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 foot. She was careful to make the pressure with the feather such that yes, it did tickle, but it was not unbearable to withstand. Dev's hands tensed along the headboard, the muscles of his arms knotting slightly as he flinched from the touch. "Perhaps the British could make use of you...after all," he said with a hiss of indrawn breath."

"Rumour has it that Commander Hudson is amenable to considering me for the AR staff as well," Therese purred.

Dev gritted his teeth. "Over my dead body."

Therese couldn't help herself, and laughed out loud at his comment. "My dear, you are a bit of a slow study, are you not?" She gazed down at him from her position at the foot of the bed. "And perhaps not in the best prediciment to be issuing orders?"

Therese worked her way back up his body with her feather, crossing his right foot, traveling up his leg, over his side, and to his chest. She could see the effort that he took not to flinch this time, the long, corded muscles of his thighs tensing in their exertion.

"It's a good thing that you're not nearly so ticklish as I am, isn't it?" she asked him.

"Mental and physical anguish?" was his only response.

"To be sure, though I do not believe you are painting me in my best light, dearest. After all, the intention was to provide you some pleasure as well...."

Therese proceeed to follow the same path she had taken with her ostrich plume, but this time used her hands instead. She wore her fingernails short, but the tips grazed his skin gently upon occassion, and caused him no small amount of sensation.

Therese knew that Eamon was a man of huge passion. This same emotional quality that allowed him to love her with an all consuming sense, as well as devote himself body and soul to his beloved Ireland, was also certainly a prevelant factor in their physical relationship. He was a caring, tender lover, one who stroked and kissed and touched her continously, in all instances concerned with her pleasure before his own; at times it had felt to Therese as if his passion had spilled out of him to consume her as well.

As you all know, opposites attract (in the case of magnetic poles, South-to-North and North-to-South). So, for Mesmer to be repelled by a magnet, the pole must be the same, not opposite (i.e., South-to-South or North-to-North).

So sorry for the confusion. Please forgive me.

In a small room next to Hart's study, Beta looked up at a bank of video monitors to see Grace pass through the front gate. He knocked on the connecting door to the study and waited a discreet moment before entering. Hart was sitting with his back to Beta, still gazing out the window toward the ocean. Beta cleared his throat and said quietly, "she's here, Mr. Hart."

"That's all, Beta. Don't come back until I call you," Hart replied, without turning around.

Beta didn't like being so summarily dismissed, but he knew well enough to keep his own counsel. "Good evening then, sir," he said, and turned to leave.

Hart went upstairs to open the front door of the house. He leaned against the open door, watching Grace park her car and walk toward him. She resisted the urge to run into his arms. He resisted the urge to cover her face with kisses. Instead, she reached up her hand and calmly caressed her face as she said hello. He welcomed her to his home and folded her her hand in his as he led her through a quick tour of the house. The simple, almost shy, affection in his gesture moved Grace. Would this man ever cease to surprise her? she wondered, as she twined her fingers around his.

The house, a graceful white Spanish stucco with a terra cotta tile roof, was much larger than it looked from the outside. Grace admired the clean, simple lines of the white walls and gleaming hardwood floors, and the spare but warm look of the furnishings. The white walls were a perfect showcase for Hart's considerable art collection, which ranged from classical Chinese paintings to Kandinskys and Klees. Grace smiled at a Warhol multiple, six lithographs of Hart, the same dour, bespectacled expression repeated in different colors. Hart walked past it without comment. After wandering through the high ceilinged reception and dining rooms on the main floor, the terrace and adjoining rooms on the lower level, the guest rooms on the top floor, and deliberately skipping his study and the adjoining room full of surveillance monitors and sophisticated monitoring devices, Hart steered her into an oversized kitchen. Several copper pots simmered on an eight burner Viking range.

"I hope you're hungry, Grace. I don't know what you like, so I made enough for a small army. Or the Reagan's security detail," Hart said as she slipped a chef's apron over his black cashmere sweater. Grace could scarcely believe her eyes. Lukas Hart, corporate titan, up to his elbows in salad and mushroom risotto, fussing over the temperature of the oven.

Laying again in her bedroll she pushed thoughts from her mind..thoughts of a woman alone headed for California, thoughts of a violent, jilted husband searching for her, thoughts of PL alone in the wilderness. The geyser's eerie whistle sounded again, sending a shiver through her body.

Brandon emerges from his dressing room, impeccably clad in the formality of a dark evening suit with the requisite gleaming neckwear--so white as to make the eyes ache.

Brandon generally dispenses with the services of a valet, feeling that he needs none, for he is not given to extremes in dress. And apart from that, he would observe, there is nothing here worth troubling over. He perceives himself as a man of average appearance--not ugly, to be sure, nor even what some would describe as plain, simply average. And yet . . .

Here Brandon smiles, and if anyone were standing by to be graced with that smile, they would wonder if the Colonel had lost his eyes or his wits, that he could think of himself as merely "average."

And yet, Mary Anne loves him and desires him, fairly basks in his presence and trembles at his voice, at his touch . . . even to Brandon's own perception of himself, which is quite unmarred by physical vanity, this much is obvious.

Because of this, Brandon is acutely conscious of a desire to look his absolute best, and the neckware receives an uncharacteristic adjustment as he steps from the dressing room into his bedchamber. That such a one as she, he thinks, would look upon me as a handsome man. I will suffice, but she . . . no one who sees her would hesitate to call her beautiful . . .

A brief and fond smile. Brandon is a man of sense, and realizes that he may be stating the case too strongly. Certainly he does not hesitate, though he must acknowledge that--perhaps--Mary Anne's style of appearance may not be to every man's taste. That snowy skin, for example: surely there are some men who would prefer more brilliant colour? Raven hair, or coppery auburn, or chestnut-brown rather than that honey-gold? Dark eyes, and not blue?

Another smile from Brandon, as he remembers Therese's enormous brown eyes, turned upon him in her appeal to be allowed to ride Menelaus . . .against such eyes as that, Eamon will not stand a chance.

Mary Anne. Slim as a willow wand. Brandon pauses a moment, remembering the previous night, the feeling of her in his arms, all velvet-skinned softness, and fire, and sweet violet scent . . . and at these memories, Brandon promptly declares plague and perdition on the tastes of other men, and whether Mary Anne would suit them or not. It is no matter.

