


The Nature of Art

by the Scarlet Shade



Category: Quills
Genre: Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-08
Updated: 2008-04-25
Packaged: 2013-06-04 07:22:00
Rating: M
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,732
Publisher: www.fanfiction.net
Story URL: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/4185485/1/
Author URL: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/467846/the-Scarlet-Shade
Summary: Dear Reader, My tale today is a bawdy novella concerning a fair maiden, one of the finest painters in all of France, and the turn of events that led her into my web of debauchery and sin. COMPLETE.





	1. Chapter 1

Keeping her eyes down, Satine waited patiently in the dark, damp hallway as the Abbé tapped on the cell door before him. After a small pause the partition at eye-level slid open, revealing a pair of intelligent blue eyes.

"Ah, Abbé," came a low, elegant voice from behind the door, one that sent a shiver down her spine, "to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"D'Artagnan is here," the priest answered simply.

"Ah, excellent!" the man said excitedly, eyes trying to spot her hiding in the shadows. "Please show him in!" With that the partition slid closed.

Turning the key in the lock, the Abbé opened the latch but held the door closed as she moved to step inside. "Be careful," he whispered.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Satine granted the young man a small nod, nudging past him and into the cell.

Inside the Marquis de Sade was waiting, but his expression of surprise told her that she was not what he was expecting. They never _did_ expect a woman when they sent for the renowned portrait artist D'Artagnan.

"Monsieur D'Artagnan?" he asked with a smirk that caught her a little off-guard. Usually they were outraged—he seemed almost… _happy_.

"My name is Satine," she replied, setting down her easel and supply box. "D'Artagnan is my _nom de plume_. Would you have asked for me if you had known that I was a woman?"

The Marquis grinned wolfishly, taking her hand in his to brush a kiss on her knuckles. "On the contrary, my sweet—it would have only swayed me further."

Butterflies flitting in her stomach, she fought to remain unfazed, at least on the outside. "I should have expected no less from the infamous Marquis de Sade."

He chuckled low in his throat, slowly releasing her hand one finger at a time. "My reputation precedes me, I see." Taking a step back, he gestured widely to the room around them "Welcome to my humble abode; please make yourself comfortable. Where would you like me, lovely?"

She shrugged, setting up her station with a practiced nonchalant-ness. "Wherever you'd like, whatever position you'd like—_you're_ the one who requested _me_, after all."

He seemed pleased with her answer, and turned dramatically to flit about his cell, murmuring "What to do?" to himself as he examined each piece of furniture in detail, trying out several different poses on each one.

Satine couldn't help but giggle at his flamboyant behavior as she continued to ready herself, arranging her palette just the way she liked it. Now she simply didn't understand what all the fuss was about. They had all said he was a heartless lecher, bent on nothing but satisfying his baser needs, preying on the innocence of naïve virgins like herself. She could defend herself, however, and wasn't as clueless as many seemed to think. He seemed perfectly charming to her—not at all the monster he was made out to be.

"Ah! I've got it!" he said excitedly. Then came the rustle of fabric as he arranged himself, and when she looked up, she found him reclined on his side across the settee, completely nude save for his ridiculous wig. Immediately she diverted her eyes.

"Ah, so the rumors are true," she said with a small nervous, laugh, eyebrows flying up as she fought to keep her eyes on her paint, rather than let her curious eyes explore that famous body of his that had bewitched so many women.

"Now, whatever could you mean by that, lovely?" he chuckled, completely comfortable displaying his nude body in the company of a complete stranger. "My willowy frame? My porcelain skin? Ah! No doubt my impressive size!"

"That there's only _one_ thing on _your_ mind," she replied, shaking her head with a sigh. _Ah, well,_ she consoled herself mentally, _at least he's still letting you paint him, even though he knows you're a woman. _Mixing herself a light, warm mahogany color, she began to roughly map out the painting, finally letting her eyes look him over, though she avoided that infamous area between his legs.

"Am I to remain still and silent, or may I at least continue our lively conversation, my pet?" he said with a crooked smirk.

Satine gave a small laugh, finally smiling since his clothes came off. "As long as you don't move, I _suppose_ there'd be no harm in it."

The Marquis shifted slightly, but once he had made himself comfortable, he was surprisingly still and quiet, blue eyes roving over her hungrily. Finally he spoke. "Am I making you uncomfortable, cherub?"

She managed a smile as she shook her head. "Oh, no," she answered coolly. "Far be it from me to refuse the chance to enjoy the beauty of the male body."

"A woman after my own heart!" he laughed, lifting a hand in rejoice.

"I told you not to move," she sighed, lowering her brush to flash him a glare.

He lowered his hand apologetically, returning to his original position, though his grin remained. "I am but of the same school as you, yet I am viewed as a monster," he chuckled. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"Forgive me if I find it difficult to believe we are _anything_ alike," she smirked in reply, returning to the canvas.

"We both drink in the beauty that is the human form."

"I capture it, you flaunt it in all its perversities."

"Call it what you want—essentially it's the same thing."

Satine simply rolled her eyes in reply as she began to mix the base tone for the velvet of the settee.

"Besides, there's nothing perverse about it—it's completely natural. There is nothing more beautiful than a woman stretched out beneath you, supple skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat, cheeks flushed, lips parted and swollen…"

"I'd direct your mind toward other things," she interrupted him, "as I am in the middle of painting and refuse to depict you in such a state of…" her voice trailed off. She refused to stoop to his level and speak of such obscene things—of which she had very little knowledge—aloud.

He simply chuckled and shifted again. "A woman gains a certain glow—a new sense of confidence—after a man such as myself spends himself worshipping her, body and soul."

"You've done more than _worship_, I've heard," she retorted, beginning work on the figure on the settee.

"I merely explored the various ways one can bring beauty to the human body—"

"—Such as rape and torture?"

"True beauty is in raw emotion, wouldn't you agree?"

"There is nothing beautiful about a man raping a helpless woman."

"Satine!" he rose from his seat slightly, "You mean to tell me you've _never_, at any point in your life, wished that a man would just throw you down and ravage you senseless?"

She cleared her throat, to which he smirked and lowered himself back down. "No," she answered finally, "I have not. I should think it would be quite terrifying."

"Ah, but there is something very exciting about fear; about not knowing what is coming next."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Would you like me to show you?"

Immediately her eyes flew from the painting to him, burning with a threatening ferocity. "I'd rather you didn't. I needn't remind you that one scream on my part and I'll be escorted safely out of here; and you'll be severely reprimanded."

He didn't seem too threatened, but he sat back down and lifted a hand in surrender. "Very well, my sweet. I am, after all, your host; and what sort of host would I be if I did not see to your needs above my own?"

She felt herself relax as he slid back into position, lounged upon the settee. She realized it was probably unwise to trust him so, but she could not bring herself to do otherwise. How could a heartless monster be so charming and accommodating to her? He certainly stretched the boundaries of civility, but he never overstepped them.

Speaking of stretching boundaries, he was at it again—his most prized part of his anatomy was once again insisting on standing tall and proud. Closing her eyes, she sighed and shook her head.

"Marquis, practice a little restraint, won't you?"

"I can't help it when your eyes are roving over me like that," he chuckled, that wolfish quality returning to his smile.

"I assure you it's purely professional," she replied, taking her eyes off him completely to remove temptation.

"You encounter this sort of situation often, then?"

"Lord, no!" she countered, a false outrage on her face and in her voice as her hand flew to her chest. "The scandal!" She rolled her eyes as the façade was dropped. "Honestly; men can paint naked women all they want, but refuse to bare their own forms."

"Hypocrisy and shame—qualities I neither possess nor condone."

"You _are_ different, Marquis."

"I try."

Setting down her brush, she yawned and took the opportunity to stretch. "I have to wait for the paint to dry before I begin adding the details, so please feel free to stretch your legs… perhaps put your clothes back on…"

His chuckle rumbled low in his throat as he finally rose and, to her great relief, obeyed, re-donning his clothes. Finally she was able to look at him properly, something she hadn't been able to do since their initial meeting. He was the very embodiment of the perfect aristocrat with his svelte frame, willowy fingers, proud face and piercing blue eyes. He reminded her of the saplings that grew outside her childhood country home—they were lithe and fragile-looking, but by God they could sting when whipped across one's backside in punishment for bad behavior.

"May I offer you some wine, _coquette_?" he asked, gesturing with those graceful hands toward the decanter on the desk.

"Well, I don't usually…" she said, voice trailing off as she shrugged, "but why not?"

Grinning, he poured a glass for each of them and seated himself on the lounge, gesturing for her to join him. She had a feeling she was tempting the storm, but against her better judgment she did as he bade and took a seat beside him. He granted her her glass and then wrapped the same arm around her shoulders, making sure there was as little space between them as possible.

"So, Mademoiselle," he rumbled, casting her a sidelong gaze as he sipped his wine, "tell me about yourself."

Brows rising, Satine had to think for a minute, taking a sip of wine to occupy herself. She couldn't very well just sit there—otherwise she was afraid she might fall for the Marquis's charm. "Hmm, well… Where do I start?"

"Where all good stories usually begin, _mon pomme_:" he chuckled, "at the beginning."

Giving a small, amused snort, Satine shrugged, trying to figure out where her "beginning" was. "Well, I was born in a small village in the country just outside Amiens," she began, "My parents were farmers, but they were so thrilled when I took an interest in painting that they had the whole village posing for me. When my mother died, my father sent me here to receive the finest schooling in art available with the money they had been saving in secret. Since then I've managed to take care of myself."

"Yes, I should think the Revolution turned out just swimmingly for you," he said with a wry smirk, his eyes finally returning to her face, ceasing roving her body as they had during her entire personal history.

Satine laughed, unable to hide the ashamed blush that his cynical humor instilled in her. It was true—the Revolution had been quite kind to her, but cruel to many of her clients. The aristocrats were, after all, primarily the ones who could afford to pay her for her services; whose halls were lined with their impressive portraits. Lately she had been painting angry mobs and scenes of mindless brutality, things she normally wouldn't touch if she didn't need the money she made doing it.

"Ah, do I detect a hint of remorse?" crossing his leg over his knee so that it overlapped her own, he rotated slightly so he was facing her instead of glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "My peach, your bleeding heart pulls at mine," –though his grin said otherwise. "As an _aristo_, may I be allowed to demonstrate my appreciation of your sympathy?" he growled, tilting her chin up with a single graceful finger.

Satine quickly pulled back a few inches, rolling her eyes with an exasperated sigh. "You've found your niche in the Revolution same as I have; you do not trouble my conscience."

Caught, he merely laughed and took another sip of wine. "Perhaps not in _that_ regard…" His hand finished his sentence, brushing lightly down her slender neck, "…but I sense _something_ troubling you…"

"You know very well what's troubling me, Marquis," she retorted with a smirk, fighting through the veil of animal lust he had laid enough to hold up the witty banter.

"Well, fret no longer, cherub—it's only natural. Allow me to tutor you, will you?" came his voice from low in his throat as he began to close the distance between them.

"I don't know if I trust you…"

"You shouldn't."

Their lips met then. Simple at first, almost chaste, but the Marquis's patience was short, and the moment his hand secured her head against his, his tongue forced its way inside her mouth.

