Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

16th January 99 - 31st January 99

"Did I not say, earlier, that I would begin with the eyes?"

Mary Anne swallows, hard, and inches warily backward on the bed as her husband advances, grinning. "You'll have to catch me, first!" she retorts, then rolls quickly to the other side of the bed and steps off, but Brandon is ahead of her, cutting off her escape into her own chamber, so Mary Anne quickly dives for the bed again--but no, the Colonel has stepped around and is between her and the door leading out into the hallway.

Brandon shakes his head, a gleam in his narrowed eyes as he smiles at her. "Mary Anne, this simply will not do." Stepping away from the door, Brandon moves slowly toward the bed. "You had best give in gracefully, my love, for I have you trapped."

Mary Anne cannot help smiling back as Brandon drapes the silk casually across one arm and stretches himself out on the other side of the bed. At this point, it is still a game between them; she knows well enough that Brandon would never force her into his bed, nor do anything to hurt her or frighten her. Yet she feels once again that strange mixture of hilarity and near-panic that attends the games of childhood, that trembling on the very brink of something terrible and wonderful. The game of tag, the pursuer mere inches behind . . . heart pounding with effort and dread and glee . . .

Mary Anne comes out of these thoughts to find that Brandon is watching her closely, and no longer smiling.

"Are you well, my darling?"

She shakes it off. "Perfectly." She gestures to the silk. "But I thought the condemned prisoner was entitled to a last request."

Brandon laughs softly. "A last meal, perhaps?" His eyes glint at her. "Asparagus?"

"Christopher, I promise you I would not have done that, if I had known you would--" A silence, as Mary Anne stops to think of how she must have looked. "I was not trying to embarrass you. I would never want to do that."

Brandon waves away her apology. "I know. And I suppose any man might swallow a mouthful of his drink the wrong way, at one time or another." A wry laugh. "I can only hope the Vicomte was not watching us, at the time. It is exactly the sort of thing he would notice, even if no one else would."

Mary Anne studies Brandon for a moment, as he lies there, turned toward her, propped up on one elbow. The Colonel has left his boots behind in his dressing room; likewise his jacket and waistcoat and the handsome white neckwear. The elegant simplicity of the dark trousers and the open-throated white shirt is most becoming to the long, spare lines of his body, a touch on the lean side, perhaps, but well-muscled, efficient. Beautifully made.

It is more than flesh and blood can bear.

Mary Anne moves toward Brandon and he does not stir, simply waits as she stretches herself out alongside him, looking up into his face there above her, feasting her eyes on his features: the firm jawline, the thin curve of his upper lip . . .

Mary Anne tingles, thinking of the touch of his lips upon her skin . . .

. . . the slightly flattened bridge of his nose, the vertical line between his eyes . . . and the eyes themselves, pooled in shadow, but shining down at her, dark-bronze with desire as he lowers his face to hers.

Mary Anne's eyes close.

A short kiss only, and then she feels Brandon's arms about her, lifing her upright as he removes her remaining hairpins, tucking them into his trousers pocket, then combing his fingers gently through her hair until it is a soft cloud of tousled waves and ringlets.

Brandon holds up the black silk. "You are not afraid? No need for this, if you are."

Mary Anne is a touch apprehensive, but she is determined not to show it. This is, after all, only a game, a lovers' game, and she shakes her head. "I'm not afraid."

After all, what is there to fear? Brandon is gentleness itself. He would never hurt her, and she can stop this at any time . . .

Mary Anne makes no move or protest as Brandon winds the silk about her eyes, carefully folding and knotting it at one side so that she may lie back without her head resting on the knot; at once nervous and curious as to what will happen next, Mary Anne lies quietly, waiting, wondering . . .

She cannot see. But she can hear various movements: the bed, for instance, as Brandon rises and moves about the room . . . Mary Anne strains her ears, trying to guess his actions. There now, that metallic rattle and that crumbling sound; he is tending the fire. And there . . . Mary Anne follows the direction of his footfalls, muffled by the carpet, and frowns behind the swath of silk.

Why would the Colonel go into her room?

Moments later, Brandon returns. Mary Anne, her unnaturally acute senses sharpened even further by the loss of her sight, catches the faint perfume of violet sachet, mingled with . . . yes, Brandon is close by. That is the smell that Mary Anne recognizes as his own; his own clean male scent, a whiff of the starch from his shirts mingled with plain soap, and something dark underneath, but pleasant, rather like the aroma of heated cinnamon. And the note of fresh grasses that follows a man who loves to be outdoors.

Brandon's scent, familiar and comforting. Mary Anne relaxes on the bed, amazed at the acuteness of her senses . . . why, she has only been wearing the silk blindfold for a few moments . . .

Then Brandon touches her--and Mary Anne abruptly forgets her sense of smell.

Mary Anne feels Brandon's weight settle near the foot of the bed, as he takes her feet into his lap and removes her slippers . . .

Eyes covered by stray locks of hair flicker open. As the camera pulls back, the scene widens to show a woman dressed in a black spandex skirt and pink cropped top lying on a bed of dead leaves beneath an ancient oak. Late afternoon sun filters through bare tree limbs. Under the sun's weakened rays, several flashes bounce off objects strewn around the body. The camera moves in slightly and re-focuses on a glass salt shaker . . . and an empty bottle of tequila.

"Zeldaaaah, luvvy." The voice, smooth and sweet, continues.. "C'mon, time to get up. You've been out of it for more than 12 hours."

"Sharrup!" Zelda mumbled.

"Look, darling, I can't hang about all day waiting for you to sleep off last night. By the way, luvvy, that thing you do with the ice cream? Veerrry nice!"

With fierce concentration, Zelda struggled to her feet. Nausea rumbled through her stomach, flushing up her esophagus until the bitter taste reached her mouth . . .

"Zeldaaaah, breathe, luvvy, breathe. That's right. Take a deep breath. In and out, in and out," the voice instructed calmly and gently. Each cleansing breath she took helped to clear the cobwebs from her hangover-sodden brain and to restore equilibrium to the delicate condition of her stomach. Memories flooded back as she took in her surroundings, then looked at the man who stood before her, tall and lean, clad in a dark coat, which hung just below his knees, and Oakley shades.

"Megabonbon," she whispered.

"Pardon?"

The scenes flash into Zelda's mind now in rapid succession. Being pulled out of the Brandon's bedroom by this tall, dark man. A flutter. Flying. A gazebo. Fiery liquid warming the perpetual cold. Salt. Tears. More liquid, quenching her thirst, her emptiness. A hand stroking her hair. A soft voice, crooning, "It's alright, it's alright, luvvy."

Sobs, never-ending sobs.

A church, pain, people watching. Silence. Words dying. Pain ripping. So embarrassing! Wanting to hide. Screams going inward instead of outward.

Floating, floating. Those people are so small and so far away . . .

"Pardon?" the voice repeated. "What did you say?"

She gives her head a slight shake to break the trance of the memories that were so recent, and yet seem so long ago. She looks again at the man standing before her. "Sorry. I said you're Megabonbon! I was just remembering last night, you know? Remembering . . . everything." She looked downward as tears formed.

"METATRON, the name is Metatron, luvvy! Have you ever had your hearing checked? Anyway, look, you'll have to stay away from the tequila for a bit, you know. It makes you sing and you have a lousy voice."

Zelda giggled.

"Right! We best be off, luvvy. Lessons in angelic behavior and accompanying pastimes coming up. Oh, and maybe touch base on the "how tos" of haunting. We've got a lot of ground to cover and the first thing is to get you into some new clothes. Those Baby Spice shoes have got to go."

With that, he turned and began walking towards the waning sun. And as he walked, Zelda could see, peeking about a foot beyond the hem of his coat, two white triangular shapes that appeared to be covered in soft, white feathers.

Than came the thud of a rider hitting the dirt. There was a grunt of air forced from the lungs then stillness. The sudden burst of noise slowly faded to the heavy breathing of the trembling horse and the occasional brief, warning rattle.

Andrea is completely unaware of any physical sensation; detached from her body; at peace.

Gradually, she senses that her floating consciousness is being pulled into her body. She can see dim light through her closed eyelids; hear a faint voice murmur to her; feel a coolness touch the skin covering her ribs. Her anxiety returns, and her breathing deepens.

The voice grows distinct. It is Mesmer. "That's right. -- Breathe."

His fingertips press against the side of her neck for a moment, checking her pulse. With the deepening of her breath, her heartbeat grows stronger and more regular.

Andrea is uncomfortably hot. The fever. However, particular areas of skin are noticeably cooler than the rest. Where she feels his touch, she also feels relief -- as though his hands extinguish a flame threatening to consume her.

Another deep breath, a rattle of mucus in her lungs, a spastic cough, and a moan as her ribs remind her that they are damaged. Caught in a cycle of breath, cough, and pain, She presses her shoulders into the mattress and arches her back to expand her lungs fighting for oxygen.

Mesmer's hands are under her arched back now. His voice is at her ear. "Too much time spent lying down. The coughing will clear your lungs, and you will soon breathe easier."

Andrea feels certain that an upright position would be more conducive to breathing. During a lull in her coughing, she pleads with Mesmer. "Help me stand."

Holding her back with one arm, Mesmer uses his other to slide her legs over the edge of the bed. "Try to put your arms around my neck."

Andrea manages to reach her arms around him. She clasps her left wrist with her right hand as her body is lifted from the bed. She is upright but cannot feel her legs.

Mesmer supports all her weight while she resumes coughing. Encouraging Andrea to lean against him, Mesmer is able to hold her up with one arm only. With his free hand, he pummels her back, dislodging more mucus from her bronchial tubes.

Between Andrea's coughing and Mesmer's pummeling, neither of them hears the door swing open.

Firmly, Brandon closes the door, twists the key in the lock . . .

As the Colonel turns, he is startled--and momentarily forced back against the door--when Mary Anne moves swiftly into his arms, pulling his head down for a kiss that makes his breath come short and lifts his arms to twine about her, seemingly of their own volition, in an embrace that, for once, cares nothing for caution. No mitigation of his strength as his hands roam across the silken skin of her back and shoulders, then grip and draw her body nearer, forcing it against his own . . . as one hand rises to clutch the back of her head, pressing her face closer, deepening the kiss . . . Brandon feels Mary Anne's breath leave her, that sound half-sigh, half-gasp, and for the instant he thinks only of hearing that sound again. And again. And again . . .