She suits him perfectly.

Already feeling as if his neckcloth is just a bit too tight, Brandon crosses toward Mary Anne's adjoining chamber and taps gently at the door.

Her voice. "Come in, Christopher."

Brandon enters, inquiring, "Are you--"

And stops.

Mary Anne turns toward him, in full splendour of her blue-green gown that she had worn in Egdon to the Celebration. It has always been one of Brandon's favourites; that is definitely her best colour.

But he had forgotten the appearance of it, without the Cantarian trimmings she had stitched on for Renie's wedding.

Now the gown appears once again in its original form.

With its scooped-out back, and low neck.

Brandon swallows.

"--ready . . . my dearest . . . ?"

Mesmer's hands act as magnets, attracting and collecting Andrea's grief and despair as though the devastating emotions are iron filings. Turning away from the bed, Mesmer brushes his hands together causing the debris to dislodge and scatter harmlessly.

Approaching his patient again with emptied hands ready to draw more poison from her body, Mesmer stumbles backward as though repelled by the opposite pole of a powerful magnet.

Hamlet too feels some force push him away from the bed. His stare at Mesmer asks What is happening?

Lowering his hands to his sides, Mesmer leans forward over Andrea and speaks in a tone somewhere between a plea and a command. "Allow me to help you."

Although no words escape the lips of his semi-conscious patient, Mesmer unmistakably hears her say "Allow me to die."

Dev leaned back on the pillows easily, his eyes closed. He was listening to her, after a sort, but he well realized what game she now played. This little woman of mine... he thought to himself with a lazy smile. However, he had been interrogated in far worse circumstances with much less pleasant methods than were being employed at present, and he was not at all dreading her next move. In fact, he rather imagined it would be...intriguing.

She had referred to him as 'sir,' earlier, much to his amazement. He thought back to what Mary Anne had told him, that for her this usage served merely as a term of respect and appreciation, and did not in any way indicate subservience. Indeed, for Therese could hardly be considered to be as such, given his current situation. It would be interesting to discover--

Eamon's thoughts were abruptly disturbed as he felt the tiniest of sensations, which caused an imediate formation of gooseflesh on his exposed skin. His eyes snapped open, eyebrows winging upward. "What the devil?"

Therese stood above him, the very tips of the purple ostrich plume making only the most marginal contact with the silky smooth blonde hairs which ligtly covered his chest. To him, it now it felt as if each one were standing on end.

Therese pursed her lips, emitting a 'tsk' sound. "Eamon, there you were, your eyes closed, a veritible grin on your features. It just won't do." She leaned forward over him briefly, setting the plume on his stomach. With both hands, she gently removed his golden framed spectacles, and placed them on the night table, before once again picking up the feather. Her nails made a brief contact with his skin, and he stiffled an inward groan.

"Perhaps I will have your undivided attention from this point forward?" she asked him, a wicked grin upon her features.

Recalling MacLeod's promise to back her up, Mary Anne shakes her head and wonders just how long Miss M must have been in service here. Probably quite some time. Sounds as if she's loyal to Christopher, at any rate. But then, so are they all, from what I've heard. She remembers what the Colonel had told her about MacLeod being a distant relation through his mother's side of the family. A very distant cousin, perhaps.

But Mary Anne's ponderings on this matter give way before recollections of the rest of the day. A brief discussion with Commander Hudson, for instance, who had taken the trouble to inform her that an Alliance party, in the company of some of the male staff, was searching the grounds, with another party ranged about the main house.

"I don't mean to alarm you, Mary Anne," Hudson had told her, "but we have reason to think that--" A brief hesitation. "--that The Interrogator was in the house at some time yesterday, or at the very least, that he was trying to gain access. We can't be sure why, and until we are, or until we know that HE has left the area, everyone here will have to observe certain safety measures. Especially you."

"Yes, especially me." Bitterly. "Sometimes I feel as if I'm going to spend my entire life running from . . . HIM."

Hudson had been sympathetic, but practical. "You're still able to run, that's the important thing." A pause. "HE will not forget, Mary Anne. You know that."

"Yes. I know." And neither will I. What I'd give to forget. To have been that . . . creature . . . and see a scar on Christopher that I put there, and God alone knows what The Interrogator looks like now, after what I did to HIM.

But Mary Anne had managed to steady herself and reply, "Please keep an eye on Renie. If The Interrogator were to find out that she's pregnant . . ."

Hudson is ahead of her. "Exactly. I'll notify the squad patrolling around the house. But you can tell Herr Gruber that if he wants to call in some of his Hansbank heavies to assist, I certainly won't interfere."

"And Herr Anton Gruber, as well. He thinks very highly of Renie, and I think we can count on the support of Gruber Glassworks as well."

And so the afternoon had passed. Consultations with Miss M. Precautions from Commander Hudson.

A visit to Renie's room, to find her sleeping soundly as a child when Hans opened the door at her light tap.

"Is she feeling any better now, Hans?"

All sympathy. Mary Anne had carefully concealed any amusement she might feel at the spectacle of Hans Gruber, mover and shaker, exceptional thief and ruthless CEO of the Hansbank, at a complete loss for what to do with a wife with a bad case of morning sickness.

"Ja, much better. Your tea, I believe." A smile. "And being able to laugh and talk with you again, I think it helped. Distracted her. But after, she was so tired. Please excuse us if we do not come down this evening. I would like to stay with her while she sleeps, keep watch over her."

"Speaking of keeping watch . . ."

Mary Anne had quickly passed along the information from Hudson, and had watched in fascination as Hans' gaze had sharpened from the wondrous tenderness he bestows upon his wife to the glittering tiger gold of ferocious concentration.

Some moments later, Mary Anne had quietly let herself out of the room, leaving Hans seated on the bed beside Renie as he softly stroked her hair, and Renie had been so deeply asleep that the touch did not awaken her--but she had smiled in her sleep . . .

That will do, thinks Mary Anne, always fiercely protective of Renie. She's in good hands. A grin. In good Hans, that is. If The Interrogator tried to get into that room now, HIS life wouldn't be worth--

"Mary Anne!"

Colonel Brandon.