Satine stiffened, trying unsuccessfully to pull away, but as his other hand wove itself in her hair—where his wine glass had gone, she didn't know—she felt herself strangely soothed, and soon ceased resisting. Her own glass slipped from her hand, falling luckily on a patch of uncovered stone floor with a loud clink, just missing the expensive Turkish rug. Timidly she placed her hands on his shoulders, which seemed to only spur him on further. Soon she found him tugging at the laces of the back of her dress, hands exploring every patch of bare skin he could find. She knew she should stop him, but a part of her refused to listen to reason; a part of her _wanted_ to surrender to him. It was thrilling to be wanted so, to be swept away by such intense passion. He had been a gentleman, albeit a brazen one, to her so far. He wouldn't hurt her, would he?

Her question went unanswered when there came a firm knock on the door. Not wanting to be seen in such a state by the Abbé, who she suspected it was, she quickly peeled herself from him and darted to her easel. A moment later the young priest entered, seeming a bit surprised to see them apart.

"I'm afraid our patients will be retiring soon," he said with a polite smile. "Have you finished?"

"Not yet," she answered with a shake of her head. "The oil dries slowly, and I haven't yet applied the details."

The Abbé curiously approached to examine the painting, his face reddening as he pieced the rough figures together.

"I add the clothes later," she said quickly, feeling like a fool for saying something so preposterous. "First I paint the figure _beneath_ the clothes to keep my subject proportional."

Unseen by the Abbé, the Marquis shot her wide grin, obviously amused by her explanation.

Fortunately, the Abbé was not an artistic man, and seemed to believe her.

"I shall have to return later to finish it," she continued, trying not to roll her eyes as the Marquis shot her another wicked smirk. It seems he was no longer disappointed that their correspondence had been cut short, now that she had just stated that she would be returning.

"Tomorrow is our Lord's day," the Abbé explained, a bit confused that she _wanted_ to come back, "but you may return Monday at any time you like."

"Thank you, Abbé."

"Yes, thank you, Abbé," the Marquis chimed in, his smirk almost giving them away.

Satine packed up her things with ease, trying to hide the color that rose to her cheeks as she looked at her painting, excitement rising in her at the thrill of keeping this naughty secret from the naïve priest. Remarkable how fast the Marquis had worn off on her! She avoided conversation with him as she moved to the door, acting as indifferent as she could.

As the door closed behind her and the Abbé, his low chuckle rose from the silence and echoed across the halls, sending chills down her spine.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday came faster than the Marquis had initially thought. Writing and watching executions from his little window always helped him pass the time, especially on such a slow day as Sunday. The Abbé always tried to drag him to the asylum services in the adjoining chapel, but de Sade refused outright every time. In the end, every Sunday he was left alone, locked in his cell while all the loonies got to exercise and enjoy Charenton's verdant grounds. In the beginning he had thrown fits, but eventually he learned to savor the silence and often wrote his best material during it.

His beloved painter arrived that afternoon and immediately began setting up her easel. She would have jumped right to painting had he not stopped her. "No, not yet," he said with an excited grin. "I have something better for you to do first." Pulling her to his desk, he sat her down and eagerly handed her the stack of papers he had produced the day before. "Read," he whispered in her ear, hand on her shoulder as he watched her expression change.

Even before she reached the good parts her face was flushed, giving his ego a nice boost at the thought that he could fluster a woman with a mere touch. By the time she was finished, she was red all the way to the back of her ears, but still she read it to the last word.

And a good thing too—he had based it off of her, just to see what her reaction would be. "_Sans Remords_" A tale of forbidden love during the Revolution, Amélie, a common girl keeping herself off the street by painting portraits of the very _aristos_ that suppress her, falls under the spell of a Vicomte soliciting her services.

"So?" he asked as she set the pages down, grinning eagerly, "What do you think? Tell me honestly!"

Hiding her face in her hands, Satine shook her head and laughed. "I-I'm flattered… in a humiliated sort of way…"

Cackling with glee, he turned her chair until she was facing him, hidden in his shadow as he loomed over her. "Are you hungry, my sweet?"

"I certainly hope you're talking about food…" she answered with a wry smirk, tilting up her chin defiantly as if to tell him she would not be intimidated by him.

"Of course I mean food," he chuckled. "Where is _your _mind, _coquette_?"

Feigning shock, she swatted his arm before he could retreat to a safe distance at the door, opening the slot to bark into the hallway, "Georgette! Food!"

A frustrated woman stormed over a few moments later, carrying a tray laden with two dishes of food. "I'm not your maid," she snapped, sliding the tray through the lower slot in the door before slamming it shut again.

Satine was giggling as he returned with the food, setting the tray down with a roll of his eyes. "I suppose you think I deserve that," he grumbled, pouring the wine.

"Yes," she answered simply. "You're spoiled—taking you down a few pegs will be good for you."

"_I'm_ spoiled?" he retorted, pulling a drumstick from his Cornish game hen and taking a bite, "Speaking that way to an _aristo_—a few years ago they'd have locked you up! If anything, I'm spoiling _you_!"

She snorted, taking neat bites from her own meal.

"Perhaps I should take _you_ down a few pegs?" he continued, cocking a single eyebrow suggestively. Standing, he stood and once again leaned over her, one hand on the back of her chair. "For example, make _you_ prepare me for your painting?"

Satine scoffed, though he noticed a subtle change in the color of her cheeks; a slight blush. "Now why would I do that?"

"Because otherwise this whole visit will have been for naught," he retorted, taking a step back and putting a hand on his hip.

Rolling her eyes, she surprised him yet again by standing, looking him up and down before finally approaching him, hands timidly grasping his coat lapels. Not daring to look up at him, she slowly pulled the coat from his shoulders and handed it to him, sighing exasperatedly as he tossed it unceremoniously on the floor. She worked even slower removing his vest, hands trembling slightly as they undid the buttons. The more buttons she unfastened, the redder her face turned. By the time she likewise slid it from his shoulders, she was as red as she had been reading his story; it was so cute and amusing it was almost addicting.

"…I'm going to need a lot more wine…" she muttered as she realized that the next layer she removed would expose skin. Retrieving her glass from the table, she took a few healthy sips before she began to cough, hand flying to her chest.

"Delicate sips, cherub!" he laughed, turning and crossing his arms. "Don't gulp it down—you _know_ I don't look _that_ bad!"

As she continued coughing, however, he began to wonder if something else was wrong. She didn't sound like she was simply coughing on wine; it was as though she were _choking_.

Putting a hand on her shoulder he pulled her up enough to see her face, and immediately he knew something was wrong. She was deathly pale, sweat beading on her forehead, which was burning hot to the touch.

"C-can't breathe!" she managed to squeak out, hands clawing at her throat as if a pair of invisible hands were wrapped around it.

Flying to the door, he flung the slot open, screaming down the hallway. "_Abbé! Somebody, help!_"

He was afraid the priest would not answer, as every now and then the boy decided that his patients' wellbeing was more pressing than his _aristo_ guest's, but the Abbé arrived in a few short moments, a few maids at his heels. "_What is it?_" he gasped, fumbling hurriedly for his keys. Ah, sometimes the boy made him feel so special! But there were more important things to focus on.

"_Something's wrong with her!_"

As soon as the door was opened, the two men rushed to the young woman's side, who had fallen to her knees. Even as the Marquis knelt beside her, she gave one last pitiful whimper and fainted in his arms.

"_What's wrong with her?_" de Sade nearly screamed, shaking her limp body frantically like a boy desperately trying to wake his dead rabbit.

"_I don't know!_" the Abbé snapped back, tilting her head back as he put a hand to her forehead. "She's burning up… We have to get her to a doctor…"

Before the Marquis could respond, the priest had scooped the painter up in his arms and rushed out of the cell, the women slamming the door behind them as they followed. Suddenly he found himself alone in the stifling silence of his room, mind reeling from the shock. What had just happened? What was wrong with his prize?

He had _so_ been looking forward to plucking that ripe peach…

An hour later the Abbé returned to his door, deciding to merely speak through the slot. "Consumption," he said simply. "The disease is still young, so there is still a chance, but she must be much more careful."

The Marquis found himself at a loss for words—something that almost _never_ happened to him. Shaken, he seated himself at the table as the priest departed. Noticing the girl's painting equipment, he nervously put as much distance between them and him as possible. He refused to fall ill when he had finally secured his health amidst the Revolution! Yelling for a serving girl, he ordered her to pack them up and remove them, lest he catch their owner's consumption.

The next three hours dragged intolerably slowly by as he found himself with absolutely _no_ inspiration. There were no executions for him to watch, either. He almost sighed in relief when he heard a soft knock on his door, finding Satine in the little eye-level window.

"I'm sorry for startling you…" she murmured, her voice hoarse. "I had felt ill earlier today, but I had no idea it would turn so bad…"

Giving a small laugh, de Sade shook his head. "Silly girl; you couldn't have known."

She smiled finally, seeming glad he was not too shaken. "The doctor is suggesting I go to the country to recover—beat it before it gets too bad."

He nodded, "A wise decision."

She paused, eyes falling as she let out a sigh. "…I won't be able to return here again; not for a very long time, anyway."

Again he nodded, the look shared between them communicating what neither of them dared to say aloud—that she may not return _ever_. "You have my painting to remember me by," he said instead, attempting to lighten the mood.

"You'd let me keep it?" she asked with a laugh, though it sent her into a small coughing fit.

"What am I to do with an incomplete portrait?" he chuckled, shrugging. "At least _you_ could finish it. Besides, I have _pages_ of mementos to remember _you_ by!"

She laughed again, making him regret it when once again she was seized by coughs. "Thank you," she said finally, an ashamed blush on her cheeks. She paused again before adding, as if compelled to, "I-I'll come visit you when I recover."

"I'm sure you will, _coquette_," he smiled, sighing as he watched her shuffle away, several maids at her heels with her belongings. Sliding the slot closed, he seated himself at his desk and heaved another sigh.

He doubted he'd ever see her again…

"Shame," he muttered to himself, mourning the perversity that could have been.


	3. Chapter 3

Inhaling deeply, Satine breathed deep of the familiar smell of Paris—a scent she had not experienced in near two years.

Every breath she took now was a blessing since she had overcome the consumption. Following the suggestion of her doctor, she retreated to the Italian countryside the moment he released her. After half a year, recovering only moderately, she moved further east, into Greece, and then after another half a year moved again, across the Mediterranean Sea to Egypt. The warm, dry air and advanced medicine of the Muslims did wonders for her lungs, and within the year she had recovered completely. She had had doubts about recovering at all, especially considering consumption took her mother's life, but there she was alive and well, defying all reason. She wondered if that was a gift from her mother as well, just as her education had been.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, a tall, tanned servant with long black hair opened the door for her, a bag in either hand. He squirmed slightly, obviously uncomfortable in his new, strange clothes as he helped her out.

She had managed to raise enough money to keep her apartment ready for her should she survive, and thank goodness she had! She would have been homeless if she hadn't thought ahead!

She could hear her new servant chatting with a man outside as she wandered back to her room and seated herself at the empty vanity, studying her reflection.

She hadn't felt the need, nor really had the time, to remove all the tribal ornaments the locals had adorned her with; cowry shells, silver bangles, flowers, and a burgundy scarf. The weather was too cool for her to wear the clothes they had given her as well, however, so she had been forced to put on her favorite wine-red dress instead.

