Sign of the Cross

By JeanTre16

Chapter 24

A Yielded Heart

Anne of Austria's heiress and d'Artagnan quietly packed their personal belongings. With their affairs concluded the prior night at the palace, there was no reason to delay the inevitable. They were leaving Paris. After dropping off their keys, they would make a quick stop by the garrison to say good-bye to their friends. This chapter of their lives would end and they would begin another.

It felt like a lifetime had come and gone since the d'Artagnans left the farm to rent their small apartment tucked away on a quaint Parisian side-street. Now, while arranging their luggage in silence, a host of memories and emotions riddled them. Much had happened within these half-timbered walls. Here they faced their adjustment as a married couple, the struggle with Jacqueline's new role as a feminine Musketeer and the housing of Ramon's three lively Spanish maidens. This haven would always be a part of who they were. But the residence had been leased, and it was time to move on to property that was more permanent.

Like Jacqueline's varied identities, each home they had made and each refuge they had sought pieced together to shape who they were—individually and as a couple. Much had been wrought in them since the first day they met; yet, in many ways, they remained unchanged. It was as the Musketeeress had once told her dear friend, Rosa, before parting ways. They'd never know exactly what they'd do until faced with trials. They'd only have to be sure who they were before they faced them.

Looking back, Jacqueline realized how poignantly true her words had been. Since Louis had handed her the note at her acquittal, warning her to guard the secret of her cross, she had been searching for the answer to who she was. In her quest, the answer had been staring her right in the face the whole time. How she bore each outward title—farm girl, Musketeer, murderess, fugitive, woman of faith, daughter of royalty, sister of the king, and wife of the legend's son—was only a reflection of who she already was on the inside.

Inwardly, Jacqueline's heart belonged to the One represented on her crucifix. Even through the many difficulties, she had held fast. Justice and kindness were the foremost things she cared about, even before herself. Who she yielded her life to was where she found her true identity and strength.

The son of the legend's character had been proven too. He was a man of his word and had kept her secret. Imprisoned, bruised and made a fugitive for her sake, his noble nature overcame the flippant image the guarded farm girl had originally taken him for. Together they had become a formidable couple, bringing out the best in one another.

D'Artagnan looked up at the remarkably strong and beautiful woman in his presence for what must have been the umpteenth time that morning to remind himself that they were really together. It felt dreamlike that they were not only reunited, but that they were leisurely packing of their free will, instead of doing so under coercion on the run.

Taking advantage of that fact, he laid his chore aside and walked over to her. Interrupting his wife's careful study of a trunk's contents, he calmly wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and nestled her to himself. She felt soft and warm in his grasp and her hair filled his senses with its familiar light fragrance as it caressed his cheek. A smile of contentment complimented his handsome features. Placing a kiss on the side of her head, he gently conveyed his feelings. "I love you, sweetheart," he whispered.

Relaxed against him, she folded her arms around his to secure herself in his grip. "I love you too, my dear," she reciprocated, smiling. Standing there as one felt so incredibly right that it took all she had in her to fight off the urge to abandon their departure altogether. But she knew they still had another matter to tend to. Taking his hands in hers, she loosed his hold on her waist. "If we don't stop distracting ourselves, we'll never leave, and we'll miss saying good-bye to Siroc and Ramon." Her firm verbal reproof was for her sake as well as his.

"Hmm, Ramon and Siroc," he echoed. His diverted thoughts refocused by the mention of their names. He kissed her again, lightly, and let her slip from his hands. Following her with his gaze, he nodded and characteristically raised a corner of his mouth. "Right. Louis did mention last night that he had a 'baby-sitting' job for them," he lilted with a full grin. "We better hurry then, if we're going to catch the 'nursemaids' before they take on their charge."

ooooooo

Ramon and Siroc stood before their Musketeer captain's desk. Rather than receiving their superior's customary reprimand, this time their graying leader read a special assignment request made by the king. "What do you think of that?" Duval asked after relaying its content. "His Majesty asked for you personally, thinking you trustworthy for the task."

The soldiers shared a dumbfounded glance between themselves before staring blankly forward at their captain. "Does this mean a raise?" Ramon asked, not quite sure how to answer.

