Behind The Shadow: Complete Set: Parts 1-4: The Granville Legacy, #1

By Antoinette George

Compelling romance and swashbuckling thrills. The first set in The Granville Legacy Series.

Shadows aren't always what they seem. The dramatic and gripping story of one man with two lives and the woman he craves, but cannot have…

It started with one exceptional man, Francis Granville.

He was a British aristocrat with an illustrious title and lineage that could be traced back for centuries. However, this was no bored, frivolous, idle peer or courtier. Behind the veneer of remote, ducal aloofness that most of late 18th century aristocratic society saw, Francis was both an extremely able as well as a down-to-earth and charming man. To those aware of his extensive business interests, he was astute, rich and powerful, with diverse enterprises and holdings around the expanding British Empire and further, to countries eager and open to trade. However, absolutely no one knew about his 'little sideline' - because he was also a ruthless, faceless and elusive criminal, known only as The Shadow, or L'Ombre.

He had a price on his head and was wanted on both sides of the English Channel for smuggling and pirating. Francis Granville was one man with two lives.

And then, one fateful day changed the course of his life. While he was in Normandy, in northern France, on one of his illegal trading expeditions, L'Ombre was approached for help by a Frenchwoman, desperate to save her family. The lengths she'd gone to in order to find him and plead her case made him wonder what it would be like to have someone care for him so much they'd risk losing everything they owned, including their freedom, even their life, just to save him from a dire fate.

Francis had always managed to wrap most people around his little finger, especially women; he'd also laughed at danger, thought himself untouchable and invincible, and relished the excitement his secret double life brought him. That was until his long-time enemy finally caught up with him, a malicious and clever adversary who'd been using the growing social unrest and inefficient government in France during the late 1780's and the start of the Revolution to further his own nefarious ends. Francis's arrogance and distraction were nearly his downfall, causing him to risk losing not only his life in terrible circumstances, but also the unconventional woman who meant everything to him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brangwyn Press
• Release date: Dec 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781914160080

Book preview

Behind The Shadow

Behind The Shadow

Parts 1-4

Antoinette George

To Barbara. Your thoughts and ideas as I stepped into the literary unknown inspired me to persevere, and look where it has brought me! Your enthusiasm, encouragement and editorial input made all the difference. Thank you.

The Granville Legacy: Set One

Behind The Shadow

Behind The Shadow Omnibus

Compelling romance and swashbuckling thrills.

Shadows aren’t always what they seem. The dramatic and gripping story of one man with two lives and the woman he craves, but cannot have…

---

He was the handsome aristocrat and charismatic adventurer who created a dynasty and she was the feisty, unconventional woman he loved. He was English and she was French, two strong-willed people determined never to give in to each other, and a devious, diabolical enemy determined to exact revenge on the smuggler who had constantly evaded him and thwarted his nefarious plans.

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Set at the end of the 18th century when France was on the cusp of a bloodthirsty Revolution, this is an exciting and unputdownable tale of daring escapes, broken promises, distrust and misunderstandings, all threaded through by a passionate and turbulent love affair, a scorching romance that wouldn’t be denied.

Part 1: The Elusive Smuggler

Part 2: An Unusual Courtship

Part 3: The Determined Duchess

Part 4: The Dangerous Harlot

Contents

England and France 1789-1815

Channel Coasts of England & France, 1790-1815

The Elusive Smuggler

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

An Unusual Courtship

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

The Determined Duchess

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

The Dangerous Harlot

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue

Epilogue To The Epilogue…

Also by Antoinette George

THE GRANVILLE LEGACY SERIES

THE PRIDE OF LIONS

Prologue

BEHIND THE SHADOW

This is

England and France 1789-1815

As the closing years of the 18th century brought turbulence to France with a bloody Revolution, people existed in fear of their lives, especially if they were members of the nobility, and many fled if they could, often losing everything they possessed in the process. For a few years, anarchy reigned and civilised justice went missing; they were dangerous times with little in the way of proper law and order and inevitably, some malicious or criminal individuals took advantage.

---

With the country and government in turmoil and the king and queen executed, war with Europe followed. A capable young army officer, Napoleon Bonaparte, quickly rose to prominence and eventually took charge in France, proclaiming himself Emperor and restoring some sort of order to the beleaguered country. From across the English Channel, Britain watched all these events in concern until it, too, got drawn into the conflict with its old enemy. First at sea, then down on the Iberian peninsula, until the interminable fighting culminated in the epic battle at Waterloo in 1815.

Crossed swords.

Channel Coasts of England & France, 1790-1815

Map of Normandy & Sussex

The Elusive Smuggler

Part 1

Prologue

Normandy, Northern France

Late summer 1779

"M erde ! That’s all we need now…"

The scruffy, unshaven, middle-aged man, garbed in shabby peasant clothes with an old, tattered straw hat on his head to keep off the sun, swore roundly and uncouthly. He hauled up on the reins of the limping nag which was pulling the heavily laden farm cart as it trundled along the dry ruts in the deserted country lane. It was heading to a rendezvous on the outskirts of Le Havre where the River Seine finally flows into the English Channel… and where small boats could sail upstream along the deep estuary, as far as Rouen, with lots of inconspicuous mooring places on the way.

The sleepy youth, another scruffy individual who was slouched on the seat next to him, roused from his daydreams with a start at the oath and an elbow in the ribs from the still cursing man. He scrambled down to the dusty track, going round to inspect the horse and duly report that it had indeed cast a shoe, just as his uncle had suspected.

Wasn’t there a smithy in that last hamlet we passed through? The older man looked questioningly at the youth as he straightened up from inspecting the horse’s legs and hooves and yawned. For what seemed outwardly to be no more than a common peasant, the man spoke surprisingly well, apart from his tendency to swear, but then there was no one around to hear his conversation apart from his nephew.

Errrrr, I’m not sure, Uncle, the young man mumbled, suddenly seeming inordinately fascinated with the potted roadway under his scuffed boots. Here was someone else who also spoke in a cultured tone of voice.