Seeing the Egyptian approaching her from behind, she smiled and fiddled with a string of cowry shells. "What do you think, Harun? Should I take them out or leave them in? I promised to visit the Marquis—you remember, I told you about him—and I wonder if he'd like them?"

"I just heard that Charenton is in a state of disarray," he answered bluntly, always one to get right to the point.

"What?" she gasped, whirling about in her chair.

"It seems there was a fire," he explained, "and in the chaos a patient killed a laundry maid the Abbé was rather fond of. Apparently he went mad upon seeing her dead body and now raves of breaking his vows and exacting his wrath on his helpless inmates."

Feeling as though someone had stabbed an icy dagger into her gut, she leapt from her chair, rushing to the door, praying the carriage was still there. "We have to go! _Now!_"

Fortunately the driver hadn't had time to pull out yet, as they hadn't yet removed her things, and though he wasn't sure why she was so upset, he grudgingly obeyed and was soon racing down the streets toward Charenton.

Her feelings of worry only intensified when they arrived and she saw the scorched wood, unnervingly close to the Marquis's window. She leapt out and rushed to the entrance, Harun on her heels. It didn't help that no one came to help her or even stop and try to calm her as she rushed down the hall. It wasn't until she was nearly there that a man finally stopped her.

"Whoa, Mademoiselle!" he gasped, grabbing her by the arm to keep her from darting past him. "Where are _you_ headed?"

"The Marquis!" she answered, "I must see him!"

"Well, he ain't _that_ way!" he barked, "The Abbé had him moved to the cellar!"

For a moment she couldn't breathe, as though someone had punched her in the gut, and frantically she grabbed the man by the lapels. "Show me!"

The man grudgingly led her to the lower cells, down to what looked like a pit in the stone floor covered by a wooden grate as he tortured her with more tales of the Abbé's madness. She felt as though she were in some sort of horrible nightmare, barely in control of her own body as she descended the stairs as though trekking through mud.

At first, she couldn't see anything—the cell appeared completely empty. But as the man followed after her with a torch, she spotted a figure huddled in the distant corner, completely naked save for a collar of chains, curled in a ball as he attempted to get some semblance of sleep.

"Marquis!" she gasped, rushing to his side and falling to her knees, nervously shooing the rats that had gathered away. "Marquis!"

He gave a weary groan as slowly his head rose from the stone floor, eyes fluttering open. She almost wept—the sparkle she had been drawn to in their blue depths was gone, now glazed over, dull, and disoriented. "S-Satine?" he murmured, his voice weak and hoarse.

"Yes, it's me," she forced a smile on her face, trying not to cry. What had they done to him? "I promised I'd come visit when I was well." Her hand brushed a stray lock of oily brown hair from his forehead, the heat radiating from his skin leaving her sincerely afraid for his health. Gently she helped him into a seated position, never seeing him look so frail as he did right there. Jaw clenching, she knew she had to do _something_—she couldn't leave him here like this…

"I'm going to get you out of here."

"You _what_?" the man snapped, stepping forward.

Shooting the man a warning glare, she reached into her purse and, pulling out a few coins, threw them at him. "He's coming with me," she snapped. She then returned to the Marquis, who seemed confused. "The Abbé's gone mad," she explained. "They've locked him in his room as he raves of cutting out your tongue and choking you with a rosary!"

Seeming satisfied with her payment, the man tossed her the key to his chains, going up the stairs to make sure no one would spot them.

Unlocking the horrid collar and removing it from his pale neck, Satine urged him to his feet, though a moment later he collapsed against her, trembling and gasping for breath.

"Harun, help me!" she pleaded, unfastening the clasp of her cloak and covering the poor Marquis with it as the Egyptian held him upright.

"Someone's coming!" the man whispered harshly. "Hurry it up!"

Pulling the Marquis's arm over his shoulder, Harun pulled him up and began escorting him up the stairs as the man closed the grate behind them. Satine took the Marquis's other arm, steadying him as he faltered, and urged him down the hall; she could hear footsteps behind them, and dared not be spotted sneaking out their most infamous patient.

Thankfully they reached the carriage without issue, and the Marquis slumped into the seat, nearly unconscious, twisting her stomach in knots. He looked seriously ill, and she couldn't bare to think of what might have happened if they hadn't arrived sooner!

But what would she do now? He was an _aristo_, and the only reason he was still alive at all was because he had been safely hidden away in Charenton. If she left him there, she feared the Abbé might do something horrible to him! But he was not safe in Paris; not with this bloody Revolution still raging!

He was no longer safe in France. She needed to get him to safety.

To England.

"Driver!" she shouted through the window, "Make for Calais!"

"The horses need rest, Mademoiselle!" the driver answered, exasperated.

"Then find an inn along the way; away from Paris!"

The man heaved a sigh as he spurred on the horses, toward the countryside beyond Paris where perhaps they could find safety for the night.

"All this for me, dear heart?" came a weary voice to her left. She turned to see the Marquis managing a smirk, face covered in a fine sheen of sweat. It comforted her enough to sit back and breathe normally—it seems he wasn't _completely_ changed. "I'm flattered."

"Try to rest, Marquis," she smiled weakly, pulling out a handkerchief to dab the sweat from his brow. "And don't let it go to your head—I'd have done the same for anyone else I saw treated so appallingly."

He chuckled, catching her hand in his and brushing a kiss on her knuckles. "May I borrow your shoulder, then?"

Snatching her hand away, she heaved a sigh and reluctantly nodded, suddenly regretting her relief at seeing his wit intact. She did not need it right now.

Resting his head on her shoulder, the Marquis leaned in and began brushing kisses down her neck, growling at the collar-like necklace that blocked more than an inch of skin from his advances.

"Marquis!" she huffed, swatting his arm as she fought to do no worse to him; so forward he was being, even when ill! "I'm being lenient because you are clearly sick, but much more of this and I _will_ strike you! Now _rest!_"

He gave another chuckle, but obediently ceased and relaxed against her. After a few minutes of silence, the sound of his light snoring could be heard, and she finally permitted herself to relax.

Despite his complaints, the driver managed to coax another hour from the horses before finally stopping at a small inn in the countryside. While Harun departed to secure them a room, she was forced to awaken the Marquis, who did not come to easily this time. Moaning against her neck, he placed another kiss there as though to start up again where he left off, but a quick swat to his arm stopped him.

"We're stopping for the night," she said softly, helping him sit up. "Come, I'll take you to your room."

Harun returned to help the man to his feet as he simply could not stand on his own. "They only had one room available," he grumbled, trying to hold the _aristo_ upright while at the same time keeping the cloak that covered his nakedness closed. "At least it has two beds."

"It will do," she sighed, pulling the hood up over the Marquis's head, praying that no one would notice the noble curve of his nose or the height of his brow.

"The village doctor will be here soon," he continued, "and they will have a hot meal brought in the moment you are settled."

"You'll loan him some of your clothes for the night, won't you?" she whispered, trying not to attract the other guests' attention as they helped the poor _aristo_ to their room.

"Of course," he grumbled, opening the door to their chambers and helping the Marquis to one of the beds. He retrieved a pair of pants and shirt and, though they were too big for the lithe _aristo_, helped him into them nonetheless.

A serving girl arrived soon after with a plate of roast chicken, vegetables, and wine, enough for all three of them, though the Marquis ate like a ravenous dog. It was lucky for him neither she nor Harun were that hungry. Soon after, the doctor arrived to inspect the drowsy Marquis, who she claimed was her cousin.

"Pneumonia," he ruled finally. "You're lucky—it's still in its early stages."

"I seem to have a knack for that," she sighed, glad that the doctor was optimistic.

"With plenty of rest and food—he looks half-starved—he should make a full recovery."

"I was going to take him to my family's farm in Amiens," she explained, even though in truth her father had passed away several years ago, the farm sold to another family.

"Oh, no!" the doctor exclaimed, shaking his head adamantly. "He is far too sick to travel! You must wait until he is well, lest the stress aggravate the illness!"

Fighting to keep from showing her distress and giving away her true cause, she managed to simply sigh and nod, "Of course."

"I'll return to check on him in a few days," the doctor continued as he packed up his equipment. "Make sure he does nothing but rest until then."

"I will," she said, feigning a smile. The moment the door closed behind the doctor, she fell onto the chair beside the bed that the man had been occupying, let out an exasperated sigh as she hid her face in her hands, trying not to cry.

"Don't worry, my darling," the Marquis rumbled softly, hand comfortingly running through her hair. "I'm already feeling much better, and it's all because of _you_," he said, punctuating his sentence with a tap from his long index finger to the top of her head.

Unable to keep from smiling, Satine lowered her hands and managed a nod. "I hope you're right," she sighed. "We can only pray no one spotted us leaving Charenton, and that that man didn't tell anyone…"

"I doubt it," he answered, shrugging lazily. "In the state of disarray we left that madhouse, it is unlikely _anyone_ will notice my absence until…?" he trailed off, raising his brows as he tried to persuade her to reveal her plan.

She leaned in close to make sure only he heard it. "I'm taking you to England, where you'll be safe."

"And you'll stay with me, perhaps, _coquette?_"

Satine froze, mouth open as her mind wrapped around the flaw in her logic. What _was_ she going to do? Would she return to Paris once she had seen him safely across the English Channel, or would she stay in England?

_With him_.

"I… I-I don't know…" she said finally, sitting back as her eyes fell to the floor, mind reeling. What was she to do? If she was ratted out, the Revolutionaries would not show her mercy for helping an _aristo_ escape, even _if_ she was a member of the commonwealth.

"You'll have to decide soon, cherub," the Marquis continued, chuckling at her dilemma. "I've no doubt I will be well soon, and the English Channel is only _so_ wide… The time will be upon you before you know it."

It were as though he _enjoyed_ torturing her, playing with her shaken emotions. He had just been rescued from a most dismal prison, was suffering from pneumonia, and yet he insisted on pointing out _her_ naïveté; _her_ folly; _her_ lack of proper planning. She had nearly forgotten how much of a puzzle he was—something she had realized very early on when she had first met him.

Could it have really been two years since they saw each other last? It seemed as if it were only yesterday. The chemistry between them was exactly the same as she remembered, the wit just as sharp, the lingering gazes just as intense.

"Well," she said finally, "while I think on that, you get some rest."

"Oh, very well!" he huffed in feigned frustration, though his smirk of obvious amusement remained. Sliding down from his seated position on the bed, he tugged up the covers, grumbling about how stiff and coarse they were before finding a suitable position and quickly slipping into a much-needed sleep.

As she sat there, listening to his soft snoring, studying his features which had changed very little, save for perhaps a little wear and the obvious sheen of sweat from the illness, she felt as though someone had a fist wrapped tightly around her heart. She knew if she stayed with him, eventually he would have her. It was inevitable. But could she bear leaving him in England alone?

Could she _want_ him to have her?

A part of her _had_ when he had first kissed her. Did that part of her still remain? And what did _that_ mean?

Did she…? No! She couldn't! She'd be a fool to even consider it! He was, after all, the infamous _Marquis de Sade_.

No, certainly not.

Standing and retreating to the other bed, she stripped to her shift and curled up in the sheets.

What was she to do?


	4. Chapter 4

Initially the Marquis obeyed, resting most of the next day when not seized by coughing fits, though Satine suspected it wasn't so much by will as much as by necessity. By the second day, however, his polite obedience had waned. His fever had broken, but his temper was hotter than ever. Every time she would enter the room he would grumble about how he was going mad being confined to his bed so. After the third time that day, she grew tired of his whining and went into the village to find something to occupy him.

