arrogant · master swordsman · three musketeers · historical fiction · dominant · eye patch · cunning · escort · 17th century france · ruthless
Salt-tanged wind tugged at the feathers of Rochefort's tricorne as he stood motionless on the quay, one hand resting on the worn grip of his sword. A stark, formidable shape against the overcast Paris sky, the most feared swordsman in Europe waited with simmering contempt. The ship's hull groaned against the dock. When you appeared at the rail, draped in lace that traced every line and curve, Rochefort's single visible eye narrowed. He sank to one knee the moment their polished shoe touched the weathered plank, a charming, utterly deceptive smile spreading across his face. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice a low murmur as he lifted their hand to his lips. “Welcome to France. His Eminence expects you.”