"Safe Haven" by Abilaine

The "missing" chapter of TSP

It needed to be written, thus ...

DUN DUN DUN.

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Strange, how all the adventure that swept by so slowly, now, seemed like pastimes, long forgotten in memory.

  The poor little Lady Blakeney was a sorry, wretched sight only out done by their commander and chief. Still both had a glow of acute content and safety the moment the yacht of Sir Percy Blakeney seat sail, even against the haggard and wearied appearances; they both smiled, being welcomed by the crew and peculiar old Brigg's the first mate, Armand St Just instantly offering his service to take command the Day Dream. It's captain and that deemed elusive spirit that sailed her with mad cavalier proudly allowed the younger man after violently admitting that he was "deemed fatigued". 

  And as what part of the league who were aboard gathered about Marguerite and Armand, the crew working to catch wind in the sails for Dover, the plotter of all the night's adventures and happenings retreated without another word bellow deck, leaving brother and sister in each other's arms. 

  He was'nt in the end of popular belief inimitably supernatural.

  It had been a very close thing. The thought wouldn't have been admitted instantaneously in his mind - what was own life when other's trusted their Fates to his hand? - that for the space of a few minutes, whilst in his act of helplessness he'd felt something very akin to it, out there upon the rocks of Cailas's cliffs. That he be in danger hadn’t been thought of; men were to die if he had not acted, but the equation had joined that little Frenchwoman, his own wife. She'd been in the hands of relentless, baying hounds upon his own scent. 

  These thoughts came simply as he quickly bathed and washed the mud and filth from France off person and soul. Mayhap this sudden uneasiness simply came from her very presence aboard the vessel, the strain of all the last few days had put upon his obstinacy; but whatever it might be, none must be allowed to understand it ... he hardly did himself.

  Upon reappearing into that dark cabin after changing from the Jewish garb that had no doubt saved his skin, the man felt more himself and again ready ... for what, though?

  The cabin kept in spotless clean and comforts such as the very manor house at Richmond was but dimly lite, the night being dark and only a solitary ray of a wan moon coming through shut windows. A glowing lanthorn, swaying overhead on it's hook, cast light about weirdly and perchance it was only his own fatigued, dulling wits that he didn’t, at once, realize she was there.

  She sat, no doubt whence Armand had escorted her, in the capacious arm chair, the best of the sparse furnishings - a table, the single bunk, and a few shelves filled to utmost with book and maps, his chair a sole lavish piece inside very plain surroundings. Overwrought nerves tensed and grew near painfully taut at that presence; again, he was urged to play the part that, for weeks and months and eternities, had been played within her company as well as of all the rest of the world, save those of the league, moments but rare. Again, he reminded himself to not allow any sight of how she both satiated and maddened him, how he must not allow one word to slip for she might turn it against him, how his trust must never again be put into those hands - so small, he half sighed - for she had crushed hopes to dust in them once ... once.

  But, no.

  An hour before, would have, most imperatively bade that act of brainlessness. There would have been no question, no thought of if, he would because he must. That was all for naught, for she knew ... aye! she knew! she had outwitted him! the pimpernel! what a thing, to be duped by one's very wife.

  Ah, but Marguerite St Just had never been simply his wife.

  They stood equidistantly apart on either side of the Day Dream's cabin - his cabin, the one he'd spent night's she'd no idea of, going thither or returning from France's blood stained soil, the rolling waves swaying them a bit. He stood so tall, head just barely brushing the planked ceiling, half bending to avoid it. And, those fervid eyes, never left her and with a look so strange, almost like the looks she seen, at times, always vanishing behind lazy lids. But, he did not look away, he did not revert to the foppish manners; only stood, still, waiting. What could she say, what did she ought say to this man?

  It felt like some absurd play, which they rehearsed many times … but there was no crowd of merrymaking audience, no music, no stage, save the wooden boards of the Day Dream's deck. And only two principle actors, the scarlet pimpernel and the woman who had betrayed him.

  "Percy-" she began. Her voice, the accent lightly distinguishable upon the consonants, he'd moved and the words she would’ve uttered were lost.