So changeable, she is. It is enough to drive a man to distraction! And yet . . . Brandon remembers--even as his hands sink into her hair, dislodging several pins that now lie sparkling on the carpet--how Mary Anne had dealt with the Vicomte this evening. Oh, yes, he had noticed, for all that he was conversing with Lis at the time. How Mary Anne, for all the allurement of that revealing gown, had transformed herself into a marble statue at Valmont's advances: pale, hard, remote, and cold.

And she had wrought this change in less than a heartbeat.

To Valmont, as unapproachable as stone. To Diggory and Tamsie, warm friendliness, "old acquaintance" that can never be forgotten. To Herr Anton Gruber, deferential respect and courtesy in the best old-world style, and to Mrs. Jennings, sweetness and good humour that waves aside that lady's faults of gossip and occasional coarseness, seeing through to the essential goodness.

So changeable, adaptable to the occasion--yet changeless in her love for him. And as to his love for her . . .

Brandon, even as he savours another kiss, is abruptly recalled to his senses as he feels Mary Anne's mouth curve against his in what can only be a smile, and feels the trembling of her supressed laughter . . . and at that whisper of suspicion, he sets her away from him, carefully inspecting her face . . .

. . . and meets an unrepentant grin.

Brandon leans back against the door, folding his arms before him and shaking his head, scowling in mock-ferocity, but he can feel the smile twitch at one corner of his lips. " It is no use, Mary Anne. That will not work with me."

Mary Anne makes no attempt at denial. "Curses, foiled again!" The blue eyes sparkle at Brandon through the veil of demurely lowered eyelashes, the voice a low, seductive murmur. "I thought it was worth a try."

The audacity. The irrepressible audacity. Brandon is smiling openly now as he returns her come-hither look with the lift of one hand that points an accusing finger, while the other moves to take her gently by the shoulder. Gently . . . but inescapably.

The dramatic "Highwayman" VOICE: "You may save your wiles, my dear--they shall avail you naught!"

Mary Anne shivers theatrically. "Oh, sir, what shall you do with me?"

Brandon seats Mary Anne at the edge of the bed--then, with a mysterious smile, he lifts one finger in the "wait" gesture and disappears into his dressing room.

Brandon is gone for quite some time--so long that Mary Anne, who has obediently remained seated at the edge of the bed, begins to squirm nervously, shifting about and fingering the dark emerald counterpane, then finally climbing up onto the bed and tucking her feet under her as she waits for the Colonel's return. Stay calm, Mary Anne. Don't let it get to you. He's just trying to make you sweat a little . . .

And then, abruptly, Brandon is there, emerging from his dressing room . . .

. . . holding up to Mary Anne's startled gaze--the long band of black silk.

Mary Anne feels as if she will melt away into the bedclothes, as Brandon advances, smiling.

"Did I not say, earlier," he murmurs, "that I would begin with the eyes?"

Therese slid off the bed and went to stand before Eamon, holding his face in her hands, and caressing his cheeks lovingly. "Eamon, please, no...don't do this to yourself. I have forgiven you, we need to simply put this behind us now. Your only crime here is not quite knowing your own strength, and having had the misfortune to choose a woman who happens to bruise more easily than most." She indicated the purple mark on her cheek and the larger spot on her hip. "Cases in point, from this morning in the West Wood." She indicated her upper leg. "And this was from this morning when that sheriff person pulled me from the horse. I landed on my side and hip."

Eamon looked up at her. "My first impulse was to find and strangle that man, to squeeze the life from him with my bare hands for daring to touch you...yet I've done you just as great a harm, have I not?"

Therese rolled her eyes, stubborn, thick headed, mulish man! No, my dear, you have NOT . We've discussed this. We both were wrong this morning, I should have listened, for once in my life, and you should have spoken." She grinned at him, trying to goad him just a little. "Though I cannot believe I should ever have to tell you, the consumate politician, to speak, when far more frequently everyone is begging you to cease."

Eamon gathered Therese in his arms, and pulled her onto his lap. "You are a very wicked woman. Needling me about my public speaking when I am in the depths of despair..." He was still subdued, but she could see that he was beginning to come around.

"So does this mean that you forgive me as well?" Therese asked him softly.

"Me forgive you?" he asked her questioningly. "Whatever for?"

"Eamon, I should have listened to you this morning, I realize that now...but when you start ordering me about," she sighed, "well, I realize I'm not the most tractable woman in the world."

She was interrupted by his cough of laughter. She frowned at him sternly, and he quickly pulled a somber face. "Go on, my dear," he encouraged her, biting back a grin.

"Well, I mean look at Tamsie Venn, for instance, she looks to Diggory in all things. She is an obedient wife." Therese forced herself not to choke on the words. "I don't think I'll ever be that sort of woman, or that sort of wife..."

"Therese..." he kissed her softly before continuing. "Tamsie Venn is a lovely woman, she makes Diggory very happy...and she would bore me senseless. Do you know what first attracted me to you? Why I asked you home with me that night after the rally?" He stroked her hair softly, running his hands through it. "And no, it wasn't this, though that did, perhaps, run a close second."

"No," she admitted, "I don't know."

"It was because of the way you regarded me the very first time we'd met. I'm accustomed to one of two responses from people after I speak. There are those who are awed, who perceive me as being the one who will be the first president of a free Ireland, and act as if they are too frightened to speak. And then there is the second group." He gave a wry smile. "Those who feel I am a troublesome character causing unnecessary strife and difficulty, and who are not shy about telling me this, generally at full volume. But not you. You were inquisitive, and your questions showed intelligence tempered with humour. As we spoke at the pub over dinner, I found a great deal of knowledge and curiosity thrown in for good measure, and thought to myself, 'Now this is the type of woman every man needs.'"

"And you took me home that night because I had a good sense of humour and a natural curiosity?"

"He smiled and kissed her, deeper and more passionately this time. "Well, that's why I decided to keep you, at any rate," he teased. "You must know that I'll still try to manage you at times--I don't mean to do so, but I'm afraid it's very much a part of my nature."

"Just as you must know that I'll still go against your wishes occassionally."

He nuzzled her cheek with his own, scraping his razor stubble deliberately across her face and making her giggle. "I was afraid you might. Perhaps I'll simply have to keep you in my bed...I don't see what trouble you'll be able to get into there...." He drew in a breath as Therese allowed her hands to roam his body, showing him quite clearly the error of his previous statement.

Members of the wagon train busied themselves with repairs to wagon, attending to animals, gathering food and fuel. Children were lured into performing their tasks with enthusiasm by the prospect of music and dancing at the end of the day's labor. Everyone pitched in, helping one another where needed and the overall mood was optomistic and cheerful.

Well, with Mary Anne is not entirely accurate. She walks slightly ahead of him, her steps light but firm, showing no particular haste, but no hesitation, either.

Brandon studies his wife as she walks those few paces ahead of him, noting her graceful posture, the elegant lines of her milky-skinned shoulders and back, displayed to such advantage in that gown . . . rather too revealing for my general taste, but there is no denying that she looks enchanting in it. And Brandon knows very well that another sort of woman might don such a garment to deliberately flaunt her charms to the world, but Mary Anne is quite lacking in such affectation. The Colonel is too familiar with her faults to acquit her entirely on charges of vanity--how could she escape it, given the news her mirror brings her every day?--but he is thoroughly aware that this show of her beauty is for him, and that Mary Anne's innocent delight and joy at her effect on him protects her from falling into a worse sort of conceit.

However, Brandon's charity toward his wife's faults does not free him from his heartfelt response to her attractions. That turn of her head, now . . . as if she would look over her shoulder to glimpse his expression as he follows her . . . but no, she changes her mind and resumes her steady walk along the corridor, and Brandon smiles to himself. She is proud, too . . . in the best sense. (homage) Having made mischief in the course of the evening, Mary Anne obviously expects to receive her just deserts for it and is making no attempt to evade the consequences of her actions. That stately walk.

Brandon's smile widens.

That lift of her chin as they had started up the stairs--how like her that is! It is bound up in the Colonel's earliest memories of his acquaintance with her. As if, rather than shrinking from an inevitable event, she steps forward to meet it--the sooner to have it over, perhaps . . .

At this, Brandon's smile widens into an outright grin. My poor dear. What do you imagine that I shall do with you, for your teasing and mischief? That she expects him to do something is obvious. Yes, Colonel Christopher Brandon knows his wife very well. Very well, indeed.

She expects him to do something.

If that is what she expects, she shall not be disappointed. But . . . the sooner to have it over? Oh, no. No, not at all.

As they advance toward the door of their chamber, Brandon's memory is full of a story Mary Anne had once told him--an old tale of two secret lovers who are together at a gathering where it would be dangerous to reveal their love, where it is impossible for them to have more than a few words together in private.

But ah, those few words.

Were I alone with thee . . .

Eamon turned away from Therse, sitting upright on the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, his head laying heavily in his hands. "I had no idea," he said miserably. "I never meant to--"

"Shhh...it's alright, Eamon," Therese interrupted him, her tone soothing. "I know you didn't mean to."

"It is not alright," he said, his tone harsh. "I've spent the better part of this day justifying what I've done to the colonel, to his wife, to you, and even to myself. 'It was just a spanking.' But what quality of man could do this to a woman?" He ran a hand through his hair roughly, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Therese moved to sit next to him, her hand resting on his shoulder. "This was not your intent, we both know that."

"What matter is intent when this was the result?" He turned to look upon her and Therese could see the full depths of his anguish. This man before her may have been dubbed a monster by his political rivals, and considered able to endure horror with a passive countenance, but that same face could show more emotion in once expression than most could utilize in a lifetime. His despair was almost palpable, his expression...devestation.

Eamon de Valera was a man undone.

Mesmer knows that he is the best man for the job. "I would. Who else?"

Hamlet is not about to volunteer himself, but he feels that he must nominate someone else. Almost anyone else. "One of the female AR medics."

Mesmer considers this. "Yes. I suppose they could manage it. Why don't you go fetch the person you believe is better able than myself to treat my patient?"

Hamlet cannot read Mesmer. Is his pride injured? Would I place Andrea in danger to insist that someone else treat her? "At least let me bring a female to -- assist you."