Mary Anne had allowed his arms to close about her, feeling as if it had been a thousand years since he had touched her, though it had in reality been only a few hours. Well, at least I had enough to keep me busy for those hours. With Miss M, and the Commander, and Renie, and . . .

"I was looking for you, my dearest," Brandon had explained as he withdrew from the embrace and slipped her arm through his. "Formal dress for the evening meal, here. It is time we changed."

Abruptly, Mary Anne snaps out of her musings on the day with the realization that several minutes have gone by while she stood in front of her armoire, thinking, and she is no closer to selecting a gown for the evening. Shaking her head at her absentmindedness, Mary Anne rummages her wardrobe, but she cannot help wondering about certain other events that have taken place that day.

The Colonel's interview with Eamon de Valera, for example.

And would Therese be able to forgive Dev?

Mary Anne dismisses these thoughts as she makes her choice and, with a nostalgic smile, extracts a certain blue-green gown from the armoire . . .

Happens every time I try to write accents.

Mary Anne is in her room off of Brandon's, preparing to dress for the evening.

Once she had found Dev and told him that Brandon wished to see him, Mary Anne had found the rest of the afternoon passing very quickly--a little too quickly for her taste.

Consultations with Miss M about the plans for the evening, for example. In view of the number of guests currently at Delaford, it is easier to set out a buffet selection for them rather than a sit-down meal, though the proprieties of "dressing for dinner" will be scrupulously observed.

At this, Mary Anne had determined that she would inspect the kitchens--not because she is displeased with any of the meals so far, but simply because she enjoys cooking and has never examined the kitchens at Delaford. What she had found was immensely satisfying to her: warm and clean and well-stocked, with the cooking staff ably managed by Miss M as part of her housekeeping duties.

Already beginning to grow wise in the ways of overseeing this household, Mary Anne had stayed clear of the busy staff, observing, asking such brief questions as occurred to her, and thinking: Well, Christopher, I know it's no part of my duties to cook here, but if you think I'm going to pass up a kitchen like this, you're quite mistaken. Would the parish be scandalized, I wonder, if I introduced spaghetti to the sacred precincts of Delaford?

A smile had flitted across her face at the thought, and one or two of the kitchen staff had tentatively smiled back, wondering just what the new Missus found so amusing, but thankful that she doesn't seem to be the sort of prying scold that will be constantly watching them and trying to catch a mistake.

The comments had begun immediately on her exit from the kitchen . . .

"Well, an' the master chose fair, no mistake."

"And what's better, he chose sweet."

"An' happen as she's smart, or so Herself says--knew in a wink what was to do for Missus Gruber . . ."

Mary Anne had nearly folded over with laughter in the hallway outside the kitchen, for every remark, low-voiced as they were, had come clear as a bell to her extraordinary hearing, and once MacLeod had realized this, she had drawn herself up to her full six feet in height and stalked back into the kitchen.

Mary Anne had been able to hear that clearly enough, too, though she had to clap her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter at certain choice Scots phrasings and idioms.

"--and wha' a collieshangie, and her clean new to us! Wha'll she be after thinkin' o' the lot o' ye, gowks an' gomerels all! It's nae for the likes o' ye to be gossipin' at the mistress, nor yet the master. Be off to it, then!"

"Was that necessary, Miss M?" Mary Anne had mildly inquired a few moments later, as they moved away from the hallway leading to the kitchens.

MacLeod, much to Mary Anne's surprise, had given her a brief and mordant grin before re-composing her features into the dignity befitting the housekeeper of Delaford, and formalizing her English. Well, somewhat. "Oh, aye, Mrs. Brandon. 'Tis. Here's the rights of it: gie your orders to me, and I gie 'em to th' rest." A low chuckle. "And do I rant enough, Ye're nae the bad one. Ye're the good angel, and your life's sair easier for it."

Mary Anne had paused, looking curiously at MacLeod, who briefly drew herself up into a self-parody of her own dignity and returned the look with an irresistibly pompous gravity.

"So," smiled Mary Anne. "You'll be backing me up, then? Keeping me from making any terrible mistakes? Giving me a push here and a pull there, until I get it right.?"

MacLeod's face had relaxed. "Yes, I will." Mary Anne's eyes had narrowed. No broad Scots now, no impersonations of the tyrannical housekeeper. "I will, for ye make him happy. The Colonel. A man born blind could see't, plain . When the first Mrs. Brandon--well . . ."

"When she died," prompted Mary Anne, gently.

"Aye. He was dead too, for all he was walkin' aboot." MacLeod blinked, her golden-green eyes distant. "Ye're knowing it was that Renie--Mrs. Gruber that is, now--as brought him back to the livin'. Withoot her . . ." MacLeod shook her head. "And now, you. He's a man and nae some lines on a stone in the kirkyard." A sombre smile. "Aye, I'll be backin' ye up, as he put it. And so'll the rest, or I'll ken why no."

Therese had been correct, it was relief that had shown in Dev's eyes. I, sir, have a far more powerful restraint. I have your word. Her comment echoed through his mind, and he gave a mental sigh of contentment. She was willing to give him this one more chance, and trust him. Dearest, you could cut my heart out with a spoon, and I would not flinch; I will not betray your trust again.

Dev's gaze followed Therese as she stepped over to her night table, and picked up a copy of a slim, leahter bound book. Stepping over to stand beside him, she opened the volume to a previously selected page. He eyed her curiously.

"A brief passage, Mr. de Valera, from Ms. Wollstonecraft's "A Vindication of the Rights of Women," from which point we shall proceed to Mr. Mill's "The Subjugtion of Women." She indicated a second book which remained on the table.

He looked up at her, a sanguine look gracing his features. "So, it is to be torture, is it?"

Therese scowled at him. "Perhaps had you read such authors of your own volition, you would not have found yourself in the current predicament?"

"Your point is well taken," he agreed, "however, I have read both. Though I believe that in neither previous circumstance did it leave quite the same impression as it no doubt will in this instance."

"One may only hope...." Therese opened the first text. Indeed the word masculine is a bugbear: there is little reason to fear that women will acquire too much courage or fortitude; for their apparent inferiority with respect to bodily strength, must render them, in some degree, dependent on men in various relations of life; but why should it be increased by prejudices that give a sex to virtue, and confound simple truths with sensual reveries?" Therese looked up from her page for a moment. "A brief glimpse, my dear, of where we are headed."