Luckily when she returned, he was in the middle of a meal and thus amiable enough to spare her his complaints. His increase in energy and improved breathing lifted her spirits enough to even join in his witty banter when he finally spoke.

"You look like an exotic goddess, my peach," he chuckled, taking a tendril of her hair in his hand as she brought it within reach, sitting at his bedside.

"I haven't really felt the need to remove it yet," she replied, allowing him a faint blush, "and Harun _so_ enjoys seeing something familiar in such a strange place. _He's_ the one who insists on putting fresh flowers in it every morning—says I remind him of his daughter."

"You needn't humor him when _he_ was the one who left her for this 'strange place'."

"She died," she answered with a frown; "years ago."

"Oh," he said simply, not as apologetically as she would've liked, "my mistake."

"Sometimes I forget how judgmental you _aristos_ are…"

"It's human nature, _mon pomme_," he retorted. "We _all_ do it; not just the _aristos_."

She sighed, "It's true, I _have_ received strange looks even in this humble village. I suppose I should take it out soon…"

"Don't be _too_ hasty," he said quickly, hand once again beginning to play with a lock that had fallen into his reach. "I never said I _didn't like_ it."

Flattered, she granted him another smile before she remembered _why_ she had gone into the village in the first place. "Oh! I brought something for you!" With that she stood and rushed to the basket she had returned with. "Since you're stuck here, alone with your thoughts," she said, sitting back down and pulling away the cloth that covered a pair of quills, an ink pot, and a healthy stack of papers, "you might as well write them down."

She had never seen his eyes light up so bright before! Giving an overjoyed laugh, he nearly leapt from the bed as he snatched the basket from her. "My darling, you have _no idea_ how much I've longed for these; how long I've gone without them!"

"They took away your quills and ink?" she asked, outraged. She imagined it would be just like someone taking her paint and brushes! How horrible!

"In a fiendish plot to censor my genius!" he growled, though his ecstatic grin remained. He laughed again, flinging his arms around her and embracing her tightly. "Oh Satine, you are an _angel!_" he cried, suddenly taking her face in his hands and kissing her passionately.

Satine froze at first, eyes wide with shock, but almost immediately after she leaned into him, amazed at the enthralling feeling of his lips against hers. Eyes closing contentedly, she let him slide a hand across the exposed flesh of her chest, goose bumps rising wherever his burning hand touched, her own seeking out the firm solidity of his shoulders, feeling the heat radiating from the skin beneath the thin material of Harun's shirt. She wondered how far she'd let him go, as it was obvious he wanted more, when just as suddenly as he had initiated the kiss he broke off and hunched over, caught by a sudden fit of coughs.

Unable to keep from laughing at his inconvenient timing, she ran a soothing hand down his back before standing and heading for the door. "I'll be taking my supper in the dining hall," she explained as he finally stopped coughing. "Enjoy the gift, but be sure you continue to rest."

"…Thank you, Satine."

She stopped in her tracks, half-way out the door, when she heard him. She had never been thanked by an _aristo_ before—common manners like that simply weren't included in their exclusive upbringing. Breaking into a stunned, elated smile, she nodded and slipped out the door before her face turned _completely_ red.

He was as well-behaved as a school boy after that, albeit a hormonal, adolescent one. At first she had been skeptical when she had heard the Abbé say that his writing was therapeutic—a means to purge the poisons from his mind—but it honestly seemed to help him; it at least gave him something to do while he recovered. Of course his mind remained in the gutter—she would be a little disappointed if it wasn't—but she no longer caught him pacing about the room, hacking his lungs out, when she had directly ordered him to remain in his bed.

The next day he had completed a whole novella circling around a prostitute and a demented doctor. Apparently it had been floating about in his head a while, and to finally put it on paper was quite the relief. That night, however, his sleep was troubled. She was jolted awake by the Marquis, who was screaming for someone named "Madeline". Rushing to his side, she joined him in bed—probably the only time she could do so without worrying about foul play—and held him to her like a mother comforting her son, soothing away his tears and rocking him back to sleep. Something happened to her then, making her feel as though her heart would burst, though whether from joy at being able to comfort him in a non-sexual way or despair that some other woman occupied his thoughts, she couldn't be sure.

The doctor returned to see them the next afternoon, stunned by the Marquis's recovery. Tomorrow, granted the doctor saw them one last time and ruled him ready for travel, they could finally leave!

Satine left to acquire the Marquis more quills, ink, and paper for the voyage, returning to the inn late in the evening. She found de Sade asleep on the bed, quill in one hand, empty glass of wine in the other. Shaking her head with an amused sigh, she cleared the bed and left to return the glass and empty bottle.

There were very few people still left in the main dining hall when she stepped out, of course; only a few handfuls at corner tables. As she approached the kitchen to return the bottle, she overheard the conversation from one of the more intimidating-looking groups of diners.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm nearly certain—no common farmer has such noble features and delicate hands."

Satine froze, her blood turning to ice, her muscles stone. Releasing a breath she didn't realize she was holding, she forced her leaden legs to continue moving so as not to draw attention to herself as she continued to the kitchen counter. Out of the corner of her eye she tried her best to see who could have possibly discerned the truth.

To her utter shock, she found the doctor seated at the table, speaking with two men she didn't recognize—they looked an awful lot like the Revolutionaries she often saw dragging off _aristos_, though.

"_Nearly certain_ isn't good enough, Jean," one of the men snapped. "We need to know for certain before we detain them."

"They won't leave until I rule him healthy enough to travel," the doctor whispered harshly in reply. "Tomorrow I'll pay them a visit and find out for sure. Return here first thing in the morning and then you can take him."

"We'll be waiting, Jean," the other man growled. "You had better not be wrong."

The two men stood and slipped out of the inn, leaving the doctor to finish his wine as Satine stood at the kitchen counter, hands trembling.

They suspected them! What was she going to do? Tomorrow they would come and drag them both away!

Glancing nervously around the inn, she found there were only two people left in the dining room besides her and the doctor, and they were half-asleep. An idea arose in her mind, and slowly she approached the doctor from behind, empty wine bottle in her hand. Heart pounding in her chest, each step reverberating through her entire body, she raised the bottle over her head and, steeling herself for the blow, brought the bottle crashing down on the doctor's head. The glass shattered atop his skull, sending him toppling onto the table and then the floor, out cold.

She almost couldn't believe what she had just done, but she didn't have the time to marvel over her newfound viciousness. They had to get out of here!

Rushing to her room, she slammed the door behind her, leaning against it as she gasped for breath. "Harun, quick, get a carriage ready!" she shouted to the Egyptian, who bolted upright from his seat next to the table as she rushed to the Marquis's bedside. "Marquis, get up!" she pleaded, shaking him awake. "The doctor suspects us! They'll be coming for us in the morning! We have to get out of here _now!_"

To her relief, the Marquis was able to stand and walk on his own, helping her hastily pack their things and rushed out of the inn. Harun had hailed one of the carriages, and quickly loaded their bags as they climbed inside, and a moment later they were racing for Calais.

"How long?" she shouted to the driver from the window.

"At this pace, a few hours," he answered, "but the horses can't hold up this pace that long!"

"There is no need to be _too_ hasty," Harun spoke up from the back of the carriage, perfectly calm.

"_What?_" she nearly snapped. What the hell was he talking about? _Of course_ there was reason to rush!

"I tampered with the other carriages," he replied, smirking confidently. "The moment they whip the horses, their harnesses will snap and they'll pull off without the carriage. That should give us enough time to disappear."

"He's good," the Marquis chuckled, sitting back and stretching lazily. It marveled her that he could be so calm when all of France wanted him dead!

About two hours later they arrived at Calais, and a little persuasion on her part managed to secure all three of them passage aboard a merchant ship that left mere minutes later. She stood anxiously at the rail, watching the coast drift away, fearing that at any moment Revolutionaries would storm the port and chase after them, until finally the Marquis dragged her to their small cabin.

"Relax, my sweet," he chuckled, pulling her to him as he ran his hands up and down her back soothingly. "No one is coming for us—we're safe; we're _free_."

Managing to get control over her panicked breathing, she managed to smile and shake her head with a sigh. "How silly," she laughed weakly. "If anything, _I_ should be comforting _you_. How can you be so calm? It's _your_ head they want."

"It is not the first time I've been faced with death," he replied calmly, one hand wandering up to tickle the skin at the nape of her neck. "I am jaded in that regard, it's true. But then, if _I_ were hysterical, who would be there to comfort _you?_" he whispered against her temple, hot breath washing over her face and sending a small shudder through her petite frame. "I'm flattered that you're so upset on _my_ behalf, my cherub."

"Don't let it go to your head," she sniggered, finding herself unwinding under the familiar comfort of their witty exchanges.

"Too late," he replied with a low, rumbling chuckle.

She reached up and lightly slapped his cheek, confused when he took her wrist and shook his head, clucking his tongue.

"Wrong head, dear heart," he whispered, guiding her hand to rest on his thigh, right at the junction of his legs, cackling wickedly as she realized what he meant and flushed a bright crimson.

"You're horrible!" she said in feigned outrage, snatching her hand away though a small part of her wished she hadn't. It was a heady tonic, knowing that she drove his body to such extremes.

"Would you have me any other way?" he said with a cocky smirk, arms sweeping out in a wide, inquiring gesture.

Giving a small laugh, she leaned forward in a moment of courage and kissed his cheek. "Of course not."

Chuckling approvingly, he tilted his head slightly and brought his lips to hers, his hands returning to caress her body with renewed fervor.

She gave another small jump as his tongue dragged across her lips and delved into her mouth, but it only lasted a moment and soon she was timidly meeting his tongue with her own. It was all so strange; so intoxicating and perverse! Naturally she was afraid, but for some strange reason she trusted him and felt safe in his experienced hands.

Did that mean she would let him have her? Her _body_ certainly wanted to continue, but could she really give herself to him in such a way?

She was about to find out.


	5. Chapter 5

_Nothing_ would get in his way this time, de Sade vowed; he _would_ have her. Her every whimper only served to spur him on further, the temptation of her innocence driving him mad with desire. But this was a special occasion—a quick fuck just wouldn't do! He would drink up every inch of her untouched skin, extract every ounce of pleasure that he could from her body.

First thing's first; he had to get her out of those clothes.

One hand tangling in her long, dark brown hair, he let his other hand slide down her back, tugging at the knot that kept her corset tied shut. One by one he pulled the laces free, trailing kisses down her neck to her collarbone, dipping his tongue in the hollow he found there.

Her hands tightened their grip on his shoulders as she let out a soft gasp, tilting her head back further, baring her throat to him in the ultimate gesture of submission.

Giving an approving growl, he bit down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder as he wrenched her corset open, enjoying the startled cry she made. With the restricting garment removed, it was all too easy for him to strip her of what remained, shrugging his own clothes off in the process. He hadn't felt someone's bare skin against his in so long that the instant he was lying atop her, peppering her body with kisses, he couldn't control the shudders that traveled up his spine.

"Oh, my cherub," he rumbled in her ear, grinding his hardness against the mound between her legs as his hands caressed her breasts, teasing her nipples into hard peaks. "How wonderful it feels to have your supple frame beneath me, offered up like a virgin sacrifice to some heathen god!"

