Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Just back from fireworks and festivities with friends--but never let it be said that I would neglect my friends here. Happy New Year, everyone. Looking forward to 2000 with you.

MA--and welcome back, Andrea! You've been missed! 8-)
Champagne all around--*pop*, krrrrssshhhhh . . . , - Friday, December 31, 1999 at 23:17:44 (PST)

Scanning the crowd of hungry combatants gathered in the kitchen, Brandon spies Mesmer and waves him over to the table. The Colonel had seen the doctor earlier in the day, aiding the medical effort, but the two men hadn't the chance to talk.

Mesmer gratefully accepts a bowl of stew and a thick slice of bread from one of the harried kitchen staff and makes his way to the Brandons. "Mrs. Brandon. Colonel."

The Colonel genuinely expects some good news to lift his wife's spirits. "Doctor. I am heartened to see that you were able to leave Miss Andrea and assist us this morning. Her condition must be much improved."

Mesmer sinks heavily into a chair. "If only that were true. -- I was able to leave her only because Dr. Dubois was forced to sedate her. -- She should still be asleep, and I have no idea how to help her when she awakes."

If Mary Anne wanted an excuse to leave the table, she had one now. "Doctor, would it be all right if I sat with Andrea for a while?"

"Mrs. Brandon, although my patient is, as I said, asleep, I have no doubt but that your presence will have a healing effect on her very soul."

After Mary Anne excuses herself to bring what comfort she can to Andrea, Mesmer lowers his voice to speak with The Colonel. "Brandon, do you know who is in charge of this menagerie? I must plead for the gentle treatment of The Interrogator, at least until I can sever HIS connection with Andrea."

Brandon leans back in his chair and stares at the doctor. He feels certain that he has misunderstood what was just said to him.

Mesmer explains. "In the middle of the night, Andrea awoke from what seemed to be a nightmare, accusing me of having punched her in the stomach. Later on, I discovered that -- at the very moment Andrea awoke -- The Interrogator was hit in the midsection by Mister de Valera."

Andrea
Happy New Year Everyone!, - Friday, December 31, 1999 at 18:09:13 (PST)

Impenetrable?

We shall see.

The Interrogator
Quiet (for now) in my chains . . ., - Thursday, December 30, 1999 at 17:45:21 (PST)

Although the Empress is immensely merciful, let me assure you, as far as she knows, the Interrogator is the only one that has been able to elude justice. I mean, there are other confinement facilities in the Realm (one of which the Interrogator escaped from, no?). And it's not every day that she presides over a case herself. Her Majesty's dungeon is from part of the Castle (which has been added on to over the years, of course), which dates back to the 12th Century. So you see, it's considered a bit medieval for modern standards. BUT impenetrable. And all precautions are being taken.

An Emissary of the Empress
- Thursday, December 30, 1999 at 08:03:16 (PST)

Suzanne: Over a hundred years?! Either the Empress is a merciful woman or else crime is rampant in the Realm. I sincerely hope that HE doesn't have dust/mold allergies. (Unless, of course, that's one of the tortures . . .)

Magda: Okay, so maybe during my first reading, the impact was, um, subliminal. Yeah, that's it.

Claire: the latest pics . . . mmmmmmmm. *sigh* Thank you--and all the other contributors. What taste you have. 8-)

MA
And Clods, good to see you back!, - Wednesday, December 29, 1999 at 20:01:37 (PST)

The Imperial dungeon is as ready as it'll ever be, considering it has not been used for over a hundred years. Think HE'll feel honored?
The Empress
(bearing up for her first encounter with HIM), - Wednesday, December 29, 1999 at 16:58:45 (PST)

"So you see," said Claudia to Renie as they sat side by side on the bed in the Tardis. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I was trying to gain HIS trust, and anything I did that seemed to be helping HIM, was I hoped harmless enough to you all, but worth it to bring HIM down."

She expected Renie to tell her how stupid she'd been. "You know you shouldn't have done something like this on your own. But I thank you for it."

"You thank me? Renie, I'm so sorry if I caused you any pain when I switched the tests. Somehow HE had me convinced it was the right thing for you, and it seemed so right at the time."

"HE has HIS ways of being convincing, sometimes they are surprisingly subtle. I thank you because, though misguided, you were risking your life for your friends."

"I take responsibility for everything I've done. Though this last day or so, I'm not sure how much I was in control. This implant in my leg - the Doctor told me it was a simple tracking device, nothing more. But I am convinced it has been slowly leaching some drug into my body. I don't know what drug, but some weird things have been happening."

"There could be more to the device than that, perhaps the Doctor should do more scans, before we take you back."

"Take me back?" Panic showed briefly in her blue eyes, her pupils flaring and shrinking quickly.

Renie stood and held out her hand. "You didn't think we'd come to rescue you, did you? I just needed to know why. You have to face up to the authorities, and hope they believe what you have to say."

"But do you?"

Renie didn't answer straight away, but looked into Claudia's eyes for a long moment. "I do," she breathed finally.

"Well, good," Claudia stood and held out her hands in front of her, wrists together, waiting for handcuffs she knew Renie didn't have. "You'd better take me away, now."

Renie slapped at her wrists and grabbed one hand, dragging her through a doorway that opened automatically to let them through.
Claudia
Tardis materialising on the lawn at Delaford as we speak..., - Wednesday, December 29, 1999 at 11:32:33 (PST)

Sure, MA, second reading. Yeah, right.
Magda
- Wednesday, December 29, 1999 at 06:55:09 (PST)

Once her hand steadies, Mary Anne picks up her teacup and lifts it to her lips to hide the traces of a smile. Pain and fear? Well, yes, what there was of those . . . Now is not the time to point out to Brandon, who is doubtless still berating himself as some sort of crazed ravisher--Christopher Brandon, the Mad Seducer; they say no woman is safe--that she found certain aspects of the evening rather more enjoyable than otherwise. All right; it's not exactly how I would have chosen for him to act, but since it happened I'm certainly not going to waste time worrying about it, and you're not either, sir. Not if I have anything to do with it.

Such thoughts might turn the smile on her face into an outright grin, but as her attention returns to the company around her, the conversation in progress destroys any temptation to humour, as Brandon discusses the raid with one of the Imperials--an older man, wounded in the shoulder but well able, now that his arm has been set and bandaged, to sit at the table with them and fill them in on the details of events in the West Wood while enjoying his dish of soup.

Mary Anne looks up from her tea just in time to hear, "--and as for HIM, well . . ."

"Yes?" prompts Brandon.

The Guardsman shakes his head. "The--" That hesitation. It is almost literally painful for them to pronounce "The Interrogator," so strong is their conditioning to be loyal to the Empress. "HE is no ordinary criminal. What I hear is, they've packed HIM up in a transport convoy, with reps from all of us to go with it: Guardsmen, UNIT forces, and the Alliance." He pauses for another slice of bread and to spread mustard on a slice of beef, managing with remarkable dexterity considering that his right arm is in a sling. "HE will be on HIS way to the Imperial Palace by now, and I'll wager Her Majesty--" Slight movement of his arm toward his heart, though the motion is restrained by the sling. "--will oversee HIS case herself." A grim glitter in those veteran eyes. "And then, we shall see. It won't be so easy for HIM to escape from there. Not like that miserable business the last time--"

Without even glancing at her husband, Mary Anne can feel his gaze on her as she is once more forced to hastily set down her cup.

The Guardsman has seen it as well, and half-rises from his seat. "My apologies, Mrs. Brandon, I did not mean to distress you. The--HE is not a fit subject for discussion in a civilized home."

"It's all right. I'm fine," Mary Anne reassures the Guardsman, expecting that Brandon will, any moment, suggest that she discreetly retire and casting about for some excuse to leave before he can make the suggestion.

"Not a fit subject for discussion . . ." Oh, if only you knew.

MA
Looks like HE is on HIS way to you, Suzanne--are the dungeons in order? ;-), - Wednesday, December 29, 1999 at 06:05:22 (PST)

Corrections made.
Share a cell with HIM? My sources say HE will most likely get solitary confinement.
D.o.C.

*Sigh* I must once (TWICE!) more request the assistance of the D.o.C.--

"The Interrogator might as well be standing at her shoulder . . ."

And--"Though he could not shield her . . ." Not "she."

And if I'm not more careful in my posts, nobody will be able to shield me!

MA--hoping not to start the New Year in the slammer!
Would I have to share a cell with HIM?! =8-O, - Tuesday, December 28, 1999 at 20:35:03 (PST)

Delaford, the kitchens. Late morning.

It turns out that Moire's MacLeod's Scots terminology for what has been going on at Delaford is a very thin disguise of the truth: Brandon and Mary Anne had come downstairs to a turmoil of emergency medical proceedings, debriefings of various personnel from the Alliance, UNIT, and the Imperial Guard, and various attendant confusions requiring every free pair of hands, not to mention the upsetting of all routine for the Delaford staff--most of whom function expertly within the confines of that routine, though they are more than a little bewildered without it.

Brandon had known well enough what to expect, having been a soldier; still, what he sees troubles him, and he expects that it will trouble him throughout his life. But his great concern is for Mary Anne and he contrives to remain unobtrusively near her through the morning, observing her as she moves about from one task to another, trying to help wherever she can.

Brandon would spare her if he could, but the demand for assistance is enough to keep them both occupied and so he cannot shield her from standing by to pass gauze and adhesive bindings to a field medic stitching a ghastly-looking leg wound.

"A mess," the medic observes. "Lucky for him it just nicked the femoral artery, there . . ."

Tight-lipped, Mary Anne nods. And she is very, very pale, but remains on her feet. She will not faint; she will not faint . . .