Dammit, Lad! the older man exclaimed in evident frustration. One day you’ll remember to keep your eyes open to what’s around you when we’re on one of these jaunts. He waggled a finger at his sleepy nephew. How many times do I and Reynard have to tell you? It can be a matter of life or death to keep one step ahead of that bloody new Governor, Bernheim, and his militia vermin. He swore at the youth again, drawing his index finger across his throat in a slicing movement to reinforce his point. He’s not like the old Governor who didn’t give a fuck about what went on around him, unless it had big tits and a nice mouth, he grumbled, and the youth tried not to smile at the crude commentary which would have had his aunt reaching for her fan or smelling salts. "He’s a nasty piece of work, and clever, and you HAVE to know where your enemy is at all times, AND have a potential escape route in mind wherever you go and whatever you do. Mon Dieu, Francis, playing in this game you won’t have a fairy godmother to come to your rescue if you get captured, especially if that vicious rat, Dupont, gets his hands on you. Bon sang, he sighed, the stories I’ve heard, fair makes my blood run cold." He grimaced and shuddered as he swore uncouthly again.

I know, I know, I KNOW, Uncle, and I’m sorry, truly. I’m just a bit tired, replied the youth, swallowing another yawn while endeavouring to give his uncle a winning smile and charm away the deserved rebuke. He was well aware of the reputation of the new regional governor of Normandy, his brutal lieutenant and the ruthless militia the pair now deployed to keep order in the province. It was like a small and savage private regiment, full of thugs, bullies and the uncivilised dregs of the French army, all looking to earn more money and with no morals, scruples or concern about how they carried out their orders.

Gerard Fourneval smirked at his favourite nephew, all trace of anger now gone. So, what were you dreaming about this time, Lad, as if I can’t guess? He rolled his eyes. Hmmmm, which one graced your bed last night, or should I say whose bed did you end up in as I know you weren’t in the stable, asleep in the hayloft like you were SUPPOSED to be, he tutted. Good job I went down to check everything was quiet and you and the cart were safe, which meant I ended up in the hayloft instead. You owe me, You Disreputable Little Bugger! and he tried, but failed, to stop his lips twitching and look cross. So, was it the saucy blonde bar wench with the red stockings, or that dark-haired bit who kept appearing from the kitchens for no reason, with her bodice pulled down lower each time I saw her? You know, the one with that piece of black ribbon tied round her neck. One wink from those blue eyes of yours and they all fall like ninepins. He sighed and shook his head in despair and no little envy at the appeal of his young nephew.

Actually, Uncle, it was both, the youth smirked lecherously, and, what was her name? Yvonne? Yvette? the youth gazed skywards for a moment as he tried to recall the names of the tavern girls he’d flirted with the previous night. You know, the wench from the tap room, the mouthy redhead with the scar on her neck? H’mmm, I never did get to find out how she got that, he mused to himself, maybe another time? Anyway, she was going to join us too, but she’d already promised another regular customer, so I was left with just two of them.

The older man raised his eyebrows. Fuck me! Two? THREE? Together?! He tried to look shocked but gave up and merely sighed and chuckled. And you’re not even eighteen yet. What the hell do they feed you in school? Y’know, sometimes I wonder where your size and appearance, and all that enthusiasm and energy come from. Your poor mother would no doubt faint if she knew even a quarter of what you get up to, and apart from not looking remotely like him, your behaviour is so much NOT like your father, or your grandfather I gather, it beggars belief sometimes. Talk about cuckoo in the nest. Gerard shook his head again and tutted in amusement. You must definitely take after your grandmother’s side, one of the battleaxe’s relations, not that you do that much fighting, unless it’s in bed, but I don’t think I want to go down that particular route, definitely too much information for a poor innocent old man like me, he chuckled.

Standing by the horse and looking up at his slightly bemused but smirking relative, the youth dropped his head back as he laughed out loud revealing perfect, pearly white teeth that lit up his darkly handsome, chiselled features. Although only a few months past seventeen, his last growth spurt had sent him more than a head taller than most of his friends at school at well over six feet, and his teenage gangly limbs were giving way to wide shoulders above a lithe, lightly muscled torso and long shapely legs. Thick, black wavy hair struggled to be restrained in a tie at his nape and random locks continuously flopped over his forehead, almost caressing a slash of black, expressive brows. A clear and tanned complexion suggested hours spent outdoors and just a shadow of dark stubble marred his youthful face. However, it was his wide, stunning blue eyes, the colour of midsummer sky, or a field of cornflowers, and framed by disgracefully long, thick black lashes, that were so devastating to the opposite sex. He had already learned that a teasing smile with those beautifully shaped lips, a roguishly quirked eyebrow and a knowing wink, could bring a blush to most feminine faces, and when combined with lethal charm and a wicked sense of humour, offered in a deep melodious voice that oozed like chocolate, most young girls, and not a few older women, were reduced to helpless jelly. In all ways, he was a completely stunning young man who stood out head and shoulders from his peers and privately, as he’d watched him grow up, Gerard often wondered where it had all come from as the youthful Romeo didn’t seem remotely like any of the rest of his relations, on either side of the family, in either looks or temperament.

I don’t know what you’re going to do when you finally come up against a female you can’t wrap around your little finger, or charm into bed, M’Boy, remarked his uncle sagely, wagging a finger at him. You will, y’know, you mark my words, he chuckled at the sentiment, and that, surely, will be a farce to watch and I for one can’t wait. With another chortle to himself the older man directed the youth to help move the cart off the road and climbed down from the wagon to help.

Between men and horse they negotiated the heavy wagon into a screen of trees and scrubby bushes so it was hidden from other nosy passers-by and they unharnessed the limping horse. "You take Samson back down the road to the smithy and get him reshod, tout de suite, and I’ll wait here and keep an eye on things. He patted the old horse on the rump. Now be off with you, Lad, and no more daydreaming. Vite! Vite! Remember, we’ve people waiting for us tonight, usual time and place on the estuary, and we’re going to be late enough as it is. God job Reynard is there as he’ll keep them pacified until we arrive."