Pretending not to care, Mesmer shoos him away. "As you wish."

Hamlet exits, and Mesmer sets to work. His patient is Andrea, not Hamlet. If he must mess with Hamlet's mind to take care of Andrea, that's what he'll do. The doctor never promised to wait for the prince's return.

The last dance of the evening is the lush, vibrant waltz from Die Fledermaus, and for an encore, the musicians offer Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik--one of Mary Anne's favourite pieces, under normal conditions, but at this moment it is all she can do to stifle a groan. She does not dare look at Brandon, lest she find his eyes fixed upon her, sparkling with desire or merriment. Or both.

"A little night music," indeed.

As the musicians pack up their instruments, the guests sense that the evening is drawing to a close and begin to move toward the doors that will take them down to hallways to the guest wing. And as she stands beside Brandon near those doors, playing the great lady, the mistress of Delaford--wishing her friends good night and receiving once again their congratulations and good wishes--Mary Anne is glad that she and Brandon have rooms on the other side of the house. She is beginning to feel, as Brandon stands with her arm through his, that such privacy will come in handy.

As Brandon lingers to converse with Diggory, who would cheerfully dance holes into his shoes and through Tamsie's slippers if he were allowed. Mary Anne slips her fingers down along Brandon's arm as if to hold his hand, but she feels the muscles of his arm tighten subtly, as if to press her arm to his side so that she cannot withdraw it, and Mary Anne smiles a little.

Brandon is obviously taking no chances that she will run away . . .

Finally, the last "good nights" have been spoken and the last pleasantries exchanged, and the great drawing room is left to the murmured conversation of the servants as they move about the room, putting out lamps and snuffing candles--and Brandon, the perfect gentleman with his elegant lady, leads Mary Anne away, nodding pleasantly to the senior servants who wish them good night . . .

He escorts Mary Anne across the room, to the other stairs, that lead to the family quarters. The stairs where, just last night, she had been lovingly abducted by The Highwayman and carried away . . .

They are out of earshot of the servants, but still within sight, and Brandon releases Mary Anne's arm, offering her a courtly bow and gesturing to the staircase. "After you, my dear."

"You've been after me all evening." Lifting her chin, and doing her considerable best not to tremble, or to burst out laughing, Mary Anne mounts the staircase.

Sounds. Her own heartbeat drumming in her ears, and the rustle of her silk skirt . . . even, it seems, the glide of her hand on the stairrail, skin against polished wood . . .

And Brandon, following her. His breathing, and the rhythm of his footsteps behind her as they climb . . .

Therese fought wakefulness and snuggled closer to Dev. She was warm, she was utterly content...and she was being laughed at. She peered up at Dev, the sound of his deep chuckle reverberating through his chest.

"You are snickering at me," she accused him drowsily.

"I am," he agreed amiably, reaching down to kiss her on the forehead.

"And just what is it you find so amusing?" she asked, stretching lazily beside him. Her action was a theatrical affair, long and drawn out as her arms stretched above her head, legs uncurling as she drew out the muscles, her expression languid.

Eamon slid down beside Therese, drawing his arms around her, and pulling her half across his stomach. "Stereotypically, you know, it is the male who is supposed to be insensitive enough to promptly fall asleep, post coitus.  And you are quite consistent, my dear."

Therese flushed becomingly. "I'm afraid I am...does this bother you?"

Eamon grinned at her wolfishly, pulling her forward to nuzzle her neck. "Not at all, my sweet, it makes me feel that I've done my job thoroughly when afterwards you're so exhausted you cannot even remain conscious."

"You, Mr. de Valera, are a very conceited man," she told him, taking the opportunity to nibble on his earlobe, given its proximity to her lips. "And just because it is warranted, does not make it right." She worked her way gradually from his ear to his lips. "Besides, I was rather hoping that this was pre-coitus, not post..."

"Indeed?" he asked, as he shifted Therese to her side on the bed and drew her to him, laying one of his legs across her own. He rested his palm on her hip, and was beginning to gently kiss her shoulder, when she suddenly felt him freeze, and heard him take in a sudden breath.

"What is it?" she asked, concern tinging her voice.

"Your hip..." he indicated the large, darkened mark staining most of her hip and trailing down her leg. Pulling her gently over onto her stomach, he laid a hand softly on her bottom. "And your backside..." His voice was a harsh whisper as the realization that his very hand, the one that rested upon her so tenderly now, was the instrument of those marks.

Hamlet struggles to control his emotions. "Yes. She said as much. -- After what Nottingham did to her ..."

Mesmer wonders if Hamlet realizes how unusual it is for Andrea to reach out and ask for help. He does not think to judge the prince for refusing Andrea. Instead, the doctor considers how best to treat his patient. His pronouncement: "An alcohol rub."

Hamlet does not follow Mesmer's line of reasoning. "What?"

Mesmer explains. "A way to fulfill Andrea's need for physical touch while reducing her fever."

Today, as you know, is Mozart's birthday. Could you please consider this a request?

Deftly, without spilling a drop, Brandon catches Mary Anne's water glass as she startles at his touch, then turns to deposit the glass on a small ornamental table--all without lifting his hand from Mary Anne's shoulder.

That touch. Gentle, and unshakeable.

"Gotcha." Under her breath.

"What was that, Mary Anne?"

She can hear the smile.

"Nothing, sir . . . or, just something from a game, when I was a child."

A brief pause, as there is a surge of excited interest among the guests. Many of the London musicians who were hired for the wedding have returned to their city, drawn by other engagements, but most of the local musicmakers from Delaford Parish and from Barton have remained for a second evening--and although, as it has been justly observed, musicians often will not play if they cannot eat, this is an honest band who will not eat if they cannot play. And so they are tuning up for their supper.

Under cover of the preliminary scraping of violins and rosining of bows, Mary Anne looks up at Brandon, pitching her voice for his ears alone. "So, sir, you have caught me fairly. What do you intend to do with me?"

Brandon's return smile is positively . . . silky. "Surely, my dearest, you do not expect me to answer that? The pleasures of anticipation, do you remember?"

"I can hardly anticipate," returns Mary Anne, "if I do not know what to expect!"

"In that case, you may anticipate . . . a surprise."

Mary Anne feels her knee joints begin to liquefy. "Oh, dear," she murmurs, hoping that her comical expression of mock-dismay covers her stirrings of real apprehension. Not that she believes Brandon would hurt her. Never. Nor frighten her. But . . . until the previous night, this was unexplored territory to her--unexplored, that is, save in her imagination. And though she had tried to prepare herself as best she knew how, the pain--and the pleasure--had been greater than she expected.

Not for worlds, however, would she betray this unease to Brandon. All right, Mary Anne, this is no time for maidenly vapourings, especially when you're not a maiden any longer. And that in itself, as she well knows, is a topic that she will have to think about later. Yes, she has crossed into a strange land, but the border is only a short distance behind her . . .

And that look on Brandon's face . . . yes, she is certain that his approach to her tonight will be . . . different.

"Suspense." Mary Anne rolls her eyes and pretends to moan. "The supreme penalty. Please, sir, my punishment is more than I can bear."

"Not yet," Brandon retorts with a quiet gleam in his eye. "And a short wait is hardly the supreme penalty for your mischief, my dearest."

"Oh?" Mary Anne is beginning to feel the need for cool water once more. "And what is?"

Brandon lowers his voice and whispers, "I could, I suppose, turn you out of my bed."

Mary Anne sways as if she will swoon into Brandon's arms. "Oh, please, no, anything but that . . ."

Brandon takes a quick look about to see if anyone has noticed their byplay, but cannot help grinning as he steadies Mary Anne. "Ah, but you see, that would be cruel to myself as well as to you, and so I choose a lesser penalty."

The musicians have finished tuning and there are various creaks, rustles, and plucked notes as they settle in to earn the bread they have devoured . . .

The evening passes. Mary Anne cannot but regret the absence of Therese and Dev during an offering of Irish folksongs--a mixed presentation, for while "Black Velvet Band" is a lively tribute to a girl whose "eyes shone like the diamond," it is followed by the melancholy "Wind That Shakes the Corn," in which a lover mourns the death of his beloved. The understated grief of it brings tears to Mary Anne's eyes, and she is relieved when the band turns its attention to a set of tap-your-foot folkdances that have people laughing and clapping.

Then, suddenly, a tune well-known to most of the Western world from the cradle upwards, hundreds of years old, sweet and wistful--and couples are pairing off, for the gentle waltz beat of it is easy to follow.

Brandon draws Mary Anne into the waltz, and her skin shivers and thrills at his touch--will it always be like this? she wonders--even as her earlier tears return at the reproach of the violins and the softly admonishing recorders and flutes.

Alas, my love, you do me wrong
To cast me off discourteously
For I have loved you oh so long
Delighting in your company . . .

Couples, leaning together, heads resting against shoulders, arms embracing bodies, voices softly humming or singing the familiar lyrics.

Greensleeves is all my joy,
Greensleeves is my delight,
Greensleeves is my heart of flame
And who but my lady Greensleeves?

"My heart of flame, indeed," murmurs Brandon, as the tune ends and there is a scattering of applause from the guests. "And the gown is almost the proper colour . . ."

Mary Anne grins. "But it doesn't have much in the way of sleeves." If the truth were told, her gown does not have much fabric in its upper regions, sleeves or otherwise. "And I do hope, sir, that you don't think I have done you wrong. Or cast you off discourteously."

In light of the sparring between them, Mary Anne is expecting a witty, lighthearted reply, and is taken by surprise when Brandon quietly offers, "That part of the song, then, is false--but the rest is not."

Hamlet sits in a chair near the window and hides his face in his hands. Recalling all that transpired when he attempted to exit this room last night, Hamlet silently scolds himself for leaving Andrea alone. Yes, she had asked him not to send anyone in to her. Hamlet now understands why. She had already decided to run, and a companion would have prevented her departure.

But, blaming himself for what he did or did not do in the past is no help to Andrea now. He must simply state the facts to Mesmer and trust the doctor to devise a treatment.

And so, when Mesmer returns to him, Hamlet tells all he can remember. The words pour out in a torrent, but he attaches no emotion to them. He is completely objective. One might think that Hamlet was merely an observer of an incident occurring between two people who were strangers to him.