"A raise?!" Duval roared, his pleasant face turning incredulous. "You're lucky I don't permanently assign you to dungeon detail." He tossed the king's document to the desktop in disgust, following it with his eyes as if it had been sullied. Glancing back up at the cringing men, his brows raised as though he were surprised they still stood there. "Out!" he chastised, shooing them off. "Raise," he scowled under his breath as the two men scurried out the door.

Only as Duval watched them leave, was the look of pride revealed on the skeptical parental figure's face. He picked Louis' request up again and looked at their names recorded in the king's own handwriting. "There might be hope for them after all," he spoke softly to himself. Then after a pause, he placed the parchment back on the worn wooden surface and a worried look crossed his face. "…if they'd manage to stay out of trouble for two consecutive days in a row," he dissented gruffly. He renewed his vow right then and there to be careful never to let them on to his favoritism toward them, for to do so, he was convinced, would make them soft.

ooooooo

"Are you finished, Sire?" a servant patiently inquired of the king's meal.

"One moment," Louis responded distractedly. He had been pouring over his sister's itinerary that she had handed to him yesterday evening, apprising him of her current travels and when they would rendezvous next. Refolding the correspondence, he placed it in his robe pocket.

Last night the matter of Jacqueline posing as the male soldier, Jacques Leponte, had been put to rest, in a manner of speaking. He beamed at the fact that it had been all his idea, too. Noted in the logs of his Royal Musketeers, by his hand, was a commendation to the woman soldier known as Jacques Leponte, who served his forces with utmost distinction. Perhaps the world would be ready for her one day, he hoped, but for now her mention lay somewhere in a closed tome.

Only Mazarin had been aware of her double, and he had been effectively silenced. Who would believe the ramblings of an unstable man who no one supported? He would be plagued the rest of is life with this farm girl who served as a Musketeer, captured royalty's favor and married the legendary d'Artagnan's son. Louis would see to it that the secret of her cross and its power remained a mystery to the Premier to his dying day.

Although the Cardinal had been effectively defrocked—while France was spared the public disgrace—Jacqueline had insisted on taking none of the credit. Her silence would only lend to Louis gaining importance in his subject's eyes. The nobility in his sister would never cease to amaze him. Not only had she sacrificed her title for the pinning of Cardinal Mazarin's wings, but as her letter stated, she continued to give up her claims on her entitlements.

Louis had wanted to bless Jacqueline with more land holdings. But she had insisted on keeping the record book as it was with the Roget farm bequeathed to the d'Artagnan line from the king and no additional privileges. She claimed that they—she and her husband—were 'content.' Louis smiled. His sister may think herself of no reputation, but the king inwardly knew just how much influence she really had on the affairs of state. She had effectively won his ear and heart and he looked forward to their many discussions over France's future.

On that note, he had asked Jacqueline if she would help him with a project he had been masterminding for some time. She had sounded enthusiastic until Louis suggested that they begin discussion right away. It was then that she sheepishly asked if his plans could wait. She had wanted to spend some private time with her husband, d'Artagnan, on a second honeymoon of sorts.

The sudden reminder that he was now related to the famed d'Artagnan gave him wild goose-bumps and a grin claimed his face. Glancing around to see if his servant had noticed, he subdued his smile and rubbed his arms to tame his skin. Even if he did have to keep it a secret, it fueled his boyish imagination. Perhaps his relative's skills would somehow miraculously rub off on his sword-fighting lessons. On a personal level, he could not be more pleased with Jacqueline's marriage.

Louis picked up a lemon wedge and bit into it, considering that there was a downside to being related to d'Artagnan—he'd have to be careful in regards to patronizing the Musketeer's alluring charms toward women. The ladies' man was now his sister's husband. "Oh!" he protested at the conflicting thought, concurrently making a sour face as the flavor of the citrus hit his taste buds. He tossed the rind back to the plate as its juice rolled down his chin and he choked on its tartness. There were certain consequences even a king was unable to avoid, he confessed, as his hands rooted around for something to wipe himself with.