Dressed like any ubiquitous peasant or labourer in dirty breeches, worn boots, a rather grubby shirt hanging open on his chest and an old leather waistcoat, Francis Alexander Xavier Granville, Earl of Jevington, and son and heir to the wealthy and illustrious English Dukedom of Firle, took up the old horse’s bridle and started walking him slowly back down the track towards the hamlet they’d recently trundled through. He hoped the smithy hadn’t gone off for an afternoon snooze in this warm weather and his stomach rumbled at the thought of lunch. For a moment he reflected it might have been a better plan to have readied the wagon and horse, then eaten breakfast with his uncle at the inn earlier in the day, instead of staying in bed for another hour with the two serving wenches and then rushing down to hitch up the vehicle, muttering to his disbelieving uncle about having overslept in an unoccupied stall. But, reflecting on his memories of the girls’ voluptuous charms and other talents as he meandered along the rutted track, and their enthusiasm for a ménage à trois, he grinned to himself at how his sexual horizons and experience were expanding, and concluded that despite his hunger, he’d probably made the right decision. With no one around, he rubbed his crotch appreciatively as his lecherous thoughts had the inevitable repercussion and he couldn’t wait to brag to his closest schoolfriend, Ricky, about what he’d gotten up to on the female front during the summer holidays.

As he stopped to stroke Samson’s nose and encourage the old but still strong horse along, Francis gazed for a moment at the gold signet ring with its ducal crest which glimmered on one little finger. He was supposed to take it off when he was on one of these excursions as it didn’t go with his attempt to appear no more than a common peasant, but he’d forgotten when he’d set off from his uncle’s home. The shiny ring stood out as it was quite new, a birthday gift from his grandmother on his seventeenth birthday. It marked, so she’d said in sarcastically arctic tones, his arrival in adulthood with the associated responsibility. Accent on the words adulthood and responsibility. He remembered laughing at that which had infuriated the old woman, but secretly he loved the ring as he felt it made him look quite grown up, manly and dashing. Adulthood he could accept. Responsibility was his most unfavourite word and complete anathema to him. His Uncle Gerard had already discovered that for himself, which of course was why he’d gone down to double check in the stables the night before. He knew his nephew very well!

Francis loved spending the summer months with his favourite and only uncle and the man’s family in Normandy, and had been doing so since he was thirteen. Supposedly in France to gain a bit of ‘courtly polish’ in Paris and improve his language skills, on an early visit he’d discovered his Uncle Gerard, the husband of his mother’s younger sister, had a secret. Once upon a time, Gerard had struggled to keep his modest but happy home and family in the manner of comfort and elegance expected of his noble status, even though it was of a very minor level and he didn’t have a title. However, being an enterprising individual, he’d resorted to a now prosperous little sideline of a bit of smuggling from his Normandy home to boost the family coffers. His dear wife was suitably mortified at this commercial, illegal and very un-aristocratic activity, though he wasn’t sure if it was fear for his safety that worried her more than the embarrassment or consequences if the neighbours ever found out. But with the price of tobacco, wine and spirits and other goods in England several times that of their cost in France, or further afield in Europe, business was brisk in the illicit trade across the Channel. Provided one was exceptionally careful, kept a few palms greased in appropriate places, money was there to be made selling goods to the smugglers who plied their trade across to the south coast of England and thence into the country’s drawing rooms or even some shops, with no questions asked.

Bored to death in England for most of the year by an endless regime of schooling, tutoring and training for the day he would have to take over responsibility for and the running of the vast estates and enterprises that now contributed to the fortune of the Firle Dukedom, Francis relished his time in France with his Uncle Gerard and his somewhat unconventional establishment. Unlike his nice, but boring and rather conservative cousin, Albert, who simply ignored his father’s ‘hobby’ as he called it, and liked to pretend it didn’t exist, the entrepreneurial Francis, who had more than a bit of a wild and adventurous side to him, especially enjoyed participating in his uncle’s little nefarious enterprises which would no doubt horrify his staid father and domineering grandmother, if they ever found out. His hypochondriac mother would no doubt have yet another spasm and retreat to bed with her hartshorn, with his brainless sisters squealing and fussing over her. As well as his aptitude in speaking French rather well, and picking up a smattering of Spanish along the way through his association with one or two of his uncle’s nefarious associates, Francis had also discovered he had quite a talent for haggling and bargaining with individuals from the ruthless smuggling fraternity who would as soon cut his throat than hand over one sou or guinea more than they absolutely had to for the goods they sold on at such profit. So, along with developing a sharp head for business, Francis’s foreign language skills and vocabulary had indeed improved inordinately as well, though perhaps not quite in the fashion his esteemed family had intended. In fact, the longer he spent on the continental side of La Manche, the English Channel, the better his accent became, especially as he conversed with the hoi polloi, as his mother disdainfully referred to the common people.

If she and his family could hear him speak as he skulked around the docks and dark alleys of the various Normandy ports and fishing harbours, and bartered, brawled, swore, drank and whored around with the smugglers, seamen and general criminal lowlife who frequented them, they would no doubt all need assistance from his mother’s vinaigrette; even his uncle raised his eyebrows at times. Not that the indulgent Gerard knew everything his enterprising nephew now got up to, and turned a blind eye to most of his escapades, only interfering to box him round the ears if he got himself in too deep on some of his adventures or put himself, or his uncle, in excessive danger or risk of discovery by the authorities.

Francis loved his unconventional uncle and Gerard Fourneval was the combined father figure and mentor in Francis’s life and about the only man he paid any attention to. Him and, on occasion, his uncle’s long-time smuggling associate, a brawny, swarthy, wily gypsy who hailed from the area around the Spanish/French border near the Mediterranean coast and went by the name of Reynard. It was from Reynard and his gypsies that Francis had acquired his knowledge of Spanish, along with a smattering of the Romani tongue.

