he does not seek to take ze inheritance of your…heir."

Robert and Herman both looked at him anxiously, both of them surprised that he could take the existence of the child so calmly. Seeing the expression in his eyes though, Robert tightened his grip, knowing how much his friend was hurting inside where it wouldn't show to anyone else.

"Jean Pierre…" Chantal stirred, her hand covering her stomach.

"Non," Jean Pierre said flatly. "I do not wish to 'ear it…Not again."

"You do not understand," she protested. "Let me explain…"

"Zere is nozing to explain. You 'ave made your choice and I 'ave made mine…"

"But, I 'ad no choice…"

Jean Pierre gave her a cold look. "You always 'ad a choice. You 'ad one long ago when you let zem separate us. You made it again when you went to 'is bed zinking 'e 'ad killed me. And you made it again when you came 'ere and protected 'im…" He jerked his head towards De Mars, refusing to stop cradling his left arm with his free hand to point.

"Jean Pierre…"

"Enough!" Jean Pierre interrupted bitterly. "No more, Lady Du Lac." He turned to De Mars. "She is yours. I do not want 'er."

De Mars blinked, a flush of anger crossing his face. When he looked at the tears in Chantal's eyes though he softened and pulled her closer. "Forget 'im," he told her briskly. "'E is a peasant. Do not forget zat. Together we 'ave a future."

Chantal nodded, still looking at Jean Pierre with betrayal in her eyes.

"Ze money," Jean Pierre reminded the Comte.

"It will be arranged," De Mars answered flatly.

"Make sure zat it is," Jean Pierre said grimly. "We will be in contact to tell you where to send it. Remember zat we can make zings very awkward for you if you cross us. But if you pay us what you owe Robert, zen I give you my word zat zis will be ze end of it."

De Mars glared at him but nodded curtly. "You are a dangerous opponent," he said darkly.

Jean Pierre inclined his head, letting Robert steer him towards his horse as it peacefully cropped at the grass. "So are you."

"Ze best man won, 'owever," De Mars couldn't resist digging. "To ze victor ze spoils…"

Jean Pierre gave him an odd look as Robert swung into the saddle then reached down to help him up behind him. "Oui," Jean Pierre agreed, then turned a thoughtful look on Chantal. "Be 'appy with your choice."

Chantal nodded without answering, clinging to De Mars' arms as she sadly watched Robert and Jean Pierre ride away.

"Do not zink of coming after any of us," Herman warned quietly, startling then both that he was still there.

De Mars sniffed. "Your new master gave me 'is word. Strange as it may seem, I believe 'im. It is over."

Herman inclined his head and looked at Chantal thoughtfully, seeing the anger behind her hurt. "Turnabout is fair play, is it not?" he observed dryly. "I zink you and ze Comte will suit each other well," he added then he turned the mare and rode after his friends. 

Chantal gazed after him in silence, then looked at De Mars as he shifted. "'Enri?"

"Come, you 'ave a wedding to finish arranging. And I it seems 'ave a bribe to pay…"

"You will not go after zem?"

"Do not fear, ma Cherie. It is over. We all 'ave what we want…Come, ma Cherie…" Sliding his arm around her, De Mars set off back towards where he had left his horse, helping his shaken fiancée along beside him. And if she looked back, he never noticed…

                                                            * * *

Dover, One Week Later

"Do you zink 'e will keep 'is word and pay you?" Herman asked as he perched on one of their trunks on the quayside and nibbled an apple while they waited for Jean Pierre to join them.

"I do not care about ze money," Robert retorted as he paced. "I want to get back to France and Marie and away from 'ere. Jean Pierre needs to be as far away from zat woman as he can get if 'e is to get over 'er. I do not trust 'er."

"It might 'ave been better if Jean Pierre let 'er leave 'im…"

"Zut alors, 'Erman! Again? She 'ad made 'er choice. A man's pride can only take so much!"

"Still, a woman scorned is dangerous…"

"And 'ow would you know?"

Herman shrugged liquidly and changed the subject. "Marie will like ze money," he observed.

"So will Francois…"

"Oui, my handsome friend, but Marie will appreciate it more. Fine feathers improve ze cockerel."

Robert blushed in embarrassment only too aware of the way Herman looked him up and down as he spoke. To his relief he spotted Jean Pierre trotting down the gangplank with a couple of burly sailors in tow. They set to loading their luggage on board the ship as Jean Pierre joined his friends. He had his broken arm splinted and in a sling and the flesh wound from De Mars bullet had been stitched and bandaged. Herman had been taking great pleasure in helping Robert tend to their wounded friend - even if Jean Pierre had protested every inch of the way. But at least it had distracted Herman from moping over killing John. Jean Pierre and Robert were both determined to stop him dwelling on it too much. Personal experience told them that moping wouldn't help the valet to cope.

"She sails with the tide," Jean Pierre explained. "We 'ave time to get dinner before we leave. And to say goodbye to Duncan."

"We could say goodbye to ze serving maids also," Robert suggested with a grin, having been entertaining himself while Jean Pierre was resting.