Locating the napkin on his lap, exactly where the servant had placed it at the beginning of the meal, he plucked it up and sopped his hands and face. He reached for his coffee to wash the bitterness down as another disturbing though crossed his mind. Last night d'Artagnan had enlightened him that Charles Stuart was not all the kingly image Louis had previously idolized him to be. He had used his sister and brother-in-law sorely. "Who can a king trust these days?" he tossed the question aloud, not expecting an answer. "So tall, strong, handsome… a perfect picture of royalty," Louis whined, emphatically listing the Stuart's admirable characteristics with one hand while placing his cup down with the other. His face twisted in disappointment. In a dissipating thought, he turned to his servant keeping quietly to himself off to his side and scolded, "Don't ever wish to be king, Alphonse. It's a lonely place at the top."

"Yes, Sire," the loyal servant answered politely, his eyes wide and looking quite sure he'd never desire such a thing.

"Wise man," Louis prattled, satisfied he had saved another soul from much woe. And speaking of woe and the loneliness of a king, that morning Louis was saying good-bye to a visitor who had become very special to him over the past few months. With his sister's itinerary safely tucked away, he took a final sip of juice. Placing his napkin over his breakfast platter, the king gingerly vacated his seat to prepare himself for his final moments with Marie.

ooooooo

"There you are," Jacqueline said, spying the two men in the common area outside of Duval's office. "We looked everywhere for you—in your quarters, in Siroc's lab. We wondered if we were too late and missed you." She shot her husband an I-told-you-so sort of look, reminding him of his incessant delays.

Tucking his hands beneath his arms and keeping his eyes forward on Ramon and Siroc, he let her accusation roll off him. Late or not, he certainly had no apologies to offer for his distractions.

Completely missing the couple's private exchange, the poet's mind was on his encounter with their superior. "Si, amigo, when you fail to find us in either of our haunts, check the shackles in el capitan's office," he informed unhappily.

"What?" d'Artagnan questioned, dropping his hands to his side. "Certainly you haven't gotten yourself in trouble without us." Then, slapping the Spaniard's arm in camaraderie, he teased, "We'd hate to miss out on all the fun."

Jacqueline shot her husband a frown, not sharing in his humor. Softening, she looked quizzically at her two comrades and asked, "What happened?"

Siroc took the initiative to answer. "I don't think the captain appreciated it when Ramon here asked for a raise."

"You asked for a raise?" D'Artagnan looked astonished at his tall friend's boldness. Then grasping that it obviously had not gone well, he condoled, "Don't worry, Ramon, the captain will come around when he sees how indispensable we are." A smile reassured that he genuinely believed his words to be true. After what they'd been through, he certainly wasn't worried about Duval showering anything but blessings on them. With his wheels already turning on how to accomplish it, he added. "When we all get back, we'll put our heads together."

His comment was met with nothing but conspiring grins all around. While it was true that Ramon and Siroc were heading in one direction, and Jacqueline and d'Artagnan were off in another, they would all be back on patrol in a month. There'd be plenty of time to vie for a raise then.

The legend's son spoke up again with finality in his voice, "Well, this is it: The parting of ways. Until then—" d'Artagnan unexpectedly grabbed Jacqueline's shoulder much like the day he had discovered her female identity and roughly pulled her to himself "—brothers in arms."

Before she could protest, Jacqueline found two other sets of arms locking her into a close huddle—Ramon's moving in to replace d'Artagnan's on one side, and Siroc's on the other. Her grinning husband completed the circle opposite her. Jostled between them, she closed her eyes and scoffed, appalled at how quickly these men could forget themselves around her. And here her spouse was, leading the bunch in handling her as a male while teasing her as a woman. Opening her eyes, she saw the three men smiling at her, and she couldn't help cracking a grin of her own. "You're all pathetic," she said, trying to regain her composure. The female Musketeer may have been sorely outnumbered, but she knew how to keep these rogues in their place. With a quick upward jerk, she delivered the point of her elbow to either male at her side.

"Ow!" Ramon and Siroc moved off complaining and rubbing their sides while d'Artagnan stifled a laugh.

"Brothers, yes. Uh, arms, no," she reminded them firmly.

ooooooo

Shortly after the brothers-in-arms split in two directions, Ramon and Siroc rode into the palace courtyard astride their horses. Opposite their entry they could see the royal transport waiting to receive its passenger. Packed with ornate chests and numerous special mementos of time spent in Paris, the king's private coach stood ready. All that was needed was its reluctant cargo.