In Normandy, calling himself by his second name of Alex, and dressed in simple plain clothes most of the time, Francis loved nothing better than the freedom of being just himself; an anonymous young man enjoying the dubious pleasures of a maturing youth. As Francis, he did also roister, though considerably more sedately, with his cousin Albert and his friends around the hostelries near his uncle’s home in the countryside outside Barentin, just north of Rouen, with the occasional requisite foray into Paris with all the family for both shopping and formal socialising. He attended aristocratic balls and Court salons at Versailles and, when he could escape, made occasional visits to the fleshpots that the dissolute French capital offered in abundance. Truly his French education was indeed varied and wide-ranging.

Only Edgar Bernheim, the recently appointed, venal and feared local Governor of Normandy, was the increasingly threatening thorn in the side of this business sideline of his uncle’s, but since they had managed to avoid his notice or interest so far, life in France was a happy adventure and escape for Francis from his tedious life in England.

Having finally reached the hamlet, Francis discovered the blacksmith had indeed sloped off to slake his thirst after a busy morning in the hot smithy. He finally ran him to earth and paid the grumbling man well to return and see to the horse as quickly as possible; Francis was then left to kick his heels for an hour or two in the deserted, rural backwater.

Wandering down a track behind the smithy in search of a stream for some water to slake his own thirst and cool off, and perhaps a soft and sheltered corner of long grass on which to doze and catch up on some sleep, Francis happened to notice what looked like an orchard on the other side of a somewhat decrepit, but high stone wall, with trees replete with delicious apples, apparently ripe for the picking. Reminded of his lack of breakfast by his rumbling stomach, he made short work of climbing the crumbling wall and thence up into a handily adjacent, large tree. As he made his way through the gnarled and spreading branches to find a comfy perch on which to sit and munch his way through some of the juicy fruit, his attention was caught by the sound of someone approaching through the rows of smaller trees to the slight clearing of flattened grass below his tree, which was somewhat older and much larger than the rest.

A young girl, singing to herself as she sauntered through the orchard, came into view. She was wearing a simple muslin dress with a wide-brimmed straw hat perched crookedly on the back of her head and tied haphazardly under her chin with a crumpled pink ribbon. She appeared rather tall and lanky, with no particular figure to note and Francis thought at first she could only be about ten or eleven, but, as he peered at her again through the leaves, he revised his estimate to maybe twelve or thirteen. She looked a funny thing as she trudged along. No elegant, dainty miss this, but a girl with purpose who seemed unworried about her shoes or skirts getting spoiled as she trod through the long rough grass of the orchard. Considering himself something of a connoisseur of young ladies, no matter what their class, even at his tender age, Francis could see that despite her height and nondescript shape, she did move with a sort of a feline grace. He shifted quietly in his tree, peered down and inspected the girl below with her boyish figure, as he leaned further over the branches to see what she was doing in this deserted spot. He certainly had the impression she was definitely not about to pick some apples, fortunately for him. He realised that she was carrying a basket containing a picnic and the smell of a freshly baked meat pie wafted up to him making his stomach rumble again. He also spotted a couple of books which looked like some sort of thick instructional tomes, definitely not some romantic and forbidden gothic novels he might have expected a girl of her age to creep away and read in secret in a place such as this.

Of all places and to his concern, she came to a halt under his tree and immediately pulled off her bonnet, consigning it to the ground on top of her basket, with a large sigh of relief at being rid of it. Her hair had become disordered as she’d pulled off the irritating headgear and he noted the glorious, wavy, honey-coloured mass was streaked with blonde highlights. The result, he mused, of no doubt too much time in the sunshine; most unusual for a well-brought-up young lady who should be keeping her complexion pale and interesting; there was even a smattering of freckles over her aristocratic-looking nose, to boot. So, here was someone who liked to be outside enjoying the sunshine and not sheltering indoors enjoying genteel diversions such as embroidery, sketching or whatever other inane pursuits with which nicely brought up females occupied their time. Definitely not like his sisters. But what made him think this was a gently brought up young lady and not merely a servant girl? After all, her clothes were plain and past their best and she seemed to care little about her appearance, her hair falling loose as it was and her dress somewhat creased and rumpled. He mused further but knew there was just some indefinable way about her that said she was a Young Lady – or someone was trying to make her one; hence the unwanted straw sun hat. Francis wriggled carefully to get more comfortable in his hidden perch and waited to see what she did. He hoped she wasn’t going to sit down and study her books for ages while he was stuck up in the tree, or he would have to reveal himself and he knew he should keep his profile as low as possible in the neighbourhood, given the contents of his uncle’s wagon hidden down the road; after all he had no idea who she was or onto whose estate he had trespassed.

With a slightly ungainly movement that drew attention to something long and stiff protruding through the line of her petticoats and skirts, she turned her attention to and pulled some odd objects from her basket hidden under the meat pie. She then went over to a couple of smaller nearby apple trees with lower hanging branches and proceeded to tie on two or three different sized balls, hanging on long pieces of string so they dangled at around her eye level. She walked back to his tree, unrolled a long length of thin white material which he could just about see had the shape of a man’s torso drawn on it, but with the heart, lungs, liver, kidneys, guts, genitals and eyes crudely marked out and proceeded to pin that to the large trunk directly beneath him.

Completely fascinated by this unexpected activity, not to mention the life-size body image, Francis kept very still and breathed as quietly as he could.

Having set up her dangling balls and target man, the girl wandered around the long grass, peering down as if looking for something lost. With a satisfied cry, she bent down and picked up a couple of large old bricks from near the ruined wall and placed them at a set distance she measured from the trunk of his tree, tutting to herself that somehow, they seem to have moved themselves. Then, driving his curiosity to an even greater level, she went and stood with her feet braced in front of the bricks and took a couple of deep breaths as if in mental preparation to calm herself for some serious endeavour.

