Forbidden Kiss

It was French, not English garb that he wore. More importantly, it was the outfit of a French Revolutionary soilder. The hat. The tri-colored decoration displaying his 'loyalty'. Blakeney even went to the trouble of a grey wig, moustache and loaded rifle.

They met at the Prince's Ball and he was not about to be captured here in France. There was no taking chances.

Rapping with his knuckles on the door, Blakeney rambled out, "Open up by order of Robespierre." He refrained the chuckle that wished to make its way through his throat. Robespierre indeed!

Teresia was sat at her writing desk, copying out the notes she had made in Chauvelin's office. She hadn't changed since the time she had first arrived home... she hadn't even been to bed... she still wore the man's shirt, open low at the front and tied around the waist with a cravat. Olymphe had retired, to do she knew not what, but Teresia had been unable to sleep. Now it was nearly dawn and the Spaniard was still on an adrenilin high and not in the least sleepy. At the knock at the door, she froze. At the words which followed, her blood ran cold. Quickly she shoved the papers into a secret compartment at the back of the desk. Taking up the candle she crossed the hall to Olymphe's room. There was no reply. Perhaps the girl was asleep or had gone out. Teresia hoped so. Cautiously she made her way to the door and opened it on the chain. "Si?" she asked, the candle throwing light on the figure of a soldier.

"Open up Mademoiselle! By order of Robespierre!" Blakeney's voice was gruff and demanding. He even banged his foot into the door to get the point driven home. The hour of the morning was early and he need not take any chances of being spotted or seen by the *real* French Revolutionaries.

Her guilty conscience was making her nervous, so much so that the soldier's use of the title 'madamoiselle' instead of 'citizeness' completely failed to register. She made haste to comply, frantically wracking her memory for anything that could explain his presence. Had Chauvelin suspected her after all? Had she been followed? She had been so intent on getting home that she couldn't say... but then why wait so long? Why not arrest her red handed, rather than several hours later when the evidence might be gone? Absorbed in thought, the kick on the door made the Spaniard jump clean out of her skin. She fumbled with the chain... more haste, less speed... eventually the door opened. The man's impatience had angered her, "Well?" she demanded, looking at him through the errant strands of dark hair which tumbled adorably across her face, "What do you want that cannot wait even for a door to be opened, citizen?"

Percy barged his way in the minute the door chain was off and she opened the door. Unlike a man supposedly in his posisition, he was quick to shut the door behind him. Seeing Teresia up close, he remembered a scent on the night of the ball and could not remember if it was indeed Margot or the Spainards. Enough tomfoolery however. She was near irritated and it amused him to watch her control herself.

"Word comes to my ears that you have been in touch with the Scarlet Pimpernel!" He growled, and took a rough step forward.

The chance would be a fine thing, she thought cynically, dwelling on the impossible task she would have before her later that day. She still didn't quite know *how* she was going to find Blakeney, even if he were in Paris. Teresia looked defiantly at the man before her. The single candle in her hand provided very scant lighting, so he was little more than a silhuette. "And which liar told you that, pray?" she retorted, standing her ground although her knees threatened to turn to jelly. The soldier hadn't seemed quite so large when he had been on the other side of the door.

"It is no lie Mademoiselle." Blakeney usually always toyed with his prey at least once. Poor Armand suffered constantly through Blakeney's strange antics. "I found a letter of plea from the man in the cells near Breton. He is captured and looked to you for help." Keeping his blue eyes out of the line of light, Blakeney added gruffly, "What have you to say to this?"

From his pocket, he took out a torn, muddy note. Still visable was the scarlet seal imprinted with a tiny flower.

"Man? What man? I don't know what you are talking about!" she said in genuine surprise. She hadn't been to the Breton region for years. Her eyes glanced at the paper and she saw the seal... and recognised it. The Spaniard willed her face not to change it's expression, "I've never seen it before," but nevertheless her eyes widened ever so slightly. What was going on? Real fear was beginning to possess her. Teresia moved back and commenced lighting a candelabra on the table. It would dispell the darkness and perhaps allow her senses to put things into proportion. Also, with her back to the soldier, she could briefly let her face betray the horror she now felt. Her voice was falsely steady as she said, "You disturb me at this hour, to wave under my nose a letter I neither wrote nor received." Little did she realise that, as each subsequent candle was lit, it rendered the fine linen shirt she wore ever more translucent to anyone standing behind her. She turned back to the soldier. The room was brighter due to the candelabra and for a split-second she thought she recognised those eyes, but she determinedly shook the impression away. Damnation, such hallucinations were almost too much to cope with! The more she thought of Blakeney, the more she saw him at every turn... and she had perforce been thinking of little but him for the passed day. "Arrest me if you are going to, or get out!" she told the soldier tersely.