Her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of red as she wove her fingers in his hair, chest rising and falling rapidly as she moaned and gasped under his ministrations. "Marquis!"

"Call me by my name," he growled, hand sliding down her stomach until he reached the moist flower between her legs, finger teasing her entrance until she was writhing desperately beneath him.

"S-Sade?" she choked out, confused.

Ah, of course she didn't know his name. She had always just known him as "Marquis". Chuckling, he ran his tongue along the shell of her ear and whispered it to her as if it were some magic, erotic spell. "Donatien."

He grinned in delight as he felt her shudder below him, repeating his name into the crook of his neck, "Donatien…"

In reward, he let his finger find her pearl and swirl around it a few times, causing her to stiffen below him, nails digging into his back as she clung to him desperately and moaned in rapture. He leaned back slightly, rising over her to better admire the view as she twisted beneath him, clothed only in the silver bangles in her hair and around her neck and wrists, like an exotic goddess completely at his mercy. Intoxicating.

However, his patience only lasted so long, and his body was aching to embed itself inside of her. Once he was sure she was properly prepared and plenty moist, he lowered himself onto her again and positioned his erect member at her entrance. He clamped his mouth over hers, and then they were joined, swallowing each others' groans and gasps.

He could barely keep himself still as he waited for her to adjust to having him within her, his every instinct screaming to plunder her exquisitely tight cavity raw. Breaking the kiss, he slid himself almost completely out of her and, with a low growl and a quick snap of his hips, thrust himself back in.

At first Satine's pretty face betrayed a pain he was all too familiar with, but, with a little coaxing on his part, slowly it faded away, replaced by gasps of ecstasy as her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer.

He had never made love on a boat before—it was delightful! The rocking of the boat augmented every surge of his hips, rolling her hips in such a way that he found all sorts of new angles within her that made both of them shiver.

Normally he prided himself on his stamina, but after having been deprived for so long, he found he was drawing close to the end all too soon, punctuating his every bucking thrust with a grunt as he buried himself as deep within her tight, wet sheath as he could. Her own whimpers, gasps, and moans only enflamed him further, driving him wild with an uncontrollable hedonistic abandon. His long fingers dug into the supple flesh of her hips as he fought to hold out long enough for him to satisfy his woman as well. Just to ensure that, he slipped one of his hands between them again and sought out her bud, playing with it until she stiffened beneath him, body clenched around him, clamping down on him like a vise. Gritting his teeth as her inner walls milked his hardness, he bit down on the juncture of her neck and shoulder, sucking her blood to the surface, marking her as his, and erupted within her. For a few sweet, long moments, there was nothing but the two of them, groaning and gasping, bodies seized by violent spasms as they reached the pinnacle of bliss and plummeted down the other side.

He slumped atop her, gasping for breath as his body returned from the summit of mind-numbing ecstasy. Absent-mindedly his hands entangled themselves in her hair, damp with sweat, as he pressed a few breathy kisses to her lips, chin, nose, eyes… anywhere he could reach. When he found her gazing up at him, bewildered, he couldn't help but chuckle; it was quite the boost to his ego.

What surprised him was her response—usually they pulled away immediately, crying or screaming at him for violating them so. But she started to laugh, one hand soothing the scratch marks she made, the other brushing a few strands of hair that had stuck to his sweat-soaked forehead.

"Well, maybe your obsession with this isn't _completely_ unfounded…" she muttered breathily.

Laughing, he sat up, stretched languidly, and stood, seeking out a pitcher of something to drink. "Something to drink, lovely?"

"Water would be nice," she answered, likewise stretching.

He had found a bottle of water and was pouring a glass for both of them when there came a knock on the cabin door. Brazenly he walked right up to the door and pulled it open, still stark naked, much to Satine's dismay.

Harun stood on the other side of the door, eyes going wide as what he was witnessing slowly sunk in.

"What is it?" he asked coolly, taking a sip of his glass of water as he leaned casually against the doorframe. "As you can see, now is not the best time…"

The Egyptian seemed to be searching for the right words. Finally with a sigh he settled on, "Dinner," and held up the tray of food. Not as impressive as the meals they received at the inn, but it would do. A meal, no matter how small or humble, was always welcome by him after a good screw.

"Ah, excellent," he smiled, taking the tray from the man, "Off you go, then," and with that, closed the door behind him.

He returned to find Satine hiding her face in a pillow, trying to stifle her embarrassed laughter. Setting up the meal on the table, he gestured for her to join him, sitting proudly in the nude.

She, on the other hand, pulled a sheet from the bed and covered herself with it, her cheeks a bright red as she seated herself across the table from him.

"Any regrets, my peach?" he asked, cocking his head to the side as he served himself a piece of the large fish fillet, a bread roll, and a few stalks of asparagus.

She gave a small laugh, "No." When he looked up at her, she gave another laugh. "Surprised?"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "No. I had a feeling you'd be different."

She blushed again, quickly distracting herself by filling her own plate. It was so endearing he couldn't help but reach across the table and brush away the hair that was blocking her face from view, tilting her head up until she was looking at him again.

"You are beautiful, you know," he murmured, brushing her downy cheek with the tips of his fingers, "just as I remember." Suddenly the idea of parting with this rare beauty once they reached England became simply intolerable and, being one who always spoke his mind, no matter the subject, he felt he needed to express it. "You'll stay with me in England, won't you?"

She sighed, unconsciously leaning into his touch. "Perhaps…" she answered finally.

"_Perhaps?_" he laughed, "Come, dear heart; you'll stay, yes?"

Laughing softly, she reached up and held his hand to her cheek, letting out another sigh. "Oh, how can I say 'no' to a face like that?"

Leaping from his chair with a cry of joy, he flew to her and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her and twirling her about, laughing all the while, amused at how she yelped and clung to him as her feet left the ground.

They spent the rest of dinner chatting excitedly about England, and though he would have liked to have her again, she insisted that he rest so as not to aggravate his illness back into full swing. Instead, they reached a compromise and slept in each other's arms, finally able to rest easy knowing they were headed to safety.

He'd never slept better.


	6. Chapter 6

Satine awoke the next morning to a combination of achy stiffness and complete serenity, a sensation so bizarre she opened her eyes immediately and was met with a sight that instantly had her smiling.

From her position lying at his side, head on his chest, she had a perfect view of the Marquis—or rather, _Donatien_—as he slept. Remarkable how different he was when awake! Asleep, he was like a content little boy; all traces of his normal sauciness gone, replaced by an _almost_ innocent peacefulness.

As she lay there studying him, the feel of his warm body beside her, the steadily rising and falling chest under her cheek, was so soothing she soon found herself nodding off again, lulled by the rhythmic thudding of his heart. It was short-lived, however, as a few minutes later the sound of the ship's bell ringing could be heard.

Donatien awoke with a snort, stretching lazily as he glanced down at her with a smirk. "Sounds as though we've arrived," he rumbled, nuzzling his nose in the hair at the top of her head.

"Does that mean we have to get up and get dressed?" she sighed, tracing circular patterns on his abdomen, which tensed as he drew in his breath in a hiss.

"Unfortunately, _mon pomme_," he chuckled, taking her hand and pulling it away before she could torture him further. "Come—we'll find the time to do this again, I'm sure."

She couldn't help but laugh in response, cheeks flushing. She didn't want to seem _too_ eager, but the thought of them spending more nights together was thrilling! Though a part of her wondered why she had never done this before, she was glad she had waited—it had enabled her to share herself with the _Marquis de Sade!_ It was almost like… _love_.

Of course, she wondered if the Marquis was even _capable_ of love after a life of infidelity and debauchery. She would be a fool to think otherwise, to not be content with the affection he showed her now. If he weren't such an enigma, he wouldn't have captivated her so in the first place.

Giving a small groan, he sat up and set about in search of his clothes. In a momentary lapse of naughtiness, Satine rolled onto her side and leaned up on her elbow, admiring his bare buttocks as he bent to fetch his britches.

"Enjoying the view?" he chuckled, wagging his hips a little before donning his pants.

Blushing, she giggled and joined him in clothing herself. She had just slipped into her dress when there was a knock at the door a moment before Harun entered.

"We've arrived at Dover Port," he said simply.

"Thank you, Harun," she smiled, giving a slight gasp as Donatien tugged her corset stays tight, pecking a subtle kiss on her neck.

"As much as I do enjoy them," he rumbled in her ear, "the trappings need to go. Can't have you drawing attention to us when we're trying to disappear, now, can we?"

"I must agree," Harun added, crossing his arms.

Satine sighed woefully. "But I've grown so fond of them…"

"I'll keep them so you can enjoy them again," Harun sighed, speaking to her as though he were humoring a small child as he stepped forward and began removing the silver trinkets and shells from her hair. When that was done, he pinned it up simply and hid the bangles in his one small bag of belongings. She couldn't help but miss the familiar weight, looking up at her bare forehead with a rueful sigh.

"I feel so boring now…" she groaned as they stepped out of the cabin and waited at the rail as the ship pulled into harbor and was tied off.

"Bah!" the Marquis scoffed, rolling his eyes and giving her bottom a good swat as she stepped off the ship.

It was only after they acquired a carriage that their most pressing issue presented itself—where were they to go? There was a tavern nearby where they decided to enjoy their first English meal and poke around for possible lodgings.

"What d'ya need lodgin's for, dearie?" the innkeeper, a matronly older woman with smiling eyes, asked as she set down their meat pies and gin.

She hadn't thought of what their excuse would be, and found herself floundering for an answer. "I-I…"

Donatien picked that moment to sling his arm around her shoulders and pull her close. "Darling, there's no need to be shy," he chuckled, kissing her cheek. "You must forgive her," he said to the matron, perfectly charming, "—she's still a little jumpy after Napoleon's police threatened to drag her to the guillotine."

Her heart skipped a beat. Was he seriously going to throw all caution aside and tell the woman the truth? Harun's lip twitched, but that was the extent of his outward reactions.

"You came from _France?_" the woman gasped, "Oh, you poor things—first that ghastly Revolution and now that bloody Napoleon!"

"Yes," he beamed, drinking up the attention, "the poor thing is such a delicate creature—I simply _had_ to see her to somewhere safe."

"And you would be—?"

"Her fiancé," he grinned, nuzzling her neck in such a way that the hair she had pulled over her shoulder to hide the bite-mark he had left moved aside, revealing his loving signature on her skin.

The innkeeper hummed, giving them a knowing look. "But what could a lov'ly, modest couple like you 'ave done to have enraged Napoleon so?"

"She is a painter; I myself am a writer," he explained gesturing gracefully to each of them, "and like true artists, we crossed boundaries and _refused_ to be censored by those _pompous,_ _self-righteous_ _bastards!_" He slammed his hand down on the table at that, causing her to squeak and jump slightly. "Sorry, darling," he chuckled, hugging her apologetically.

"Well good for you!" the matron grinned, nodding dramatically. " 'Enry, put another bird on the fire!" she yelled to the kitchen. "My treat."

"Madame is too kind," the Marquis smiled suavely, bowing his head slightly. "Thank the generous woman, _coquette_," he rumbled in her ear, nudging her gently.

"Thank you," she said finally, her voice a mere squeak when she managed to find it.

The food was humble and slightly bland compared to the food in France, but to Satine it was the sweetest meal she had ever had. Donatien was less forgiving, but with a little nudge on her part, he managed to hide his displeasure.