She breathed in again and pulled herself up to her full height, stretching her shoulders and circling her arms in the air then rolling her neck around a couple of times as if to loosen it. Next, very slowly and deliberately, she bent to near the ground and lifted her top skirt layer from the hem upwards on one side and proceeded to tuck it carefully into the narrow sash round her waist. The next layers of her petticoats followed in order, all hems to be tucked up in the same fashion on one side of her hips. Boggle-eyed as he was with this strange, almost erotic preparation, Francis sucked in his breath when he saw the rucked up skirts revealed the girl to be wearing skin-tight boy’s breeches underneath and, instead of the expected ladylike flat slippers, she sported a pair of finely polished men’s leather top boots. Finally, and to his shock, he saw the deadly looking rapier swinging next to her hips from a belt; his eyes widened, that was definitely no toy; his jaw dropped open.

Shaking her head to loosen the rest of her wayward curls, the very contained young girl pulled a single kid glove, a slide and a couple of large hairpins from a skirt pocket and holding the glove temporarily between her teeth, she wound her tumbled locks into a tight twist, fixing them more securely to the top of her head with the slide and pins and thereby revealing a long, beautifully elegant neck exposed with just the odd tendril still drifting around. The fine kidskin glove she put on one hand. As she moved her head to pin the hair, Francis just managed to catch sight of her face in full and at last saw her eyes. Tawny green he thought, slightly slanted, just like those of a cat, framed by sooty lashes. He realised that was exactly what she reminded him of as she stood there, completely still in the silent orchard. A sleek, predatory cat; but she was a kitten really, given her age. A rather strange kitten he decided.

Francis was transfixed.

At last, she slowly drew the sword from her belt, her gloved hand almost caressing the hilt as she tested its balance and swished it lazily through the air. He shuddered slightly as he could see it had been finely sharpened along its length as well as at the tip and it glittered menacingly in the dappled sunlight. That rapier would slice through virtually anything like butter and he was at a loss as to why she would have such a frightening weapon, normally reserved for serious duellists, never mind just an ordinary short sword. Next, looking more as if she were about to participate in a ballet class, she lifted her other, un-gloved hand into the air behind her head and flexed and flicked her elegant fingers as if she were a ballerina about to commence her solo. With a quick toss of her head and one foot still braced against the bricks at her feet to deter a retreating movement, she cried, "EN GARDE! at the cloth silhouette pinned to the tree, lunged forward and back with a variety of thrust and parrying movements for a while, as if fighting an invisible opponent, then, as she twirled around in a circle, with a bloodcurdling screech of, TU ES À MOI… ET TU ES MORT!" she promptly skewered the figure straight through its heart and deep into the tree trunk.

The scream gave him such a start, Francis nearly lost his footing and fall out of the tree. By the time he’d recovered himself and his astonished wits, the girl had retrieved her rapier from the tree trunk, turned away and was focusing on the small balls dangling from the shorter apple tree branches behind her. Francis took an unsteady breath and thanked the heavens she didn’t seem to have heard his movement as he continued his silent viewing.

Over the next twenty minutes or so she danced around the smaller trees and practised lunging at the swinging balls, managing to hit them more often than not, which was no mean feat Francis knew, listening to her swearing quietly to herself in what sounded like very unladylike and unseemly language when she failed to hit her mark.

He’d never seen anything like it. An energetic and athletic youth, Francis was a fairly formidable young swordsman himself already, tutored by the best in London; he recognised that, suddenly, the awkward-looking, gangly adolescent girl had transformed into a graceful and apparently very deadly fencer. Who was she and what on earth was she doing in an orchard in this rural French backwater? Where were they? Somewhere near Lillebonne he recalled. He wondered if her family knew what she was up to, or thought she was just playing games? And never mind where she’d got that rapier from, which was slightly smaller than usual but suited her perfectly, who had taught her? She’d learned from a master, that was obvious to his discerning eye. But, dammit, she was a girl! Obviously a ‘naice gel’ as his autocratic grandmama would say. It was unheard of, even here in France. Or perhaps it wasn’t strange in France? No, surely not? The French were a trifle idiosyncratic or even rebellious at times, he’d discovered that for himself, especially the peasants, but the nobility prided themselves on their culture, lineage, airs and graces, just like in England. He had no answers to his own questions.

So distracted and bemused by what he’d been watching, he hadn’t noticed the girl’s swift turn back to his tree and her swing of that wicked rapier aloft into the branches. With apprehension he heard and felt the swish of the razor-sharp blade near his now dangling foot and knew he’d been discovered. A chill voice percolated up through the leaves and branches. I know you’re there. You’ve got five seconds to come down or I promise I’ll slice your toes off… and don’t think I won’t!

Somehow, the young girl’s aristocratic tones didn’t quite match the bloodthirsty threat – but having already noted the sharpness of her blade and the proficiency with which she wielded it, there was something about the threat that encouraged Francis to obey hurriedly. Unfortunately, due to sitting still in one position for so long in an effort to keep quiet and unnoticed, the moment he moved, he felt the numbness in his legs and the pins and needles. He completely missed his footing and to his utter embarrassment, with an unseemly yelp, fell in a tumbled, ungainly heap out of the tree and down on to the grass, bringing branches, leaves and apples with him. Hands curled protectively around his head, as if used to falling over, he rolled instinctively to break his fall and felt the tip of her sword against his throat.

CRÉTIN! IMBÉCILE! she cried furiously. What are you doing in MY tree and who do you think you are, spying on me? Tawny eyes flashed. She was like a spitting kitten... well almost a spitting cat Francis thought, with those eyes.

His lips twitched at the sight of the virago holding the sword as he realised, now he was on the ground and could see her properly, she truly was just a young girl, barely into her teens. He gingerly pushed the rapier tip away from the vicinity of his throat with a careful finger and slowly sat up, brushing leaves and twigs from his hair and clothes.

Well, You Moron? Have you lost your tongue? Trying hard to rein in her temper and irritation at having her secret practice disturbed, the girl spat the words at her voyeur again. I asked you, what are you doing here?

Undeterred by her annoyance, he gave her his most charming grin and rose to bow deeply and gracefully in her direction. "Chère Mademoiselle, I was so transfixed by your beauty and skill with the sword that I could not tear myself away from the vision before me."