While the Musketeers sat patiently for further orders, Ramon watched Louis and the Premier's niece say their good-byes. It reminded him of a similar farewell another special senorita had recently bid him. His left hand reached into his pocket and he fingered the smooth stone cameo he kept there. As he caressed the soft cheeks, he could imagine the warmth of the real ones in his mind. He wondered if he'd ever have the privilege of touching them again. In his moment of reflection, his heart ached for his king and the lively young Italian woman with him. He knew their pain, and it dawned on him that even a king was not exempt from the heartache of a love sacrificed.

A short distance away, the blond-wigged king and the bright-eyed brunette fumbled for words of their own. "I hear Uncle Mazarin will be going to Spain to accompany your new bride home," Marie conversed.

"Yes, that's true," Louis paused, surprised at her candidness. His eyes studied her features, looking for some clue to explain what braveness spurred her to so openly bring up such a sore subject. Maybe she wanted to let him know that she understood and that it was all right. Perhaps she wanted to free him to do what he knew he must do. If that was the case, then he concluded that she was more courageous than he was. He wasn't ready to think about it just yet.

Instead of speaking of his incumbent marriage, he skirted the issue and spoke of her uncle's travel. "The trip will keep him away from Paris and out of trouble. He seemed quite compliant, almost glad to be away for a time. And who's better suited to watch over him than the soldiers who uncovered his schemes? Ramon and Siroc, my trustworthy Musketeers, will be accompanying him. After all, he'll be heading into the thick of the Spanish Inquisition. With the heresies credited to his name, he'd be wise not to slip. If he quietly fulfills his role, I'll see to it that he fades into French history; if he's not, my men will see to it that he's dealt with, justly."

Louis paused his ranting. He sensed her awareness that he was just filling their last moments with pettiness, with things she already knew to be true. Lost for words, he looked to the gravel and back to her soft brown eyes. He knew what she was really saying by bringing up his marriage. He was getting married and it would be to someone other than her. "But you know it's all politics," he choked out hoarsely, tasting the bitterness of his words in his mouth. At that moment, he knew of nothing else to do but take Marie in his arms and hold her tightly to his chest. It was useless to hold back the tears. "You know my heart will always be yours," he whispered in her ear and meant it.

Marie knew his words were true; her spirit felt it. 'A price forged by my uncle's meddling with our hearts?' she wondered. She may never have the answer to that question. But he and she both had concurred not to take the risk.

She allowed the tears to flow freely down her warmed cheeks. "Good-bye, Louis," she said softly, knowing if she did not leave now, she may try talking him into changing his mind. Even though she knew their decision was right, a decision they had reached together, her heart still fought to forge another path.

With gentle firmness, she pressed him away from her body. Without looking him in the eyes, she busily took the hem of her dress and turned to step up into the coach. She permitted him her hand to help her up and squeezed it tightly. But she didn't want to look at him; she couldn't look at him. Her heart was breaking, and she knew his was too. And she knew that there was nothing either of them could do about it. The man she loved, Louis XIV, was the king of France and Navarre, and he had a higher calling on his life than that of his heart. The Premier's niece would rather ransom her heart than risk destroying him or his nation.

Perhaps if the circumstances of their meeting had been different…but they had not been different. They were what they were. Cardinal Jules Mazarin, leader of the underground Dark Order, her flesh and blood, had introduced them to manipulate for his dark purposes. Neither Marie nor Louis could ascertain how much permanent damage, if any, had been done with her uncle's malicious workings. But neither of them was willing to take the risk of being used. No, they had reasoned it through many times and had always arrived with the same outcome. They were never to see each other again.

Each would go their separate way, hoping the devious Premier's cantations would lessen over time, both realizing they probably never would. But wasn't their love a small price to pay in exchange for Louis' righteous leadership over an entire nation? Neither of them could touch that argument, and so Marie climbed into her coach.

Not a word more was spoken between either of them. As her carriage pulled away and jostled down the path, Louis stood with his hand raised in farewell and watched until she disappeared. It was at times like this he dreaded being king.