When the old woman returned to refill their cups, she whispered locations that they might check for available houses—preferably in the countryside, she added. The closest town they might try was a place called Canterbury, just northwest of Dover, east of London.

So, with full bellies and a renewed sense of hope, the trio acquired a carriage and headed for Canterbury, where hopefully they would find a home to begin their life anew.

"So, my sweet," Donatien rumbled with a mischievous smirk, "whatever could we do to pass the time?"

"_Now?_" Satine said with a small laugh. "Donatien, you think of nothing else! Besides, we don't even have a bed!"

He simply chuckled and shook his head. "We don't need a bed, _mon pomme_," he said, guiding her onto his lap so that she was straddling him. "It works like this, too."

She was about to ask why when he pushed his hips up and ground them against hers. Her hands flew to his shoulders with a gasp as she felt his awakening hardness press against her, straining against his pants toward the warmth of her quim. He lavished attention on her ear, his breath, hot and heavy, sending shivers down her spine. How could she say no to that? Soon he was fighting beneath her skirts to free himself from his pants as he blazed a trail of kisses and nibbles down her neck. He certainly liked to bite, she thought as she tangled her fingers in his hair. Perhaps she should see how _he_ liked it… Not sure where to start, she finally decided on a spot in the middle of his neck and bit down.

He stiffened beneath her, drawing his breath in a hiss. Just when she was beginning to think she had hurt him, he shuddered, growling low in his throat and plunging inside her with one mighty buck of his hips.

She gasped, wrapping her arms around his neck to brace herself as she felt his hands slide down her sides and caress her hips, guiding her up and down on his rigid organ. The thrill at buggering right in the carriage, where anyone could find them, with their clothes on… it made her heart pound in a strange combination of anxiety and ecstasy. "Ah! Donatien!" she whimpered, body tensing as he swiveled his hips in such a way that the hairs surrounding his member scratched against her clitoris, sending a jolt of pleasure up her spine.

"Mmm, yesss?" he hissed against her neck, bucking his hips up to meet hers.

She hadn't expected him to answer, leaving her floundering as she was bounced more vigorously atop him.

"Well, go on, you silly girl!" he chuckled, nibbling on the exposed tops of her breasts, "Let it out!"

Flushing, she dug down for something coherent to say. "Y-you feel so good…" she gasped into his ear, enjoying the groan he released in response. "So big and hard inside me…"

"Oh yesss…" he growled. "_More._"

"Your hungry eyes on me make we shudder…" she whispered into his ear. "The mere sound of your voice makes me weak…"

"Mmm…" he hummed as the speed of his bucking increased, making her gasp.

Unable to think of any other seductive admissions, she managed a laugh. "What about you? Are you to be exempt from this perversion?"

He cackled, nipping on her collarbone. "Very well…" he groaned in feigned frustration, adjusting her position slightly so that he could better watch her reactions. "You drive me mad, Satine," he rumbled, chuckling as she shuddered above him. "Your quim is like a soft, wet glove just a smidge too small… I love the gasps and squeaks you make when you forget your own voice, the timid grasp of your hand, and the subtle bounce of your breasts…"

She had worried she wouldn't have enough breast to please him, so it was a relief to know he liked her just fine. That was, however, a small thought in the back of her mind at the moment, as his pace was increasing again and taking her to new heights of bliss. Each thrust and each grunt in her ear built the pressure gathering between her legs toward the breaking point until, with a shuddering gasp, she climaxed around him.

His hands tightened on her hips as he bucked into her with so much ferocity she feared she might snap in half. He only lasted a few moments longer before he bit down hard on the top of her left breast, announcing his own climax with a ragged growl.

When they finally caught their breath, Satine managed a sigh as she spotted a new enflamed bruise in plain view for all to see. "_Again?_"

"Forgive me, dear heart," he chuckled, refastening his pants as she slid back on the bench next to him, "I couldn't help it."

Suddenly she felt the carriage slow to a halt. There came a knock on the door, and Harun peeked in a moment later.

"We have a problem."


	7. Chapter 7

Once he was sure he was presentable, the Marquis stepped out of the carriage to see what the problem was. A moment later he was seized by two large, rugged men armed to the teeth with knives and guns, pulled to the side as two more dragged Satine out.

"Gypsies," Harun grumbled, secured by two of the largest men of the pack. "Filthy bandits…"

"Now, now," came a voice to their right. Approaching was a man who looked to be the leader of the mob. He was a man of average height, just a tad shorter than the Marquis, with a trim goatee on his chin and long, dulling amber hair that gained an almost violet hue in the shade. He had weaved all sorts of interesting trinkets in his hair and several earrings along the entire shell of his ears. His freckled skin denoted a life of experience wandering the roads, exposed to the unforgiving sun, though his emerald eyes were as sharp as ever. Smoking a long, narrow pipe, he casually strolled to the captive trio and cast them a charming smile, though it lost its charm as he snatched Satine's coin-purse from her trembling hand. "We're merely taking donations from generous passer-bys to feed our starving families."

De Sade scoffed. "Did it ever occur to you that the people you rob might be starving as well?"

"You know, it _didn't_," the man replied with a smirk. "Ah well—you can't save them all! You can only be responsible for yourself, eh?"

"Indeed," he grumbled.

Satine began struggling again as the gypsies began to search their belongings, rifling through her painting supplies. "No, please! They're just paintings!"

He quickly nudged her before she could give away their value and further incite the bandits. However, when they began going through his paper and quills, he snapped. "Get your filthy hands off those! Those are my life!"

"We got a writer on our 'ands!" one gypsy exclaimed, holding the papers above his head as he rushed them to the leader. "Wha's it say, Lief? Wha's it say?"

The man read it over, puffing offhandedly at his pipe. Slowly his expression changed from impassive to one of shock. He almost dropped the pages as his head snapped up. "You're the _Marquis de Sade?!_"

Slowly Donatien found himself smiling, tilting his head up with pride.

Satine was less pleased, however, and nudged him anxiously. "Donatien, for god's sake, put your head down!" she whispered harshly.

"I thought you up and died in a mental institution!" Lief continued, shaking his head in disbelief. "I can't believe my luck!" Just as they were beginning to fear that they would be sent back to France for the reward money, the gypsy pulled a copy of _Justine_ from his inner coat pocket. "I'm a devoted reader of yours!"

The trio sighed in relief as they were released, the Marquis unable to hide his smile. "Always a pleasure to meet a fan," he chuckled, shaking the gypsy's offered hand.

"What brings you to merry old England?" the man asked curiously before ordering his men to return all the travelers' belongings.

"This little minx here," he answered, wrapping his arm around the woman's shoulders. "Secreted me out of the madhouse and away from the grasping hands of Napoleon's police. Now all that's left is to find a home where we can practice our art in peace, without censure."

"I know just the place," Lief said with an eager grin. "But first, join us! Allow us to show you the _real_ England!"

He exchanged glances with Satine, making sure she was alright with it before he gave in to his ego and agreed. "We would be honored!" he announced, causing a cheer to erupt from the crowd.

The gypsies escorted them on foot to a glen miles down the path, sharing stores with the "Frenchies", as they fondly referred to them, along the way. By the time they arrived at the gypsies' camp, it was nearing evening—not that they noticed; the scenery was so beautiful, they could've walked for hours more! The wagons were neatly nestled within a small clearing amidst the forest, fires already crackling as the women set about cooking a feast for the entire clan, the children playing with the dogs as their grandparents shouted at them from the tents. They ate, drank, sang folksongs, and shared stories—including the Marquis's newest book—all well into the night. Soon few were awake but de Sade, Satine, and Lief.

"My clan has wandered these forests for years," the gypsy explained, gazing up at the stars from his spot seated on the ground in front of the fire, his back against a log, as he exhaled a puff of smoke. "We know every tree, every hill, every star. But now…" he sighed, "it simply isn't enough. I really don't enjoy pick-pocketing hapless travelers, you know," he chuckled. Slowly his laugh faded, however, replaced by a heavy sigh. "I'm thinking of settling down, building the tribe a farm, giving them a more stable income… Be a more responsible clan leader, right?"

Donatien nodded, honestly sympathetic for the gypsy leader. He sat similarly on the ground, back against a cushion the nomads had been kind enough to supply the weary _aristo_, his arm around Satine, who was resting her head on his chest. "Times _are_ hard…" he sighed, "but then, that _is_ my inspiration. The very _nature_ of art is to present the great truths in life, good _and_ bad."

"How true," Lief replied with a wry smirk. "After all, the best folksongs are often about tragedy and misery."

He caught Satine rolling her eyes and scoffed. "What? Can't handle a little existential discussion?"

"No," she sighed in reply, swatting his chest. "I just never pictured you two as the philosophical type."

"You can never judge a book by its cover, my cherub," he smirked, placing a kiss on her forehead. "You of all people should know that."

She giggled, cheeks flushing as memories from the first book of his she had ever read no doubt flooded her mind.

"Rest up, you two," Lief said finally, standing and yawning. "Tomorrow we'll show you to the house." He then turned and departed for his tent.

De Sade helped the weary painter to their own tent, which was a spare the gypsies had been kind enough to set up for them. Harun had already nestled himself in a corner and was fast asleep. He was nearly done helping Satine out of her corseted dress when suddenly a bold hand found his crotch, nearly knocking the wind out of him as a chill ran up his spine.

"Satine, my peach," he gasped, "what are you—?"

"Teach me," she interrupted him, whispering sweetly in his ear, "Like the women in your books; teach me how to bring a man to his knees!"

She tightened her grip around him then, causing him to shudder and gasp out loud.

Harun stirred, making them both jump slightly, but luckily he did not wake.

"Perhaps we should take this somewhere else, yes?" he murmured. He had a feeling Harun would not be pleased if they disturbed the Egyptian's sleep with his grunting and groaning—he was not a quiet man when making love, and never would be.

Taking her hand from his awakening lust, he pulled her from the tent and out into the woods. Satine giggled quietly behind him as they scampered from the gypsy camp like a pair of love-struck teenagers, not stopping until they were far enough away that they would not be heard, but could still see the firelight.

"Lesson one:" he grinned, pulling her against him as he leaned back against a tree, "—_worship _his body."

Satine returned his smile, sending a thrill through him—to think that _he_ had been the one to have corrupted this innocent beauty so! Every day she exceeded his expectations, finding new ways to surprise him, to make his blood boil and his body ache for hers.

She leaned forward, sealing their lips together as her hands grazed across his body, finding each hollow, memorizing each sensitive spot. Opening his shirt, she trailed kisses down his chest, causing his hands to fly to the sides of her head with a gasp as she fastened her lips around one of his nipples.

Ah, experimentation—how sweet it could be! She was trying out things he had done to _her_. Smart girl.

She moved to the other one, making sure it was not neglected, and then trekked down further, dipping her tongue into his navel while her fingers played with the dark trail of hair that disappeared down his pants. He gave a loud noise of relief when the fastenings of his britches were undone and his manhood freed.

"Lesson two:" he said between gasps, "—remember what you've learned in your reading."