She read to him then for awhile, from different sections that she had chosen earlier. Her intent was not so much to lecture, though she had been sure to pick both her favourite, and relevant passages, but to make him lie there and wonder, just what her next step would be...

It was seveal moments later when John Stuart Mill was once again returned to the nightstand. Therese looked down at Eamon, his eyes were closed.

Just as well, Therese thought to herself, opening the small drawer that was built into the nightstand, it will come as more of a shock to him when I use this...

In her hand was a purple ostrich plume, compliments of Mrs. Jennings.

Dev looked at her, his expression incredulous. "I beg your pardon?"

Therese considered him. "You understood me quite well, I asked you to remove your clothes and lie down."

"I am willing to do so, as I have promised, but--why?"

Therese shook her head slowly. "You offered to allow me to beat you, and I realize the spirit in which that offer was made--but I do not wish you to know pain, we have all faced pain in our lives, you more so than most. What I wish for you to know, to understand, is helplessness. I want you to understand what that costs, and I believe this will show you."

He nodded his head. "I...see." Slowly, he began to remove his clothing, discarding each piece methodically, folding it, and setting it neatly on the chair next to the bed.

Therese couldn't resist. "Dearest, it's never taken you quite this long to disrobe before."

He turned to regard her, his dark eyes flashing. Eamon de Valera can be a very dangerous man, she thought to herself, as the force of his look silenced her. "Normally when I am undressing in your presence, one of us does not remain clothed," he said, his tone neutral. Therese was glad he had given her his word that he would...submit. She could be in no doubt of his earnestness to have this situation behind them, and she could see that what she had planned for him, though this was only the very beginning, was not without its cost. Dignity was a part of Eamon de Valera, as breathing is a part of the common man, and he exemplified this trait now, as he stood before her.

"And now?" he questioned.

She indicated the bed once again. "Lie on your back, with your head on the pillows." She stepped toward the top of the mattress, next to the ornate wooden headboard.

He did as she directed, moving wordlessly at her instruction. His actions were fluid and graceful, he did not hurry, but did as he was told with no complaint.

The wooden headboard was ornately carved, the pattern winding its way across the frame of the bed, and Therese indicated two cut out pieces about shoulder width apart. "These will be your handhold," she instructed him, "you are to keep your arms above your head, with your hands in this position, regardless of what I do to you. Do you understand?"

He nodded, "I do."

"Do you have any questions?"

"You do not wish to restrain me? As you've told me, I could easily overpower you should I find I tire of your little game." His eyes were almost black now, his expression unreadable. She'd read reports of Eamon in the Dublin papers. His enemies referred to him as 'The Monster' for his seemingly cold blooded lack of emotion toward the atrocities of war. It was this face that turned to her now. Therese could not help but think that not showing, and not caring, were two very different concepts.

"I, sir, have a far more powerful restraint. I have your word." She paused, as he seemed to accept her response. She could not be sure, but was that, relief that flickered briefly across his features? "Do you have any other questions?" "I do not."

"Good, then we are now ready to begin."

He placed a hand on her door, thinking that the next few moments dictated the happiness of his future, and whatever the events which followed, this memory would remain with him for the entirety of his days. He knocked.

She answered the door wearing the silk dressing robe he had given her. It was the very first token she'd received from him. A highly improper gift, Mr. de Valera, she'd told him, her eyes gleaming wickedly, one can only wonder what you must think of me?

He'd undressed her then, slowly, with great deliberation, before wrapping her gently in the folds of peach coloured silk, and holding her to his body tenderly. From that moment he'd known of his great love for her, though he had not given his passion a voice until the Brandon's wedding day. "Therese..." he said softly, as he gazed at her longingly.

She was in his arms then, clinging to him has he literally picked her up and held her body firmly to his own. She had tears in her eyes as she clung to him, burrowing her head in the crook of his neck as if to drink in the very scent of him. He carried her into the room from the hallway, closing and latching the door behind them, before crossing over to stand in front of the bed.

"Please, don't cry my love," he crooned into her ear, stroking her hair and raining tiny kisses upon her face and neck. "Anything but tears..."

"I rather thought he would kill you," she said with a watery smile, stroking his cheek lovingly. Her smile faded, "Or send you away from me for good."

"I am not wholely defenseless, you know," he replied with a warm grin, placing her gently on the bed, and sitting down beside her. "And there is no force in this world that will keep me from you..." he paused, his heart heavy, "save for your telling me to go."

"I do not want for you to go." Her words were soft, but she spoke them with quiet determination, and he felt the heavy pressure which had been constricting his heart ease somewhat.

He kissed her then, softly at first, but with growing ardor as her passion met his. A small sigh escaped him. He was beginning to feel whole again. Moments later, he asked, Will you forgive me? Therese, tell me, what can I do?"

Therese repressed a shiver. It would have been so easy to simply continue what they'd begun, melt into his arms, and forget that they had ever fought. She pushed away from him slightly. "I have forgiven you, Eamon, but it's not that simple. Yes, I love you, but I'm frightened."

He looked stricken at her words. "Of me?" he asked softly.

"Not of you, exactly, but of what you are capable. You don't understand, you CAN'T understand what it's like. Eamon, you are far stronger than any woman, and much stronger than most men. I can't exactly explain how I feel, but our issue is trust, not fear. If I could just somehow make you understand," she shrugged her shoulders helplessly...

He reached out to her with his right hand, smoothing his palm across her hair, and lightly caressing her cheek. His hazel eyes regarded her with a supreme sadness. "I would do anything to restore your faith in me, Therese. That you cannot trust me, because of my actions, pains me deeply. If you feel you need to make me understand, I will comply with whatever you so choose. You may beat me to within an inch of my life, and you have my word, I shall not resist."

Therese looked into his eyes, and knew that he spoke the truth. He was willing to do whatever she believed it took. "You will submit to me, regardless of what I ask?"

"IF that is your wish, I will do it."

Therese rose from the bed, and indicated it with her hand. "Remove your clothes, and lie down."