Nor is Brandon able to prevent her seeing the bags laid on the ground and visible from the windows of the East Parlour--bags containing the bodies of the fallen. The Colonel watches Mary Anne as she stares at them until it dawns on him at last that she might be counting them, and he quickly does the same. A few. Thankfully few, considering how it could have been. But still . . . too many. And one more to add to the number, as in that same room another medic shakes his head and ceases his efforts, reaching to gently close the eyes of his patient, while murmuring "I'm sorry," to the dead man's comrade who is standing by. Imperial Guardsmen, both of them, and both young, though the survivor is slightly older.

In the midst of all of this suffering, Mary Anne and Brandon exchange a slight smile or two whenever their occupations bring them within range of Miss M, who--while maintaining all her dignity as Delaford Housekeeper--manages to guide the saddened, frightened (and at times, sickened) younger staff members by softening her usual brisk manner and throwing them an extra word or two of encouragement. "Guid lass, Molly, an' tha's as neat a job as I e'er did see." "Aye, Rob, brave lad. It's a credit ye'll be to th' family, an' I'll tell yer Mam when I write to them for ye, shall I?"

And so goes the morning. Mary Anne perseveres through various tasks, aware of Brandon's concern for her; she will not let him down, nor add herself to the roster of patients, nor set a bad example for the Delaford staff--several of whom, in fact, have already looked askance at her as if wondering how the master's new lady will conduct herself.

Mary Anne is also troubled by a persistent fancy that The Interrogator might as well be standing at her shoulder, watching the scene with her, though she is certain that HE must be miles and miles away. She, more than anyone else, can imagine HIS perspective on this scene, can summon to her mind the smile that would play about those thin lips if HE were standing beside her, gazing at the casualties. Though she had not been present at the raid, Mary Anne is able to tell that it could have been far worse. And yet . . . those bags arranged on the ground, and the medic closing the eyes of the Guardsman. Blood and death. For HIM.

This feeling as if HE stood close at hand--an uncomfortable remant of having shared minds with The Interrogator--doubles Mary Anne's anxiety as she remembers Brandon's warning: that she has already made statements in front of Dev that might make the redoubtable Irishman suspicious if he has taken time to think about them. This leads to the pointless exercise of trying to remember what she might have said, and when she might have said it . . . and what on earth she will have to say to Therese, once things are quiet enough downstairs for her to leave without it looking as if she is running away . . .

That thought--I'll be hanged if I'll run!--had been good for a defiant chin-lift and another hour and a half of solid work. Still, Mary Anne had been glad enough to shift her duties to the kitchen with the approach of afternoon, and the kitchen staff had been relieved that she did not walk in giving orders but had simply joined them in their work, stacking plates and rummaging out cupboard and pantry, slicing bread and filling teapots . . . and, remembering Brandon's account of the previous night's madness and how it came on after a plate of sugared biscuits, carefully searching the kitchen for every grain of sugar that is not in a sealed crock or an unopened sack and pouring it in the waste bin. That is good for a strange look or two from the staff, but no one dares gainsay her.

I wonder what became of Claudia? For there had been no report of her capture; "Tiny" and the other guards who had so thoroughly gone over the bedchamber while Joanna McCoy treated Brandon had evidently not found Claudia on the roof. Which doesn't leave many ways she could have escaped, but escape she did, I suppose. And I'll bet I know how . . .

And finally, after the first brutal press of the morning, the pace begins to slacken. Mary Anne, having helped to feed what seems like the entire immediate world, is glad to sit at the kitchen table, rest her aching feet, and swallow a few mouthfuls of bread and hastily-assembled stew while listening to Brandon discuss the raid with various combattants who make their way to the kitchens.

Sipping her tea, Mary Anne studies her husband, aware that she has been under his scrutiny throughout the morning. Though he could not shield her, he had yet attempted to comfort her with his physical presence, being at all times in the same room with her or within easy call. Listening to his questions on the activities in the West Wood, Mary Anne sets down her teacup before it falls from her shaking hand, as a thought occurs to her: Christopher, if you had been . . . your usual self last night, you might have gone on that raid, to help capture HIM. And then I might have had to stand by and watch some medic close your eyes and pull a sheet over you. So, for what happened between us on account of that drug--and whatever Claudia was trying to do, I don't know what--I'm glad. Yes, glad. I'm a bit bruised and I've got a few marks that would be a little embarrassing to explain, and I'll admit you frightened me there at the beginning. But it kept you safe. That's worth all the pain and fear . . .

MA--yow, Claire, that cold water . . . brrrrrr!
Magda:"I watched as she untied the silk cords from the bedposts and hid them under her pillow"--didn't catch that until second reading. *grin* Sounds like George's sort of evening, all right . . . , - Tuesday, December 28, 1999 at 20:18:49 (PST)

"Day the Thirty-fourth of my Exile, in the month of December – In which the Lady Joya reassures me about a few things that I had been wondering about."

"George?" It was a sweet whisper breathed into my ear, followed by a gentle nip on my earlobe. I grunted and burrowed deeper under the covers. The voice was familiar but I couldn't remember who my bed partner was. She'd be severely punished for waking me and using my name without leave.

"Come on, lover. Time to get up." Soft hands with a firm grip rolled me over onto my back and delicate fingers traced a line along my jaw and tickled my chin. I kept my eyes closed. The urge to punish began to melt away under the heat of other desires.

"I said, get up!" A sharp tug on a well-exercised portion of my anatomy had me sitting up in less than a heartbeat. Memory came flooding back on a wave of pain.

"Damn it, wench! I know you're fond of it but it won't be any use to you if it's not in my keeping." I scooted across the bed until I was safely out of reach.

Joya smiled lazily from her recumbent position against the pillows. Hair tumbled over her shoulders and covered her breasts. "The morning is well advanced, lover. We'll be invaded soon by the maid to help me get dressed. You've got to go back to your room."

I looked around and saw that a weak sun was lighting the normally gloomy chamber. My clothes were black heaps scattered around the floor. Half of Joya's dress was on the chair by the fire, the other half at the foot of the bed under my dagger. I smiled at the memory of how it got there.

Joya threw back the covers and sat up. "Get that look out of your eye. I don't know how I'm going to explain that dress."

"Why explain at all?" I stretched my arms over my head and yawned. "If anyone questions you about anything, send them to me. It will be the last time they try it."

With a laugh she bounced out of bed and strolled to the fire. "Oh, now that would be wise, wouldn't it? To lord it over the servants so that they resent me and start asking questions." She picked up each garment in her path, draping her own over her arm and tossing the others to me. "I wonder what kind of a Crusader you were. Humility is obviously not your strongest point."

This time my smile was forced. She had no idea how right she was.

I would have to remember that I am no longer High Sheriff but a landless knight serving a minor lord. Leaving off the manners of a lifetime could prove to be hard, especially in the morning before I am completely awake. And even more especially if I am no longer alone in the morning.

She dropped her clothes on the chair by the fire. Separating her chemise from the pile, she shook it out and slipped it over her head. I felt a stab of disappointment as its length slithered down to her ankles. The word "magnificent" has been corrupted if it has been used to describe anything other than Joya.

"Are you always this difficult in the morning, lover?" She glided back to the side of the bed, that special smile on her lips.

"Don't call me that." I watched as she untied the silk cords from the bedposts and hid them under her pillow. "I don't like it."

"But I like it. Lover." She rolled the word out slowly and ended it with a kiss. I grabbed for her but she danced away. "We did other things last night that I liked. You didn't mind it then."

I pushed the covers aside and got up before I allowed myself to dwell on the activities of last night; otherwise I might not be able to. As I dressed, I could hear the servants in the hall as another day's tasks got underway. Leaving her room, I was assailed by the aroma of roast beef wafting up the stairs. It was time for breakfast and I was quite hungry. I didn't even bother going to my room first.

By the time Joya arrived, I was already sitting in the large chair at the head of the table. The servants gave no indication that they thought it out of place for me to occupy the master's chair. One of the cook's helpers immediately brought us tankards of ale and several slices of beef on trenchers.

"Good morrow, Lady Joya. I trust you slept well last night." My voice was suitably deferential with just that small degree of gruffness that one would expect from a warrior. I watched to see how it affected the servants. They seemed to accept it.

"Very well indeed, sir." Joya arranged her skirts about her as the steward held her chair. She smiled up at him and he lurched away, a blush mantling his cheeks. I felt like kicking him.

I took a deep drink of my ale. The servants finished laying out the meal and disappeared into the kitchen. Now that we were alone again, it was time to get some answers. "Lady Joya, today I will be writing my report to Sir Mauger. I believe that he will be very grateful to you for agreeing to take Sister Ysabella's place."

With a gracious smile, she inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. "Please assure Sir Mauger that I am very eager to meet Melisant. Sister Ysabella told me something of the family, especially her late mother."

"Sir Mauger will have to be assured that he is not taking you away from other, personal business." Actually he wouldn't care at all but it sounded like the sort of thing an underling would say.

"He need have no qualms on that score. I am my own woman and free to do as I wish." She smiled again and daintily cut another portion of beef with her knife. "I have no family living whose permission I must seek for my actions."

This sounded very good. Perhaps her family had fallen out of favour with King Richard, or the male line had died out. A family with nothing but daughters could easily be dispersed around the kingdom through marriages and the like. Perhaps I was seeing problems where none existed. It was a pleasant thought but I had to be sure. "Sir Mauger will of course be curious about the lady who will be undertaking his stepdaughter's education. I would like to be able to tell him something about her background and history."

"Yes, I can understand that." She chewed for a few moments, her brow furrowed slightly in thought. "You may tell him that my mother, like his late wife, was a close friend of Sister Ysabella's from her old days at court. When my mother died, I had nowhere to go but to her protection at St. Benedicta's. The nuns there were anxious to see me take the veil but I had no desire for it." She looked up and gazed at me. "You can assure him that my desires lie in other areas."

For a long time we said nothing as the room heated up around us. To break the spell I lifted my tankard again and was surprised to find the ale still cold. "Well, I certainly will. And I can tell him that you are a respectable widow as well."