"Well done Senorita." His thick British accent coming through now. Blakeney even smiled.

"Que?" in her confusion, Teresia's brain reverted to Spanish automatically. Slowly the truth dawned on her. This was no hallucination, but the real thing. "No lo creo." she stammered, reaching for a chair to take the weight her legs were refusing to hold. She ran a manecured hand through her tousled hair, "Joder!" she breathed quietly, adrenalin caused by her recent fear still coursing around her body. She took a few deep breaths and rubbed her eyes with thumb and forefinger. Then, and only then, did she look back up at him. He was still smiling at her. What kind of a sick joke had that been? "I suppose you think that's funny?" she said, her brain clicking finally from neutral Spanish to first gear English. "Cabron! You scared me half to death!"

For all her cursing, Percy was ammused. "Funny? Who's to say what is funny and what is not?" He took it upon himself to sit in the chair opposite Teresia. "Originally I had wished to send Armand, but he became detained." Glancing around the woman's home, Blakeney sighed. "You have a very nice place Senorita. I'm glad the French have not accused you yet of aquaintences with the Pimpernel."

"I promise not to tell them of course," He added as an afterthought.

She managed to laugh at the irony of that final remark, but it was the laugh of someone who had recently suffered a great shock. However, her sense were beginning to settle down. There he stood, large as life, in front of her. Well, that obviated the problem of finding him, which had been worrying her for hours. "I'm glad you came." she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. "There are things I need to tell you... important things." she glanced at Olymphe's door. The last thing she needed now was an interuption that might send her visitor fleeing into the dawn mist. "Come with me, I discovered something tonight that might interest you." She led the way towards her boudoir where she had so recently been re-copying the notes she had made in Chauvelin's office.

"Well I'm all French ears." He said and followed. Curious on Teresia, his light blue eyes gazed over her rooms and proper English upbringing warned him against entering. The Scarlet Pimpernel had other motivations however, so Sir Percy and his ways were pushed aside. Blakeney entered at will.

"I had an unusual visit yesterday from a man wanting to contact you... oh, don't worry, I didn't even let on that I knew anything about the league," she added quickly, "and besides, what could I actually do? Send a letter to Blakeney Manor? Take a seat." She motioned around the room. There was only the bed or the chaise-longe in the corner, plus the little chair by her writing desk, over which Teresia was now standing, looking for the key to the secret compartment in which she had hidden the papers.

"Who was this man?" Blakeney asked behind the fixated grey moustache. Sitting down, he refrained from comment on the 'send a letter' comment. It, unforntunetly, had been done before and probably would be repeated in the future. Watching and waiting, Percy made a study of Teresia.

"His name is Andre-Louis Moreau. He used to work for the Committee of Public Safety. That's how I first met him. He was a fanatical revolutionary in the early days, but too much a visionary to approve of the current situation. He dislikes the guillotine... prefers to give his enemies a fighting chance... though as he is probably the best swordsman in Paris, I suppose one could dispute the point. In the days if the third estate he fought seven aristos in as many days." She found the key she had been looking for on the floor where she must have knocked it in her haste to open the door to the pseudo-soldier. "Killed or maimed all of them and earnt himself quite a reputation. But it wasn't enough to protect him when he abused his committee pass, by helping the neice of Lord Gavrillac cross into Germany. Now he works with De Batz." A sigh to indicate that she thought him misguided. "It would seem that De Batz has hatched a new scheme, thinks you might be interested and sent Andre to make contact. Andre came to me because he knows I've done... jobs... for Chauvelin, and he knows that Chauvelin is tracking the league." she unlocked the compartment in the desk. The back of her neck tingled slightly and she knew Blakeney was watching her closely. "The call is yours. If you want to meet him, I can arrange it." She fished out the papers and turned quickly, hoping to catch him in the act of staring at her.

"What would be gained by such a meeting? My man force is large and I already have strongholds in the French and English government. My dearTeresia. Has it ever occured to you that it could potentially be a trap? With you as the bait?" Blakeney's light blue eyes studied the Spaniard. Somehow, as good as she was, he doubted that even she considered this delicate option.