"Colonel . . . that was a terrible story. I know it must have cost you, to tell it."

"I will pay what it costs, to keep it from happening again."

"It shall not happen again--not through me." A pause. "Colonel, you have heard Therese's account of what passed between us. Will you hear mine, as well?"

"That is only fair."

Dev briefly recounts the events of the morning--sparing himself nothing in the recitation. "A story that it costs me to tell. And no matter who tells it, I do not appear in the best light, do I?" A bitter smile. "But I had no thought of being violent or cruel to Therese; I swear it. It is only that . . . I wished to protect her, and she would not accept my protection."

"Perhaps the trouble lay in how you offered it."

An impatient gesture from Dev. "We are both intelligent men, sir--" A brief lift of Brandon's eyebrow, but he makes no reply, and Dev continues. "--and can see what is plainly before us. Men are stronger than women. I am stronger than Therese, as you are stronger than Mrs. Brandon. Women are physically vulnerable and sometimes require protection."

Brandon settles against the desk and favours Dev with an ironic smile. "Stronger? It is a matter of definition, I believe." Quietly. "My wife has been a captive of The Interrogator, Mister de Valera, and has survived with her health and sanity intact. Does she seem so fragile to you, now? Miss Therese escaped this morning--though I will be the first to admit that she was most fortunate in that. As to your anger that she rode out alone in the beginning, she certainly could not have expected that she would be attacked."

Dev shrugs. "And next you will bring up the point, no doubt, that women are stronger because they endure childbirth, and we do not. But you know exactly what I mean, Colonel; do not pretend otherwise. We have the advantage in everyday strength."

"Having been given this . . . advantage," Brandon quietly replies, "I regard it as a responsibility. Not as license to run roughshod over those who may not match me in strength." A pause. "Perhaps women would not be in such need of protection, were there not so many of us who compel with our strength--where, instead, we might persuade with our respect and love."

"That is idealistic, Colonel."

"Perhaps. That does not make it any less true." Dev feels the Colonel's gaze fasten upon him as if it will pierce cleanly through him. "Your strength, Mister de Valera . . . have you thought how easily it could be taken from you? It shall be, one day, if you live long enough. When you are old, and frail--would that excuse the actions of a younger man, if he mistreated you? Or even now, if you were ill or injured . . . strength would count for nothing. A child could master you."

It is plain from Dev's expression that he had not thought of it in that light. But he stubbornly persists. "Colonel, your wife mentioned to me that there was at least one occasion when she went against your plainly-expressed wishes, with disastrous results."

"Oh?" Rather sharply. "She told you of that, did she?"

"Not the exact details. But I know from this that you must understand how it feels to be--well, frantic, simply because someone you . . . love . . ."

It is too much. Slowly, Dev crosses to a chair and settles into it. He had refused to seat himself at the beginning of the confrontation, but he feels, now, as if he must sit or fall. " . . . because someone you love goes her hotheaded way, without using the sense God gave her! Now tell me truly, Colonel: your thoughts at the time, were they of calm, and persuasion, and reason, and respect?" A sardonic smile. "Or did you simply want to shake her, until her teeth rattled in her head?"

At this, Brandon laughs openly. "Shake her, at the very least. Touche, Eamon!" Brandon's laughter dies away. "I do recall thinking that if she had been a man, I would have thrashed her." A sharp look. "If . . . she had been a man. Even in my first thought, I did make that distinction. And whatever my thoughts may have been, I did not carry them out."

"She was not before you at the moment, either. Your temper had time to cool."

Dev expects an explosion at this, but Brandon merely gazes at him for moment, then shakes his head. "I could never harm her. Never."

Dev is rather taken aback by this mild response, in which the depths of Brandon's heart are so plainly exposed. With a sigh, he rises from the chair and moves to face Brandon, smiling a little and letting his arms drop to his sides. "If she were a man, you said. Well, Colonel, I am a man." A pause. "What shall it be? Your fists? Or shall I remain here while you go the the stables and fetch a horsewhip?"

Brandon laughs again at this. "It shall be neither, Mister de Valera, for several very good reasons."

"And those are--?"

"For one, my wife persuaded me against it. For another, I do not believe that Therese herself would wish it--indeed, I think she would turn upon me if I tried it, and I have no wish to incur her ill will!"

The tension dissolves as the two men share a companionable laugh, and Dev offers, "I believe it would have been . . . easier to bear, in some ways."

At this, Brandon's smile turns positively wicked, for him. "I know. But I was not particularly interested in . . . making things easier for you, Eamon. You seem to me a man who could hold still to be flayed alive, if you were convinced of the rightness of your side in an argument." Brandon shakes his head, and his grin widens. "No. It seems to me more fitting to . . . leave you to Miss Therese, now, and allow her to finish what I have started. I trust I will not have to speak to you about this again."

Dev nods his agreement, with a morose murmur of, "I suppose . . . I had better go and see Therese now, if she will let me near her." A pause. "And then I shall leave Delaford, sir, if it is your wish."

"That will not be necessary." Calmly. "You and Miss Therese are welcome here for as long as you wish. As you said yourself, we are both intelligent men." A pause. "Make things right, if you can, and be assured that I wish you well in the attempt."

Brandon extends his hand, and Dev shakes it, with a rather dazed expression, before offering a courteous half-bow. "Thank you, Colonel Brandon. And--please convey my thanks to your wife, as well."

"I shall. Good day, Eamon, and good luck."

As the door shuts behind Dev, Brandon draws a long breath of relief and, staring at the closed door, he murmurs, "You will need it."

Dev lingers for a moment in the hallway, feeling as if he had a very narrow escape from . . . something. That was hard. Much harder than I expected it to be--but what is before me now, that shall be far more difficult.

He hesitates at the foot of the stairs.

Come now, Dev m'boy, where's that STRENGTH you're so proud of? Are you a coward? Get on with it!

Taking a deep breath, sqaring his shoulders and firmly settling his glasses, Dev mounts the stairs in search of Therese . . .

A heavy silence falls as Brandon moves away from Dev and leans casually against a corner of his desk, deliberately turning his gaze away from the other man as he picks up a silver paper knife, idly turning it over in his hands, then lightly tapping the point of it against the desk.

"Colonel Brandon?"