She looked up at him, flashing him a smirk—all she had read since she had returned to France were _his_ writings. With a small laugh she returned to her explorations, taking him in her hand and getting a feel for him; its weight, size, texture…

At least, that's what he _thought_ she was doing. He could barely think straight as her hot breath washed over him as she drew closer, placing a kiss at the juncture of his left leg and hip, in that sensitive hollow just to the right of his enflamed organ. If he hadn't the willpower, he would've thrown her down right there and taken her hard in punishment for teasing him so. But he was rather enjoying her maiden voyage on the mysterious new frontier that was his body, enjoying the chaste kisses she showered along his entire length, the tiniest lick of her tongue upon the head of his staff.

"And… lesson… five:" he gasped, tangling his fingers in her hair.

"Three, dear," she corrected, looking up at him with a cocky smirk, thrilled that she could bring him to such a state.

"Three:" he acquiesced with a breathy chuckle, managing to look down at her finally, "—let him guide you," he drawled, each word bringing her closer and closer to his most prized appendage.

The moment her lips enveloped him, he let loose a gasping moan so loud he was glad they had fled somewhere more private—by now Harun would no doubt be awake and beating him senseless for his indecency. His head fell back against the tree as he pulled her down his length, his legs trembling. He didn't have to direct her much, however—she had quite a good teacher. Soon he was bucking helplessly into her mouth as she quickly learned exactly what he liked with little encouragement from him and brought him to the edge of bliss, arching his back against the tree with a ragged groan as he erupted within her moist cavity.

Satine nursed him back from the brink, sliding back up his body to nibble at his jaw, positively beaming with pride. He pulled her lips to his, chuckling between kisses at her new-found confidence. "Not bad for a novice," he teased, delighting in her playful, outraged gasp. "Shall I reward you?"

He did not wait for her answer. Instead he spun her about, pinning _her_ against the tree as he dropped to his knees. Pushing up her skirts and slinging her left leg over his shoulder, he leapt head-first into reciprocating, bringing her to orgasm in a few mere minutes. Granted, he had it a bit easier—_she_ had grown excited while pleasuring _him_. Still, he couldn't help but take _some_ pride in bringing her to completion so quickly.

Rising to brush his lips against hers, their grins met in what even _he_ had to admit was quite the romantic display. They stood there for what seemed like hours, in the middle of the woods woods, forehead to forehead, before they finally tiptoed back to the camp.

As they reentered the camp, he noticed a man out of the corner of his eye. He was standing right on the outskirts of camp, watching them intently. "Mine," he mouthed silently, shooting the man a warning glare as he wrapped his arm around Satine's shoulders and guided her to the tent.

They slept soundly that night, spooned against each other, never once waking Harun.


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning was overcast and drizzling, but that only served to amplify just how green the English countryside was. Satine found herself staring out the entrance of the tent for nearly an hour at the beauty of it all before Donatien awoke and Lief arrived to guide them to the wagons as the men took the tents down. Harun was helping harness the horses—it turns out he was a horse trainer back in Egypt before his daughter died. Once the entire caravan was packed up and ready, they set off down the road, and a few hours later they arrived at the house Lief had told them about.

It was the perfect little English cottage, built of pale brick, with bay windows and climbing vines, just at the edge of the forest.

"The owner, a sweet old woman, died years ago," Lief explained. "She outlived her children, so had no one to claim it after her death. She asked us to look after it until someone who needed it came along. I think she _really_ meant 'in case we decided to settle down', but you three need it more than we do."

"Thank you, Lief," Satine smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder, "You've been so kind to us…"

"Well, don't go thinking we're done yet," he chuckled. "It's been sitting there for near a decade—it's quite filthy. You're going to need help to get it to a livable condition."

The gypsies fell upon the house like a flock of locusts, the men clearing out the dirt and refuse, the women arranging the furniture and adding little trinkets from their collections to brighten up the house. It was amazing how much of a difference it made—what began as a dismal gray mausoleum into a warm haven of varying shades of brown, red, and white. They did such a beautiful job that Satine insist they stay for a few days so that she could repay them. She wasn't sure how she would, but she was determined to do it _somehow_.

The rain had cleared when they arrived, so by early evening when their work was done, everything was dry and alive. In celebration of their new home, the gypsies decided to throw the Frenchies a masquerade. Apparently they had one every so often, and had collections of detailed and ornate costumes they were willing to donate to their less fortunate friends.

Satine was dragged into the house by the women while Harun and Donatien were ushered into the camp by the men to find costumes that would fit them. She grabbed her nicest dress, an off-the-shoulder wine-red dress with sleeves that reached her elbows and white lace lining the collar and peeking out from underneath the skirt. They pinned her hair up in a sort of half-updo with a little lace and a couple of tingling bells knit up in it, and affixed a simple, elegant red mask to her face. Feeling the cool breeze coming through the open door, she grabbed one of her cloaks—she decided on her red one—and arm-in-arm with the other gypsy women, they dashed to the celebration.

She was dazzled by the splendor of it all—few would expect such humble gypsies to possess such elegant costumes! She did her best to commit to memory the costumes she especially liked, so that perhaps she might paint them later. There was a pair of ravens, a cat and a mouse, an owl and a hawk, a pair of deer, the sun and moon… nearly everything she could think of! She stood in the middle of the dance, disoriented by all the masks and colors, until a hand tapped her shoulder from behind, a familiar voice whispered in her ear.

"Why, hello there, Little Red…"

Glancing over her shoulder, she found Donatien standing behind her just as she had suspected—it was what he was wearing that _was_ surprising.

He was dressed as a wolf! No wonder the girls had laughed—they must've known he was being loaned a wolf costume, and tried to direct her toward everything red! Arms wide in a flamboyant pose, he laughed wildly as he whirled around once to fully display the costume.

"That's amazing!" she exclaimed, stepping forward to better examine the detailed embroidery along the edges. The Marquis stood complacently, one arm wrapping around her waist to draw her closer as she marveled at his attire. "Look at that detail! The discipline it must've taken to make this!"

"I know," he grinned. "It's been so long since I've worn finery like this—back before the Revolution."

"Well, enjoy it while it lasts," she answered with a smirk. "I doubt you'll be able to again—not for a long while, anyway."

"Then I might not take it off at all," he chuckled. "Oh, and you look lovely, my darling."

Flushing, she took a step back and swished her skirts girlishly. "You think?"

He merely chuckled again, swooping forward to pull her against his hard body, growling in her ear, "I could just eat you up."

Satine laughed, "Why Marquis, what a big appetite you have!"

"I'm big in more ways than one…" he rumbled with a cocky smirk.

"Donatien!" she gasped in feigned outrage, swatting him playfully.

He merely grinned.

The musicians moved to the next song: a joyful waltz that immediately drew a cheer from the dancers, including Donatien.

"Care to dance, my dear?" he asked, offering a hand as though he were a gentleman.

Grinning, she took his hand and in a flash he swept her into the dance, causing her to give a startled yelp. His dancing style was not the most practiced, but he made up for it with enthusiasm and the agility to keep from running her into other dancers. By the time the dance was over, both of them were laughing and gasping for breath.

"Care for a glass of wine, sir?"

Satine glanced over her left shoulder to find a man about the size of the Marquis, dressed as a spider, with two glasses of wine in his hands, one outstretched as he offered it to de Sade. Awfully thirsty after such an energetic dance, she snatched the glass from his offering hand. "Thank you," she peeped before taking a healthy sip.

The man gave a noise, as though to stop her, but quieted down quickly when Donatien took the other glass, chuckling at her fervor, instead ducking back into the crowd, no doubt to fetch more wine for the other revelers.

"Remember what happened last time, _mon pomme_," he said, one hand straying to the small of her back. "Delicate sips."

They moved away from the center of the dance so as not to block the others while they enjoyed their wine. She was nearly done with her glass when Donatien started nibbling on her neck, one hand seeking refuge down the front of her bodice, growling like the wolf he was.

"You look so beautiful," he groaned, nipping at her collarbone. "So elegant and mysterious… I ought to take you right here and now."

"Donatien!" she gasped, swatting at his invasive hands, "They can see us!"

"Follow me, then, Little Red," he rumbled, taking her hand and pulling her toward the wagons, which were essentially abandoned for the celebration, cast in deep shadows from the fire. The moment he deemed them properly hidden, he pounced on her, pressing her against one of the wagons as he assaulted her with kisses, grinding his hips against her.

She tried to meet his passion, but soon it was all she could do to remain sane underneath his skilled hands and mouth. One moment she was writhing beneath him, the next he had lifted her into the air, forcing her skirts up as he wrapped her legs around his waist and struggled to free himself from his trousers all at once. Her hands flew to his shoulders as he plunged inside of her, clinging to him for dear life as he pressed her against the wagon, thrusting into her with wild abandon.

Perhaps it was the wine, but her head was swimming, making it all the easier to surrender completely to him. The sheer eroticism of this game they were playing—the wolf taking Little Red—sent chills down her spine, bringing her to climax rather quickly. However, Donatien was not finished. He merely growled and bucked into her faster, harder, not letting her come down from the precipice but instead building her up toward a second, more intense one. Her nails dug into the fabric covering his back, toes curled within her shoes as she arched against him, crying and gasping for air as he thrust harder and faster than she thought possible. Finally he reached his own summit, growling raggedly into her neck as his entire body tensed, allowing them both to relax as they recovered.

When he finally set her down, her legs nearly collapsed underneath her, forcing him to catch her and hold her upright with a cocky smirk.

"Oh, don't start," she scoffed, putting a hand to her head, which was still swimming. "It's the wine."

"Of course it is," he chuckled, scooping her into his arms and heading back toward the celebration.

However, the moment he started moving, she was hit by a wave of nausea. "S-stop!" she gasped, seemingly unable to get enough air into her lungs. "Stop—I'm not feeling well…"

Setting her down, the Marquis watched her silently as she leaned her weight against a nearby wagon, one hand on her chest. "You're not pregnant, are you?" he asked finally.

She turned her head to look at him, though the sudden movement nearly caused her to vomit. "W-what?"

"Certainly you've taken precautions?" he pressed, a hint of frustration in his voice.

"It's hard to take precautions when you're so spontaneous," she answered, still trying to catch her breath.

"Don't try to pin this on me, stupid girl," he snapped, making her jaw drop as a cold shock seeped through her. "You'll just have to get rid of it."

"_What?_"

"Surely you can get one of these gypsy crones to get a stick and twirl it around in there a bit?"

Satine nearly vomited just from the tone of his voice. Instead she managed to stand straight and slap him. "How _dare_ you! We don't even _know_ yet, but for you to even _suggest_ that…" her voice trailed off, unable to even voice her disgust. After recovering from the nausea that standing straight had caused, she wiped the sweat from her brow and shook her head. "If you're so concerned about it, _you_ can ask them." And with that she turned and stumbled back to the house. She didn't even turn around to see where he would go. By the time she reached the bed, she was exhausted and feeling sicker than ever. She barely had time to remove her mask, cloak, and shoes before she collapsed on the covers, asleep almost instantly.


	9. Chapter 9

The Marquis awoke with a groan, wishing he could surrender to sleep again, but knowing he was far too sore to do so. If he regretted his little fit last night, it was _only_ because Satine had robbed him of a proper bed—he had been forced to sleep in the corner of Lief's tent on a feeble straw mat while the gypsy relaxed on a bed of cushions with his lovely wife. He didn't even have a spare set of clothes to change into—he was still in his masquerade costume, sans mask. It was enough to keep him up for hours, positively seething.