After a lengthy silence passed, Siroc gently nudged his horse forward and intruded upon Louis' distant thoughts. "Sire?"

The hoof beats and voice startled the hand-raised, statue-like king. Suddenly, he became animated, quickly lowering his arm and turning to witness his Musketeers' compassionate gazes fixed upon him. For an instant, he was speechless. Then, feeling that his lapse was nothing to be embarrassed about in front of his befriended soldiers, he relaxed. "She was really something," he confessed openly.

"Si, Mademoiselle Mancini was the rarest among flowers…" Ramon began to confer, edging his horse forward near Siroc's. But when he caught sight of his comrade's stern eyes cautioning him, he stopped. Catching the hint that their presence spoke of the summoning in of Marie's replacement, the poetic man soberly changed his subject of inspiration, "Ahem, and I am sure the Spanish princess will be a lovely blossom as well, Your Majesty."

"Yes, the Spanish princess," Louis echoed stoically. He could see the uneasiness on Ramon's face. He knew it wasn't the Musketeer's fault that circumstances were what they were. And the last thing he wanted were people walking on eggs around him, feeling sorry for the love-forlorn royal. In a halfhearted attempt to lighten the mood, he jested, "Let's hope she looks half as pretty as Tatiana, eh?" The previous princess matched to Louis had not turned out to be quite all she was promised to be. But the young male sovereign had to admit that she had been pleasant on the eyes and had given him his first kiss. Comparing Tatiana to his next prospect he could do, but Marie—there would never be another comparison to her.

"If you'd like a moment to be alone?" Siroc questioned, pulling his reins up to direct his horse elsewhere. But the king's upheld hand stopped his departure.

"No. I'd very much like your company." He beckoned the two down from their horses. "Come. Besides, you two must be anxious to be on your adventure and I will not delay it. There's a grueling journey ahead and you'll have your hands full." Their presence seemed to help him, if only temporarily, forget his grief.

Louis continued talking, "When you, Jacqueline and d'Artagnan return to Paris, we'll return to scouring the streets of highwaymen and vermin." He rambled on excitedly, as if he hadn't been affected by Marie's departure at all. "Ooh! And watch your back. Mazarin may have a few daggers up his sleeve." he chided. "Touché," Louis playfully landed a jab to Siroc's side.

"Yes, Sire," the inventor confirmed, recoiling from the plunge with a smile. But in all seriousness, the inventor had no intent of leaving the Cardinal unattended for a single moment. As Louis left his soldiers and receded into the palace, Siroc watched after him. "He puts up a brave front in the midst of his loss," he observed.

"Si, mi amigo," Ramon confirmed. "It makes me proud to be his Musketeer."

Siroc exchanged a glance with his friend. "It must be a character trait that runs in the family," he said, thinking of their female comrade.

"Si," the Spaniard had to agree once more, knowing who his companion referred to. "Jacques is a woman of steel, no?" The corners of his mouth widened, thinking of the female in question. "Certainly there could be no other senorita alive capable of handling d'Artagnan."

"True," Siroc confirmed, augmenting a grin of his own. "I can imagine no other woman brave enough for the task."

ooooooo

When the lazy summer sun had nearly caught up with the horizon, the d'Artagnans loped into sight of the barn on the old Roget farm. Pulling up their reins, they slowed their horses to walk the rest of the way in, in order to cool them off. Jacqueline had insisted on riding on ahead of their luggage, which wouldn't be along until tomorrow. They were Musketeers, she argued; they'd do just fine roughing it for one night. In truth, she had been anxious to bring a closure to some past wrongs.

"Wouldn't you have rather gone to that cottage by the ocean?" the dark-haired man grumbled, looking at the approaching, small and unmanaged farmhouse. Just the sight of it spoke of work.

"No," Jacqueline scoffed, giving her plain answer. "I've seen enough ocean to last me a lifetime, thank you. Besides, haven't you traveled enough? Rouen, Calais, England," she rattled off the list of places they had been.

"I wouldn't exactly call that vacation," he returned with a smirk.

"Maybe not, but I'm ready to get down to work. Aren't you?" She quickened her horse's pace.