  "Milady, I do apologize for the inconvenience of such close quarters ... you must be spent, not eaten or rested I imagine in too long a time. Might I offer your Ladyship something to ease the voyage? Shan't be a long while till we reach Dover and you might take repose as well, without disturbance here-..."

  Whilst he spoke, he’d taken a step forward and would’ve bade her sit again but that she looked at him with such mixed interest and confusion impressed upon every sweet line of her face, such intense and unmistakable wonder.

 "-la, what does the lady contemplate so serious, hmm? Methinks you are no on earth anymore..." The light easy banter soothed the intense uneasiness of her mind for a moment.

  "Forgive me- I... Percy ... oh!-"

  The tears Marguerite had withheld suddenly came with such force that the woman fairly choked a sob.

  "Ne pleura pas, mon coeur-" Hardly had the cry left her lips, was this said.

   But she did cry. Soft, hot, womanly tears, which, when he would not watch fall over her burning face, he was catching with his fingertips, brushing then from her face so tenderly, whispering all the names and endearments she'd not heard since the happy time in Paris - la, but it seemed lives ago - all the comforts he could not have those long hours of tormented waiting. When, with a sob that made her bosom heave then fall, she ceased and managed some control.

  How changed he was, even now, though he still had that mask of total control and courtliness. She would not blame him for that ... she blamed him for nothing, he who'd willingly, if, then she knew it, stayed beside her, endured the horrid beating, then carried her a league - never complaining of fatigue surely felt.

  This man was not Percy Blakeney who's every word either proclaimed habitual obsession to his tailor or the witty but never tasteful piece of prose. Not the Percy who in some moments, she'd thought she understood. Not even the one who had courted and wooed, fell at her feet in the love born passion that overcame pride. How had he simply laughed when she'd shaken him off like an annoying pest? And, how did he keep silent when he'd been the object of her fascinations, without saying or letting one word, without admitting to being the elusive hero no one had seen or known? Ever and always he'd been the "shadowy king of her heart", as she'd said many a time, to bring about jealousy, some emotion from the coldness.

 But, oh, how could he have done any of those things, when she betrayed him, his trust, and, yes, even his love? 

  

  They still stood, now very close, and she never did look away from him.

"Whatever have I done to have the loveliest woman in England or France combined brought to tears on my own brutish account? M'dear, I shan't have it... but perhaps who's own people have butchered their kind do not deserve such a woman-"

"Ah, but there is no France, no longer..." The childish simplicity, meekness in the words instantly chided him.

"God slay me for those words! ... you, a kinswomen of that country…”

"No, no, my brave, good husband, no! Do not say it. It is I, it has never been anyone save myself, no. It has been I - from the beginning - only I who was so foolish - oh, Dieu forgive me, and you, Percy, oh! and you must, forgive me, forgive me..."

 "Do not think of that, m' dear ... lud love me, but you be colder as the waves crashing beyond this cabin!..."

  "But, Percy, they-... the beating Chauvelin commanded-" with sudden remembrance. Oh, she had forgotten in the excitement and confusion of their flight, the whirling of her brain had been too much for thought of his own suffering. How her heart ached, smote her!

  "Tis nothing, m' dear, not a thing." He quietly assured her.

  "No, Percy, Percy, do not do this, let me in!... why must you play this role you've given yourself?... no, more!... I beg you, my husband, I beg you!..." wailing in anguish and she caught his arm as if in terror that Blakeney, who stood strong and inimitable before her, would slip from her very grasp. 

  "La, little woman... calm yourself... I am well."

  "Percy …,” in a voice shaken with both tears, concern as a gentleness warmed it, “…let me see."

  For a moment the man stood there, an almost hardness across his features. Such a request hardly bade submission to the propriety of drawing rooms or court ... then a change came.  A heavy sigh escaped, his whole massive form relaxed from it's rigidness and for a moment she thought he might faint, he stood so long, perfectly still and quiet, until his eyes opened again. They were heavy but no longer perpetually lazy, though he did not look fully upon her.

  

  "Madam..." began he, pleasant voice so still, so deep that it half startled her, "I would that you not, for the sake of feminine delicacy, I do not wish that it-"

  "But I wish it, Percy!..." she interrupted, "Had I not vowed to you that we share in all, sickness and ... death?…”

  

  In a moment he could've relented, the closeness of the little woman seemed to enthrall him, loose hair falling across slight shoulders abundantly in messy auburn curls, such pathos and eagerness in those blue eyes. Did she care enough to set her eyes upon what could be only a small sacrifice made by him?

