Musketeer's Daughter:Unanswered Riddle

Chapter 23: Secret no more

The guillotine! Her secret was up. Philippe would tell the world and the King would discover that Andrién had lied about Marguerite's bastard child and everyone she loved would be killed. What would she tell him? If she ordered him out, he would surely become angry than he would be due to her deceit and insolence.

"Philippe?" She lifted her chin, desperation driving her as her world crushed her soul. Would killing him be her answer? No one knew he was here. No one. Not even Andrién, not Marie. The King. She would hide his body and play ignorance if anyone asked. She knew how to make a clean kill without spilling blood.

"It was you?" One sword per hand, hers still sheathed. He stepped to her, a spark in his eye she did not know how to define. "You were the one who fought me?"

"I will not let you ruin my life, Andrién's—Mathieu's." She moved toward him, unsure how to defend herself without a weapon. Much less in such monstrosity that confined her body!

He paused, tilted his head, the shadows washing his expression into the unknown. "What do you think I will do?" He took another step forward.

Ysabeau gazed about, her eyes darting for something in which she could defend.

"Do you believe I will hurt you?" Another step.

"I am warning you, Philippe, I am not afraid of drawing blood." She bent her legs, her fists slick at her sides. Curse the stupid wig!

"And neither am I, but you know that." He took another step and with a flick of his wrist, sent the sheath flying.

Oh, how the trembling in her limbs made everything difficult. Never in her life had she thought to be caught without defense, in a billowing frock, and locked away in a lonely little room. Never. "I will not go down easy, Philippe. Back away."

A little grin tilted his face, and how she loathed the ravenous darkness that Marie's candle provided. Philippe raised his arms, Ysabeau gathered her skirts. And she launched herself into him, shoulder into his gut as she braced for the slashing pain of the swords. A loud clang sounded—and it was not them. To her shock, he did fall to the floor beneath her, but his hands were now empty.

Philippe lay prone, his legs sprawled. What stunned her was the ravenous gaze he gave her, his eyes burning with a ferocity she had never seen. And again, she was lying in her ridiculous woman's garb, but this time, atop him. His arms bent upward, elbows clamping her still, his hands behind her head as he brought her to his lips.

"Please do not harm me!" she squealed, her emotion out of place as well as everything else around her. So unlike her to cry mercy, but with the clumsy tangles of clothing, he had the advantage.

"Look behind you, ma chérie."

As best as she could, Ysabeau lifted her weight upon her hands and angled her head to the side, and gazed at both swords that impaled the wall behind them. She gasped, and turned back to him, her lip trembling. Sudden tears sprang and dropped down her cheek, gliding into his fanned hair.