Noting her eyes longingly glued on the structures ahead of them, he knew he'd have to go along with her somehow. "Work?" he scoffed as she rode out of earshot. His face contorted as though he'd been asked to clean the dungeons. "Captain Duval's given us an entire month off," he protested after her, before clicking his tongue to prompt his bay to catch up.

Stopped, she looked around at the badly-in-need-of-repair farm. "First we have to transform this wreck into a suitable place if we're going to have family here," she voiced with a far away look in her eyes.

"Family? Whoa," he said, pulling up his reins and dismounting next to her. "Is there something I should know about?" His face turned sheet white.

Suddenly aware of her mate's paled response, she blushed and corrected, "Oh, not that kind of family. At least not yet." She smiled at him and returned her eyes to the endearing sight of her childhood home. "I'm talking about the ceremony. Louis and my mother will be coming."

"Ah," he exclaimed, remembering the promise her brother, the king, had made to Jacqueline. Louis promised that there was to be a ceremony on the farm, commemorating the Rogets. What had previously been recorded as the murder of a Cardinal's Guardsman by Jacqueline, was corrected to read as an action in defense of a loyal family of the crown. And since there had been no murder, Gerard's name had also been cleared. His remains would be moved from the unmarked grave to the family's plot. An honorary seal would be placed on all three Roget tombstones, stating that they had served France with honor and distinction. Only the royal family and a few others would ever know the full extent of what their service had been. And those few would be eternally grateful that the Rogets had dutifully cared for the royal infant long after the priest and mid-wife had disappeared. "You know, Gerard would be proud of you," he said affectedly, recalling her words over her brother's grave.

"Thank you," Jacqueline acknowledged as her moistened eyes swept over the farm grounds, recalling the rich memories of growing up a Roget. Her reminiscing ended with the cruel deaths of those who had once brought such a wonderful life to the place. "I'm glad you had the opportunity to meet him," she said, meeting her best friend's eyes. "It helps keep the memory of him alive."

He saw the uncertainty in her look, and he couldn't say that he blamed her. As wonderful as the commencement would be, it would never atone for their loss. It would never bring back the lifetime friendship she had with the brother he had only briefly met. At best the gesture was bittersweet.

Finally ready to move forward, she welcomed d'Artagnan's patient hand, assisting her from her saddle. As she slid down and brushed against him, she gave him a mischievous raised brow and teased, "But now that we aren't on the run anymore, there isn't anything exactly stopping us from considering our own 'family.'"

This time the mention of having children made her caddish husband return the glimmer in her eyes with a sparkle of his own. He began to move in closer for a kiss when he was abruptly shoved backward. Before he realized it, she had removed her rapier and was standing there ready to duel.

"Ahem," he bristled in check. Still full of the sensation of his wife in his arms, he brushed his chin with the back of his rerouted hand in playful thought. Cautious, but not altogether subdued, he paced sideward, away from her horse. "So, you're going to play hard to get?" he asked, seeing her game afoot.

She grinned in response and held her ground with blade extended.

"I'll have you know that I'm up to the challenge," he answered in his nonchalant tone, pulling his rapier out and removing his baldric. Extending his sword, he stepped sideways, beginning their drill of checks and balances.

"As I see it," she spoke, studying his footsteps so as not to miss a move, "this may be the only way I can keep you away from me long enough to discuss the first 'unofficial' assignment we've been given."

D'Artagnan moved to the right, still looking for a way past her defense. Holding back his move, he questioned, "Didn't you hear me? The captain's given us time off."

"I'm not talking about our Musketeer work," she expounded, and then stopped talking to parry off his first attack. D'Artagnan used his small talk as one of his best tools for distracting his opponent; he had gotten it down to an art form. But she had gotten used to it and wouldn't let it fool her. She watched for his visual cues. That's where she won most of their drills. No one knew his moves like she did. Her eyes steadily forward, studying for any betraying tic or flinch of his, she regained her poise and continued, "Louis and I have been talking about Versailles."

"Versailles?" He relaxed for a moment and teased, "This princess thing has really gotten to your head."

Jacqueline responded by taking advantage of his smirking to slap him on his hindquarters with the flat of her blade.

"Ouch!" he snapped and jumped away from her steel. Reflexively, he moved his free hand around to rub the stinging skin where she swatted him. He knew that her move was officially considered to be foul play, but he'd never dream of calling her on it.