She nodded and cut some more beef. It seemed to me that there was a humorous challenge in her eye but I didn't care. Obviously I had allowed my imagination to run away with me. She was probably just what she seemed: a young woman without funds, friends or family to take care of her. A beautiful, warm, vibrant, willing young woman.

I pushed aside my trencher and rose from my chair. "Then I had better get to it. I will have to send the steward so that he can read the report to Sir Mauger." She would have to find someone else to smile at.

Joya looked up. "Very wise of you. Perhaps when you're finished you can bring me that shirt you're wearing so I can repair it for you."

"Eh?" I looked down at the front of my shirt. It looked fine to me. "What's wrong with it?"

"Somehow the laces have been ripped out of it. As if it was taken off in a great hurry." Her eyes were huge limpid pools of blue, carefully and unnaturally innocent. "One might almost say it was torn off your body. But I am a good needlewoman, sir. It wouldn't take me long to sew them back in." Then she mouthed the word, "Lover."

I could not think of anything to say, so I bowed quickly and left the hall. As I climbed the stairs to my room, I thought I could hear her laughter behind me.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
Everyone's heavy with Christmas pudding - "And such a pudding!", - Tuesday, December 28, 1999 at 17:05:43 (PST)

Splitting the air the bull whip crack snapped indecision, scattering watery demons in a bolt of anger. Hauled at the bridle, wheeling hard left, the horse slithered on the hocks before springing forward into the waters.

Right Sinclair Bryant, I can do this alone. Reins twitched at each flank, spiking movements that satisfied the rider rather than drove the animal.

Nipping and tucking, swirling and sucking the current wormed passed the living obstructions driving an opposing path.

Fixing a distance point, Claire forced herself to ignore the grasping water intent on ripping her legs from the horse's flank, gripping the girth so hard her thighs ached.

Toothless the cold waters numbed rather than bit. Skin tingled with the rubbing of the cloth creating imaginary warmth. While the muscular movement of the striding legs beating a constant stroke transmitted a comforting rhythm and illusion of safety. I can do this alone.

Once more the river seethed and boiled as the bull whip urged another herd forward. Deep in the waters yet yards from the bank, shouts from the island were lost in the Snake's endless coil.

Claire
SPLASH!, - Tuesday, December 28, 1999 at 11:11:20 (PST)

Hmmmmm--looks as if we all had busy weekends! Hope we all had happy ones, too.

MA
Preparing to dive back in . . . Ker-SPLASH!, - Tuesday, December 28, 1999 at 05:08:44 (PST)

Correction made.
Have a safe and happy one!
D.o.C.

D.o.C. please: that's "Mary Anne swallows hard." Not "hards." Thank you.

MA, in a holiday rush!
- Thursday, December 23, 1999 at 21:18:21 (PST)

"I do not like it."

"Oh, Christopher--"

Mary Anne sighs. To this point, breakfast had been most pleasant. Even with what Miss M describes as the "stramash" and "collieshangie" in progress below, the kitchen staff have turned out a superb breakfast for her and Colonel Brandon, and Mary Anne had enjoyed it to the full. Sizzling slices of tender ham are nothing new to her, nor muffins and scones, but eggs poached in cream and marsala--with a touch of cinnamon--are something new in her experience, and she had done ample justice to the dishes set before her.

And after a look from Brandon, Nox had most politely refrained from begging for tidbits but had lain on the hearthrug between them, blinking in sleepy pleasure at the light and heat of the fire and occasionally pricking up his ears at the mention of his name. Most pleasant.

Until Mary Anne had brought up the subject of checking on Therese.

"The doctors and Mister de Valera will look after her, for now. It is too soon--"

"Too soon? The poor woman has been abducted and tortured and terrified half out of her mind. How can it be too soon--?"

"I mean . . ." Brandon marshalls his thoughts. "She may be in need of solitude at the moment. Some privacy--"

Mary Anne stares at Brandon for a moment, then takes a deep breath. "What is really troubling you, sir? What's the reason that you are not telling me?"

Carefully, Brandon sets down his fork and sips from his cup before giving any reply.

Mary Anne waits him out.

"My dearest . . . it is only that you have been through enough, for the time being." An uneasy glance at her. "After last night--I simply do not wish you to be distressed. That is all."

"No, that is not all. And--?"

Brandon does not reply. Perhaps he cannot.

She takes a deep breath. "I know you're sorry about what happened last night. I saw the way you looked at me when you said you wanted to see me. At how marked up I am. But what happened was not your fault, sir, and I'm not going to allow you to blame yourself as if you'd abused me or beaten me or something--"

Brandon. One eyebrow on the rise. "You are not going to allow me--?"

"No, I'm not." She leans forward in her chair. "You are not like your father!"

That look! Though Brandon does not move, he seems instantly nearer to her and it is all Mary Anne can do not to shrink down in her seat. But Brandon remains where he is, studying her with every appearance of calm, though a close observer might note his white-knuckled grip on the arm of his chair.

Well, I've done it now, thinks Mary Anne glumly. But she cannot allow things to remain as they are. "Listen carefully: it was a surprise. A shock--at first."

"At first--!"

"Christopher, please! I couldn't bear the idea of being afraid of you, so I trusted you. That's all. Just trusted you. And that was before I knew anything about why you were behaving that way! Please, please believe me. You see, sir, we both know what real cruelty is, and that wasn't anything of the sort."

There is a long pause, before Brandon ventures, "Miss Therese had confided to me that her father was . . ." His expression hardens. "I believe her way of phrasing it was that we had unpleasantly similar upbringings."

Mary Anne gives an inward sigh of relief. By returning to the topic of Therese, Brandon has shown that he is at least willing to discuss the idea of Mary Anne helping her. Or the other was too painful for him to discuss . . .

"She trusted you too, sir. You see? Within a very short time of meeting you."

"And you think she has developed, in a few days, the sort of trust in us that would allow her to discuss this with you?"

Mary Anne nods. "I think so. She already knows that . . . I've been with HIM." Hint of a grin. "Besides, this was your idea, originally."

"Mine?"

"Of course." Mary Anne's expression. Sweet and guileless, save for the telltale sparkle in her eye. "Remember when you asked me to keep to the house? You said I had to keep safe, because I would be the only one who could help Therese when she returned . . . ?"

Mary Anne allows her voice to trail off casually, and Brandon's eyes narrow at how he has been neatly trapped. After all, he cannot very well say, That was only to make sure you did not do anything reckless; I did not mean it. Brandon is a man of his word.

And his wife knows it.

"Very well," he finally grudges, though he cannot altogether conceal his smile at Mary Anne's short breath of relief. "Go and speak with her, if Mister de Valera will admit you. He guards her as a dragon guards his hoard of gold--"

"Hardly a flattering picture of Mister de Valera, sir!"

"No, but I believe he would admit the justice of it at the moment. Help if you can, but take care. If for any reason Eamon were to gain knowledge of . . ."

Ah, so that is what is truly frightening him. Well, it frightens me, too. But aloud she only says, "I don't know how he could find out."

"Nor I. But I have already heard you make remarks in his presence that might set him wondering about your connection with The Interrogator." And now Brandon is out of the chair and standing over her, his brow creased with concern. "My dearest love . . ." His finger trails across her cheek. "I only wish to keep you safe. Perhaps I cannot, always--but I shall always try."

Mary Anne swallows hard. "I . . . don't mind that you try, sir. It's one of the things I love about you."

Mary Anne stands, wiping her hands on her linen napkin. "All right, then. Let's get ready to go and have a look at the fair moither going on downstairs, before I lose my nerve . . ."

MA--at your service, Therese . . .8-)
Have to be away a bit--Happy Holidays!, - Thursday, December 23, 1999 at 21:14:16 (PST)

Consistency restored.
Where's the continuity girl when you need her?
D.o.C.

Could someone please italicize the first sentence in quotation marks? I like to be consistent. Thank you.
Magda
- Thursday, December 23, 1999 at 19:21:46 (PST)

"Days the Thirty-second and Thirty-third of my Exile in the month of December – In which I discover that having the Lady Joya firmly in my power is not as straightforward proposition as it seems."

Damn good question. Wished I had a ready answer.

With one motion of her beautiful white shoulders, Joya had rendered my usual course of action irrelevant. For a long moment I could think of nothing to say. The silence stretched out between us. Finally I reached down for the flagon of wine to refill my cup, not because I was thirsty but to give me time to marshal the disparate thoughts in my head.

"George is there a…problem?" Joya nodded at the cup in my hand. "It's nothing to be ashamed of…I mean, I'm sure it happens to all men at some time…but if you've already had a lot to drink, that might be the reason you don't seem to be able…"

"I have not had too much to drink!" Words came back to me in a rush. "And for your information, not all men are affected by…" I stopped and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. I had a vague notion that I'd done a lot of that in the past couple of days. "Look, there's nothing wrong with me. I just wasn't prepared for your…uh…"

"Of course there's nothing wrong with you." Joya smiled in an encouraging way that set my teeth on edge. "Forget I mentioned it." She sat down on the stool in front of me. The flames from the hearth bathed her in a golden glow and darkened her eyes almost to purple. I had a feeling that I was in the presence of some creature from another place that I was barred from entering.

"Let's start over. Maybe I was a little abrupt." I sipped at my drink, careful not to gulp it, then set the cup aside. Determined not to make any sudden movements, I eased my way to the edge of my chair. Her unbound hair writhed over her shoulders and I plunged my hands into it, pulling her closer so that we were only inches apart. I dropped my voice to a whisper. "It's just that you're so beautiful that I can't control my feelings. I've been wanting to kiss you since I saw you in the garden."

"Then go ahead." She closed her eyes and met me halfway, her hands on my thighs almost scorching the leather.