"Yes, Mister de Valera?"

Dev swallows. "I believe you have made your point."

"Have I, indeed? And what point would that be?"

Stiffly. "Very well--I shall admit it. My conduct was improper and foolish . . . and unbecoming to a gentleman. My apologies."

Brandon looks at him for a moment, then softly replies, "Tender them to Miss Therese and not to me. She is the injured party."

Dev appraises him shrewdly. "Colonel, I believe this incident has done you an injury as well, if I am not mistaken."

A pause. Dev's eyes narrow as Brandon slowly turns, his face pale but expressionless, and carefully sets down the paper knife. "What . . . injury?"

"Mrs. Brandon mentioned something of your upbringing to me. This must have awakened some most unpleasant memories for you. For that, I am indeed profoundly sorry."

The room is still.

With the Colonel's unblinking regard turned upon him, Dev wonders for an instant whether he has gone too far. Then, abruptly, Brandon pushes himself away from the desk and moves to the window, leaning against the wall and seeming to stare out at the landscape, though even a bystander much less observant than Dev would see that he is quite oblivious to it.

"Eamon."

Dev feels it again, that cold crawl along his spine. "Beware the fury of a patient man." His face. Like stone, it is. There's death in a face like that . . .

However hard his face, Brandon's voice is as soft as fog rolling in from the sea--and every bit as cold. "Eamon, I remember--I must have been twelve or thirteen at the time. I walked in upon my parents . . . having their afternoon tea, I believe it must have been."

He does not see me, thinks Dev. He is looking at me, but he does not see me.

"I . . . surprised them. When I came to the door--my father had his hand raised to her, and she had an arm before her face . . ." Brandon's arm lifts briefly, then falls. "I do not know what had provoked it. I do not even know whether he had already struck her, or whether he had been on the verge of it when I . . . interrupted."

Brandon turns from the window, and his eyes seem to focus and sharpen. "I had suffered it from him, of course, through my childhood. And my brother--though somewhat less, I think. He was the elder, after all, and the heir." A grim smile. "And he resembled my father, and so he was favoured. I--accepted the situation, for what else can one do, as a child? But I had never seen him attempt to strike our mother, until that day. Of course, that does not mean it had not happened. I had simply never seen it."

A pause. "When he saw that he was--observed, he let fall his hand. I remember it. Every detail." A shudder passes over Brandon, as though the ground trembled beneath his feet. "My mother--in blue muslin, as I recall, and the Sevres porcelain set out on the table. One of the teacups, smashed on the floor."

Dev is silent.

"My father, looking at me as if he had never seen me before. I suppose I did look rather . . . different, at the moment."

Colonel, you have a gift for understatement . . .

"We did not speak a word to each other. We simply . . . looked. I do not know what he saw in my face that day. Whatever it was, he never raised his hand to my mother again, so far as I know."

That voice . . . the whisper of a blade drawn from the sheath . . .

"And I noticed, as well, that he never turned his back to me again . . ."

Dev studies the floor for a moment, wishing himself a hundred miles away from the sight of Brandon's anger and grief, as cold and relentless and all-consuming as the deeps of the sea. It is positively indecent for him to be present . . .

When Dev raises his eyes, he finds the gaze of Colonel Brandon fixed upon him--the gaze of man returned to the present and fully in control of himself.

"I do not tolerate violence toward women, Mister de Valera. I find it . . . unacceptable."

A look passes between the two men, uniting them momentarily in agreement. No common brigands, these attackers. Peace of mind will be in short supply at Delaford for quite some time.

Brandon, however, does not relent. "Nor is it conducive to her peace of mind," he retorts, "to be beaten in the stables." Brandon's voice lowers to a harsh rasp. "Whatever in the world possessed you, that you could do such a thing?"

"Beaten?" Indignant. And hurt, in spite of himself. Brandon, do you take me for a monster? "The flat of my hand to her backside, is all. She was behaving like a stubborn child, I told her."

"She is not a child, Mister de Valera."

"Yes." Resignedly. "So I have been reminded."

"You shall be reminded again, until you understand."

The words, carefully spaced and precisely delivered. Very much like blows, calculated to inflict maximum pain with as little physical damage as possible. Though his reputation for expressionless self-control is well-deserved, Dev chills in spite of himself, remembering brawls and beatings and physical conflicts of every description, things he has seen and regrettably experienced at close range--yet no pain he has ever suffered is quite like this. That's his great weapon, reflects Dev, even as he indulges in a mental wince. Know him for only a short while, and you do not wish to lose his good opinion.

Brandon is far from finished. "She was behaving like a child, you say? A stubborn child? Well, so were you. Your actions bore no resemblance to the conduct of an adult, in full possession of his faculties. Are you a child, Mister de Valera?" Stinging sarcasm. "Do you wish to be treated as one? Shall we try your remedy that failed with Miss Therese?"

The flash of Dev's steel-rimmed spectacles as he lifts his head is nothing to the flash of the eyes behind them. Yet he remains silent.

"Or am I to conclude," probes Brandon, "that you were not, for some reason, to be held responsible? Are you a madman? Or had you partaken too freely of the refreshments at the wedding?"

Brandon, warned by instinct not to carry things too far, abandons his needling and moves toward his desk, leaving Dev standing in the middle of the floor, silent and flushed with the effort to contain his humiliation . . .

There is a sharp rap at the door.

"Enter."

The door opens to admit Eamon de Valera, who, after a momentary pause, closes the door quietly behind him and turns to face Colonel Brandon.

"Mister de Valera." Frostily correct, with a brief nod.

"Colonel Brandon." A slight inclination of the head.

"Be seated."

"Thank you, Colonel, but I would prefer to stand."

"As you wish."

The two men study each other intently, each reading the other with the long practice of their differing skills. Examining the man standing before him, Brandon takes careful note of the air of calm poise, of careful and correct politeness--but does not miss the way Dev's eyes flicker briefly about the room, acquainting him with its arrangements . . . and possible exits. But he shall not run. Not today. He is a proud man, and he would stand and fight, if it came to that. A wry inward laugh, though Brandon takes care that no sign of it is visible in his face. How fortunate for both of us that it shall not. He is no military fighter, but in a common brawl, we would be quite evenly matched.