Spare me the platitudes you, you... you conceited, lying oaf. She glanced at him but didn’t seem to register there was a veritable Adonis in front of her, one who spoke couthly to boot. Your boyish charms are lost on me. I am PERFECTLY well aware a beauty is one thing I most definitely am not, she virtually snarled at him. A swordswoman, however, I most definitely am, and she swung her blade back up towards him to tickle his throat once again. "Eh bien, ‘Monsieur’, she said sarcastically, assuming he was a mere saucy peasant youth, even though he spoke properly. So, I shall ask once again. What are you doing here? In case you hadn’t noticed, you’re on a private estate, or are you that short-sighted and stupid you didn’t notice the walls?"

Somewhat taken aback at her lack of response to either his appearance or his teasing flattery, truly an almost unknown occurrence, Francis decided to answer her reasonably truthfully. My master’s old horse is waiting to be re-shod at the smithy. Regrettably, I didn’t have any breakfast today and I was hungry so I’m afraid I couldn’t resist one of your lovely apples to pacify my rumbling stomach. He tried smiling at her again. "I’m sorry, Mademoiselle, he added, looking down into her angry and suspicious cat’s eyes. I’m only a humble and hungry errand boy and not here to cause any trouble; can’t you find it in your heart to forgive me and let me go? It was only an apple after all."

You don’t look half-starved to me, she replied acidly. In fact, you look the very picture of health, which is more than I can say for many of the peasants and folk on the estates around here. But that’s still no excuse for being a Peeping Tom, nor a thief. Some of my neighbours would have you whipped or beaten for even encroaching on to their property, never mind stealing anything from it, even an apple.

I never said I was half starved, only that I missed breakfast. Anyway, what’s one apple when you have so many? Francis indicated the bountiful trees around them with a vague wave of his hand. And I have to say, Mademoiselle, your pie looks and smells soooo tasty, he tried to look pathetic and humble, needy and hungry, you couldn’t spare a piece for me... pleeease? he held out his hands beseechingly.

Acting obviously wasn’t his strong point. "I’ll tell you again, Imbécile, your charms don’t work on me and I don’t believe your tall tales either, her eyes flashed at him. Do you take me for a simpleton? I may only be a female of the species, but I am NOT just a mere girl so don’t think I only have half a brain or am a nitwit. I consider I have a deal of both sense and intelligence and other attributes as well… such as this one, and she advanced on him menacingly with the rapier and he took a wary step or two back. Indeed, never mind my neighbours, I’ve a good mind to give you a scratch to remember me by so you may think to mind your own business next time you feel like trespassing where you haven’t been invited, not to mention helping yourself to food that doesn’t belong to you."

His curiosity spiked even further at her belligerence towards him, but before he could stop himself, Francis’s runaway tongue asked, What on earth has turned you into such a bloodthirsty Amazon? All the nice girls I know are busy learning embroidery and watercolours and discussing the latest Paris fashions and who is wearing what at Versailles, so why are YOU playing with swords?

As soon as the words were out he realised his mistake and cursed himself again for getting distracted and not thinking before opening his mouth.

Well, well, well, the girl drawled facetiously, a very strange errand boy or labourer you are to know girls who embroider while discussing fashions at Versailles. I KNEW there was something not right about you, and I don’t just mean in your head, she tutted nastily. And your accent…? She cocked her head to one side, paused and thought to herself out loud. You’re not native French either, ARE YOU? It was more statement than question as the sword pricked his throat and she considered him further like a scientific specimen in a jar. So, I’ll ask again, who are you? Though I’d wager you’re English for a start, she mused. Francis decided there and then to devote considerably more time to his mastery of French and especially his accent, even if most people thought it quite excellent already. Not excellent enough, apparently, for someone wishing to be considered a native during his occasional nefarious endeavours.

The young girl really looked at Francis now and her intent gaze took in everything from his tousled raven hair, across his handsome facial features, especially the striking blue eyes, then his playful smile; it moved down past his throat to his tanned chest with its light dusting of dark hairs, visible through his open shirt and worn waistcoat. His lightly muscled arms and torso were easy to make out, too, under the thin cambric with rolled up sleeves. Although she hoped her face didn’t register it, she was fascinated as her inspection continued downwards over his hard thighs and what the tight, dirty breeches endeavoured to conceal. She would have been appalled and embarrassed had she known how much she had in common with the recently indulged tavern wenches, at least in some respects.

His smile widened as he watched her inspection, quite used to being the cynosure of female eyes. He wondered what she made of him and how many other young men she had assessed in such detail. Few or none he’d wager, given she was probably a nicely brought up young lady. But maybe she had brothers, in which case she perhaps had a basis for comparison? Francis wondered how he measured up.

Perceptive little baggage, aren’t you? As well as bloodthirsty, he chuckled and the girl watched, fascinated, as his whole face lit up with humour and the blue eyes sparkled. Even at just thirteen and totally inexperienced, she could sense the danger signals that emanated from men of his ilk when confronting innocent young girls – and what was worse, deep down she had to acknowledge to herself she found him an attractive ruffian, whoever he was. It irritated her as being a frivolous, feminine reaction, but for the first time in her life she felt a frisson run up her spine as she gazed at him. He was the first boy, well man really, who had actually attracted her regard and she wasn’t sure what that frisson sensation meant.

Truly, I AM hungry, Francis tried explaining again. I did only want an apple or two, my horse really is having his shoe replaced in the smithy and I’m staying with my uncle near Barentin. He’s quite a respectable individual, I do assure you, he added for good measure.

He cocked an eyebrow at her and put on his best appealing effort. She continued watching him like a hawk, obviously unimpressed, while the rapier remained at his throat as the seconds ticked past.

He broke the silence. "Eh bien, Mademoiselle, so come on then, he grinned at her, now a wolfish smile as his teeth flashed in his tanned face and he tried another tack to encourage her to talk, who and what do YOU think I am?"