I tightened my grip on her hair as our lips met. It wasn't the pale shadow of a caress I'd imagined but a glimpse of an inferno that could consume us both if we let it. My hands were trembling as I pulled back. Joya ran her tongue over her upper lip and looked at me from under half-closed lids.

"I don't want to frighten you so we'll take this nice and slow." If it doesn't kill me, I thought.

"Oh, I'm not frightened." She smiled. "I've been married twice already and I've got a pretty good idea of what happens next."

I stared into those blue eyes, like the deepest wells into the soul of the earth. Damn. She'd done it again. I released her hair and fell back into my chair. With a deep sigh, I reached for my cup and the flagon of wine again, pouring myself a full measure and tossing it back in two mouthfuls. As I poured again, I nodded resignedly. "Go ahead, my dear. Tell me all about it."

"Well, if we're going to talk, I'm getting covered up. It's winter out there you know." With one gesture she rose and swept up the robe. She wrapped herself up and sat down on the stool again. "Are you willing to share that?"

I handed her the flagon but she waved it aside and reached for my cup. For a while silence fell again as we took turns sipping from it. She leaned comfortably against my leg as she stared into the fire.

"The first time I was only six years old. He was a baron in Anjou and an alliance was good for the family. It was done by proxy and I never saw him, because he died when I was nine. But the second time was a real marriage. It was twelve years ago, when I was seventeen." She ran her finger along the rim of the cup. "He was forty years older than me and I was his fourth wife. But he was very nice to me. I was sad when he died. And there've been a couple of men since then. I don't think loneliness is a virtue. So you see, you don't have to worry about scaring me." She gave me that reassuring smile again.

"Imagine my relief." I tried to keep my tone casual, almost bored but in truth I was feeling most uneasy. Only great heiresses were married off at such a young age as six or had families who worried about alliances. What had happened to this family and their interest in her?

She pulled her gaze away from the fire and looked up at me again. "We can fool around as much as we like. Any preferences?"

"Any what?" My mind had gone blank again.

"What do you want to do? Where? How?" She smiled archly. "Or how many?"

I decided it was time to reassert control. Part of me still couldn't believe this conversation was taking place but I had to take action before the rest of me was in the same paralysed state. I stood up and in one motion wrapped my arms about Joya's waist, lifting her as I rose until she was hung over my shoulder. "You ask too many questions. Now be quiet and follow my lead." In three strides I was across the room and dropping her on the bed. To my relief there was no crackling of cornhusks as she sank into the mattress. It would be nice to spend the night in a feather bed again.

In the next instant I was beside her. "Now let's just get on with it, shall we?"

She put her arms around my neck and pulled my head down. "Whatever you say, George. You're in charge."

Of course, from anyone else, that comment would be an acknowledgement of the simple truth. It was my last coherent thought.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
Merry Millenium everyone! We'll leave George and Joya in bed til next year!, - Thursday, December 23, 1999 at 19:05:17 (PST)

"Mary Anne, meet Nox."

Mary Anne stoops to fondle the animal's silky ears and rub his neck, while Nox tilts his head back and half-closes his eyes in an expression of comical bliss.

"Not as in obnoxious, I hope."

"Not generally." Brandon is feeling more amiable now. "Nox as in Latin for night."

"Oh, because his fur is so dark. I see." What Mary Anne sees but does not mention is that, though the dog's coat is indeed richly black and thick, there are threads of silver in it, with pale touches around the eyes and muzzle. An older dog, then.

"How long have you had him, sir? I can see he's a special pet of yours."

"A pet?" Brandon raises an eyebrow. "He is an excellent hunting dog."

Mary Anne is not put off. "Yes," she grins, "and very well-trained, too, but it's obviously not the first time he's been up here. He knew exactly where this room was and where you were."

She cannot help laughing as Nox signifies his total approval of her by lazily slumping to the floor and rolling over so she can scratch his stomach—which she does, while continuing to needle Brandon. "Poor dog. You were away from Delaford for so long, he must have been ecstatic when you came back. But no, the master has a new wife, so he still doesn't get any attention—so he just took matters into his own hands." Mary Anne gives up trying to stoop and sits down on the floor, while Nox stands up, shakes himself thoroughly, then sits down once more in front of Mary Anne, nudging his head inquiringly against her hand in a plea for more neck-rubbing, which she is happy to provide. "Or into his own paws, anyway. I'd say he's been more than patient, with me keeping you away from him like this. I'm surprised he doesn't bite me on the leg! Good boy," she croons to Nox.

Brandon, standing over them, shakes his head. "Mary Anne, you will spoil that animal. But then," He chuckles reminiscently, "you did say back at the Safehouse that you planned to occupy yourself here by indulging my dogs and horses—"

"—and driving you to distraction," finishes Mary Anne, gazing smokily up at him, though the femme fatale impression is undermined by Nox sprawled on the floor beside her with his head in her lap.

"Well, you have certainly kept your promise on that last . . ."

"I haven't been near your horses yet, though. I suppose that must be next on my list."

Brandon drags up a footstool and seats himself on it, briefly patting Nox's back and receiving the tribute of a plumy tail being thumped several times against the floor.

"To answer your question, Mary Anne, I've had Nox since before I met Marianne. And after she died—" Brandon is silent for a moment, a faraway expression in his eyes. "Well, you know how much Renie helped me, but there were still many evenings alone . . ." Brandon glances at her. "Do you know what it is like, to desire some company, but . . . company that is not very demanding?"

Mary Anne nods. "Yes, sir." Softly.

"I would have dinner brought up here. Or, perhaps, to the library—Nox is allowed there, though Miss MacLeod does not approve." A slight smile. "But more often, I would be here, having allowed him to make his way past her. My food, my fire . . . a book, perhaps. And . . ." Brandon looks down at the retriever. "A companion."

"It's good that he was here, Christopher."

"Yes."

Mary Anne tries for some livelier topic. "He didn't obey you right away when you told him to get down, but then you gave him some hand signals--?"

"Yes." Brandon brightens. "Well, he is a hunting dog, and when you are stalking a quarry, you must be silent—thus, the hand signals."

"You'll have to teach them to me, then." Mary Anne smiles down at Nox, who is about to fall happily asleep beside her from the tranquilizing effect of much stroking. "He seemed to take them very seriously. Did you train him yourself?"

"I did, and he knows those commands are very serious business." A wry look. "However, he finds other business more serious, from time to time."

"Business such as welcoming his master home? I should think so!" And Mary Anne settles once more into what she considers the extremely serious business of exchanging cordialities with Brandon's favoured pet. Er, hunting dog.

There is a soft knock on the door, and Brandon rises to go and bring in the breakfast tray.

MA
Er, Dev, better do something for Therese before she self-destructs . . . in five seconds . . . =8-O, - Thursday, December 23, 1999 at 18:25:43 (PST)

Dev's Guest Quarters, Delaford

The sound of Therese's laughter echoed through the chamber as Dev stood in the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He was bemused by her reaction at first, emotions which quickly changed to concern as he could discern the subtle change in pitch as her voice became more shrill. By the time he had crossed the room in several long legged strides, she was on the verge of hysteria, her body shaking, her eyes wild.

He watched her as she threw herself face down upon the bed, grasping the comforter tightly between fingers that clenched the fabric so firmly they turned white at the knuckles. He sat next to her on the bed, wraping her in the covers and gathering her into his arms to pull her to his chest. "It's okay, Therese, shh, you can't go one like this," he whispered into her ear, as she clung to him tightly.

"I can't, Eamon," she gasped, tears pooling in her eyes, "I don't think I'd be able to stop once I started." She shuddered against his body, exhuasted and frightened by the whirlwind of emotions that left her physically weak.

"You've got to let it out, otherwise it will eat at you. . .I'm here with you, it will be okay." He wanted to shake her, to hold her, to protect her from her fears, but make her face them just the same. He would gladly suffer for her rather than see her pain, but that was the single thing he could not do.

When JoAnna McCoy entered the room for the second time that morning, she found her patient sobbing wildly, arms tightly wound around a very concerned looking Eamon de Valera.

"How long has she been like this?" Dr. McCoy asked softly, sitting on the far corner of the bed.

Dev shook his head slightly. "I don't know--too long."

"I can sedate her again."

"No," he responded immediatly, his tone ademant. "Then she'd simply have to go through all of this again the next time she wakes." He patted Therese's back tenderly, smoothing down her hair, though she remained oblivious to his touch. "Though I confess I think we need do something. . .but what?"

Therese
Magda, woo--looks like ol' George mighta met his match. . .MA--dogs know a sucker when they meet one!, - Wednesday, December 22, 1999 at 13:08:58 (PST)

The Stables--Delaford

Hayes finished bedding the final stall, the sounds of horses munching contentedly the only sound within the stable. He glanced back over his handiwork, and sighed with pleasure at a job well done. The horses shone, their sleek hides slick and well kempt, the generously proportioned box stalls knee deep in soft, golden straw. With a final pat to the shoulder of the black horse who had the distinction of being the master's favourite, the slender young man latched the stall door behind him, and headed toward the doorway. Word had come 'round that all able bodied help was to report to the kitchens, that Miss M had more work than even she could handle. Now that the animals had been cared for, he was willing to do his part.

He'd not made it half way up the lane toward the manor when he was stopped by the sound of pounding hooves heading toward him from behind the stables. Wasn't one of his, he knew, and turned just in time to see a large grey hunter clear the stone wall separating the back pastures from the stable yard.

He recognized the rider immediately, it was his friend and fellow stableman from the adjoining estate, and he spoke to the other man as he approached. "Jeeves! Blimey! Wha' 're ye doin' man? There's no need ta be usin' yer animal in such a manner. If yer master will no' 'ave yer 'ead fer such shenanigans with 'is 'orse, then I just might 'ave a go at ye meself!"

