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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…"