  And, in a moment, he realized that she did … oh, she did. Sighing once more, gently took her hands for an instant, then pressed his lips to the tiny fingers and palm then said, “I am your servant, madam.”

  Ignoring what pain he felt, he stepped a bit away from her and without meeting her gaze, undid the ties of the loos undershirt he wore, for sake of decorum. In a moment, the white cloth had been pulled over his head and a sharp exhale caught in his throat.

  Marguerite did not cringe only stared, wide eyed and very still. 

  Deep purple bruising blotted like ink spilt across the lower curve of his ribs, where Chauvelin's boot no doubt had made it's furrow; but that in comparison, a mere scratch, to the flecking of red, brutal, furious stripes littered and swollen across his broad, powerful back and shoulders, stark against paled skin. He'd winced, his eyes full upon her, a ragged breath leaving his body and that languid, quaint smile formed about the strong mouth, tightly clenched jaw, as if half-amused, half-pleading apology at what must be seen by her eyes. He'd drawn himself up a little straighter when she said not a word ... how strange a thing it was, she remained quiet, not at all showing emotion for the beating so masterfully done. 

  Mayhap she already regretted the sorrow felt for him, the state of exhaustion she was in, justified it, yes... but a muffled cry from Marguerite's white lips made him realize that it had not been fickleness. As passionate anger caused a blush to heat her face, a soft haze had come into those eyes he felt could ease a thousand beatings until tears started down her flush cheeks, she hoarsely choked, "Mon Dieu, what have they done!..." in bitter, tear- drown words.

  "...lud, little woman! shush, shush!" and already leaned forward, catching her wringing, shaking white hands, stilling and stoping their frantic movements and that was enough to calm her over-agitated nerves and troubled spirit. And a silent prayer that la bon Dieu give grace and strength. "...do not lament so! I be not so frail, m' dear, as you seem to think me-"

 "I never meant that, Percy, never! No, after you carried me, so far ... and in this terrible, terrible state!..." she assured him instantly, half clinging to his hands he'd offered and covering them with her tears,"... only, how do they, cruel beasts, inflict such torments! They thought you a poor one of Israel, oh ... What would then, bon Dieu forbid, they've done if only? ... if only! ... had they known ... you, their most bitter enemy!..."

 "Lud, and t'would be no thing to have them tan every bit of flesh 'pon my bones if to know you were out of harm ... oh, but Ffoukles would be deemed jealous, eh? that I received all the beating for the adventure?..."

  She listened to him with a growing horrified expression of pain and amusement, which he laughed at, his whole massive form shaking with it. "... dem me, though, but I haven't shaved in twenty hours, now, zounds! I must look quite a disreputable sight, eh, little woman?" changing the subject lightly as if it grew distasteful to him. "... now, Madam, m' dignity, if you shalt please?" his voice shaking in laughing tones as he reached an arm to retrieve white cloth of the jerkin. How could he laugh? How could he jest now? "S'faith, haven't the wish to catch my death of cold when I've already caught the devil's whip 'cross my back, what ho?"

  Almost did she mechanically hand him back the cloth, but at the last moment she bade him be still. With her own hands she assisted in redressing him, though, the task was none too easy. His arms were stiff and sore. 

  It 'twas only human, but something in the humbled state of this man, this reckless, hapless adventurer, the same said dandy and dainty of London ball rooms, brought to breathlessness under inflicted pain though however strong his frame be, tore at the heart of the woman; perhaps even more then her heart could bare, her own words and actions had done all what physical pain couldn't to his pride and his love. She dared not to think of the past months, almost a year estranged whence she'd been mistress of Richmond and his wife, without the belief she deserved to have fallen at the hands of soulless monsters who called themselves men, protectors the people. And, oh, if Fate had thrown such a request - that her life be a trade, a treaty for a noble man, her own husband - she would have not thought twice! 