Jeeves pulled up his horse in front of the other man, and looked down at him reprovingly. "If tha's the only type o' greetin' ye've got, Jasper Hayes, then what's t' say I'll not take me news and leave?"

Hayes looked up to the other man astride the grey horse, and rubbed the animal softly along the cheek. "Oh fine then, he seems right enough, what's yer word?"

"Ye remember tha' filly what yer master wanted, the one what's 'alf sister to 'is black 'orse?"

"Aye, th' colonel was no' 'appy a'tall when 'e got there only to find she'd already been sold to Lord 'awkins. Now there's a man whot knows only 'ow to ruin a fine piece of 'orseflesh." Jeeves nodded in agreement. "Aye, tha's true enough, and word 'as it she's been near ruined right enough. T'lord 'as 'er fer sale now--if she's still 'live, lestways. I thought y'ed want t' know, given 'ow much t' colonel wanted t' filly from the start." Hayes shook his head at the news of the filly. "'Ow bad be she 'urt?"

Jeeves sneered, a look of disgust on his simple features. He was a horsekeeper, from a long line of men who had raised and trained the blueblooded animals owned by the higher classes. To willingly harm such an animal, or not give it the care it was due. . .such a thing was, in his mind, incomprehensible. "She took out a gate tryin' to get away from 'is lordship and she's 'urt bad. She might go sound t' be rode again, but with 'er lines, she's sure a right enough broodmare at any rate." The other man paused for a brief moment. "Least she will be, if ye kin tame 'er down once 'gain. Right now she's more like to take yer 'ead off rather than let ye look at 'er. 'Bout took 'awkins left ear offin 'is 'ead--if t'weren't for 'is groom, the filly'd be full o' lead right now. So, y' think what Brandon might wan' th' lass? I 'ate t' see such a fine piece o' 'orse go t' naught, but she's far more than th' likes o' us could ever 'ford, crippled or no'."

Hayes sighed, his eyes beseeching the heavens. Brandon had no need of any further problems at present--between a brand new wife, his guests, the wounded, and the typical day to day duties of running an estate. . .but he knew his employer. He'd best find some way to get that injured, man eating horse back here to Delaford.

"Well, Jeeves, I can only 'magine that ye've an idea 'ow to get th' crippled, evil filly from 'is lordship's to 'ere?"

"Would I be 'ere 'ad I no'? Word of Brandon--or 'is groom--'s good as cold money, so we've no trouble there. It's movin' the filly from 'awk's to 'ere--tha' won' be a simple task."

"Well, let's 'ave at it, man. Sooner ye 'elp me get 'er 'ere, the sooner ye can 'elp me get a look at 'er leg."

It took only moments for Hayes to saddle one of the extra mounts from the stables, and soon both men were off from the direction Jeeves had come.

Therese
Hope no one is gettin' tired of the horse theme--don't worry, I'm going someplace with this little thread., - Wednesday, December 22, 1999 at 10:32:20 (PST)

"Day the Thirty-second of my Exile in the month of December – In which I get the mysterious Lady Joya firmly in my power with no possibility of escape."

"What a fine residence! It belongs to Sir Mauger?" Joya sat back in her saddle and ran a discriminating eye over the lodge in front of us.

"It does." I sat back in my saddle and ran a discriminating eye over her. It was an activity I had perfected during dinner last night.

The rooms we occupied at the Blue Boar were the best in the house, thanks to Mauger's optimistic interpretation of the king's promise to pay for the wedding expenses. Joya had the larger one, so that was where we ate.

I suppose it was a good meal; I can't remember. The innkeeper's wife laid out the food and bowed herself out of the room. She looked a little shocked when I closed the door firmly behind her but I was not in the mood to share. When I turned around, Joya was wearing that special smile again.

Of course she was curious about Estrilda and her two friends. After some thought I decided there was no harm in telling the truth.

Joya almost fell out of her chair laughing. "Oh, George! Wouldn't you play Saracen to her harem slave? How unfeeling of you!" She wiped the tears from her eyes with the edge of her napkin.

I smiled. I couldn't think of another woman who would react this way. Most would have been horrified at the mention of the topic. An image of the Lady Marion flitted through my mind; she would probably turn up her nose in prim disgust.

"Still having those two awful men beat you up seems excessive to me." She nibbled on a piece of chicken, still grinning.

"It was a good thing that you came back outside. I'm very grateful to you." And that was the damnable thing: I was grateful. She'd rendered me a service as important as the one I'd done her. How could I take her now? Even though I'd decided to wait until we were at the lodge, she was no longer my debtor. Somehow I needed to regain the upper hand.

"This is quite a nice wine." Joya picked up the flagon to refill her cup. It tottered on the edge of the table and fell to the floor, breaking into several shards. "Oh dear! What a mess." She pulled her skirts away from the puddle. "I'll have to use my own goblet now. Could you hand it to me? It's just in that pouch closest to you."

I looked around and found the saddlebag on the floor. There was a rosary and a Book of Hours, two combs and a small bag of what I assumed was jewellery. There was also a larger item that upon unwrapping proved to be the goblet. I held it out but she was preoccupied with possible stains on her garment and wasn't watching. I looked it over cursorily at first then with more concentration.

Because there was something about that goblet that was very interesting. It was obviously valuable, small and delicately made of silver, without the usual semi-precious stones you would expect to see but with graceful engravings around the cup and base. This was not a traveller's possession but something from a set for special occasions only. But it wasn't the silver that caught my eye; it was the engraving along the rim.

HENRICUS SECUNDUS REX.

What was this young woman – without family, friends or resources – doing with an expensive goblet that once belonged in the household of King Richard's father, the Old King, Henry II?

This question had revolved in my mind all day during our ride to the lodge. As we climbed off our horses and turned them over to the stableboy, I reflected on the only answer I had been able to come up with. Joya must have stolen the cup from St. Benedicta's convent.

I could imagine the sequence of events: Lady Ysabella dead in her sleep; Joya determining to leave with the escort when he arrived; with no resources of her own she would have needed to take something that was small but valuable so she could sell it. It made perfect sense. I applauded her logic. I would have done the same thing in her position.

And I most definitely approved of the result: as a thief, she was vulnerable and powerless. Mine to do with as I pleased. Starting tonight.

"This day has been very wearing, Joya. Why don't you have dinner in your room and relax. There's no need for us to be formal on our first night here." My words dripped with sympathy as we entered the hall.

She smiled at me with relief. "You read my mind, George. That sounds wonderful."

I looked around. The servants had done a fine job of preparing the place. The fire was burning cheerfully in the great hearth and two cushioned chairs were set in front of it. A long table with two benches was arranged in the middle of the room. Tapestries hung on the walls to keep out the chill. Fresh rushes littered the floor.

One of the women came forward and curtsied, offering to show Joya to her room. She nodded and looked back at me. "Good night then, George." They climbed the stairs and disappeared into the gloom at the top.

I took one of the chairs by the fire. The servants brought me bread, meat and cheese that I washed down with some of Mauger's better wine. Then I waited for the servants to turn in for the night. Their dormitories were on the other side of the residence and on the lower floor but I wanted none of them to hear what was going to happen. Finally as the fire began to die down, I judged it was time to make my move.

I took the flagon and cup with me. Pausing outside Joya's door, I could hear the murmur of female voices within. I knocked twice. The maid answered the door and I pushed my way in.

Joya was standing in front of her fire, combing her hair. The flames picked out the gold strands as it shimmered in the light. She turned at my entrance, her hand pausing in mid-stroke.

I nodded at the girl. "You. Out. Now." She stared open-mouthed, then ran out without even a nod. With one kick I shut the door behind her and dropped the bar into place to ensure our privacy.

"All right, Lady Joya." I strolled across the room and dropped into the chair across from my captive. Setting the wine down on the floor beside me, I stretched out my legs and drained my goblet with one swallow. "It's time for us to become better acquainted. Now get over here and strip!"

She stood as if frozen in place, a statue wrapped in a linen robe, then dropped her comb on the rug. Stepping forward slowly, her eyes never leaving my face, she stopped directly in front of my chair. She seemed to be breathing hard. Then she smiled that special smile again. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming." She shrugged her shoulders in an exaggerated motion and the garment fell to the floor, leaving her completely naked. "Now what?"

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
Thank goodness for fires!, - Tuesday, December 21, 1999 at 16:40:03 (PST)

At the sound of Miss MacLeod's voice in the corridor, Brandon turns once more to the dog and gestures—first pointing a finger at the animal, then flattening his hand, palm toward the floor.

Instantly, the dog drops to the carpet and lies still, his chin resting on his front paws, though Mary Anne could almost swear there is a twinkle in the deep, dark eyes that look up at her. And as if to confirm her impression, the dog lifts his head briefly, shows her tip of his tongue once more in a canine smile, then lowers his head once more.

Brandon, his robe straightened and gathered about him, is at the doorway. "Miss MacLeod."

The stream of Scots invective ceases instantly, and Mary Anne hears a murmur of, "Be off then, Sal, and do wha' ye can wi' that stramash goin' on below; help the doctors an' do as they tell ye—"

There is a quick, "Yes, ma'am," and the light patter of steps.

Then, "Mornin' to ye, sir."

Brandon. A man of irreproachable dignity, even in his dressing gown. "Good morning, Miss MacLeod. So, he slipped through again, did he?"

"Aye, sir, tha' he did. It's a fair moither below." A pause. "The wounded, sir, from th' raid."

"Yes. How bad is it?"

Mary Anne, listening to this exchange, cannot escape the impression that MacLeod had only been waiting for the maid to go downstairs before abandoning her persona as the starchy Housekeeper of Delaford; she can speak frankly with the Colonel, it seems, and does so.

"Nae so bad as it might hae been, sir, but bad enough. What ye'd expect, battlin' a devil from hell like yon Interrogator righ' i' his den . . ." MacLeod's voice softens. "Some fine lads dead, sir—at th'end, before all was clairt away, they were fightin' hand t'hand . . ."