Lief sat up and stretched, sighing as he caught the anger still lurking in de Sade's eyes. "I can't believe you're still mad at her."

Donatien merely scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"You're going to have to reconcile with her, you know," he continued. "The gypsy life is no life for you, my friend."

_And, prude or not, I_ do _enjoy screwing her…_ The gypsy was right. He didn't have to like it, though.

"I'll come with you to make sure everything is settled fairly," Lief added, donning a new shirt and shoes.

Begrudgingly agreeing, he trudged over to the house, dragging his feet every step of the way. He didn't even lift his eyes until he passed through the door.

…But _he_ hadn't opened it, and Lief was behind him… He looked up to a scene that made his blood run cold.

The house was completely ransacked. The door was hanging from its hinges, every piece of furniture overturned and every loose item thrown across the room. What in the world had happened here? In a moment of panic, he flew up the stairs, rushing to the master bedroom. "_Satine?_"

The bedroom was in a similar state of disarray, and the bed was empty. Just as he felt he might faint, he heard a groan from behind the right side of the bed. He rushed over to find Harun on the floor, blood from a wound on his forehead covering his face. He was still wearing his pharaoh costume from the masquerade, which meant that whatever had happened, it had happened only shortly after the dance ended.

He could have stopped it if he hadn't been so mad at her…

What had he done?

"Where is she?" he asked, gripping the Egyptian's shoulders. "_Where is she?_"

"Th-they took her…" Harun groaned between hisses of pain.

Donatien stood, a numbing shock slowly seeping into him. He barely noticed the gypsy Lief must've called rush to Harun's aid as he descended the stairs, his mind trying to make some sort of sense out of this.

"I don't understand…" Lief muttered, gazing wide-eyed at the wreckage. "What were they looking for?"

It was then that the Marquis noticed a piece of paper tacked to the wall with a dagger. Pulling it off with a hand that shook more than he liked, he read the short, aggressive message, each word making his heart pound faster.

"Marquis,

If you want your precious little pet to live, come to the abandoned chapel down the south road. Your flight from Napoleon ends here."

"Me," he whispered, answering Lief's question a moment before he dropped the note and dashed out the door. He could hear the gypsy calling after him, but he couldn't stop. Finding the road, he kicked off his restricting shoes and took off south.

He couldn't hear anything but the rush of the wind and the beating of his heart as he ran. His muscles were already screaming, as he _did not_ run, but he simply couldn't feel it—his body was completely numb.

It was all coming back to him—it was just like Madeline's death. The gut-wrenching fear, the painful knowledge that he could've done _something_… Not again! Not Satine too! Not her!

He wasn't sure how long he ran, but eventually he reached the abandoned chapel—it was unmistakable. As he reached the door, he wasn't surprised to find it boarded shut and instead slammed his fists against it. "_Satine!_" he screamed, "_Satine!_"

A moment later he felt a large hand take him by the back of a head and slam his forehead against the door. Stars exploded before his eyes as he fell to his knees, dazed and disoriented. His arm was wrenched behind him, making him cry out as he felt his shoulder come close to dislocating. Another pair of hands took his other arm, pulling his wrists together behind him and tying them with a rough cord. He could give little resistance as the two men dragged him to his feet, around the chapel, and inside through a side door.

The single room was dark and covered with dust and cobwebs. What little light there was came from a few candles that were scattered about the small church. Straw in one corner suggested that a drifter had stayed here for a time, and now Satine was slumped amidst the dried grass, clearly drugged.

"Ah, Marquis," came a voice to his left as he was thrown to his knees in the center of the room. A man, slightly familiar to him, stepped out of the shadows, smirking haughtily as he played with a dagger in one hand. "So nice of you to join us. And to run all this way—that's dedication!" Noticing the Marquis's fixation on Satine, he smirked. "You know, that drug was meant for _you_. You should teach your woman not to be so forward—she could get hurt."

Suddenly it made sense. Satine hadn't been suffering from morning sickness—she had been reacting to the drug. Suddenly he felt so childish. Eyes narrowing, Donatien finally managed to place where he remembered the man from. "You're _Logan_, right?"

"Correct."

"Good—I need to know what name to carve on your gravestone."

The man laughed, shaking his head. "I'm glad to see you still have the spirit to make up stories. I'd hate to send a changed man to Napoleon—he wouldn't pay me as much…"

"You're just in this for the _money?_" the Marquis asked with a curl of his lip.

Frowning, Logan crouched down so that they were at eye level. "I'm in this for my _country_. You stuck up _aristos_ got what you deserved in the Revolution, yet you dash over here playing the victim! You crowd our cities, oppress us common folk, and _pollute our culture!_" He stopped a moment, standing and taking a deep breath to bring himself back under control before continuing. "The money's just a perk."

Unable to keep his own anger under control, de Sade growled and spat, "_Brûlez dans l'enfer!_"

One of the men behind him struck him upside the head, Logan clicking his tongue and wagging a single finger chastisingly.

"Even _I_ know that was a curse," he chuckled, strolling casually toward Satine. "I'd behave if I were you." He grabbed the girl by the scruff of her neck and pulled her closer to the center of the room. "Your behavior dictates how many pieces she leaves in."

He couldn't help the "_Batard!_" that slipped from his lips before he could bite down on his bottom lip and silence himself.

"That's two," Logan said with a smirk, pulling Satine into a rough sitting position and pulling her head back by her hair, causing her to gasp and look about the room fearfully, no matter what drugs were in her system. "I'll have to punish you for that… Let's see, one… two… How about her eyes?"

The two men behind him chuckled, causing him to strain against the ropes binding his wrists. "N-no!" he pleaded, cursing his habit of always speaking his mind.

Logan simply shook his head, adjusting his grip on his dagger so he could properly cut out her eyes. "I warned you…" With a sadistic satisfaction, he slowly he brought the knife closer and closer to Satine's wide, fearful eyes, holding her still with a fistful of hair.

His mind was moving a mile a minute, dipping into his resourceful inventiveness in a desperate attempt to come up with _something_ to stop him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a sword on the hip of the man to his right as he fumbled with the knot tying his hands together. The moment he loosened it enough to free himself, he leapt up, grabbing the sword and drawing it across the man's gut as he unsheathed it. The second gypsy moved to stop him as the first fell with a groan, but Donatien quickly turned and ran him through, yanking the blood-stained blade out and turning it on Logan.

"Let her go," he growled, absolute hatred burning in his eyes.

The gypsy lowered his dagger, causing Satine to gasp in relief. "Are you serious?" he chuckled. "When is the last time you actually _used_ a weapon?" He tossed Satine to the side, the girl giving a yelp as she tumbled to the cold stone floor, and drew his own sword. "This is my livelihood," he smirked, lifting the blade casually.

The Marquis wasn't intimidated—he was too enraged to register fear.

Logan grinned, then stepped forward and made a few testing swings, all of which de Sade blocked. Satisfied with his response, the gypsy attacked again, this time deadly serious. Donatien managed to defend himself, but it was requiring much more effort than he liked. He could feel the blade coming within inches of him, zinging past his arm or face, and grew more and more frustrated as he found himself unable to take the offensive himself. A moment later Logan's blade ripped across his right upper arm, causing him to cry out and stagger backwards, clutching the wound.

The fiend was trying to disarm him—he recognized the technique; take out the arm holding the sword and the opponent wouldn't be able to defend himself. Very well—he could do that as well. He made a couple of wide swings to lower his defenses, then, the first chance he got, struck hard on the gypsy's wrist, cleaving his hand from his arm. As Logan yelped in pain, eyes fixed on his bloody stump, he then slashed the man across the throat, sending him tumbling to the floor. He twitched a few times, then lay still.

Gasping for breath, Donatien dropped his sword contemptuously, hissing as his wounded arm protested. "Sorry," he panted to the panicked woman in the corner, "I used to be better…"

Satine rushed to him a moment later, wrapping her arms around his waist as she sobbed into his chest. Lowering them both to their knees, he returned her embrace, resting his head on hers, sighing in relief.

"I'm so sorry…" he murmured, one hand stroking her hair tenderly. "This is all my fault…" He could feel her shaking her head against him, but still he continued. "They were after _me_—you shouldn't have been brought into this. …I… I shouldn't have yelled at you. It was wrong of me."

She was sobbing even harder now, seeming to understand that apologizing was something he _didn't do_. Running soothing hands up and down her back, he rocked her gently while making soft shushing noises in her ear, finding a strange joy in comforting her different from when they crossed the English channel.

They remained there, clinging to each other, for an indeterminate amount of time before Lief and his men arrived, stunned but relieved with what they found. The Marquis explained the preceding events as they bandaged his arm and found some herbs to give to Satine to help revive her. They were helped onto one of the horses, one of his arms wrapped around her waist—his right was in a sling—as she sat in front of him on the saddle. As they slowly made their way back to the house and camp, he gathered up the courage to make his crowning apologetic gesture.

"Having a baby with you wouldn't be so bad, either," he muttered, unable to look directly at her; he was so embarrassed.

Being unable to turn or react in any other way, Satine merely sniffled, tightening her grip on the hand at her waist, and nodded slightly.

Back at home they were spoiled absolutely rotten by the gypsy mothers; bathed, wrapped in furs, and fed chicken broth until they could take no more. Donatien did his best to stay strong for Satine and get her smiling again, but by midday he was exhausted. Luckily for him, she fell asleep against him just as he beginning to yawn himself. It wasn't the best position, slumped on the couch, but he couldn't care less as he drifted off to sleep with everything finally back in place.


	10. Epilogue

It was a week after that fateful morning when activity finally returned to the camp. The gypsies had finally found a large patch of land that they would settle on and farm, and only a few miles down the road. Harun had recovered from the attack with only a hairline scar on the right side of his forehead, and was just putting the finishing touches on a stable he and the men had built; he had decided to train horses, as he had back in Egypt, to provide for his "two helpless children", as he put it. Donatien's arm was still in a sling, as several times he had aggravated the wound trying to write. He only managed to stave off madness by begging Satine, who was well and definitely—perhaps a little disappointingly—not pregnant, to take dictation for him. His only frustration came from her refusal to let him take her until his arm was properly healed. She was determined to teach him self-control; and besides, he was only a day or two away from being healed anyway. She wasn't trying to change him, but she couldn't have him jumping her any time he felt like it—what if they had guests, or perhaps even one day _children?_

She was pretty sure that to the gypsies they were essentially married in all but name. She dared not ask Donatien, however—she had heard stories about his wife, read it in the frustrated letters he wrote to her and then tore to pieces when he realized he couldn't send them without being discovered. And, honestly, she didn't need it; a silly ring and title couldn't demonstrate to her that he loved her more than his body did when they slept together. For all intents and purposes, he was no longer the Marquis de Sade, but Donatien, a simple writer who fled from France with his sweetheart painter fiancée.

As they waved good-bye to the gypsies departing at last, Satine couldn't help but sigh at the beautiful colors the wagons added to the verdant landscape. "Beautiful…" she murmured.

"You should paint it," Donatien replied, the arm around her shoulders tightening its embrace.

She turned to look up at him, surprised that he seemed to appreciate the landscape as much as she did.

"That _is_ the nature of art, yes?" he smirked, "To capture beauty?"

Smiling and nodding, she rested her head on his shoulder, her thoughts turning to their relationship. It wasn't perfect, but it was still beautiful.

And wasn't that enough?


End file.