"I don't know what you'd gain from such a meeting." she shrugged, "My feelings about de Batz haven't changed. Loco! Of course it *could* be a trap. I doubt it, but it's possible. But you don't have to walk into it. If you say so, then I haven't seen you... now or ever. Moreau will go away empty-handed." She approached him with the papers in her hand. "You on the other hand, will profit from the whole affair even so."

Taking the papers, Percy glanced them over. He gave no expression of thought on his face, nor sighed or grunted. Glancing up at Teresia, he mused lightly, "What to do, what to do?"

"I'm sorry it's such a scrawl. I was in the middle of re-copying the list when you arrived." She stood next to him and pointed over his shoulder. "I think you might recognise *him*." She said of the description which was so obviously the man beside her.

"Indeed." He replied after reading his 'poet' description. Tall. Green outfit that was far too small for the man wearing it. They even jotted down the houses and places he liked to 'write'. "Is this everything?" He asked, making a mental note of Sir .

"It's all I could find in his office, but there must be more. He was in England for the ball and I wasn't the only pair of eyes in the place that night. I know the others made reports, but there's nothing on that list about it." She put one knee on the seat beside him, so that she could read the list more easily over his shoulder. The proximity to him was making it increasingly difficult for Teresia to concentrate on the matter in hand.

Blakeney glanced up and gave a bit of a smile to the Spaniard. "Well, that must be that then. Niven the poet died as of today." He pointed to the description on the page. "Better to let him die and keep one step ahead than be foolish and take a step behind. End up in the brig that way." he chuckled, but Percy was far from amused. Indeed, the fact that Chauvelin was this close to his train had him worried. Perhaps the French foe was smarter than Blakeney

He was smiling at her. She took this as a sign of encouragement and edged closer still. "And what about Moreau? What do I tell him?" she asked, daring to toy provocatively with one of the few scraps of blonde hair showing under his wig.

Sir Percy had been non-chalently daring with women all his life, finding no meaning or common ground behind the innocent flirtations until Marguerite. Why was it then, that when Teresia tugged so at his natural hair, did Blakeney find his attentions being somewhat befuddled? He grinned and remained still however. "Am I betraying myself yet again for Chauvelin?"

"No." she replied honestly, but in a soft, far-away voice. She had promised herself never again to tell this man how much she loved him, but every molecule in her body was screaming the message louder than she could imagine. "Andre doesn't like the guillotine. He's a dreamer who thinks that fanatics such as Chauvelin are ruining his own private vision. And besides," she bent close to his ear "I'd never put you in that sort of danger, you must believe me." Almost without thinking, she planted the lightest of kissed on Sir Percy's cheek and the hand which had played with his hair slipped around his neck. As she drew her head back her eyes broadcast ardent desire. Even if dawn found her alone, she wanted this man to love her right now.

With a soft intake of breath, Blakeney stared straight ahead. How cursed of a man would he be to throw caution to the wind and give in. Just one time? "I believe you." He said, not moving from her touch. If he closed his eyes just right, this woman could almost pass for the woman he loved, prior to marriage. He dwelled in the moment; passionate linguring in time.

She had half feared that he would pull away, offended by her advances, but when he remained motionless and closed his eyes she could no longer be in doubt. Teresia kissed him again. Not timidly on the cheek this time, but fully on the lips, her arms embracing him tenderly. How could one man mean so much to her, even from their first meeting? Despite being a worldly woman, she had never experience a sensation like it, for she had never before been in love. The realisation might have shocked her had she not been so completely bereft from her senses. The world could have ended right then and there, Teresia Cabarrus would neither have known nor cared!

Teresia had caught him by surprise, and mostly with his guard down. His thoughts had been of Marguerite. His memory down a long forgotten road which involved picnics in Paris and strolls around the Seine. A suppressed Englishman and a French actress.

How many times he had wished things had been different between him and his Maeve. How he had yearned for her to rise with him and join him in these fights against humanity. Instead, Marguerite St. Just-Blakeney had killed.

The woman before him was Marguerite as she should be. Courageous. Adventurous. Brave and daring. Just like him.

Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet did not stir nor move when Teresia made contact. His hands remained at his sides.

Still, with his eyes mostly closed, the vision of Marguerite dancing in his cranium, he kissed her back. Blakeney's lips reveling in the ideas and wants of the past and future.

Her blind hands began to feel for the buckle of his cross-belt and, once located, it was swiftly despatched giving her delicate fingers access to the buttons of Percy's pseudo-uniform. She hoped he would reciprocate although, as she only wore a shirt loosely tied around the waist with a cravat, he would not need to be as dexterous as she.