Dev in his turn endures the level stare of the Colonel and draws his own conclusions. Mary Anne was quite right. A natural gift for authority. This look now . . . just a touch more of a frown, and I would wager he has reduced more than one insolent soldier under his command to a fine ash.

Brandon moves toward him, closing the gap, and Dev recalls another of Mary Anne's musings--that Brandon seems to grow taller when he is angry. No, Mary Anne, there is no error in your perceptions--or else, I share the same error with you. But Dev remains still and betrays no hint of his apprehension.

Brandon, meanwhile, has no intention of allowing this to turn into some absurd staring contest. "Mister de Valera, I shall come directly to the point. You know quite well why I have requested your presence here."

"Requested?" murmurs Dev. "When--" He catches himself just in time. It would never do, at this moment, to seem too familiar with the lady of the house. "--when Mrs. Brandon delivered the message that you would speak with me, it seemed . . ." A delicate pause. " . . . to carry the force of a command."

"Yes." Flatly.

"I seldom respond well to commands. But in this, I am at your service."

Brandon advances a step nearer. "You are correct in the first particular. You may not respond well to commands, but it seems that you have no difficulty in giving them."

Dev is well able to retain control of his expression, but he reflects that almost anyone would be . . . disconcerted by the yellow-green gaze now turned upon him. How many men have gone to their deaths with that sight filling their eyes? With deceptive casualness, Dev replies, "I suspect that most people, Colonel, find it easier to command than to obey. It is not particular with me."

"There I believe you are wrong, Mister de Valera." That glacial courtesy raises the fine hairs on Dev's spine as no open threat has ever done. "Many people find it easier to obey. It saves them the trouble of thinking. And of those who find it easier to command--so few of them do it well."

"Like yourself?" Mildly.

Brandon allows the jab to pass. "As to you being . . . at my service. No, you are not at my service, nor in it, nor under my command in any way whatsoever." A pause. "If you were, be assured that I would thrash the skin off of you, for your behaviour to Miss Therese."

Brandon is rather startled when, rather than bristling at this statement, Dev responds with an ironic smile. "It must come as a relief to you, to be able to say that." A wry laugh. "I am not certain, however, that it would help."

Each man can see the other relax slightly, as if Brandon had toppled some invisible wall between them. This comes as no great surprise to Dev, who understands the workings of politics: that courtesy can hide a killing rage, and that in a choice of threats, the oblique is far more dangerous than the open.

Dev allows himself to take a step, both physically and metaphorically. "Colonel, you say that I am not in your service. I am, however, in your home." Say it and be done with it--you "perfidious, iniquitous blackguard." "You . . . have my apologies for disturbing the peace of it."

Brandon nods. "That is a beginning. However--"

If anything, the Colonel seems more stern than before. "The peace of my home is only one of my concerns. The other is peace of mind for Miss Therese."

Arriving at Andrea's door, Mesmer cracks it open and peeks inside to see Andrea in bed, alone and asleep. Pushing the door open further, he is struck in the face by a gust of warm, dry air. He observes Hamlet--in shirtsleeves--feeding the fire. The two men nod to each other.

Mesmer enters and closes the door quickly to contain the heat in the room. After depositing the tray on the table, Mesmer slips off his coat and drapes it over a chair. He quietly approaches the bed and leans over Andrea to find tearstains on her face. Also, droplets of sweat are forming on her brow.

As Mesmer places his hand against Andrea's forehead, his countenance grows grave. He strides to the window and throws it open.

Hamlet straightens from his position in front of the fire and confronts Mesmer. He whispers angrily. "What are you doing?!"

With no visible emotion, Mesmer instructs Hamlet: "You should allow the fire to die."

Returning to Andrea's side, Mesmer gently pulls her limp arm from beneath the bedcovers and checks her pulse. The beats are faint and irregular.

Hamlet stands silently at the foot of the bed. His intense gaze demands an explanation from Mesmer.

"A fever has taken hold."

Hart looked at the phone for a long minute before briskly picking it up and dialing a long distance number. He paused, then entered a long sequence of code numbers.

"Pike here." The voice at the other end was as flat as usual.

"Hart. The deal we spoke about. The last part is cancelled. No discussion."

A short pause at the other end spoke volumes. "Are you sure this time?" asked Pike, the voice dripping sarcasm.

Hart ignored Pike's insinuation. "Do we understand each other?" Hart's voice took on an edge of steel.

"You put her on the table, you can take her off. No difference to us," Pike answered nonchalantly. "I just wonder who is running the show out there."

"Let there be no mistake about that," Hart replied in a harsh tone, crunching the "k."

Then he slammed down the phone, his knuckles white.

Therese turned toward the dresser where several large towels lay, folded neatly. Crossing in front of the standing mirror, she froze. A large, discoloured mark was obvious down the side of her left hip and thigh, no doubt the result of being pulled from her horse by the man she now knew to be George. Turning so she could see her backside, she groaned aloud. Several other darkened areas patterned her posterior, obviously the result of Eamon's handiwork. Therese knew that she bruised easily, and her ghostly fair skin tone concealed nothing; she'd acquired equal marks from absently colliding with table legs, or routine barn chores, but still, the thought that he had placed them there.... She needed to get through that thick Irish skull of his if this relationship were to continue, of that there was simply no doubt.

An idea struck her....but she needed the book. She could envision its exact location in her small flat in Maynooth, but little good it did her here at Delaford. She must find the library.

Towling off the majority of the moisture clinging to her, Therese hurridly threw on a lightweight cotton shift, and fastened her dressing robe over top of it. The dark peach coloured silk felt comforting to her, as she pulled her damp mane from underneath the collar, allowing it to hang loosely down her back.

Therese entered the hallway at a near run, almost colliding with Mary Anne, who was en route to find Dev. "Oh! Mrs. Brandon, I'm terribly sorry," Therese apologized, wondering if there was any possibility that she could EVER do something right in the presence of this particular woman. She considered her bare feet gracing the stone floor for a moment, before regarding Mary Anne with a shy smile.

Mary Anne smiled at the other woman's...exhuberance. She could see that in many ways Therese and Dev complimented each other quite favourably, though they could both be somewhat, impulsive, to say the least. "Not at all," she assured her guest, "can I help you? You seem in a hurry."