Mary Anne can feel the tears forming in her eyes—but then Miss M changes topics, reverting to her former annoyance at the idea that a dog has somehow slipped past her vigilant surveillance and reached the upper floors of the Delaford estate. "An' wi'all the collieshangie below, sir, well—"

"I understand. He saw his opportunity and he took it."

"Aye."

Mary Anne leans forward to listen. Is Moire MacLeod as secretly amused by the situation as she sounds? For all her well-constructed facade of outrage, there is definitely some laughter buried in that voice.

And in Brandon's as well. "I understand; it was no fault of yours. There is—" No laughter, now. "—more than enough to keep you occupied downstairs, without making certain that beast—" Brandon throws the word over his shoulder, back into the bedroom, and Mary Anne sees the dog huddle in on himself as if trying to grow smaller. "—stays where he belongs. I shall attend to him; you need not trouble yourself. In the meantime, have our breakfast sent up, and some hot water, please."

"Ri' away, sir. An' I'm hopin' he hasna disturbed Missus Brandon? She's nae scairt o' dogs, is she?"

"I think not." Dryly. "If whoever brings up our breakfast would knock and then leave the tray in the hall--?"

"Aye, Colonel. I'll attend to it." And MacLeod departs, though not without muttering a stream of maledictions that tempt Mary Anne to attempt Scots Gaelic as her next language.

Brandon closes the door and, crossing to the bed, stands at the foot of it with his arms folded, gazing down at the dog lying on the floor, who lifts his eyes in one appealing glance to Mary Anne as if to say, I am for it!

Mary Anne pushes away the covers and slides over to sit at the edge of the bed. "Oh, Christopher, do stop glowering at the poor thing like you're going to turn him into a rug, or something!"

"You must admit, my dearest, that his sense of timing left a great deal to be desired . . ."

"Well, that's true, but we can talk more about that later. For now, I can see that this dog is important to you—or, at least, that you're important to him—and we haven't been properly introduced. Will you be a gentleman now, sir, and remedy that situation?" A straight face, but a teasing sparkle in her eyes.

And Brandon's eyes? He raises them briefly toward the ceiling in the look of a man sorely tried, but then raises his arm and crooks his hand in a gesture that the dog evidently recognizes, because he springs up and bounds over to Brandon, there to be greeted with a moment of ear-ruffling and a few pats on the head, before Brandon straightens and gestures toward Mary Anne as if presenting her to the dog. "This is your new lady of the house, and mind you behave yourself with her. Mary Anne, meet Nox."

MA--I liked the black dog in the film . . . thought it was time for a name.
Magda: this Lady Joya is getting very interesting. Leigh: Hart in that dark suit--yum. 8-9, - Monday, December 20, 1999 at 19:27:06 (PST)

"Day the Thirty-first of my Exile in the month of December – In which my attempts to know the Lady Joya better leave me with more questions than answers but I am grateful to her nonetheless."

We were half a mile away from the convent before we felt safe enough to slow down and walk our horses. By that time it was obvious that we were not being pursued.

"Now that was most enjoyable! Neither of us have had a good gallop in days." My companion patted her horse's neck, then turned to me with a wide smile. "I owe you almost more thanks than I can give, sir. There is much I cannot tell you or I would make you aware of the difficulties of my situation. As it is, you have my deepest gratitude."

"Lady Joya, if I rendered any assistance to you, that in itself is ample reward." It's hard to really bow in the saddle so I made do with a respectful nod instead.

"You are easily satisfied, sir. And there is no need to be so formal, when we're going to be working together. Please call me Joya." She kicked her horse a little closer to mine. "What is your name?"

"George." I had decided not to use a false name; too easy to forget and make mistakes. "And we are not going to be working together. A lady in your position does not lower herself to become a companion, even to another young lady."

"A lady in my position, George, has little choice in the matter." Her smile became less open and more wry. "While I cannot tell you everything about my circumstances, I can tell you some. I've been staying with Sister Ysabella for the past year. Her death this morning freed me from caring for her but also left me homeless. I have no vocation to be a nun and no need to be educated like the other young ladies at the convent. I need someplace where I would have the time to plan my future."

Better and better. A beautiful, grateful, young woman with no family to come looking for her, no place she had to be and no resources to enable her to escape me. My blood was on fire. The only question was whether it would be safe to take her in Barnesdale or wait until we were secluded at the hunting lodge. The latter was no doubt the wiser course but I did not think I had the patience to wait even one night.

"I'm not sure this is a good idea. Sir Mauger really should be consulted." I judged that feigning reluctance wouldn't hurt.

With a sudden movement of her hand, she reined her horse around so that it blocked mine. I pulled up quickly. She rode to my side and stretched out her hand to grasp my arm. "Please George? I don't want you to get into trouble but anything Sister Ysabella could teach, I could teach too." She tightened her hold into a firm grip.

"Very well. But let's not tell anyone about it, shall we? You never know how other people will see it." I held my breath; she may not have had any family but it was possible that she had important friends.

"Oh, that won't be difficult. I've no one to tell or write to." She released me and got her horse back into position again as I resumed breathing.

We made very good time. Despite the snow squall that brought me to Mauger's home, the weather had been very fine for December and made the riding conditions perfect. Just cold enough to ensure a smooth road yet warm enough to be comfortable. Joya was very good company. She did not chatter inanely about fashions or simper idiotically like many other females do. We were on the outskirts of Barnesdale almost before I realized it.

As we rode through the streets we attracted a fair amount of attention. Strangers in small towns like this are rare at any time but especially in the winter months. It made me a little uneasy to be the focus of so many stares but there was nothing for it but to keep riding. Joya seemed not to notice.

The yard at the Blue Boar was quiet. One boy came out of the stables to take our horses. I dismounted and moved to Joya's side to help her. She put her hands on my shoulders and smiled down at me. "I hope dinner is served soon. I am quite famished."

I caught her as she slid off her mount. "We should have an early night of it so we can start out at dawn tomorrow." Better this way, I thought. Wait until we get to the lodge.

"That sounds like an excellent plan. I can hardly wait to get there." Before I could move, she pulled her own bags off her saddle and handed them to the servant. "Shall we dine together, George?"

"We shall." Well, I could at least look, couldn't I?

"Then I'll wait for you with pleasure." She gave me a special smile that I hadn't seen before and walked to the inn door being held open for her by another servant. In the warm glow of light spilling out into the yard, she stopped and turned back to smile at me again before disappearing inside.

I pulled off my gloves and realized my hands were shaking. Never had I felt such desire for a woman. Had I seen her a year ago in Nottingham, I would have seized her in the very streets and carried her off to the castle. For a moment I was so homesick that I got a lump in my throat. Then I shook myself and started for the same door.

Suddenly a hand clamped down on my shoulder like a vice and spun me around in my tracks. Another hand seized my other shoulder and I was slammed against the wall of the stables with a force that made the building shake. I was too startled to prevent the back of my head from getting a hard knock.

When I opened my eyes again, I found I was being held by two of the largest and most foul smelling brutes I had ever seen. They were wearing the plain leather jerkins of the labouring class, greasy and rank with sweat. Both of them carried a nasty looking dagger in the hand that wasn't pinning me to the wall. They gave me evil black-toothed grins. Several steps behind them, safely downwind, was Estrilda.

"This be the one, yer ladyship?" One of them asked.

"It's him alright. He probably just got back from selling it." She put her hands on her hips and looked me over with contempt. "These felons know how to dispose of their loot."

"Good evening, Estrilda. Taking your pets out for a walk?" I decided to keep the conversation social until I knew what she wanted.

Her thugs took exception to my informality. They slammed me back into the wall again although this time I was ready and my head did not suffer. The torch above me guttered and spat with the motion. "Show some respect fer her ladyship, ya thievin' scum." The smaller one leaned into my face and breathed ale on me. "Or else we'll learn ya some manners. Where's the joolery ya stole from her ladyship?"

"Oh come on, Estrilda. Is this the best you can do?" I was almost offended. Attempted rape, perhaps; accusations of treason, even better; but simple thieving? It showed a lack of imagination.

"No, it's the worst." She nodded to her friends. "Make him tell you what he did with it. Don't stop until he tells the truth."

"Right, yer ladyship." It was the larger one's turn now. "But I can't promise but what we won't have to muss up his pretty hair and face to do it."

I've hired my share of men for various disciplinary functions over the years and I can say without fear of contradiction that I have never got my money's worth as much as Estrilda did. If ever men really enjoyed their work, it was these two. Just the prospect of getting down to it had them breathing hard.

"I don't care what you do. Just get my jewellery back." She stepped forward into the light of the torch so I could not miss the black malevolence in her stare. "You'll regret the day you trifled with me, sirrah."

"You're wrong, Estrilda." I leaned forward as far as I could against my captors' grips. "I could never regret having such a good laugh."

Her head snapped back as she sucked in her breath sharply. Retreating to the yard again, she pointed a shaking finger at me. "Do it! Make him suffer! Don't stop until he talks."

I braced myself as best I could but these men knew their stuff. They lifted me so that I could get little purchase on the ground with my feet and then the larger one pulled back his fist preparatory to slamming it into my belly. Resigning myself to taking at least a few blows until I could retaliate or someone came out to the stable, I closed my eyes.

"Hold!" It was an imperious voice that cut across the gloom like an axe. Estrilda's men stopped and looked back for the source of the command. It wasn't what I expected but I improvised. I shook off their slackened holds and seized each of them by the back of the neck, then slammed their heads together with one powerful blow. They dropped into the mud soundlessly.

Estrilda screeched in outrage as I stepped over their carcasses and took their daggers. I pulled my sword out of its scabbard and held it ready. At the same moment a tall figure advanced into the light and lifted a regal hand. It was Joya.