  Even the contemplation of that man who had deliberately hunted down the merciful savior, he who's plotting so viciously constricted and used her own mind and position, her love for her brother then her husband ... Oh, she did hate him for it. But at the same moment, a deep, almost saintly empathy overcame that hatred. Truth, he had meant to harm her brother and even did plot to destroy Percy's life, all for his patriotism that had eaten alive the heart she had came to admire, yet, he still be a man. They had been friends, the actress inviting him to her coterie because of his noble thoughts and clever brain ... it was not just herself that claimed brains enough to outwit a whole country, no, whoever it be said.

  "...Percy, sit, do not stand! I bid it, you must not. Come," already drawing her husband to her side, steadying a deal of his great weight upon her slight shoulders. He, though allowing it without a murmur, moved such that her arm was pulled in courtliest grace within the crook of his own. Even now he did not put aside the manners of a lifetime, the quaint gallantry he had been taught in early years. Or was it pride, that even in this venerable, weakened state he should remain ever unbending? "... and you will lie, Percy, rest, or I will command good friend Ffoukles to bind you, hand and foot, again..." 

  "What? The lady's a prison ward, I mistake not, eh? And very much should I like to obey your commands- dem me, I'm as spent as fisherman's coin -  yet to repose in my present ... state ... which I find myself ... No, you, m' dear, will take the bunk..."

  He was quite breathless now, but never alluded to any pain in manner or countenance, only that made her to understand what his pride would not allow into words. Injuries that had been inflicted upon him wouldn't allow the man to simply lay down in repose and sleep though he hadn't, she was so sure, in days mayhap ... and all for a brother not his own, a cause not his, all for others.

  "I shall not, not an instant, while you sit ..." She said to him. 

  "...demmit, little woman, if you aren't the more stubborn of the two of us! ... I'd wager my head to Tony's shot that you quite are the boldest! the most confoundedly disobedient wife that God gave man!...to run about over soaked French countryside after a cart of soldiers and a dirty old Jew!..."

  This outburst of speech after those quiet aristocrat lips had remained so silent made Marguerite draw her slender little form to it's tallest before his altitude of six feet, two inches hovering from above, as if to champion the challenge to her Reason.

   "You did never bid me stay home, Percy..." She told him calmly. "...you knew I followed the cart then?" A deep curiosity coming across those features dimly illumined by the swinging lanthorn light. That face, compelling him as years before to think of love and life, to seek help and comfort in her smiles, turned up to his in gentleness, tenderness he'd not dreamed or thought ever would be embodied again in her for him. 

  "...Aye! I knew it well enough!..." He sighed. "...an' thought to m' self, well, if'n, Blakeney, you ain't the stupidest husband to leave a hot-blooded Frenchwoman alone at home whilst you have all the adventure, you deserve to be called a demmed idiot! oh, what a thing!... Sir Percy Blakeney, bart, his wife scampering about on little feet for more for dancin' and strollin' then muddy cliffs and crags!... but also the bravest woman that ever did dupe an evil doer's plans." And with that he laughed, long and loudly, truly, the sound rolling pleasantly in the air like the waves outside the little cabin.

  In all just scarce of agony of joy and concern, the turmoil of mind and soul, all for husband and a brother - those two she love better then her own soul - Marguerite had quit forgotten the pain she felt herself. How good it was to hear that laugh! that very real sound, not the stupid one meant for the benefit of card tables and ballrooms. And she tottered on those poor little feet she had manage to conceal from the watchful eyes of that brother beneath tatters of skirt and her husband caught her before Marguerite sank to the planked boards of the lower deck in either fatigue or overwhelming happiness of relief. 

  At last, he was safe! her husband! the hero of England! the despised spy of France! safe! saved from the fate so terribly set to him! And this was all that mattered to her...

  "Margot, your feet!..."

  The reproach, how gentle and how sweet, a pet name he'd used like some magic chant to draw her away and to foggy England - his England, his country, his home. He'd not called her that name since the morning in Paris, now four years ago. How it thrilled, how it tormented her, that he still loved after all she'd done, all that she, in stupid pride, had caused him suffer. But he'd already moved her off her feet again and set her down easily upon the large easychair.