How many months had it been since his wants and desires were released through animalistic growls and bare flesh against exposed skin? He weakly tried to speak, finding Teresia's lips too powerful for his voice as they kissed. Percival Blakeney was only a man, and men had needs, hadn't they? Hadn't Marguerite betrayed him and everything his life stood for. As she touched him, he reached up and pulled off the grey moustache and access hair, exposing his matted down blond locks.

Again he tried to speak, but Blakeney found himself grabbing her arms and pulling her forward. Not a husband, but an animal making a choice.

Never in her wildest dreams, and Teresia's dreams could be very wild, did she imagine that this would ever really happen. She could feel that he was not only responding to her moves, but advancing of his own will. Content to let him lead, the Spaniard abandoned herself into his strong embrace.

Leaning half upward, Percy met Teresia's lips and let his hands rub up her arms until one hand found a neck hold and pulled. Feral in his actions. Instinct. He was crazed and lost in the lust that had been denied to his very passionate soul.

Every touch sent shivers of ecstasy through her body and when he pulled her towards him she went willingly, almost forcefully , one hand still unbuttoning his jacket with as much speed as her frantic fingers would allow. Teresia pressed herself as close as possible, returning the kiss with feverish lips which longed to explore.

Pulling her torso forward, Blakeney positioned Teresia to face him. Sit with him, on the single chair. His lips began the long, slow journey downward; from her lips to the pit of her neck. That soft and delicate neck barely exposed by men's clothing. Which part excited him more, Percy could never say.

His lips had left hers and Teresia felt their absence keenly, but as his caresses moved downward she let escape a soft moan. She was straddling him now, locked in his strong embrace. Her left hand was inside his opened coat, pulling at the corners of the rough soldier's shirt. Her right hand ran itself through the blonde locks, which were becoming intertwined with her own hispanic curls, and guided her lover's head gently towards its goal.

Picking her up, allowing her to continue her leg hold, Blakeney staggered unevenly towards the other room. His grip tight around her legs as she held fast to his throat. The kissing only increasing as their lips parted and fought for hold in a mad dash of insanity.

The sudden movement caught her breath and she gave a small cry of excitement as she felt herself lifted so effortlessly. With a gasp and a delicate giggle she narrowly missed the door-jarm. Ducking her head, she wound her leg tighter for security. What if Olymphe were to find them? What would she think? Teresia didn't care, so long as this moment lasted for as long as possible. They weren't slowing and for a brief second La Cabarrus entertained the delicious thought that perhaps he would carry he straight out of the door, through the moonlit streets of Paris and off to England.

Placing her down on the bed, the last thing he could fathom was logic, and he was such a controlled and logical man. Percy allowed his hands to feverishly pull and tug on her shirt; his only intent in removing it. With his other hand, he helped her by taking hold of her left hand and placing it on his buckle. Blakeney needed freedom.

Leaning over her, a man madly after what he wanted, he kissed her neck and then her lips, crying out desperately, "Marguerite."

She was naked now, the shirt lay on the floor beside the bed. It was her intention that he should be naked too, as soon as she could manage it, when she heard him call his wife's name. "no te precupes, carino." she whisphered, misinterpreting his cry as one of guilty remorse, "She isn't here." The buckle gave way and Teresia sought her suitor's mouth once more.

Thinking of his wife, he was about to protest. Blakeney began to feel his father's unapproved stare down on him from heaven above. He gently pulled away from her lips. Her mouth. The body whom caught the candle light flickering like dancing jewels. He stood and his hand gently slid down her soft leg. Her dark eyes were sought out in sorry by he.

No sooner had he left, them the thought crossed his determined face. 'To hell with you father,' Percival cursed and began to rid himself of any clothing he bore.

At first she feared he would walk away, shamed by guilty thoughts of his wife... how English! There was a strange look in his eyes which she failed to comprehend, but as she caught his glance, she willed him back with all her might. It seemed to work. Hungrily she watched him undress, silently desiring him to be quick and return to her embrace. She raised herself onto one elbow to get a better view of the determined striptease. It was, unconsciously, perhaps the most alluring pose the Spaniard could have chosen to display her figure in the fitful candlelight. There she waited, devouring every delicious visual moment and anticipating the glorious physical moment yet to come.

Standing before her, Blakeney's gangly form blinked in the candlelight. He was the reckless and daring Scarlet Pimpernel, and never when he faced any French did he feel more exposed and vulnerable. "Are you ready for me Mademoiselle?" He asked pushing all thoughts of Marguerite aside. He could ignore his father, his mother and his wife. Follow their lead as they had chosen, each in their own different way, to ignore him.