Peering up into that handsome face, she couldn’t help but be drawn to look into those fascinating, amused, sky blue eyes which, in return, were still watching her carefully. As she considered his features and bearing, the girl did indeed wonder who and what he was. Non, she pondered, definitely no irreverent farm labourer or peasant here, even if he did look like a common ruffian. And somehow, he wasn’t a tradesman’s son either, or, she was also sure, from some worthy and boring middle-class professional household. There was some indefinable – she grasped for a word – presence? Insouciance? Poise? Charisma? She couldn’t pinpoint it precisely to describe it, or him. "Un enigme," she whispered to herself. She was sure he was English, a language she was currently engrossed in mastering, along with her older brother, encouraged by her English godmother whom she had even visited in London on occasion.

But, what was he doing there in her little hamlet, deep in rural Normandy, dressed in peasant clothes? He seemed happy, relaxed and untroubled, even if he was temporarily forced to steal apples. Perhaps he really was hungry? No. She shook her head to herself, if he was, it was only passing. This grinning Adonis had never known the poverty, despair or gnawing hunger some of the local peasants had borne over the recent years when the crops had failed. She truly had no idea who he was; it was a mystery unless he chose to tell her the truth. But somehow, she didn’t think he would.

"And what about you, Mademoiselle? Are you not as much an apparent mystery as I? Francis raised his eyebrow in query. Are you going to tell me your name? Or will you forever be branded on my memory as ‘the fighting demoiselle’?"

Most certainly not! she bristled like an affronted kitten.

He couldn’t resist the tease. "Well, if I’m not allowed an apple, can I at least have some or perhaps all of your pie? Then I can remember you as ‘the charitable demoiselle’ instead; especially if the pie is as good as it smells!"

Ooooooh, ooh, you... you... oaf! she retorted and stamped her foot.

Momentarily engrossed by their argument, though wild horses would never make her admit it, the girl had lowered the tip of her rapier slightly and didn’t notice in time as Francis seized his chance to bend and grab for a broken branch on the grass, caused as a result of his fall. In a trice he raised it to parry off her rapier as they now faced each other under the apple tree. "En garde, My Little Kitten," he taunted, pulling off random twigs and leaves from his makeshift weapon and then offered her his most courtly bow, one eye never leaving the deadly rapier in front of him.

Infuriated with herself for taking her eye off her prey, even for a millisecond, she retorted back, Hah! YOU BUMPKIN! Are you going to try and fight ME? With that twig? Truly you are beyond a conceited idiot, and with that pithy comment, she lunged at him.

Francis didn’t doubt she would be an opponent to be wary of, but he’d been schooled by some of London’s finest fencing masters and was already considered one of the best for his age, he and his best friend from school, Richard Ambrose. Another budding, youthful lothario; he and Francis were like two peas in a pod and extremely competitive with each other.

However, in this remote copse of apples, with his superior height, reach, fitness and strength, Francis was confident he had all the advantage. Even with just a stout branch instead of a sword, he knew he would defeat her by fair means, or foul. Probably the latter, he now realised regretfully, as without a sword to defend himself properly he really didn’t want to find himself scratched and have to explain the injury to his uncle, or indeed be skewered like the unfortunate torso on the tree trunk.

So the pair of them danced around each other, with only the occasional grunt of effort breaking the silence of the sunny afternoon in the peaceful orchard. They thrust and parried in the long grass and back and forth around the trees, the air crackling with increasing tension and awareness as neither gave quarter.

She truly was a fierce opponent, even for a young girl, and a technically brilliant swordsman - or rather woman – Francis admitted to himself, panting slightly with effort as he watched her carefully. His eyes glittered with the excitement of the challenge and it was with rueful reluctance to spoil her brave efforts that finally he spotted an opportunity; he feinted to one side of her and then with a short cry, pretended to trip, only to roll over and come up next to her as she paused momentarily, then suddenly found her wrist gripped and twisted by a hand of steel, forcing her to drop her weapon.

Her chest heaving with effort, the affronted kitten swore profusely and Francis raised a brow in amazement at language he usually heard on the docks emitted from the mouth of a gently raised Young Lady. Tut, tut, such language, you’ll make me blush, he tried and failed to look affronted, grinning instead.

She actually spat at him. Even more unladylike behaviour and he gaped. You BASTARD! she panted. You SNAKE! she screeched quietly, now beside herself with anger and humiliation, her face red with temper. No Gentleman would do that. You have no honour.

"Whoever said I was a Gentleman, Chérie? Francis enquired and smiled to himself at the private joke about his station. But I am seriously sorry, for you truly are a fighter extraordinaire."

He backed her up with some difficulty against the big tree trunk, as she wriggled and pulled against his grip and he gazed down into her face. His blue eyes glittered into her cat-like orbs, gold flecks in the green now spitting daggers at him, her freckles almost alive across her pert nose, red flags mottling her cheeks. Her lips were virtually snarling at him in hatred as she panted with her uncontrolled anger and he wondered momentarily what she’d be like a few years hence when she grew up; but the thought quickly passed as he concentrated on keeping her still.

Now, my belligerent little kitten, here are a couple of lessons for you that I have already learned from experience and YOU won’t necessarily learn from your manuals, or even from the master who has taught you to fight so technically well. Francis paused as her face reflected all sorts of conflicting emotions that were roiling inside her. Number one is: never, ever, underestimate your opponent, no matter who they are or how they appear. Look into their eyes, he peered straight into hers, imagine what they’re thinking or planning, and try and be prepared for ANYTHING. Not all swordsmen are Gentlemen, Puss, as you’ve just discovered.

How DARE you call me Puss! She tried again to wriggle free of the hard hands on her upper arms, but he held her fast against the tree as he tried to continue his short lecture.