  "... dear heart, I must try and ascertain how hurt thy little feet are ... might I have permission to remove these poor rags?" Calmly asked as it were, there 'twas something of those forgotten shy and bashful manners in it, as he avoided looking into her eyes. A blush alight her own cheeks when she realized the request.

  "Yes, Percy, go on ... I put their state into your very capable hands. La! but was I not the stupidest woman alive not to wear proper footgear?..." She chuckled, babbling on in her own passionate and dramatic way as he, with gentleness, near reverence, pulled from the toes those tiny stockings blood-stained and torn with hours of walking. It unsheathed the calves of her shapely little legs, scratches from brambles and stones scattered across fair white skin.

 Percy said nothing, did not chide her again, did not voice a word but a frown appeared between straight brows, after efficient, careful pursuant of every inch of her legs and feet. 

  "Stay here--" He commanded, and he rose and left the chamber, through an adorning passage. It pained her she did not know where it lead. Margueite knew very little she realized. How many nights had her husband dwelled here, alone, whilst she slept safe at Richmond; what he might have suffered .... unimaginable things, worse then what she had even seen this night. 

   But his return gave way to her thoughts, still more when he began administrative care to her feet - dipping them in brandy, washed them again in sea water, for the fresh water aboard couldn't be spared and "'twas all the better for healing' the poor torn feet", and then soundly wrapped with clean stripes of bandage procured from the stock abroad the mercy vessel. She'd not complained, not once, not when she'd seen such whelps across his own shoulders. 

  How weak would it have seemed to shed petty tears over a few bruises and scraps when he'd born a world more of pain; though, he'd seemed altogether to have forget he himself was injured at all whilst engrossed wholly in gently and seriously tending her. Marguerite's grip upon the chair arm tightened a moment, enough the knuckles go white, her lip went deep red when biting it to control herself ... it did never go unnoticed by her attentive physician. And when at last he'd done, he himself came to knees in front of those tiny little feet, so poorly torn. 

  "Do they cause you pain, mon petite fleur?" was the endearment passed over Percy Blakeney's lips and she lay in the chair, tired bright eyes watching him so closely. It had been accustomed language of their courtship - days neither had forgotten but neither would let a thought dwell on for the grief of memory - and she looked at him, fully, as if the very sound of his voice pained and pleased in one consonant emotion.

     "...Non, je suit très heureux..." She whispered, at long last, in her native tongue, so sweet and deep and low. "... but to think. No one should ever guess that Sir Percy Blakeney had such whelps of love and honor across his shoulder and back, whilst I think petty bruises are any throphy!..."

  He stilled, was silent, still holding those tiny feet and ankles in front of him. It was like some spell had lifted, or a certain drawn open, the light of her love shone on him so fully. Not yet had he allowed himself to truly believe it, even in those tender moments carrying her to safety and the Day Dream awaiting in the little known harbor. 

   The idea, the reality that she had walked and ran and braved, on these little feet, for more then two days and nights, to warn him, with no thought of comfort and no hope of it. His heart failed him, his strength too, suddenly seemed to melt in the light of her eyes, watching, wondering, shining with such curiosity. They had been prolonged, rather then forgotten - how those sweet accented words filled his soul to the brim of happiness. In months past, he'd only tried to hear, never feel them, and by heaven, now he fairly would drown if he did not speak, if he did not allow her a glimpse of the weakness ... But she knew already. 

  All the months, endless nights, alone, either in infected, blood seething Paris or at quiet Richmond - his own house - played out a momentous scene before the great and elusive pimpernel's mind. It mattered not if the man were at one place or the other, if she be parted from him by the breadth of the sea or the breadth of a whole house, that love still called him back. Aye, he adored her! with the last drop of life's blood! without thought to the horrors she'd committed, no remembrance of the cruelties waged, the supercilious jests that made him recipient to all the hatred she so distinguishably felt ... all, well deserved, for it had been he who cowardly, carefully ignored that matter of the St Cyr's death, and, though his pride had been brought to shambles, he'd never repented of the love.