Mesmer is amazed that Hamlet is able to distance himself from the tragic tale. The doctor gleans numerous clues from the prince's recollections. He does not interrupt the outpouring and listens attentively until the flow ceases.

"You are asking me for a job?" HE was amused. "First I think you should answer a few questions." He sat her down in a chair on one side of the desk, and he moved to the other side and leaned back in his high backed swivel chair. The look was odd, with his tousled hair, silk shirt open to the waist, and dark trousers, framed by the back of the black leather chair, he looked more like some romantic hero than the impeccable, inscrutable Mr I.

Now Claudia's advantage of surprise was gone, HE was back in control, and things would go the way HE wanted from now on.

"How did you know you'd find me here? Wouldn't it be more likely that I'd have gone into hiding?"

"You mean because the authorities are after you? Well, when you work for the authorities, even if a different kind, I thought they might protect you. I didn't know you'd be here, but it's the only place I knew to look. I thought you'd show up eventually."

"And I am to believe you would leave behind your friends, your family," he leant forward to emphasis the next word, "Ed and come to me? What would they think? They would despise you. Do you love me so much?" He was trying to make her say something she wasn't ready to say. She looked down at her fingers, took a deep breath then looked him directly in the eye.

"The memories of a year ago are new to me. They are as if the things that happened here only happened yesterday. I realised I'm not the person that everyone knows. I've come to find out who I am." She stood and moved around the desk to stand next to him, and he swivelled his chair to face her. "I would rather be hated for what I am, than loved for what I am not."

Therese felt it was time to brind her "game" to an end.

Leaning up on one elbow, she looked down upon Eamon from her position above him. His hands were still linked through the headboard of the bed, his fingers clenched to maintain their position, eyes tightly closed, and expression taut with a mixture of desire and strain. She lowered herself once again to lay beside him, stretching catlike against his body. Placing a gentle palm on his stomach, she pressed a single kiss upon his chest. Even this small action elicited a slight groan.

"You may move now," she told him softly.

His eyes opened slowly as he turned to regard her, and as she expected they were darkened with his desire. He was on top of her in less than a heartbeat, her body pressed down into the soft matress, his kiss devouring her, his hands pinning her arms to the bed. It was completely expected on Therese's part, for the lines of masculinity and femininity are nowhere more clearly defined than in this most primal arena, and with her "lesson" she had purposely pushed Eamon far beyond his level of comfort in such matters.

So Therese was completely taken aback when after several deep, passionate moments of his lingering kisses, he moved to lie beside her once again. He took a long, ragged breath, and then another, before reaching to caress her chin with his right hand. He gazed down at her, his expression unreadable.

"Please tell me I've not managed to emasculate you in one short example," she teased him, noting the sheen of perspiration that covered his body, causing him to glisten in the candlelight.

"Not at all," he murmered, "I believe I now have quite a new perspective on the power that you--or I--can wield."

"But there is a vast amount of difference in that I do not have any power unless you acquiesce, where as you can physically control me as you desire."

"Perhaps I am physically able to do so, yes, but you must believe me when I tell you that I will not risk your trust again. Or your fear. We have both given in to one another, can we now put this behind us?"

Therese looked him squarely in the eyes. "You choose to submit, Eamon, I did not." She paused, her tone changing from the serious, to the slightly wicked. "Though one could say that yours was the truly submissive gesture, given that you willingly allowed it, where I was forced into my submission to you."

He rolled on top of her once again, eyes gleaming into hers as he pinned her hands above her head. "Do not suppose, my dear, that this will be a frequently repeated event. I believe it is fair to say that I am somewhat dominant by nature."

Therese indicated her arms and the postition in which he held them. She arched a single brow. "Somewhat?"

He smiled down at her then, his eyes once again gentle, and repostioned their bodies so that he sat against the headboard, Therese curled up to his chest. "Perhaps I am somewhat prone towards being a bit domineering, but I also like to think that I am not a complete imbicile." He paused for a brief moment to smooth her hair away from her face, and caress her neck tenderly. "I am also a man deeply in love with you, and I never, ever want to do anything which in any way causes you to fear or mistrust me. Can you forgive me, and trust me once more?"

"Of course you're forgiven, Eamon, and the trust will build again. My heart belongs to you, you must know that."

He clasped her hands together, and drew them to his lips. "I know only that I was a man dying inside until I heard you tell Colonel Brandon, 'My future looks very bleak without him in it.'"

Therese laughed and slapped his chest with her hand. "You, sir, are an eavesdropper."

"Perhaps, so...though if you were taller, you would have seen me clearly over the foliage. I am rather glad, however, that you did not." He slid sideways to the edge of the bed, leaning over until he could reach the chair that held their clothing. Pulling at the folded waistband of his trousers, he dug his hand into a side pocket, and withdrew her ring. "What with that temper of yours, I'd surely have been lost had I not overheard you," he said, slipping the carved golden band onto her finger.

Therese sighed, and held her hand up so the precious metal reflected in the light. "I won't take it off again."

"You'll not have cause to..." And with that, Therese once again found herself beneath Eamon, though this time he was not to be interrupted in fulfilling his promise to make up for his previous actions...with her pleasure...

Fun and games.

Mary Anne manoeuvres herself carefully about the room, chatting with her guests, bantering and teasing, all while intoxicatingly aware that Brandon is near, tracking her, never more than yards away--and never betraying the least sign of pursuit.

The game has rules. Mary Anne knows quite well that she is expected to stay in the room for now--to leave this early would be an insult to her guests. Never mind that most of them would readily excuse it. She must remain; she must continue to evade the Colonel as he draws near; and she must maintain at least the appearance of perfect innocence.

As she gracefully eludes her pursuer, however, Mary Anne is quite certain that she would not escape for long if Brandon did not permit it. And she can feel stirring within her that strange blend of anticipation and apprehension from childhood games. Hide-and-seek: crouching in concealment as the pursuer passes with inches of her hiding place, certain that the beating of her heart must give her away. Or the variation, in which the players hide from the seeker, only to leap out at an opportune moment--"Gotcha!" The mingling of dread and delight . . .

Mary Anne pauses at the tables to refill her glass--cool water, this time.

Memories. This was what Brandon had done to her at Renie's wedding. That silent signal to her, during the ceremony--adoring her with his eyes, asking her, silently . . .

Mary Anne sips her water.

In similar fashion, Brandon had "pursued" her throughout the Grubers' wedding reception. Brandon, never more than a few yards from her, teasing her with his nearness, making her heart hammer and the colour come and go in her cheeks . . . his low, intimate singing into her ear as Sir Neville and the orchestra had played those sets of old-style carols . . .

Mary Anne, absorbed in the past.

Tomorrow shall be my dancing day . . .

She can hear Brandon. Low and intimate, at her very ear.

I would my true love so did chance
To see the legend of my play
To call my true love to the dance . . .

And yes, they had danced. Mary Anne's eyes close--the feeling, in his arms, as if she would melt away, as if she would fall if he did not hold her . . .

Sing O, my love . . . my love . . . my love . . .
This have I done for my true love . . .

Mary Anne allows herself to wonder, briefly, just what would have happened if The Interrogator had not abducted her and Brandon from Nakatomi that very night. Her mind shies from the recollection . . . HIM, in his guise as Brandon, and the removal to Safehouse #3, then under HIS control, and what had happened there . . .

Don't think of it. It is past now. All past. What, indeed, would have happened if she and Brandon had returned to their hotel that night? For if ever two human beings had been on fire for each other . . . and she had as good as issued an invitation, one that the Colonel for all his honour might not have been able to resist: Kiss me until I beg you to stop . . . and then, don't stop . . .

Even then, the set of amethysts was in readiness as a Christmas gift for her. Suppose . . . suppose they had returned to the Bel Air. Their adjoining rooms, only that door between them. Brandon, with his gift--would he have spoken aloud, then, what he had only trusted to the language of the eyes and heart? Would he . . .

Mary Anne sighs and leans against the wall, her eyes still closed.

Would she . . . could they have . . .

Mary Anne, deep in these meditations, startles and almost spills her water as a hand settles on her shoulder. Gentle but inescapable.

And then a VOICE at her ear: "I, Christopher, take thee, Mary Anne . . . "

To have and to hold, indeed.

Dev glanced up at Therese longingly. Soon? he thought hopefully. He fought to control his emotions, which were careening wildy out of control. Please God, my love, make it soon...

"First...." Therese pulled the simple cotton shift over her shoulders, draping it neatly upon the chair that held Eamon's clothes and her robe, and sat down on the bed beside him.

Eamon quickly closed his eyes, but not before the sight of Therese, standing naked before him, had been seared into his mind. He truly loved everything about Therese, and their love was held by a far firmer bond than merely a physical attaction, but heaven above help him right now, because though her charms were not the only quality that drew him to her, at present they were most....compelling. He ached with the need to touch the silky soft skin of her shoulder, to cup a breast in the palm of his hand...to hold her against his... Dev began to recite the rosary in earnest.

Therese sat beside Eamon, her hip touching his side, her right arm resting on his stomach. Her fingers traced the pattern of his ribs, tapered down his side, and circled his navel. A sharp hiss of breath left his lips as her hand lingered on his lower stomach.

"Therese, dearest...I do not know how much more...I can take." His voice was low, his speech filled with pauses as he fought to maintain his control. The muscles of his upper arms flexed rigidly in their exertion as he struggled to maintain his position.

"You do not know how much more you can take?" She trailed her hand across his lower stomach, around his hip, and down his thigh, feeling the long muscles of his leg tighten at her touch. "And you do not know how long I plan to continue, either? I could choose to leave you thus for hours..." She withdrew her hand from his body, and considered his prone form until he opended his eyes once more. "Or I could decide to allow you to move your arms mere moments from now." Her hand was back, caressing his chest, her fingernails grazing lightly along his throat. "I believe that is what they call helplessness, Eamon. You have no idea what I plan, how long you are to endure it, or when I shall end my little game."

"You could choose to end it now," he implored, his voice soft. "And allow me to show you my regret at betraying your trust. You'll not doubt me again if it's in my power to convince you this is so."

Therese smiled. "Correct, I could choose to end it now. Or I can make you wait. Remember, it is my decision." She stretched out along side of him, her smaller body pressing up against his, as she reveled in the warmth of his body against hers."