"My good woman, what is the meaning of this disgusting brawl? Why were these men assaulting my escort? I trust you have an explanation for this." Her tone would have done credit to a general on a battlefield. A warm feeling permeated me; after a moment I realized it was pride.

I've seen wet hens that had more dignity than Estrilda did at that moment. She sputtered incoherently for some moments, words like "jewellery", "thief" and "this morning" being the only intelligible ones, until she finally managed to make a formal accusation against me.

Joya's tone became even colder, if that was possible. "George has been with me all day at the convent of St. Benedicta. We arrived back here just now. You are obviously mistaken."

Estrilda was a fighter, I'll give her that. "I'm not mistaken! It was him! I've got two servants that will swear to seeing him leave my house this morning." Her hands clenched into fists, she fairly spat in her fury.

"Then perhaps we should call the sheriff and see what he says." Joya smiled coldly. "Although I do not think that Sheriff Odo would contradict the word of Lady Joya de Clifford."

The name meant nothing to me but it went over big with Estrilda. She stared in mute shock at this statement. Her two thugs, once again in the land of the living, rose hastily to their feet and backed away almost to the gate.

"Perhaps –" Estrilda closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Perhaps my servants were mistaken. I would not want an innocent man accused of a crime he did not commit." She let out her breath and stared down at the ground meekly.

"Well, perhaps I shall overlook the matter – this time. But it must not be repeated." Joya inclined her head in dismissal. "You may leave. And take your friends with you."

"That was most impressive." I watched the three of them disappear into the rapidly darkening evening. "You must tell me how you did it."

Joya slipped her arm through mine. "We'll talk over dinner, George. I'm still famished." She tugged me along and we went inside.

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
Apologize for the length but it's hard to know where to find the break, - Sunday, December 19, 1999 at 17:32:33 (PST)

With a sigh, Grace carefully folded up the blueprint and walked Diana over to Hart. Trying to control the trembling in her voice, and her hands, she held out the paper to him. She tried to choose her words carefully, sure Hart would not take her refusal well.

"You are generous beyond words Lukas, but I just can't do it." She looked at him, expecting him to argue. To her surprise, he calmly took the paper from her hand. His face was relaxed, cordial. And very distant. "You're right, Grace, winter is not a good time to build. Too rainy on this part of the coast. Very wise on your part," he said, simply, as he returned the paper to his back pocket and turned Coba back toward the ranch. Grace paused before she followed him, looking around at the magnificent vista and wondering just how much of an idiot she was to have refused the gift of this heavenly place.

They rode back toward the ranch, Diana leading the way. Hart pointed out various landmarks, making conversation almost mechanically, not another word about the house Grace had refused. Within a half hour, she started to wonder if the dreamlike episode on the hill had even happened. Hart's manner was considerate, cordial, occasionally humorous as he remembered anecdotes from his many previous visits to the ranch, like a good host, but decidedly distant. After they had turned their horses over to Henry and another silent wrangler at the stables, Hart toook her for a long walk around the guest part of the ranch, exploring the manicured golf course, immaculate tennis courts, sparkling swimming pool and acres of parkland surrounding the desert garden outside their ranch house. It was all beautiful, and Grace found herself relaxing in spite of herself, nagged only by one inescapable detail:

There was not another guest to be seen.

None of the other guest ranch houses appeared to be occupied. The grounds were perfect, but eerily empty. Hart didn't seem surprised, so she made no comment, unwilling to rock the boat or his equanimity, still feeling awkward with him and unsure what was really on his mind.

That evening, Hart led her to the dining hall, a sprawling building faced with split logs and set near the creek that ran through the center of the guest ranch. She had thought it odd when he had told her the ranch had a dress code, requiring coats and ties for gentlemen and ladies "accordingly" at supper, but had to appreciate the elegant figure he made in his black wool Zegna suit. It was the same suit he had worn the first day he had stormed into her office, a perfect tie on a perfect white Lorenzini shirt. She grinned to herself, recognizing the suit and remembering the day they had met as suspicious adversaries, as the tuxedoed maitre'd seated them at a circular table near the fireplace. A half dozen stewards and servers sprang into action with precision, spreading napkins, pouring water, offering menus.

Grace looked around the room, surprised at the quality of the art on the walls and the fine damask tablecloths under sparkling china and heavy silver. This effortless elegance was not exactly the yippee ki yay cowboy motif she had expected. She chuckled to herself, and when Hart looked over at her, she said, "Do you realize that we could go to just about any restaurant in LA in jeans and a sweater, but not this ranch house in the middle of nowhere?"

Hart had never been altogether comfortable with the aggressively casual dress of most Angelenos. "Exactly," he deadpanned, folding the menu back over his nose.

The room held another twenty or so tables, also covered with the same heavy white damask cloths, but it took Grace several minutes to notice she and Hart were the only guests in the room, and that none of the other tables were set with china or silver. It was after 8 pm, and Grace thought it more than odd there were no other guests at supper.

Leigh
MA: loved the retriever (I'm slightly prejudiced)! Magda: "Have you got another one?" LOL - can hear George say it!!, - Sunday, December 19, 1999 at 17:23:27 (PST)

Delaford:

Where Mary Anne's stay with Brandon might linger on . . . and on . . .

Until she suddenly frowns and looks over at the door. "Christopher, what's that noise?"

"What?" murmurs an understandably distracted Brandon.

"Listen . . ."

Even as she listens to the sound, it seems familiar. A kind of muted scratching, followed by a muffled thump or two, and a low note of inquiry mingled with anxiety. Then the scratching again.

At this Brandon sits up, his attention fixed on the doorway, then leaves the bed, yanking his robe into place about him. "We shall see about this--" Extreme irritation in his voice, but also--Mary Anne is prepared to swear to it--amusement, as he circles around the foot of the bed, crosses to the door, and opens it.

A shaggy shape launches itself through the opening, uttering deep-chested sounds of delighted welcome, which Brandon vainly tries to override with a command of "Down!" Useless, for the moment, and Mary Anne bursts out laughing when the dark form, after dashing about in circles--joyfully giving voice the while--rears up and, heedless of the expense and quality of the emerald coverlet, plants its feet directly in front of her, and she finds herself looking into the eyes of a black, long-coated retriever who displays his white teeth and runs out his tongue at her in a "doggy" grin.

And then another noise, one far easier to identify. One of the maids, from down the corridor. "'E came this way, Miss M!"

Advancing footsteps, and the unmistakable Scots: "Aye, and when I get m'hands on th' black-pelted limb o'th'fiend, I'll--"
MA--not horses this time! 8-)
They say having a dog lowers your blood pressure, but I don't think that's true for Brandon right now . . ., - Saturday, December 18, 1999 at 15:09:30 (PST)

"Day the Thirty-first of my Exile in the month of December – In which I visit the convent and acquire a most interesting lady."

Lady Ysabella's convent was a good three-hour ride through untamed country. Apparently the nuns who run the place don't want their initiates to have too easy a time of it should they try to escape.

The convent is as opulent as you would expect from an institution whose main purpose is to provide the nobility with a safe place to hoard extra daughters and nieces. The stone is good quality, ornately carved and embellished. Stained glass adorns the main building. A church stands a little apart from the main hall and the dormer where the nuns sleep.

The boy who took my horse pointed the way to the Abbess's quarters. It was in the main hall and took up one corner of the ground floor: a plain chamber as far as furnishings go but the curtains were rich velvet and the crucifix on the wall was solid silver.

Mauger had assured me that the Lady Ysabella would be expecting someone to escort her, so I was surprised when I could find no sign of luggage or preparations for travel. As for the Abbess, no one could tell me where she was. The two young sisters I spoke to looked startled, then anxious when I questioned them. I was beginning to get annoyed when the door opened behind me and the Abbess appeared. The junior acolytes faded into the background immediately.

"Ah, you must be Sister Ysabella's escort." The Abbess smiled at me with an air that suggested that if I weren't the escort, then a stiff penance would be necessary before I was forgiven. She was a woman of regal bearing and uncertain years. Although her voice was soft, I didn't doubt that she left more than a few cracks in the ceiling plaster when she unleashed her authority.

I bowed. "I am. If the lady is ready to depart, I would like to be on our way. It is a long trip."

She smiled in that irritatingly serene manner unique to saints and moneylenders. "Sister has already departed on her journey, and it is indeed a long one. Come with me. I will take you to her." Before I could ask for an explanation of this cryptic utterance, she turned and floated out the door, her black skirts billowing around her.

I followed her down the long central corridor to the dormer wing. We passed countless of doors on either side. The sharp click of my spurred boots on the stone was the only sound. Finally the Abbess stopped in front of the last door and knocked softly. It opened and we entered.

Three nuns knelt beside a bed on which lay a form covered by a sheet. They did not look up. The curtains were drawn over the windows and the only light came from a scattering of candles around the bed. The Abbess gestured at the covered form. "Here is Sister Ysabella, sir. Gone on her last journey to partake of the heavenly banquet at the side of our Lord and the Blessed Virgin." She bowed her head. The other nuns crossed themselves.

Wonderful, I thought. Just bloody wonderful. "Was the good sister ill, my lady Abbess?"

"She had a weak heart, sir. This morning she did not attend Matins with the rest of us. When I came to discover the reason, I found her dead in her bed. She looked so tranquil that I knew she did not suffer but rather died in her sleep. Blessed is God's mercy indeed that after a well-spent life He should call his servant so peacefully." The Abbess looked down at the bed with a smile that bestowed approval of such an orderly divinity. A hushed trio of "Amens" echoed around the room.

I bowed my head and crossed myself. "That is true, my lady Abbess. May we all endeavour to be worthy of similar grace when our times come." I waited a few more seconds before getting back to business. "Have you got another one?"

She looked up, blinking. "I beg your pardon?"