  Peradventure it had been all in that stubborn pride he'd not allowed end of. Never had the man betrayed the horror he felt, the bitterest grief soul decried; when, if had but asked, she would have -oh, he was so sure now!- related the whole truth, placed in him that confidence which blinded pride had made silent upon the very tip of her tongue, that trust denied him. But all those foolish, petulant arguments, were laid to rest. There would never be reason to dwell in that past now estranged from this glorious present. And she was gazing at him, lustrous eyes studying him, a little smile turning up those sweet, rich lips. And it made something within him yearn with such wistfulness for rest ... to simply sigh and allow himself wholly to succumb in that essence of her - his wife.

  Her cheek was a trifle bruised, where that enemy had dared lift her hand to it and the man felt every fiber of his being tense painfully with thought of that as he let his finger tips brush across the skin there.

    "Percy..." She breathed. There was a moment of hesitation in which she stared at him with eyes large and dilated in the dimness of the cabin, and then those tiny hands slipped across the cloth of his white shirt and slightly to his shoulders, drawing him a little closer.

  Hesitant, he was hesitant to allow the woman full rein of heart and love when before she'd so brutally plunged it into wanton sorrows ... but he must speak ere she know too well the struggle waged just the moment she'd allowed him that simple caress.

 "...Margot, my little woman ... How can so brutish a man have such?- ... Ah, I search for words each time and each time all I can think is you're name ... you're sweet name ... Say mine again, dear heart, or I shan't believe these eyes ... I've dreamed so long a time, that you were here-"

  "...Percy!... Oh, how I am ashamed!..." And the tears no longer would be contained from her glowing eyes and she took his hand in an agony of grief to her lips, showering wet kisses across his knuckles and fingers and palm.

  "I have been a fool."

  "No, no, my brave, good husband, no! Do not say it. It is I, it has never been anyone save myself, no. It has been I - from the beginning - only I who was so foolish - oh, God forgive me, and you, Percy, oh! you must, forgive me, forgive me..."

  A broken, chocked, soft cry shuddered the little women before him, and she dropped his hand, to hide her tears and her face, half turned from him in all the misery of terrible overwrought feelings she'd forgotten for the past days ... to save him.

    "I have told you, my Margot, there is naught to forgive," a stern but never harshness creeping in his suppressed, quiet words, "Had I not said so to you, on those demmed cliffs?... no, no, do not speak of it again, ever ...it has already became past to my mind. Or does the lady need more then word to assure her?..."

  "No! oh, no! Percy, I will believe your every word! ... it is only- ... I am ashamed for it, so terribly ..."

   "And should I not feel such shame?" He nearly spat the words with bitterness but in an instant that rage had relaxed again to tender calm. "...it be I, my own sweet one, who left you to the evils in Paris. I returned only because you begged it of me, like a cruel monster ignoring... Oh, how I repented when I realized the danger you were in. I had no right, none! to leave you, and so soon! I grieved, mon coeur, grieved every day and night, could not rest, nor sleep, nor eat - my life was tormented with thought of you- my love... Margot, my love has been true, you do understand this?"

  The very passion of his eagerness nearly brought him to his feet; he half rose leaning into her lap forcing her eyes to his, clutching her hands, wanting her to understand what so desperately shone with fire in those lazy blue eyes.

  "Percy..." the tears now abated to faint traces and shining glimmer in her eyes. "Mon Percy..." with such infinite sweetness.

  A relief seemed to overcome him. Very slowly, he sank half upon the floor of the cabin as if all strength had left him, bent over her, half lying in her lap, half dead in exhaustion, and, oh, so in love.

  This man, who lay at her feet so close and dearly, was not the same whom had compelled her to matrimony. No, this man had flung his life into resolve and stoic movement for honor and dignity: the bored, menial, jovial young English mi'lor who'd wooed her in Paris, somehow drawing the young actress away from a life she'd felt would be her own till she perished, no longer did exist. Here, half asleep in her arms, lay the audacious man who a revolutionary nation clambered for, vowed to devour and destroy. That that precious head, lying upon the skirts of her soiled, torn gown, the fashionable apparel of "the most beautiful woman in Europe", should be wanted, lusted after, the neck severed from that mind, plotter of such skillful, daring escapades ... but how could that ever be? 

  Fate adored the crazed adventurer as sport against her, too much to banish him to death's grip or guillotine's bloody kiss, and he loved her.