Reaching up from the bed, Teresia could just hook one dainty hand around his neck. Stripped of the dirty soldier's uniform, he looked more like himself to her than he had done all night. "I'm ready." she wisphered, brushing her burning lips against his cheek. Once more she reclined on the bed, but the hand she had placed around Sir Percy's neck, would ensure that she didn't recline alone this time.

He joined her and modestly bought up the covers over his shoulders. Teresia was beautiful, her skin and hair so alike, yet different from the woman he wed. Flesh against exposed skin, Blakeney leaned down gently and kissed her, his arms propping himself above this woman. He did not love her. He knew that, but here he was all the same. 'Men have needs Sir Percy." He could recall a young prince George telling him once, 'Who am I to try and ignore that fact?'

Gently, he leaned down to nibble on her ear and neck. The beginning of a mating ritual.

As he touched her, Teresia's body made an arc upwards, sensing him along her entire length and feeling his every move with her whole being. Her arms wrapped themselves more tightly around her lover's torso, exploring sensuously, and one leg entwined itself with his. Had she been in any state to think, she would have realised that never had she felt this way whilst making love. But Teresia wasn't thinking, she was acting on basic primeval instinct.

For a while, he kissed her like that. Passionately, without remorse or regret. As much as he tried to tell himself he was the daring Scarlet Pimpernel, who held no bond to that traitorous St. Just, there was something in Percy that could not give himself freely. And since he was tricking his brain into thinking he could, his body reacted quite unfavorably when the images of Marguerite that he continued to push aside still flew in his mind's eye. His life's force that would have taken them both on a pleasant journey failed him and Blakeney found himself pushing away.

Teresia felt him struggle in her arms and fought to hold him tighter, but she wasn't strong enough to pull him back.

"Let go." He broke the silence with frustrated anger. What demons or gods cursed him so like this?! Turning from her, he sat on the edge of her bed, his head bowed over gently into his tight fists.

"Que pasa, carino?" asked Teresia soothingly. She was perplexed, but felt the situation to be redeemable. Gentle she placed a warm tender hand on his shoulder.

At her touch, he stood, pulling his shoulder fiercely away from her reach. For a while, Blakeney stood there in silence, his back to her. Finally, he turned and headed for the chair where upon the French guard uniform lay unceremoniously. "It's time for me to go Mademoiselle."

Teresia sat there dumbstruck... embarrassed, humiliated, she wanted to kiss him, kill him and cry all together. But she had promised never to cry in front of him ever again. Gathering the bed linen to hide her nakedness and gathering a mask of businesslike efficient to mask her disappointment she asked, "Before you go, what answer do I give Citizen Moreau? Will you meet him or not?"

"How, How...? I'll send you word. I can not answer that right now!" Blakeney had already donned his pants and with his shirt half on, he faced her, looking at Teresia as if she were mad for asking such of him. "Have you not a notion on the workings of life?" His angered voice spat, although in truth, it was not the Spaniard he was enraged with.

Buttoning feverishly, he turned away from her again and sat on the chair. "My apologizes to you, for it should never have come to this."

She was puzzled and hurt. Her defenses were down and every cruel word smote her across the face like the back of a hand. But when she heard his final sentence, her self-esteem leapt at the idea that there was a battle raging within her amour... that he didn't give her up willingly. "But it did happen." she said gently with a hint of sadness. Leaving the bed. but keeping the sheet wrapped around her she continued "We could have been good together."

Tugging and lacing his boots, Blakeney looked at her. His last statement was to be meant that he never should have thought to betray his wife. She was misinterpreting what he said, and in all honesty, it worked out to his favor. Standing again, Percival Blakeney put on the remainder of his costume, transforming again into the grey haired French solider. With a long look back at her, one hand on the door knob, he spoke softly, "I bid you a long lasting good-bye, Seniora." Without looking back, the Scarlet Pimpernel left her apartment and quickly headed out for the unknown world that lay beyond her door.

Teresia watched him go, bolted ridgely to the floor. Only when she could no longer see him did her feet at last unfreeze themselves. Running to the door she cried "Te amo!", but whether she shouted aloud or just inside her head she did not know. The only thing for certain was that she could no longer see him, the darkness was too intense. He had said he would contact her about Moreau. That at least was one hope to cling to. And cling she did. Teresia had committed treason that night, almost committed adultery... but she would go further for him... much further, if only he deigned to ask.

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