"I don't have much time. It will be a long enough ride to Barnesdale if there's any amount of luggage and I would be off as soon as possible." I made an effort to pronounce the words distinctly. Perhaps she was older than I thought and getting hard of hearing.

She just stared at me. Apparently I hadn't been clear enough. "Do you have another sister who could accompany me back to Sir Mauger's lodge and be a companion to his stepdaughter?"

With a visible effort she pulled herself together. "My good man, Sir Mauger's arrangement with Sister Ysabella was a private one between the two of them. My nuns are here to serve the Lord, not to traipse about the countryside to be 'companions' to young girls. You will please inform Sir Mauger that he must make other plans for his stepdaughter. This is our porter, Laurence. He will be pleased to escort you back to the courtyard. Good day to you." With a cold nod, she turned away from me to the bed.

I looked over my shoulder and examined the porter. He was older than I was but heavier and broader as well. A dignified retreat has its advantages. I bowed to the Abbess's back and left the room, my escort close behind.

We walked down the corridor at an even pace, I in the lead not looking behind me, he keeping modestly to the rear. As we approached the main hall he stopped. "This way's quicker sir. Just through here." He indicated a larger, barred door at the bottom of a small set of stairs.

I examined him warily but he did not look as if he intended anything punitive. He pulled the door open and I stepped into a walled grassy space laid out with beds of flowers. Ivy flowed along the tops of the walls and down to the ground. Mingled scents assailed my nostrils as I looked around. Through an archway at the far end was the courtyard where I left my horse. The door slammed shut behind me; looking back, I found that my escort had remained in the building and I was alone.

At least, there didn't seem to be anyone else around. Gravel paths wound through the garden rather than straight ahead. They disappeared behind bushes and grottoes and reappeared again further on. More than once I found that I had circled back to the door again.

I was steps away from the archway when a cloaked figure stepped out from behind a bush. My sword was in my hand immediately and I was ready for battle. In the same instant the hood fell back and I found myself staring into the bluest eyes I had ever seen.

She was too old to be a novice, perhaps in her late twenties and tall for a woman, just a few inches shorter than me. Her face was a perfect oval and her hair was tawny shot through with gold. As she was still wrapped in the cloak, it was impossible to determine her figure but I found myself hoping that it would be faithful to its silhouette.

"You're the man who came for Sister Ysabella. I bribed the porter to tell me when you arrived." She had a husky voice that rasped across my nerves and left them throbbing.

"What can I do for you?" Not the question I wanted to ask but close enough.

"You need a companion for your lord's daughter. I need to escape from this place." She smiled and my senses roiled. "I think we can satisfy each other's needs."

I did like the way this young woman thought; we could have a true meeting of minds. Or something.

"My horse is ready and my bags are on my saddle." She glanced over my shoulder. "Please, we may not have much time."

At that moment a voice rang out from inside the building behind us. "Mother Abbess! The Lady Joya is not in her room! And no one has seen her since breakfast!" The sound of running feet on stone cobbles echoed through the corridor.

I made a quick decision. Of course she was not fit to be anyone's companion. Except mine. But there was no reason why we couldn't ride back to Barnesdale and discuss it in private. I held out my hand and she gave me one of hers. I raised it to my lips. "Let's go. It's a long ride."

"Of the events of these days, I swear to describe them true and whole. On my oath, as I hope to become Lord Nottingham and High Sheriff again."

Magda
We seem to be horse-mad lately., - Friday, December 17, 1999 at 16:34:44 (PST)

Hart didn't answer Grace, but instead walked Coba over to Diana and pulled a much-folded piece of paper from his back pocket, gesturing for her to unfold it. She did so, flat against Diana's mane to avoid spooking either horse. Most of the paper was an architect's blueprint, indecipherable to Grace. But at the bottom was a rendering of a gracious Spanish ranch house, gorgeous in its own right, but at the same time meshing perfectly with the land around it. She looked at the rendering, then up at the landscape in front of her. "This house looks like it was designed. . . " she began.

". . . for this place," Hart finished for her. "I bought the land a while ago, about a hundred acres adjacent to the ranch, and had those plans drawn up, but never built the house. I was either away. . ." at this his face tightened as he looked away. Grace knew he was thinking about his time in jail. After a beat, he continued, ". . . or perfectly comfortable in my own house in LA. Or maybe I never wanted to share this place with anyone else. . . " he focused his eyes back on her, ". . . until now."

Caught off guard by the unexpected emotion in his voice, Grace suddenly tensed and looked down, pretending to fuss with Diana's reins and the blueprint. As he could with a word or a look, Hart had suddenly made the atmosphere between them crackle with electricity as words unsaid weighed as heavily as the silence. Acutely uncomfortable, Grace squeezed her eyes shut, struggling for something neutral to say. She failed.

Hart noted her reaction and backed Coba several steps away. He turned away from Grace, making his voice calm and soft, deflating the tension between them as suddenly as he had created it. "I made a small change to the plans recently. Take a look at the legend under the rendering." She scanned the drawing. She had to strain to see the small type, where a line had been altered. "*Read* it," he said, more harshly than he meant to.

"The residence of. . ." she read out loud, then jerked her head up, ". . . Grace Alexander," she finished, looking directly at him and not at the paper. He continued blandly on, ignoring her astonishment. "It can be built by Easter. Call it a birthday present." She could do nothing but look at him dumbly. The first Easter of the new millenium was also her birthday. She had never told him her birthday, but it was easy enough to find out; a man who would steal her shoes could just as easily peek at her driver's license. She looked back down at the rendering, and the legend. Why just her name? Why not his, or if he really wanted to share it, both their names? The land and the house were probably worth several million dollars. As if reading her mind, he added, "The fee simple deed is already transferred. The land is recorded in your name. I knew you'd want to be sure the legal details were taken care of."

Grace just looked at him finally comprehending that Hart was giving all of this to her, a gift. A staggering gift, even for a man as wealthy as Hart. Instantly, she wondered what strings were attached. Just as quickly, she blushed, ashamed she would question such a generous gesture, particularly when Hart had obviously taken pains to make sure she understood the land would be hers free and clear. Equally obvious, he had planned this some time ago, before he had gone on his last mysterious trip, and before he had made his impulsive proposal. When? She closed her eyes again, flashing forward, trying to picture the two of them in the house on the hill. The pictures flooded her with happiness. But it was too much, too much too soon. Almost by reflex, she ruthlessly shoved the fantasy out of her mind and made a decision.

Leigh
MA: Brandon seems to be feeling a little better. . ., - Friday, December 17, 1999 at 12:18:06 (PST)

Delaford, the Brandons' chambers:

After a moment of nuzzling Brandon's neck, Mary Anne is interrupted by Brandon himself, who turns to her and, taking her in his arms, kisses her firmly and thoroughly before lifting her and seating her against her stacked pillows once more.

"What's the matter, Christopher?"

"Mary Anne."

She wonders why he cannot look at her, why he strokes one hand idly back and forth across the emerald spread.

"Do you remember . . ." Brandon fingers the edge of the sheet. "On our wedding night, I asked if you would prefer that I put out the lights. And you said no, to leave the lights. That you wanted to . . . see me."

"Yes."

"I want to see you."

Now, having gathered his courage, Brandon is looking into her eyes and Mary Anne, knowing what he is asking and why he is asking it, reaches for the drawstring of her nightdress.

Fair, thou art all fair . . . but he cannot finish with there is no spot in thee. For what is presented to Brandon's gaze, though achingly beautiful to him, is printed with red blotches where his fingers had closed about her, with the outlines of those fevered kisses, with developing bruises. And though Mary Anne makes no attempt to shield herself, she is plainly troubled by his searching gaze as his eyes travel over her. When the London dressmakers fitted Mary Anne for her wedding gown, they would not handle the fabric without first putting on gloves, for they claimed that every touch would mark the silk. So does her skin reveal every contact, for good or ill.

Brandon, who does not trust himself to speak, bends forward, taking Mary Anne in his arms, lightly brushing his lips against the bruises, the redness. Gentle, so very gentle . . .

Quite excruciatingly gentle, until Mary Anne slides her arms about him, trying to draw him closer, thinking of how many times she has told him, I'm not made of crystal; I won't break. How will she persuade him of that now? So much of this is still unknown territory to her. O, brave new world . . . Inevitably, it seems, to be followed by the world-weary but still tolerant rejoinder, 'Tis new to thee. It is new to her, in its wonders and puzzlements. The odd shyness she feels at times. The unexpected moments of humour. And the fact that, when it mattered, she was able to simply cast fear away and trust herself entirely to this man. I believe that's called "love," Mary Anne . . .

And Brandon, at once troubled and reassured by her ardent response, looks down at her and whispers, "You do not hate me?"

"Hate you? O, Christopher—"

Mary Anne checks the sharp words before they can escape. They would have been, Don't be melodramatic, don't be absurd or something equally as harsh, but she recalls some of the times when she has needed to be certain that she is loved and forgiven. Brandon has always been so tender—it has hardly occurred to her that there might be occasions when she must be gentle with him. The idea would have made her smile, before now.

"If I hated you," she woos him, "would I stay with you?" A smile. "Here?" she breathes.

When Brandon does not answer at once, she offers, more seriously: "If it bothers you to have me here like this, I'll go. I'll rest a little in my own room and then dress, if you'd rather—"

Brandon would obviously rather not. "Please, stay. Stay with me"

"I will, sir—"

Perhaps he will not have to be convinced after all that she is not breakable like crystal or porcelain—neither of which is warm and soft in his arms, or whispers to him so sweetly that she will stay, that she would rather be here than anywhere . . .

MA--So, Leigh, you think this might put Brandon in a better humour? *grin* Loved Hart as a "shoe-napper," BTW.
Claire, Dana--good to see the return of the Gold Rush!, - Thursday, December 16, 1999 at 19:56:34 (PST)

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