A cunning smile graced her lips at the knowledge that she had taken her first hit on him while he had let his guard down. "Ah, no," she corrected, playfully. "Remember? I'm no princess, according to the historian's records." They both knew it was only for the sake of the books that she had insisted on having her name left off the legal royal documents. "And you're no Queen of Romania." She laughed lightly, but kept aloof.

Her play on words was a taunt from the day they had met. He had teased her alias that wanting to be a Musketeer was as ludicrous as him wanting to be the Queen of Romania. The reminiscence gave her an idea. Holding her sword forward, she spoke with her male inflections, "I'm Jacques Leponte and I don't like your attitude, Monsieur. Apologize," she prodded, mocking their first conversation while holding her blade ready.

"Oh, holding old grudges are you?" He recalled the meeting as well, when she had entered the Musketeer garrison dressed in stolen nobleman's clothes. They had their first bout that day. He lifted his chin and stiffened his countenance, donning his role in her staged play. "Then let's find out what kind of man you are?" he chided. With no further warning, he lunged into a full fledged game of swordplay with her.

For a good while they pursued each other around the pilings and stored farm equipment. Parrying in circles, the couple advanced their way to the barn. Sounds of clashing metal blades and heavy breathing from the physical workout were familiar sounds that had not filled that structure for some time.

In a forward thrust, Jacqueline pulled d'Artagnan's arm through an old leather harness that hung along the clapboards. That tangled him up while she gained a quick breath. Both were tiring, but neither would concede. Freeing himself from the harness, d'Artagnan hoisted himself up to the hayloft above. He waited there and filled his lungs while Jacqueline followed. Again they parried in circles about the loft.

"So—" he donned a caddish grin, ducking her slash "—is this how you kicked tail with sword here, pretending to be d'Artagnan?" he jabbed his teasing with a lilt. He'd wanted to use that line on her since the cabin in the woods.

"Very funny," she said, rolling her eyes. She too recalled the embarrassment her 'brother' had cost her with that careless comment. "Men," she exasperated, while keeping her focus. Blowing a strand of hair from her face, she ignored his playful laughter and determined all-the-more to utilize her advantage of dueling on home turf. From the corner of her eye, the double loft doors opened to the ground below caught her attention. Jacqueline had a familiar idea. Clashing her steel again against his, she slowly worked him around and backed him up toward the opening.

With an uncomfortable glance behind him, he realized what she was up to. In a burst of energy, d'Artagnan thrust forward, locking his and Jacqueline's blades together. Pulling her face-to-face with him, his muscles strained as he held them together.

Jacqueline was winded from their work-out, but she refused to slacken her grip. Instead, she lifted her chin and smugly taunted, "It's like Gerard used to say when we would bout here."

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth and leveraged back against her push. "What did Gerard used to say?" he asked, intrigued.

"He asked me why I always got to be d'Artagnan," she replied, smartly. With her answer, she pushed back again, smirking.

For a moment he lessened his struggle and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "And your answer was?"

"Because, I always win," she blurted, and at the same time managed to unlock their swords and fling his from his grip. "Do you yield?" she threatened, tossing her hair over her shoulder and extending her sword at him.

But instead of receiving a 'yield' as she had from Gerard in the past, d'Artagnan answered by plunging off the loft the opposite direction into the barn, pulling her with him. Plummeting onto a pile of feed, Jacqueline squelched and landed hard in his arms. Both lay there, stunned by the impact and without their swords. Realizing their predicament, she couldn't help herself and began to snicker, first lightly, and then in abandon. She hadn't felt this alive and carefree in a long time, and the feeling was good.

The dazed man allowed his eyes to dance over the exuberant woman in his arms. Suddenly overwhelmed with how God had blessed him with her, he wanted nothing more than to see her happy. "Today, Madame," he succumbed with a sly corner of his mouth drawn upward and a twinkle in his eye, "we'll both yield to a d'Artagnan."

Jacqueline's laughter subsided as she became aware of her husband's loving gaze. Captivated, she could find no argument with his proposal. Tenderly, as her heart quickened, she placed her lips to his and yielded.

The End