A small groan inadvertantly escaped him at the sensation of her skin, pressed against his own. He was unable to check his responses to her by this point, and beyond caring if she knew the control she wielded over him. He knew only that his pride no longer mattered, he no longer cared if she were in control, or who was to be the 'victor' of their 'game.' If this was helplessness, he wanted no part of it, and concentrated on the pattern of Therese's breathing as she contemplated him. "Please...." he murmered softly.

At the look on Brandon's face, Mary Anne rises from her chair--fighting to still the trembling of her knees--and moves casually toward the food tables on the pretense of refilling her plate, trying not to feel the burn of those eyes along her spine. Well, Mary Anne, you had to go wondering what he'd be like if the playful mood passed off. Looks as if you'll find out . . .

Even though her dress is fashioned of thin silk, Mary Anne suddenly feels as if the room is much too warm, and fans herself with a napkin.

And she does not return to her seat. Give Brandon a chance to cool off a little . . .

Plate in one hand, glass in the other, Mary Anne circles the room, making conversation with the guests. A few moments with Raz, whose behaviour has improved somewhat since the previous evening. Just as well that Dev isn't here, though, or we'd probably have another fight, or something. For Mary Anne quickly notices that Father Grigori's improved behaviour does not keep him from trying to look down the front of her gown. Some habits die hard, I suppose.

Mary Anne moves on.

Guests. Emma. And there is Lis. Mary Anne pauses for a moment of conversation, and finally works her away around to asking, "Lis, have you seen Claudia today?"

Lis shakes her head. "No, and I've been wondering where she is! Maybe she and Ed . . . " Lis giggles. "I mean, the boys are still here, so maybe she and Ed just took some time alone."

Mary Anne follows the direction of Lis' glance. Yes, there are the boys, sitting with Mrs. Jennings on a sofa off in the corner--and from the way the twins are laughing, she is a hit with them.

Mary Anne moves toward the corner. "Mrs. Jennings!"

The beplumed and beruffled Mrs. Jennings hugs Mary Anne as she takes her seat next to the boys, who take in the newcomer in her blue-green, then turn to each other for a short conference.

"That's that pretty lady from the church," says Luke.

Over the heads of the twins, Mary Anne looks at Mrs. Jennings with amusement, then tells the boys, "Thanks, but your mum's a lot prettier than I am, you know."

Joseph nods solemnly. "I know. Mummy's like a Spice Girl." The beautiful child-gaze rivets Mary Anne, until Joseph adds, "A hot wench."

Mrs. Jennings practically explodes with laughter, rocking back and forth on the sofa, and Mary Anne is hard put to contain herself, pressing her napkin to her lips until she has her laughter under control.They've definitely been around Ed for a while!

Finally she ventures, "How did you end up with the twins, ma'am? Did Ed and Claudia leave them with you?"

"Oh, dear, no," offers Mrs. Jennings, her masses of ruffles still quivering with the aftereffects of her mirth. "When I had my morning tea, I found them wandering about wondering where their mamma was, so I've just taken charge of them for a bit. They are such darlings!"

Mary Anne feels the slightest touch of a chill. "Wondering where their mamma was? You haven't seen Claudia, or Ed?"

"No, my dear, not since last night. And speaking of last night . . ." A droll wink. "I trust that you and the Colonel got along splendidly, did you not?"

Mary Anne flushes, then remembers that Mrs. Jennings' teasing is kindly meant. No doubt--no doubt--she sees herself in the role of a mother here, as Mary Anne does not have her own mother present to advise her. And so she brings herself to smile at Mrs. Jennings, who reaches over to pat her hand kindly. Mary Anne clears her throat. "It was very good of you to stay the night, ma'am, to, um, look after me, but everything is fine, just fine."

"I should think it is." Mrs. Jennings is not looking at Mary Anne, but scanning the crowd. "It is, indeed, when your husband simply cannot keep himself away from you for ten minutes altogether. Just look at him now! So attentive!" (homage)

Mary Anne turns--and yes, there is Brandon following in her footsteps, working his way through the guests and engaging in polite conversation, but headed unmistakably straight for her, and drawing nearer and nearer.

Trying not to hurry, Mary Anne gathers up her plate, wineglass, and napkin. "Thank you again for your . . . kindness, ma'am. I have to--" Mary Anne nods toward the crowd. "--make the rounds, you understand. Let me know if you see Ed and Claudia, will you?"

"But of course I will." And as Mary Anne begins to turn away: "But could you perhaps answer one question for me, Mary Anne? No, you could not possibly know--"

Mary Anne turns back toward Mrs. Jennings, while keeping an eye on the inexorable advance of Colonel Brandon. "What is it, ma'am?"

Mrs. Jennings hesitates--most unlike her--and finally asks, "Would you have any idea what Miss Therese wanted with . . . a feather?"

Mary Anne's eyes widen. "A . . . feather?"

"Why, yes. She came to see me earlier and asked to borrow one of my ostrich plumes! I thought perhaps she was planning some splendid ornament for this evening. I had so looked forward to seeing how she would appear in it--such a beautiful girl! Though she didn't seem the type for plumes, I should have guessed . . ."

"Perhaps not for wearing them," murmurs Mary Anne, and when Mrs. Jennings looks at her--"What's that, my dear?"--she hastily replies, "Nothing. I was just thinking that Miss Therese and Mister de Valera may have found another . . . occupation for the evening."

"Perhaps that is it." Mrs. Jennings beams at Mary Anne. "All of this love must be catching!"

"Perhaps," smiles Mary Anne. "Good evening, Mrs. Jennings." And as she turns away she mutters to herself, "Someone is going to catch something, that's for sure," as she tries, without any appearance of haste, to retreat from Brandon and fade into the crowd of dinner guests . . .

"Why, Lukas?" Grace interrupted. "Why would you want me to have the keys to Global Marketing?"

"Because I still need your help with the sting. And I trust you, Grace. I don't know any other way to tell you," he said, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips.

Grace looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "What are the rest of the keys, then?"

"The front door and the gate," he said simply, as though it should be obvious to her.

"Of the Global Marketing building?"

"No," he replied, slowly, as if she were deliberately misunderstanding him. He pressed the keychain back into her hand. "This house. You may not want to move in right away, but I want you to think of it as your home." He avoided her eyes as he added, "Our home."

He heard the sound of the bunch of keys hitting the hardwood floor.

Mesmer needs additional information. "Different people may run from love for different reasons. We must learn what about love frightens her so much that she would rather die than surrender to it."

Without offering any clues from his relationship with Andrea, Hamlet suggests, "Surrender. That in itself could be what she is avoiding."

Mesmer considers this. "Perhaps. -- Will you tell me what happened when you escorted Andrea to this room last night?"

Hamlet bristles. "It's personal."

Mesmer endeavors to gain Hamlet's trust. "And, anything you say will remain in this room. I give you my word. If there were any other way to help her, I would not pry. -- Did she invite you in?"

Hamlet gazes at the form in the bed and then again at Mesmer. Taking a deep breath, he answers with a sigh. "She did."

Well, thinks Mesmer, that is a two-word response. It could have been worse. He could have said "Yes." "Can you not remember anything more than that? -- Take a moment to recall everything you and she said and did. I will check her pulse and return to you presently."

Dev groaned aloud, his eyes tightly closed, head turned toward the far side of the room as if to block out the condition of his longing. It was not in any way successful.

His entire body felt as if it were on fire, and Therese's brief pauses, which were planned as a respite, merely caused him to smoulder. The control which he had fostered from earliest times, was in danger of slipping... Sweet Lord, this woman...and what she did to him... hang on lad...you're *not* to embarass youself...

Therese lay atop his body, nuzzling that favourite spot of hers below his jaw; her hair, freshly washed and silken smooth from her recent bath, trailed over his collarbone and onto his shoulder. He drew in a quick breath.

"Like that, did you?" she purred, dragging her tresses slowly across his neck and throat.

He raised his head a tiny bit, almost as if he planned to breathe in the scent of her tawny locks, but as Therese went to raise her head, she found herself restrained. Eamon opened his eyes lazily, smiling through a mouthful of her hair. His long legs closed about her hips and legs almost before she realized what had happened, and impatiently shaking her tresses free from his lips, he quickly caputred her mouth with his own. His kiss was urgent, and demanding, and when she attempted to lift her head from his, his grip tightened grip about her legs perceptively.

Therese glanced to the headboard. As she had expected, his arms had not moved.

Lowering her head once more she permitted the kiss to continue, her own breath quickly becoming as ragged as his own. Exactly as he'd planned, no doubt.... Reaching down below the side of the bed, her fingers closed upon the silky soft item she'd left there earlier, and she retrieved it, dragging the feather slowly up the right side of his body. In his surprise, he flinched, moving away from the sensation, and Therese lept free of his hold.

"Quite clever, Mr. de Valera," Therese complimented him from her new position, standing safely above him over the bed. "I do believe from your response that you are beginning to realize what it is I'm referring to by 'helplessness,' are you not?"

Dev frowned. He must be slipping. To kiss her as he just had, and have her, mere seconds later, preparing to lecture him again? His groan this time was mental, he did not know how much more of this he could withstand. "Dearest, please, I now am much more--aware--of what you speak. Give me leave to move my arms, that I may make up for this morning--with your pleasure."

Therese swallowed. His voice was velvet, rich and husky, and it alone was enough to make her quiver. His promise of pleasure...she quickly checked about the room. Not a single fainting couch in sight. Buck up! she admonished herself, you're made of sterner stuff than that. "Soon," she whispered, "but not yet. First...."

The meal proceeds--every bit as much a celebration, in its way, as the previous evening. Then, the company had observed the age-old rituals of giving a new marriage a "good start," with the requisite toasts and teasings and jokes and wishes; that being over, there is a perceptible change in the atmosphere. It must be admitted that the fire crackling between the Colonel and Mary Anne on the previous evening had been driving most of their friends half out of their minds, but now everyone can settle back and reflect contentedly . . .

. . . everyone, that is, except Colonel Brandon, who has encountered some unexpected difficulties.

With Mary Anne as his chosen beloved, he should be accustomed to this by now.

Dinner proceeds, and Brandon makes polite conversation with the guests seated nearest to him in the grouping of chairs where he and Mary Anne have taken up residence for the moment. And Mary Anne is doing the same, deep in gossip with Tamsie about the goings-on back in Egdon--inquiries after the residents there, and changes that Tamsie has made in the House. Harmless enough.