"I 'ave decided to give up women," Jean Pierre shocked him by saying however.

"Excuse moi?" Robert gaped at him.

"Really?" Herman chirped, perking up.

Jean Pierre gave him a quelling look. "Do not get your 'opes up," he scolded.  "I shall be celibate…"

"Zat is unlikely," Robert snorted.

Jean Pierre gave him a haughty look and sniffed. "We shall see," he said coolly as he set off towards the inn on the quay where they had arranged to meet Duncan.

Herman fell into step beside Robert. Greatly daring, he nudged the taller man in the ribs. "Would you care to take a bet on 'ow long 'e stays celibate?" he asked.

Robert frowned, watching Jean Pierre sway off course after a woman who had dropped her handkerchief in front of him. Retrieving the item, Jean Pierre hurried after the woman, murmuring to her politely as she stopped for him and smiled as he returned her property.  As she fluttered and flirted, Jean Pierre turned on the charm with a dazzling smile.

"Non, no bets," Robert decided dryly as he watched Jean Pierre bow low over her hand to kiss her fingers. Giggling and blushing, she hurried off down the quay and vanished into the crowds. Jean Pierre strolled back to his companions with a smug expression. 

"So, you are giving up women?" Robert teased him. "Starting with ze next one per'aps?"

Jean Pierre's grin widened. "She dropped 'er 'andkerchief. And since I am a gentleman I picked it up for 'er. Now, let us 'urry to ze inn before she notices zat I 'ave relieved 'er of 'er purse…."

                                                            * * *

"Come on, come on," Pacing the alleyway outside the inn, Duncan scowled irritably at the delay. He had already been propositioned twice and he had been quite shocked to find a hand in his pocket that wasn't his own; and grateful to discover that its owner had actually been after his money rather than anything else it might have found.

If the Greek didn't turn up soon, Robert, Jean Pierre and Herman would arrive.

As if the thought had attracted it, a tingle ran unexpectedly down his back, making him reach for his sword as he turned…

The Greek was leaning against the wall, blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "Waiting for me?" he asked lightly as he stepped forward. He was clad in skintight black leather pants and a blue shirt and wore the same talisman as always. Duncan had never seen him without the dark stone and often wondered what it meant.

"Where did ye come from?" Duncan gasped, startled by his suddenly silent appearance.

"Thebes originally. Why?"

"Ye took your time," he complained.

"It's a long way. Besides, you have plenty of time," the Greek replied cheerfully. "My sword…?"

Duncan scowled as he handed over the cloth wrapped weapon. "De ye ken how much that thing's worth these days?"

The Greek smiled as he unwrapped the weapon and swung it a time or two. It gleamed in the sunshine, practically singing in his hand.

Duncan took a cautious step back, always wary around swords.

"Oh, don't look so scared. What would I want with your head?"

"The same as any other immortal does."

"I've told you before that I don't play the Game."

"Ye don't have a choice. Ye're as immortal as I am," Duncan spat. The Greek baffled him. He felt ancient, but he also felt young in a way that the Highlander had never experienced before. He didn't feel right.

"More so," The Greek chuckled. "But not the way you mean."

"You took Althios' head!"

"The bastard annoyed me and if I’d waited any longer he'd have killed you," the Greek retorted, sheathing the sword at his belt. A wicked grin crossed his face. "Besides, he was someone's favourite troublemaker and me killing Althios really annoyed him."

"You enjoy annoying people who can kill you?"

"Oh, he can't kill me. And anyway, it helps to pass the time…"

Duncan stared in bewilderment, utterly convinced that the scabbard hadn't been there a second before. "Who are ye?" he asked, not for the first time.

The Greek grinned up at him, his blond hair spilling a wave of gold curls over his shoulders. It was fastened back from his face by two thin plaits. "You’d never get over the shock if I told you," he teased. "You’d better go meet your friends. You don't want to be late for lunch."

Duncan frowned. "Do you know everything I do?"

"Only when I want to."

"Duncan?" Robert's voice hailed him from the end of the alleyway. "Are you coming?"

"Be right there, laddie. I…" Duncan swung back to the Greek in time to see the waterfall shimmer of golden light as he vanished. Not moved away or dodged around the corner, but vanished into thin air. The Highlander's jaw dropped, unable to believe what he had seen. Stretching out one hand he waved it through the air where the Greek had stood. There was nothing, no resistance, no cold spot to suggest a ghost. Nothing…

"Duncan?"  Robert was standing at the end of the alleyway looking at him suspiciously. "Jean Pierre and 'Erman are waiting at ze inn for us…"

"Och, aye. Coming…" Hurrying to the Frenchman, Duncan fell into step with him. He couldn't help sneaking a look over his shoulder again though. "Did ye see that?" he asked.

"See what?"

"The Greek?"

"What Greek?" Robert asked curiously.

Duncan gave him a slow look, then shook his head. "Och, never mind. Do ye think there's room on that ship of yours for one more? I 'ave a yen to see France again…"

Robert grinned at him. "Why not? It would be good to 'ave someone to distract 'Erman from drooling over us…"

 oooOooo

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