Keep still, You Violent Little Baggage, Francis muttered. Heaven knows why I’m even bothering to tell you this, for when are you ever going to be fighting duels with anyone, let alone somebody who isn’t a Gentleman? I’m sure I don’t know. He laughed at the ridiculous prospect, but then continued, drawing in a breath and leaning his body nearer to stop her efforts to break away. Now then, secondly, he gave an exaggerated sigh, do try and control your temper. You’ll never gain the upper hand and think clearly to fight, or do anything else useful, if your maggoty female brain is lost in a red mist.

Incensed at his lecturing tone, his captive poked her tongue out at him in a purely girlish gesture and swore under her breath again, licking her lips. He had the feeling she was now fit to kill him, given half a chance. What a bloodthirsty little termagant to be sure; he regretted again he had no time to find out who she really was.

Finally, fascination captured by the tongue so recently poked out at him and her newly moistened lips, Francis thoughtfully concluded his short lecture. "And last, but by no means least, Ma Chérie, something to bear in mind when you grow up a bit, he paused, and, believe me, he scanned her agitated face, you are now, and most certainly will be in two or three years’ time, a stunningly attractive young woman. So, get rid of that worm in your brain that has convinced you differently, hmmm?"

The girl finally stood still, taken aback by his compliment.

With that last thoughtful observation, Francis leaned down and kissed her. Slow, butterfly kisses. First on her forehead, then her temple, her deliciously freckled nose and both pink cheeks; finally, as he paused, watching her stunned reaction, lightly, gently and very tenderly, his lips nibbled and kissed her soft and moist ones as he whispered, Remember, sometimes, My Fiery Little Kitten, seduction will get you far further than swordfighting.

Francis pulled away, regretfully, from those tantalising and innocent lips. Despite a sheen of perspiration from the arduous swordfight, her skin had still tasted of fresh air and simple floral soap with a hint of musky roses. Feminine with no added artifice, and her lips... hmmmm… he’d tasted apples and cream. He wanted more, but pulled himself together and remembered she was just an innocent, even if she did fight better than most men – and she was a Young Lady, even if a most unladylike one.

As these thoughts ran through his unexpectedly bemused brain, he watched, entranced, as a crimson blush rose up under her creamy skin, from her throat and then upward as it bloomed across her cheeks, replacing the previous red flags of anger. At least he assumed it was a blush at first, but then he realised that if her rage was fierce before, it was now completely beyond control.

The girl could hardly get her words out as she spat volcanically at him, "Salaud! Cochon! How, DARE, you, touch, me! You, you… spawn of worms and cockroaches!" Yet another stream of vituperative gutter language was muttered under her breath as she fought for control of her towering temper. His lips twitched as he watched her face. But so rapt was he at the spectacle, he forgot his own recent lessons to her and, as one furious, violent heel stamped down on his toes, a sharp, vicious knee shot up with all the venom and power she could muster and caught him full in the crotch.

With a surprised, distressed cry, Francis doubled over in agony and fell to the ground, rolling over into a ball with the unexpected fiery pain as his hands cradled his genitals and his eyes watered. In a flash, his attacker produced a wicked-looking stiletto from inside the top of her boot and leaned down over him, its deadly, razor sharp blade pricking the side of his neck where his pulse throbbed. He now looked at her, as much as he could through his watering eyes, with horror and not a little fear as she paused momentarily, reflecting on her prey yet again. A slight movement of her hand and a short, sharp, deep cut traced out in his skin and a few drops of blood rolled down towards his chest.

Fuck… you cut me…! Francis muttered hoarsely, in disbelief the girl had actually sliced into his neck.

"Touché... you arrogant, conceited bastard, she whispered into his ear. A little lesson for YOU. Something to remember me by, perhaps, and I’m not talking pies. He could feel her warm breath tickle the side of his face. NEVER underestimate a woman. The weaker sex? Hah! Remember Jeanne d’Arc? And your own Queen Elizabeth who saw off the Spanish threat? So that’s a joke and most certainly not this woman either. She drew in her breath and laughed out loud, If I never see your ugly face again it will be my absolute pleasure. Keep out of my orchard or I swear I really will slit your throat next time."

With that, totally ignoring his groans and curses, she rose to her feet and sheathed her knife back in her boot and her sword back in her belt. Then, she let down her skirts, collected her unusual practice accessories off the apple trees and put them back in her basket with the books. Finally, unpinning her hair from its tight knot and swinging her hat as if on the way from an afternoon innocuously picking daisies, the young girl walked away from his prone and still agonised body and disappeared out of the orchard, as mysteriously as she’d arrived.

For quite a while Francis lay in the grass, recovering and mulling over the last hour or so. If it wasn’t for his painful genitals, he might have thought it all a rather strange dream. He touched a careful finger to his wounded neck and noted, thankfully, that at least he wasn’t bleeding too much, although the small cut was deep and his finger came away moist and red.

What an extraordinary girl. He’d never come across her like and was quite grateful he wasn’t likely to again, in either England or France. If he hadn’t been on his way to a rendezvous near Le Havre with his uncle, to drop off a valuable consignment of tobacco and brandy, which needed to make the late night tide, he would have liked to hang around and find out more about his mysterious virago with her cat’s eyes. He was sure he wouldn’t soon forget that afternoon’s experience, or the bloodthirsty baggage. He couldn’t believe at one point he’d really thought she hated him enough to stab or run him through, so enraged was she, albeit she’d still cut his neck quite calmly when she’d cooled her temper slightly. Obviously, he noted to himself, his famed charm needed some more practice when dealing with aggressive, angry young women. Who could truly understand girls anyway? Never mind how their contrary minds worked at the best of times, when they were happy and content and well-behaved. This one, though, would definitely be the curse of some poor fool one day; he doubted she even knew the meaning of well-behaved!

Sighing, Francis carefully sat up, a still painful exercise given his current delicate condition, pulled off his boot and rubbed his sore, stamped-upon toes. His cut neck was also tender and oozing slightly. He remembered, with a painful groan, he still had to climb back over the wall and go and retrieve Samson from the smithy and then get back to find his uncle, damn quickly at this rate if he was to avoid another roasting for his forgetfulness, tardiness and lack of responsibility.

He stood up gingerly, groaning as he brushed