However, Brandon more than once looks across at Mary Anne to find her eyeing him smokily, with just that touch of a smile that portends mischief.

She is out of his reach. He cannot touch her.

Tamsie rises from her chair beside Mary Anne and goes back to the tables for a re-fill . . . and Brandon finds it most difficult to keep his mind on pleasantries with Giles and Emilie, when Mary Anne gives him a smouldering stare and delicately raises her soup spoon to her lips . . .

Brandon feels the heat creeping up under his collar. The way her lips close about the bowl of the spoon--just a little too long for comfort . . .

Or the way she picks up her wineglass--and with that same teasing smile, allows her fingers to linger playfully on the stem, stroking, before she raises it to her lips.

Brandon feels a tremor pass through him but manages to smile back, thinking, Two can play this, as he lifts his own glass . . .

. . . and, holding Mary Anne's gaze as Giles and Emilie are distracted by a story from Diggory, he cups his hand gently around the globe of the glass, settling his palm against it, as his fingers curl around the curve, playing lightly across the crystal, teasing at it . . .

Mary Anne's eyes narrow, and Brandon's smile widens. A little. He lifts his glass . . .

. . . just as Mary Anne neatly spears a tender stalk of asparagus with her fork, and lifts it to her lips . . .

Brandon chokes on his wine, prompting Diggory to break off his story and lean over to pound the Colonel on the back. "Are you all right, Colonel? Here . . ." Venn offers his water glass.

A few more breathless coughs, before Brandon can sip from the water glass and reply, "Yes--" Clearing his throat. "I am well, it simply . . . went down the wrong way, is all."

A severe glance at Mary Anne, who, having started from her chair in concern as Brandon had coughed and spluttered, is now back in it, attending to her plate with every appearance of perfect innocence.

Feeling the weight of Brandon's stare, she looks up and smiles a little, and her right eyelid flickers in the ghost of a wink.

Brandon cannot repress his immediate response of smiling back--not right away, but he does get himself under control, and Mary Anne can read, clearly enough, the look in his eyes.

My dearest . . . just WAIT until I get you alone.

I'd better start moving again He scanned the horizon hoping to see something really familiar. The low, rugged hills all seemed to look alike from where the night's travel had brought him. The springs, we were headed for the big hot springs The volcanic uplift surrounding him was no help in locating that.I'd better just continue north and west...that's the general direction they should be in...lets just hope they're looking for me too

"I gave you a gift once before, Grace. It was *not* well received," he began in a stern voice. Grace looked down at her glass, trying to hold back a blush at the recollection of her anger at Hart for sending her a Cartier watch, and how she had been injured in a fall on the Sea Dove when she went to return it.

"Any apology I can give you now is too little, too late, Lukas," she said, miserably and more than a little defiantly.

"I'm not looking for an apology. But I would like you to accept this." Hart held out the little white box to her. she put down her glass and lifted the lid off the box. Inside was a simple sterling silver keychain, a perfect circle carrying several shiny new keys. It was beautiful in its own way, but as utilitarian as the Cartier watch had been luxurious. She picked up the keys and looked up at him questioningly.

Take 99.

While stepping back towards the bed, Kari plays affectionately with Achilles' buttons .. opening one and then the next. Suddenly, there is an unfortunate accident. He steps on her toes. Except this time, she doesn't respond as she had throughout the previous 98 takes. She unexpectedly makes a fist and forcefully whacks Achilles in the shoulder. "What are you doing?" she yells at him.

He looks surprised at her reaction. "WHAT?!" he yells back while shrugging innocently.

"If I have to do this take one more time, I'm going to walk off this set and you can do the love scene all by yourself!" she yells as she gives him a hard shove. "Can't you do anything right?"

He shoves her back. "You're responsible for a lot of mistakes as well! Don't blame this on me!"

The Director looks on, not sure if he should interrupt or allow them to play out their anger -- which might make for a perfect Take 100. He folds his arms and continues to observe with interest.

"Ohhhh, I don't think so!" she says as she crinkles her nose and gives him another shove. "First you push me off the bed, then you tell me I'm grabbing it too hard, and now you can't stop stepping on my feet!" She finishes off her wordy barrage with another shove and, in response, Achilles shoves her back. He wasn't about to take abuse from a little redhead!

The shove he gave proved to be the final straw and, in an uncharacteristic (for her) turn, she flung herself at him and the two began to fight. Fists flew, tufts of hair were pulled, and shouts echoed down the deserted hallway outside of the set.

At this point, the Director decides to intervene. He has had all he can take. After trying to get this volatile couple to cooperate for the better part of a day, he honestly believes that the scene will have to be scrapped. After all, it was supposed to be a seductive, illicit love scene in a luxurious hotel room .. yet all they could manage to do was screw everything up. He arches his eyebrows for the final time in the direction of the furiously squabbling pair.

Take 72.

Rolling around on the bed in the throes of imaginary passion, Kari and Achilles manage, albeit accidentally, to fall off onto the floor with a loud "OOMPH!"

Realizing that it is Take 72, and this latest mishap isn't going to wearing well with the Director (who is long overdue his tea), they attempt to continue the scene as scripted.

The Director shakes his head. Were they ever going to get this right? It had been a very big mistake on his part when he agreed to their being cast for the roles of the journalist from Boston and the Greek from Athens. He was almost at the end of his rope.

After lecturing Kari about unscripted lines, the Director attempts the scene several more times. It is now past lunchtime.

CLAP! The clapboard rings out resoundingly. Take 56.

Achilles pushes Kari onto the bed and passion ensues. Suddenly, he yells out in pain. An unrehearsed bellow. "OWWWWW!"

She winces at the sound and looks at him curiously. What in the world was he yelling about?

He grits his teeth, aware that the cameras are still rolling, and shouts down at her. "Don't pull on it so hard!"

The Director is struggling to keep control of his young cast members during shooting of this important one-night-stand scene. He wants it to be lusciously lighted, seductively scintillating, and, obviously, passionate. It has to set the stage for the attraction (and adversity) between the two. It has to explain why Kari and Achilles have a love/hate relationship. In other words, it simply had to be perfect.

However, Kari and Achilles are having a difficult time concentrating and mishaps are occurring at an unbelievable rate. It is only 10 A.M. and the crew has already had to scrap the previous 26 takes. The Director gives the couple a stern talking-to (couldn't they take a lesson or two from Renie and Hans -- who never took more than one take for any one scene?) and takes his place behind the camera once again.

The clapboard reads Take 27. As it claps shut with an unspoken urgency, the Director calls out the familiar word, "Action!"

They work their way through the scene without incident until Achilles delivers his next-to-the-last line.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" he asks just before pushing Kari backwards onto the bed.

And then, on an impulse, she delivers a line that isn't in the script. "Am I up for this?" she asks in a playful manner as her eyes suggestively drift down the length of his body. "I think the question should be .. are you?" Achilles' face contorts in an amusing fashion as he attempts to remain serious .. but to no avail. In keeping with the spirit of the moment, the two begin to laugh uproariously and uncontrollably and fall onto the bed in a hysterical heap. They wriggle around in an attempt to stifle their giggles but it is of no use. Achilles starts to cry which makes Kari laugh even harder. And just then, in the midst of the sudden commotion, a sobering order booms somberly across the set ..

Mesmer motions to Hamlet that they should talk at the far end of the room. Both men walk to the open window. Mesmer retrieves his coat from the chair and slips his arms into the sleeves, adjusting the ruffles at his cuffs. "Hamlet, do you know what Andrea was running from last night? From what she is still running?--Without speaking to her, I can only guess."

Hamlet shrugs into his coat. He is not eager to discuss this highly personal matter with Mesmer. "And, what would be your guess?"

Hamlet's evasion assures Mesmer that he is asking the right person the right question. If he must guess, "I'd say she is running away from love: the love of her friends and ... your love--something more than the love of a friend."

"There's a place at FOF called the D.o.C.,
Oh, there's a place at FOF called the D.o.C.,
And if I'm not more careful, they'll have a cell just for meeee . . ."

HE grabbed the corner of the desk, stopping its slow revolutions, so she had to look at HIM. What game was she playing, what was happening here? "I meant how did you get through the security? Someone's head is going to roll for this!"

"I must admit," said Claudia, uncrossing her legs and letting them swing freely from the edge of the table. "I was a bit disappointed myself. I used codes over a year old and still managed to walk straight in and get into your office without being challenged. You're slipping."

"The codes are changed regularly…" the Interrogator was beginning to gain control of HIMSELF again, the rush of adrenaline was subsiding and HIS mind was able to function.

"Oh, you changed them all right," the smirk on her face was a challenge which at the moment HE didn't take. "but you neglected to cancel the old ones. I used old codes to gain access the building, but they were still valid codes."

She hopped off the desk and took a step towards HIM. "My dear Mr I, you don't have time to worry about the little details, they should take care of themselves, while you work on the larger picture."

Talking like an artist, HE thought. Too much time wasted with that Ed.

Her hand reached up and tidied his hair. "I can see you are in dire need of an assistant."

HE came to a door and kicked it open, the large space inside reverberating with the crash of door against wall. Inside he slammed the door shut. He tugged at the collar of his cape, pulling so hard that the button pinged off, and bounced across the chessboard floor. The cape followed the button, flung aside, as his footfalls echoed in the room: black, white, black, white.

The last two days had not gone as he'd hoped. That was an understatement. And then the girl on the horse, what she had done to HIM… he fumed more at the thought, and pulled at the neck of his silk white shirt, opening it to the waist. He was flushed with anger and his hair disheveled. The Interrogator had finally lost control. Always so calm, so cold and calculating. Now he was alone, and he let those emotions out - those damn crippling emotions.

He was so intent on his own feelings, that he hadn't noticed that he wasn't alone. Not until he reached his desk, that is, and noticed the calm spot in the chaos of the room.

His desk was slowly rotating, and in the centre sat a girl clad in jeans and a leather jacket, in the lotus position, eyes closed. He stopped stock-still and stared. Put his hands on his hips and drew several calming breaths.

"How the hell did YOU get in here?!" His voice trembled as he tried to harness those rampaging emotions and put them safely away in their box.