   Thus came with these thoughts a gush of all that new-found passionate admiration - admiration that ever had been - and the affection for this brave man had overtaken Marguerite's innermost aching soul. Trembling finger tips laid atop the faint gold threaded hair and he gave a start, tensed, rigidly, at the contact. 

  "... oh - pardonnez-moi-" rattled her tongue in a string of confused French, a soft blush suffusing her cheeks.

  "Marguerite-..." and Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, in a fit of what could be very easily called utter madness met his wife's soft, trembling lips with a kiss.

  It was not of passion, nor of fire, as the day they'd wed, dancing into Paris as if none could still their feet. No, it was safety, precious safety, and peace, and a warmth, a steadiness … to assure her of all that would not be spoken for his heart could not utter it without it being more sacrilege then truth. 

  There were a string, a tie that bound them together far more then both admitted. If one plucked at it, the other's heart would hear and answer. Their perennial vows bade sweet domestic felicity that had been so cruelly not their own, for months upon months, years, so much more worth regaining. She, was his wife, and he, her husband, and both minds wandered, with a vague hesitation that, mayhap, the other did not wish to bend in this rule they had set a wall betwixt them. They did not even occupy the same wing of the house at Richmond, shared little of each other's lives. And how could they have? How could he have trusted the woman who outwardly berated and despised him? Percy had not kissed her in so long ... oh, she had never forgotten the fleeting, cold greeting he gave her when they arrived upon the steps of Blakeney manor... and also those before it, warmth and life and such love, in the reassurance of tenderest devotion.

    A thought came crowding into Marguerite's mind that this man might never again be the Percy Blakeney she knew before in Paris, for those brief days of heavenly joy on earth. Would she ever be allowed to share the struggles, the deepest cherished thoughts and feelings of this man? Ever be allowed to know his needs, to fulfill them if aught she might, to undo what terrible deeds had be fraught from the very day of their marriage? The commutation of their matrimony had been of one night and one only, since that day the Marquis perished upon the guillotine and that enough to remind Marguerite of all she thought she knew of a her husband. He'd been so hesitant, whilst through his winning and wooing if her he'd lead and guided. And she had been so naive and knew not what love was until he'd sweetly taken her into quiet silence and showed her more tenderly what even Armand's irrevocable love could, what she did mean, that he had no need other then she might return that love his heart had been granted from God's mercy.

   It twas all so intimate, alluring and so strange. All the terrible bitter months she'd slept and wept in the lavish rooms Percy had attentively suited for her every whim, the times she so wished and ached for company, when irritated with his flippant, stupid ways sent her to even make stabling jests against him ... Oh, it but it was all forgiven!

  "... m' dear, I think," when, simply sighing and sinking his head back to her lap, that sleepy, dear voice that had went hoarse, low with tenderness, beckoned her back from sweetest joy, "That, little woman ... if it be selfish, aye, or foolish ... that I be the most lucky, pleasant-fated man 'pon God's earth, if I should live out my days here at your feet... eh, little woman, but if this is not perfection, then I am a fool."

 With this he laughed again, one of his mirthful laughs which when uttered roused Marguerite's heart to stutter within her softly heaving bosom and her husbands lips murmured a heavy, long sigh and settled more deeply into her shirts that surrounded his form. Those slender hands and fingers caught the edge of her gown and, in succumbed passions, he raised it to his lips whilst wearied head settled against her knee. In that moment, Marguerite's earthly paradise was brighter, more luminous, more lovely then celestial Heaven. She cared not that either of them had slept for hours upon hours, that she was quite famished in hunger and rather dirty, but when he let his tired hand fell from the worship of that tattered gown's hem, when he would not release it, when the eyes shut contented and safely ... ah, but the little woman's heart fairly would break with her content! 

  A monotonous rolling, rushing then settling of the waves, the song of the sea, became as sweet lullaby to the weary aching hearts whose life's early tempest had finally subsided to a calm, though, t'would be fleeting. Fate, ah, she laughed them to scorn already, but in those moments, heavenly in themselves, will had defeated every cruel purpose. And, as they sat, she deep within thought and he drowsily in her lap, both found a peace that had not been there's since the moment they were wedded.  The sea lulled husband and wife to a contented, sleepy daydream not to be disturbed till they reached English soil again - their safe haven.