"I need a library!" Therese exclaimed, "it's urgent."

"Indeed?" Mary Anne queried, stifling a grin, "I am sure you will find our tomes here at Delaford quite extensive. Allow me to show you the way?" and remove you from the hall before I send Dev down to Christopher, she added to herself, leading the other woman back the way she had come.

They walked silently for a moment, before Mary Anne turned to Therese. "Is there a particular text which you require?"

"I seek a copy of Wollstonecraft--"

"'A Vindication of the Rights of Women?'" Mary Anne finished for her, unable to suppress her smile.

"Why yes, how did you know?" Therese asked, sounding only slightly curious, and just a tad bit alarmed.

"'Many individuals have more sense than their male relatives; and, as nothing preponderates where there is a contstant struggle for equilibirium, without it has naturally more gravity, some women govern their husbands without degrading themselves, becuase intelllect will always govern.'" Do you believe this?" Mary Anne asked, as they entered the library.

"I believe that in some households it could, and perhaps, even should be so," Therese began, "though I do not believe that either of us have chosen such men."

"No, I do not believe that Ms. Wollstoncraft had either Mr. de Valera or Colonel Brandon in mind with that characterization....Therese," Mary Anne paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts before proceeding carefully. "I know something of what has happened between yourself and Mr. de Valera--" she broke off at the infusion of colour into the face of the woman before her. "Please, do not be embarassed, I only wish to tell you that he came to me earlier, in the most dejected state, at the prospect of having irrevocably altered your feelings for him. He is a man of deep caring, who has done something quite senseless, but his love for you is very strong." Mary Anne clasped her hands around Therese's, whose own had begun to shake slightly at her words.

"I do love him, but can I now trust him?"

Mary Anne crossed over to the doorway, and indicated a shelf toward the rear of the room. "Mid to late 18th Century should be along the far wall, I'm sure you'll find what you seek there." Her hand brushed the doorknob lightly. "It is his endeavor to regain your trust, Therese, it is your choice whether to accept it or not. I believe, in the end, he will prove himself worthy." She allowed herself a smile. "Though I think it would be wise to not make things too easy on the poor man--however, a woman who finds it an emergency to seek Wollstonecraft probably has not the slightest intention of doing any such thing!"

Good, sir. See that you don't.

Mary Anne stands behind Brandon, her arms wound about him, her cheek pressed against his back. After her plea of "forgive yourself," she stands silent, waiting, knowing that there is such a thing as saying too much. For that matter, she may have said too much already. It is up to Brandon now.

The Colonel remains silent for some moments, weighing her words, considering them . . . and all too acutely aware of her arms about him, the warmth of her hands against his chest . . . Could a man ask to be held in sweeter bonds than these? Do you know, Mary Anne, that there is little, if anything, that I could refuse you?

Finally, with a long sigh, Brandon turns himself about in her grip to face her and wraps his arms about her in return. "Mary Anne . . ." A hint of a smile. "That perception of yours can be . . . confoundedly uncomfortable, at times." A pause. "Do you remember, back at the Manor House? When I asked you to be careful what you asked of me? Because whatever it was, I would probably do it, for you."

Brandon has his reward, instantly, in her look of relief. "Yes, sir. I remember."

"Why does this matter to you so much, my dearest? I tell you, De Valera does not deserve consideration in this; he should suffer as bad a thrashing, if not worse. His conduct is inexcusable."

Mary Anne's face is troubled as she slips free of Brandon's arms and walks about a little, thinking. "I don't at all approve of what he did, Christopher. But I don't think he meant for it to be as bad as it became. He's a proud man, and when he told Therese what he would do, he didn't feel as if he could back down. And he was concerned for her safety--" Brandon begins to protest, but Mary Anne stops him. "Yes, I know he went about it the wrong way; there were other steps he could have taken, to see that she would have been safe."

"Yes. He could have consulted me, and should have."

"Yes, he should have. He was wrong--but he's sorry, and wants to make things right if he can. I don't think he should be denied at least the chance to do so. As for beating him in return . . ." A sly grin passes across Mary Anne's face. "Well, you tell me, sir. Do you think anything you could do would make him suffer as much Therese's disfavour will? Because if I'm any judge of that woman, she's going to grill him over a slow fire the minute she gets the least hint that he's sorry. I mean, did you see those looks she gave him at breakfast?" A chuckle. "If she were a horse, she'd have her ears flat back right now!"

And at that, Brandon cannot resist laughing a little. " 'From ghosties and ghoulies,' " he recites, " 'and from long-leggity beasties, and from things that go bump in the night--'" A pause, and Mary Anne draws a relieved breath at the crinkles of amusement at the corners of his eyes. "And especially from the vengeance of women . . . 'deliver us, O Lord. '"

"Absolutely," replies Mary Anne, with a look of mock-ferocity. "Talk to him, by all means. Give him to understand that what he did is unacceptable. And . . . leave the rest to Therese."

Brandon rolls his eyes. "I shall take care, my dear, that I never fall foul of you."

Mary Anne reaches up and draw Brandon's face down to hers. Her reponse, at least half a minute in duration, gives him to understand that there is no immediate danger of Brandon being in her bad graces . . .

Finally, Brandon straightens. "Very well. I shall not give Mister de Valera the thrashing he deserves--save with words." A pause. "I would send one of the staff to him, but--"

Mary Anne is way ahead of him. "But servants might gossip."

Brandon looks uncomfortable. "The senior staff is absolutely reliable, but I do not wish to take the least chance of anyone else knowing what has happened." A stern glance. "Not for Eamon's sake--"

Well, Christopher, now you're calling him "Eamon," at least. That's something.

"--but for that of Miss Therese. I have no wish for her to feel humiliated by any of this. I already spoke to Hayes and gave him to understand that if he spoke a word of it to anyone, he would be dismissed from my employ."

"You needn't worry, sir. I'll find Eamon and let him know you wish to see him."

"As soon as possible, please." A sigh from Brandon. "Let us have this over."

Mary Anne reaches up and passes her hand briefly across Brandon's face, as if trying to smooth away the crease between his brows. A quick kiss, then, at one corner of his lips, and she quietly exits the study and goes in search of Dev . . .