"Of course I'll have to swear you to secrecy," Hart said archly, expertly dishing perfectly poached salmon onto brightly colored Luna Garcia pottery plates. He stopped in mid-stir over the risotto pan. "Don't tell me you don't cook. It *is* the ultimate challenge," he said in all mock seriousness.

Grace believed cooking to be a black art and avoided it at all costs. "I'm better at eating, Lukas. And dynamite at cleaning up." Hart rolled his eyes as he rapidly adjusted the flame under the risotto brodo. "Can you at least open a bottle of wine?" he asked, gesturing to a bottle of Byron Santa Barbara County pinot noir on the counter. "I prefer it with salmon, but there is plenty of white chilled if you like." She had no doubt there was. She opened the wine and helped Hart out of his apron as they gathered up the plates to carry into the dining room.

Over dinner and wine, their initial awkwardness evaporated. The dining room range with their occasional laughter, an unusual sound in this house. After dinner, Hart built a fire in a cozy sitting room off the terrace and settled Grace on the sofa with a glass of her favorite grappa.

A small groan escaped Eamon's lips as Therese caressed his body, her fingertips brushing him lightly all over, stroking, teasing, and tormenting...

She stood for a moment above him, and removed her dressing robe, standing before him in her simple cotton shift, blonde hair loose around her shoulders. Placing the peach coloured fabric atop Dev's pile of clothing, Therese knelt beside the bed, and kissed him softly. His response was immediate, and he returned the action hungrily, straining upward to maintain the contact with her lips as she once more stood.

"Getting warmed up, I see?" she inquired, her voice low.

Warmed up? Eamon thought to himself wryly. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to pull Therese to the bed beside him and spend the rest of the night making her moan and sigh beneath him. "Have you accomplished now what you've set out to do?"

"Oh, not at all, my dear," she assured him with a soft chuckle. "Remember, the point of my 'little game' as you see fit to call it, is to give you a small taste of helplessness. I don't believe you've felt that way yet tonight. Yes, you've been tolerant, you've kept a sense of humour about this whole proceeding, and you have shown remarkable patience--none of which were my point. I believe the time has come to step up the proceedings a bit."

Eamon swallowed. His desire was becoming the dull ache of need, and he knew that if Therese continued, it would soon rage within him, excluding all else. Whatever his feelings, and regardless of the force of them, he would remain as he was until she told him otherwise. Steady, Dev....you've your pride you know, as well as your word.

Therese was merciless.

Lying beside him on the bed she proceeded to drive Eamon to distraction, using every feminine wile she possessed, and probably discovering a few along the way. Hands, lips, fingertips, tongue, and her very breath roamed his body, remaining until a sudden intake of breath, or a gasp prompted her to move to a different spot, where she began the process once again. His respiration soon grew ragged, punctuated with decided gasps of pleasure, and distinct murmers of deprivation.

Eamon reeled beneath the assault of pleasure on his person, his resolve to remain still soon lost. His hands, as he'd pledged, remained in their designated position, fingers clenched tightly in his effort, but it was simply beyond his control to prevent the movement of the rest of his self. His body writhed with pleasure, moving toward Therese's lips and fingers of its own volition, seeking the fulfillment that each and every nerve ending craved.

What Therese did not provide, was relief.

Mary Anne, of course, now knows the whole story of what took place in Egdon between Renie and the Vicomte, and feels a distinct urge to empty the steaming contents of one of the coffee urns over the Vicomte's impeccable silver-cream suit . . . preferably the lower portion of the suit. That he could have been so cruel and malicious . . . but then, that should come as no surprise. The way he is looking at her now, for instance, as Brandon greets Lis-- yes, the Vicomte has seen her in this gown before as well, and looks his appreciation most intently . . .

"Monsieur . . ."

"Yes, Madame?" Inquiring arc of the Vicomte's eyebrow.

Silky smile from Mary Anne. "If you do not keep your eyes to yourself, I shall send one of the staff upstairs to fetch Herr Gruber, who would be pleased to assist the Colonel, I'm sure. I saved you from your just deserts in one duel; I shall not do so again."

The tiniest hint of a smile from the Vicomte. "I was not worth the saving the first time, as you well know. But--" Valmont, in the immortal Gallic fashion, manages to shrug with his facial expression alone. "--you can hardly wear such a gown as that, Madame, and not expect men to . . . look." A pause. "Especially when it suits you so well."

"No compliments, please. Save them for Lis. As to looking--there is a difference between that and staring. No portion of my anatomy is going to fall out of this gown."

"Perhaps not, but a man is permitted to hope."

Valmont smiles and withdraws.

Thankfully, Brandon's attention had been distracted by several other guests, and Mary Anne is free, now, to move among the company, greeting more friends until she reaches the buffet tables, where she fills a plate and goes in search of a seat.

Brandon joins her within moments, but the only seat left in that grouping is some little distance away, within easy conversation range but not within touching distance.

Just as well, thinks Mary Anne, smiling. After that little exchange upstairs . . . Her smile widens as she contemplates what wickedness she might do, with Brandon seated there in clear view of her, but with her out of his reach . . .

And even as Mary Anne meditates devilment, she scans the room. Definitely some missing persons. Where is Andrea, for instance? And Hamlet, and Doctor Mesmer?

For that matter, where is THE Doctor?

Mary Anne turns in her seat. Claudia and Ed missing, too. Still, Hans had said at breakfast that he had seen Claudia early that morning . . . oh, well, Delaford is a big place, and some people have a longer recovery time than others. Raz is probably sleeping it off somewhere, for that matter; some of the others may be doing the same . . .

Then a genuinely alarming thought occurs to her, temporarily driving away thoughts of teasing the Colonel as she asks him, "Sir, when you and Mister de Valera had finished . . . talking . . ."

Brandon sets down his glass. "He intended to go in search of Miss Therese, I believe."

Mary Anne gestures toward the room, from which Dev and Therese are notably absent. "Do you think he found her?" Brandon scans the room, a slight frown on his face, as Mary Anne adds, "I certainly hope they haven't killed each other." A shaky smile, trying to make light of the matter, but Mary Anne is certain that Therese must have been severely offended. There is every indication that she does have a temper, more than a dash of determination, and a resourceful and inventive spirit as well.

Ah, now, Dev, I'd like to see you try and blarney your way out of this one . . . But on further reflection, Mary Anne decides that she probably would NOT like to see such a thing after all. Wondering how Therese might react, Mary Anne contemplates what she might do herself in similar circumstances, and represses a shudder. Poor Dev.

Dinner proceeds. The clatter of silver and porcelain and the ring of fine crystal, and laughter, and calls of greeting--and guests, passing by the seating where Mary Anne and Brandon have taken up their stations, stopping to thank them for the lovely time everyone seems to be having at Delaford, or indulging the sly banter of the morning.

And Mary Anne, while trading quips with her company, is now honestly a little worried, and scans the room once more--expecting, perhaps, that Dev will appear, smiling, with Therese, basking in her forgiveness. Or, perhaps, that Dev will appear with a mournful face, and that Therese might enter separately, unapproachably wrapped in her mantle of scorn and fury. After that little exchange with her in the library, Mary Anne is inclined to doubt it, but still . . .

And so she watches.

Dev does not come. Nor does Therese.

The Delaford staff have removed all traces of the yesterday's wedding reception from the ballroom and scrubbed it to an admirable state of cleanliness. Now this grand ballroom serves as a dining hall, though the arrangments are similar to those of the previous day: the food ranged on long tables near the walls, for the guests to help themselves as they wish. And instead of long banquet-style tables, there are small groupings of seats scattered about the room, so that the guests may sit and converse with their friends while enjoying their food. Mary Anne notes with approval that Miss MacLeod has followed her wishes in setting small tables near these clusters of chairs. Nothing worse than trying to juggle a plate, and a cup, and your silverware, and wishing you had three or four hands . . .

But these thoughts are cut short, for the minute Brandon enters the hall with Mary Anne on his arm, the guests are turning toward them with smiles and exclamations of greeting, and Mary Anne braces herself, expecting more teasing such as she and Brandon had endured at breakfast.

Fortunately, the first to reach them are Diggory and Tamsie, and the modest and retiring Venn would sooner swallow hot coals than embarrass a friend with a bawdy joke, and he considers both the Colonel and Mary Anne as his friends.

As Venn bows over Mary Anne's hand, she shoots covert glance at Brandon, who is conducting himself in a similar fashion with Thomasin, and Mary Anne is simultaneously amused and touched. Venn will never quite be able to carry off such a gesture with Brandon's elegant grace, for Diggory Venn is one of those males who never seems quite at home in any formal, courtly proceeding. Nevertheless, there is such friendliness and earnest good will in him that Mary Anne admits to herself: There are, perhaps, a few other women in the world whose husbands are as remarkable as mine. Tamsie is one of them. "Miss Mary Anne!" beams Venn, and then his face falls. "I mean, excuse me--Mrs. Brandon . . ."

"Don't trouble yourself, Diggory," laughs Mary Anne. "I'm not used to it yet, either!"

"Well, you must allow me to say, I never saw a more beautiful bride--but once."

Both Mary Anne and Thomasin go a quite becoming shade of pink at this compliment, and Mary Anne thinks that she may have to re-think her stance on Venn's abilities in courtliness. Brandon, however, is already shaking Venn's hand. "And how are things at the Manor House? I must confess that sometimes I miss Egdon."

"Oh, Tamsie and I are making a success of it--have had to take on some more people and all, to keep up with the guests." A sigh. "Yes, there's times . . . I miss it too, Colonel, those days when all were together, the lot of us. Such adventures as we had!"

Mary Anne manages to smile in appreciation, but some of those "adventures" she could certainly have done without. Those tunnels, for instance, beneath the Manor House . . .

With that reminder that The Interrogator is still at large, Mary Anne glances nervously at the windows, half-expecting to see a pale face pressed against the glass, staring vengefully at her . . .

Venn is speaking, and Mary Anne forces her attention back to him.

"I mind," he says smiling, "the first time I saw you in that frock, Mrs. Brandon. Do you?"

"Let me see--that would have been at the Field of Furze Celebration--"

"No," grins Diggory. "The first time."

Suddenly, Mary Anne remembers--and so does Brandon, apparently, for he is suddenly clearing his throat as Venn continues. "That time, when I brought the Colonel to you--"

"I remember now," intervenes Mary Anne, for without even looking at Brandon, she can tell that he is most uncomfortable. Yes. She remembers. When Brandon had visited Venn, and poured out his heart, and had partaken of a drop too much of the Heath's potent version of mead . . .

Mary Anne will never forget opening the door of her guestroom at the Manor House, there to be confronted by the apparition of Diggory Venn trying to get Brandon out of sight before anyone else could see him. For Brandon, quite frankly, had been plastered . . .

An anecdote like this is quite as near as Venn can bring himself to teasing them about anything really embarrassing. Though she knows it will get no worse, Mary Anne is relieved at the sound of Tamsie's soft sigh. "What I'll always regret," she says, "is that I was ill the night of that performance. The Highwayman. Oh, to think I didn't see that! Perhaps, Mary Anne, you and the Colonel will play it in Egdon again?"

"Perhaps," says Brandon cautiously, and Mary Anne turns her face away to hide her amusement. Perhaps, but he'll never surpass his performance in that role last night . . .

And Tamsie again. "Mister Venn, we're keeping the Colonel and Mary Anne from their guests."

Mary Anne touches Thomasin on the arm. "Perhaps we can talk more during dinner. I want to hear what you've done with the House. And," a droll wink, "how you enjoyed playing the Lady opposite Diggory!"

Other guests. The Senior Herr Gruber, representing the family this evening, since Hans has remained upstairs with Renie. It is astonishing, the resemblance between father and son: Anton is an older version of Hans, physically powerful, without the least sign of frailty. This is no conventional "old man," despite the silvered hair and the deep creases around the honey-coloured eyes, a shade or two darker than those of his son. As he shakes hands with Brandon, and pays Mary Anne the respectful tribute of a kiss on her cheek, she thinks admiringly of the beautiful wedding gift he had sent to them. A product of Gruber Glassworks, Herr Anton Gruber's gift had been a glass sculpture of a bird of paradise, so delicately yet realistically rendered and tinted that one half-expects the wings to spread and the bird to lift in flight. The attached note had contained his best wishes for their happiness, the hope that they would find their marriage a "paradise . . ."

A lovely thought.

More guests, and Mary Anne catches her breath at the sight of the next couple to approach them.

None other than Lis, along with the Vicomte de Valmont . . .

Claudia ran, her bag making a thump, thump, thump noise on the back of her leather jacket. It seemed a very long way from the house to the main gate of Delaford, and she found herself concentrating on the regular beat of the bag on her back to keep her pace and keep running. She didn't stop until she was out of the gate, and out of sight of it down the road.

When she did stop, she turned round several times, to look for landmarks and get her bearings. She'd come to Delaford before, by motorbike, from HIS offices. As the memories of a year ago were now fresh in her mind, she had no trouble remembering the direction she should take. It would, however, take a lot longer on foot. She picked up the pace again, and started to run.

Though one would never guess from outward appearances that the Director was a bit fretful, inside the directorial wheels were turning quickly. He couldn't have Achilles questioning how the medication got into his system. If he did, it might be enough to warrant further investigation and as Detective Friedman had said earlier, that the guilty party (in this case, David, Sinclair, and the Director himself) could be charged with attempted murder. If the press got wind of a murder plot on the set (regardless of its authenticity), it could spell the end of funding from the BBC .. or, worse yet, immediate cancellation of the series which had soared in the ratings – winning its time period every night – since its debut on RTV (Rickmania Television) 18 months ago.

"I don't want to argue about it," states the Director in an authoritative manner. "Let's just forget this ever happened, shall we?"

Achilles narrows his eyes and clenches his teeth. He vaguely remembers seeing fuzzy figures standing over him as he lay on the couch in the trailer all those weeks ago. Had he been dreaming? Or had he been set up? No matter. He won't be allow himself to be bullied by anyone .. least of all, the Director. "And if I don't want to forget about it?" he threatens.

The Director turns away from Achilles and heads in the direction of the door. Opening it, he firmly places one foot over the threshhold and turns to throw a stern glare over his shoulder before disappearing through the doorway. His voice was unemotional and his words were bleakly blunt. "Then you can find yourself another job."

Achilles has regained consciousness and returned to the set after a rather long, albeit comatose, absence. While he is forgiven on account of the serious nature of his personal state, the Director decides to waste no time in getting his point across while Achilles readies for his next scene, which is being shot later that day.

After being informed by his assistant that Achilles has arrived back on the set and is currently in the wardrobe trailer, the Director arrives to have the "talk" with Achilles that he had mentioned to David and Sinclair only a few days prior. While Achilles changes into his Apollo Apparel yet again, the Director broaches the subject of the sleeping pills as well as the current date .. for, after all, it is now a new year.

A few short minutes later ..

"What do you mean I have missed Christmas?" demands Achilles, gesturing with enthusiasm as Greeks tend to do. "How does one miss Christmas?"

"By taking more of these than one should," answers the Director solemnly as he holds up a small bottle. Achilles had been asleep in the wardrobe trailer for a rather long time, resulting in his missing Christmas (and the celebrations that come along with it) entirely.

Achilles reaches out an arm and swipes the bottle from the Director's hand. Holding the label up to his face, he peers intensely at the small script. Prescription medication. For Sinclair Bryant. Sleeping pills.

"I didn't take any of this," mutters Achilles as he thrusts the bottle back at the Director. He believes that the story of his being asleep for a two weeks is just a ruse. A ruse concocted by the cast in order to save themselves the trouble of buying him holiday presents. Oddly enough, however (as he had observantly noticed), the calendars had all been moved ahead. He crinkles his brow in thought as he rubs his scruffy chin with a free hand. Mmmm. Yes. He arches his eyebrows. A very elaborate ruse apparently.

The Director folds his arms across his chest and raises his own eyebrow. "The medics say you did," he answers in a serious tone. He waves a hand dismissively. "That would explain why you have been asleep for so long. You realize, don't you, that you are lucky you didn't die. I never expected you to pull something of this sort."

Achilles can't bring himself to believe all the nonsense that has been thrust his way since he regained consciousness. He attempts to defend himself. "Now, why would I take Bryant's sleeping pills? I don't have any trouble falling asleep!"

And hi, Claudia! Have you found Mister I yet? Or . . . has HE found you?! =8-O

Keep going, Therese. Dev's a tough guy--but this should tenderize him nicely. *wicked wink*

No need to explain why my hands are shaking, I'm sure.

Mary Anne pirouettes slowly, treating the Colonel to a full view, from all angles, of just how well this dress displays her charms.

Not that Brandon needs a reminder. He is conscious of a distinct tightening in his . . . throat . . . as Mary Anne faces away from him. There, the curve of her shoulder and the gleaming skin of her back . . . and now, facing him, the view of her swanlike neck and . . .

Brandon clears his throat. "Mary Anne," he declares with mock severity, "this is most unfair of you."

A self-parody of the wide-eyed innocent stare. "How so?"

Brandon advances, playing the game with her but feeling his heart beat faster the nearer he approaches. "Why, because we must go downstairs to dinner. We have not the time, now, for me to--" Brandon raises an eyebrow.

"--ravish me as I deserve?" teases Mary Anne.

A half-smile. "Not exactly as I would have phrased it, but that is essentially correct."

"Look on the bright side, sir."

"And that is . . . ?"

Mary Anne grins. The look is pure devilment, and Brandon feels his heart turn over as she chuckles, "All through the evening, you shall have the pleasures of . . . anticipation."

"Shall I?" Brandon softly inquires, and moves nearer. "Then so shall you, my darling. Would you like for me to tell just what I would do, now, were we not expected downstairs at any moment?" There is laughter in Brandon's golden eyes, but unmistakable challenge as well.

Lift of Mary Anne's chin as she responds to the challenge. "Tell on, sir."

Brandon circles Mary Anne as she now stands completely still and allows him to inspect her at closer range.

"I would begin with the eyes."

Mary Anne is puzzled. "My eyes?"

"No. Mine. I would look at you, filling my eyes with the sight of you, until it had grown unbearable for both of us to have no touch but that, the touch of the eyes alone."

Brandon is close now, at her right side, and leans over to whisper to her--carefully not touching her, but so close his breath stirs her hair. "And would it grow unbearable for me, first, or for you? I wonder."

Mary Anne's eyes close, then open. "And . . . when you had looked . . ."

"I would bury my hands in your hair, thus . . ." The Colonel's hands, a scant inch from her hair. So close she feels the hair lift, standing on end at the excruciating nearness of him--close, but not close enough. The anticipation of a touch is a sensation in itself . . .

" . . . and stroke it, and stroke your face with it and mine as well." The living silk of it . . . Mary Anne . . . Brandon trembles a little at the effort of approaching so near with his hands and yet not touching, noting well the effect upon Mary Anne--her absolute stillness, yes, but Brandon does not miss the prickling skin along her neck and shoulders . . .

"There, next." Brandon's hand strokes the air above Mary Anne's collarbone, and she can feel the touch where there is no touch; before she realizes it, she has caught her lower lip between her teeth, stifling a sigh and gasp combined.

And it is nearly impossible to repress an outright moan as Brandon proceeds with his enumeration of her physical charms and describes the exact manner in which he intends to render them homage at the first respectable opportunity. It is apparent that in taking his wedding vows, Colonel Christopher Brandon has given long and serious thought to the phrase, "With my body I thee worship . . ."

Some moments later, Brandon ceases, knowing quite well that if he continues, he and Mary Anne will certainly not appear downstairs in the course of this evening. As for Mary Anne, she has seated herself on the bench before her mirror and strives, with shaking fingers, to fasten the hook of a double strand of pearls. She is adjusting the necklace, turning it to display the decorative clasp of heavy wrought silver, when Brandon leans over her and whispers, "And all of that, my dear, would be before I removed your gown."

With Brandon's assistance, Mary Anne is able to stand, though the light pressure of his hand upon her arm raises gooseflesh--that, and the expectant smile he turns upon her as he escorts her to the door of their chambers to lead her downstairs.

Mary Anne, conveniently forgetting that she was the one who started all of it, returns his smile, but is thinking, Christopher Brandon, I'll get you for this. Just see if I don't.

Therese drug the purple plume across Eamon's chest, down one side of his body, all the way along his leg, and circled it around his left