Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

4th December 98 - 31st December 98

Therese sat up on her bed wearily and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands. Enough pity for one morning she scolded herself, rising from the bed. She wanted to do something, anything, to get her mind off of the awful day she'd had thus far, but it was still early, and she hadn't heard anyone else stirring. Every molecule in her body called out for her to take a hard, bracing ride, which had always been the way she'd combated troubles in the past, but as much as she'd like to defy Eamon, she had absolutely no wish to meet up with blondie and dark hair again. As she felt her stomach rumble, she remembered that she'd not eaten anything yet this morning, and decided to head for the kitchen. It was something to do, anyway.

No one was about in there, either, but a fairly large chunk of wedding cake remained on the table. "Cake for breakfast," Therese chuckled to herself, took a large slice, and sat down to eat. When she had finished, she took an apple from the fruit bowl on the far counter, and wandered into the main hall. Empty. She'd half expected to see Raz propped up in a corner somewhere, sleeping it off, but no one seemed to be about. Taking a large bite of the juicy piece of fruit in her hand, Therese decided that The Black would certianly like to eat whatever she didn't finish...considering the debt she owed the horse, she retraced her steps and grabbed several more apples for him before heading on her way.

The stables were still and quiet when she entered. Someone, Dr. Mesmer probably, had returned the animal to the yard, and he'd been untacked and put away. The groom was nowhere in sight, so Therese entered the stall, fed the horse her offering, and taking a brush, proceeded to talk to him softly as she groomed his shiny coat.

She'd been working with the horse for fifteen or twenty minutes when she heard footsteps approaching down the aisleway. Looking up, she blanched. Dev stalked toward her, his features stormy. Taking a wider stance, Therese kept her expression neutral as she pointedly went back to tending to the horse.

"What in the devil are you doing out here alone ?" he barked. "Did you not listen to a word I said? You were to come to me if you wished to leave the main house!" Eamon stepped into the stall and took Therese by the arm, yanking her out of the enclosure. "You deliberately disobeyed me," he accused, his voice low and ominous.

"I did not deliberately do anything," Therese returned, struggling not to yell, as she clipped each word. "You, sir, are not my father or my commanding officer, so I do NOT have to obey you. Nor will I."

At this point the groom once again emerged from his room, unaccustomed to loud, angry voices emanating from his domain. Spying Dev hovering over Therese, fists clenched at his side, and a fresh bruise upon her cheek, the younger man became concerned, and approached the couple gingerly. "Something what I could help you with, sir?" he asked.

"Help me, as you did earlier by allowing this foolish woman to ride out without an escort?" he stated coldly.

The groom blanched, losing several shades of color from his features, and backing up a few steps. "But sir, I, I..."

"Leave us!" Dev bellowed at the poor man, "I have some things to discuss with Miss Gellert, and I do not wish us to be overheard."

Bloody slim chance of 'at, the groom thought, retreating from the growling figure. He knew when he was outmatched, but he also knew that Miss. MacLeod needed to hear about this right quick. She'd know what to do. He turned and hurried from the stables.

"You will not obey me?" Eamon's voice was dangerously soft.

"No!"

Turning from her, Eamon stalked over to a nearby feed stall, and hefted a bale of hay in either hand. Returning with his cargo, he stacked one on top of the other along the stall wall. Plopping himself atop his newly fashioned seat, he grabbed Therese's arms, and yanked her across his lap.

Therese tried to pull away from him, and might have been successful had she been aware of his plans and moved more quickly, but he held her firmly in his grasp, and there was no escape.

"I told you very specifically how you would be treated if you chose to continue in this fashion," he stated, his voice once again calm.

Claudia--Pickles and vanilla ice cream! LOL! Mary Anne, I've enjoyed this wedding as much as the one at Nakatomi last year. (Well, *almost* as much. *grin*) Dearest, you're on your own with the Colonel. Behave! (Yeah, right! The staff isnt' the only thing you're going to scandalize.) And the last post before the surrender to sleep--beautiful. Not "almost."

As the calendar year (and the Brandons' wedding) draws to a close, it's a good time to celebrate friends and friendships which reach around the globe. (My only complaint about visiting Claire is that the time was too short, even though we managed to cram a lot into it. Next time, I want to get to Sussex.)

You know, I've never searched the web to see if there is another site like this one; I hope there are others. FOF has been uniquely rewarding for so many reasons, which I won't--thankfully--try to explain. I am very grateful that Suzanne is actively involved, archiving and expanding it with sounds, pictures, and links.

I won't go on about each of you, but I will mention one example, which says a lot. Kari recently sent me a wonderful tape of the Mellstock Band and Choir, performing music from the Hardy family, using authentic instruments in the style of Thomas Hardy's Wessex. The tape puts me in the "Egdon" frame of mind, perfect for writing the Hardy-esque novel I've been fooling with. (It was also great music for wrapping presents!) Thank-you, Kari.

As I told Suzanne, it has been SO much more than fun and fellowship . . . Would I be far off to say that each of our lives has been touched by the people here, so that our "every day" lives are changed, in little or in big ways? You realize that what you share with someone else is not a place on a map, but laughter, love and the willingness to connect.

Okay, I'll cut to the chase! Here's wishing you all many more classic FOF moments, creative sparks and beams of happiness.

May FOF always be the place that it is. *clink*

It's time now--to sing out
Tho' the story never ends
Let's celebrate
Remember a year in the life of friends . . .

Several moments after Dr. Mesmer left, the maid reappeared, a hot cup of tea in hand. "Chamomille," she explained, placing the cup in Therese's hand, "always settles me when I'm in a dither. I took the liberty of having a warm basin of water and some salve sent up to your room, ma'am. For your face, that is," she explained, at the puzzled look she received.

Therese's hand went to her face as if by its own accord, and gingerly felt the marks that had been left there. "Thank you," she replied, touched by the other woman's thoughtfulness. "You are very kind."

The maid coloured slightly at the praise, dipped a slight curtsey, and hurried off to continue her duties.

"You're certain you've come to no other harm?" Eamon asked, reaching out to take the cup and saucer from Therese's trembling hand.

She nodded, "Really, I'm fine...I'll be fine, anyway, in just a bit. This has just been a little much, that's all."

"Are you able to walk to your room? We really should wash those scratches. I can carry you..." Eamon set the tea on an end table, and helped Therese to her feet.

"Don't be silly, Eamon, I'm fine, there's certainly no need for that." She linked an arm through his, "Though I'll certainly accept an obliging elbow."

On the dressing table in Therese's room, they found several fresh pieces of linen, a basin of warm water, a fresh bar of soap and a medicated salve waiting for them. Dev seated Therese on the chair in front of the table, and began to tend to her wounds. He was firm, yet gentle, in his ministrations, carefully cleaning the dirt and bark from her skin. "There, that just about does it," he commented, setting aside the unused ointment. "Though it wouldn't be a bad idea to get some ice for your cheek once you've changed."

Therese nodded in agreement, and went to the wardrobe for a change of clothing. She quickly shrugged out of what remained of her shirt, peeled off her breeches, and replaced them with her favorite pair of grey cotton trousers, and one of Dev's thick wool jumpers. Rolling up the sleeves til she could once again see her fingers, she sat down on the end of her bed. "Well, what is it?" she asked, looking up at him. "You've been standing there with your arms crossed, glaring at me since you've finished. The only thing you haven't been doing is tapping your foot."

"It will keep, my dear," he responded. Eamon's eyes glinted dangerously, and Therese could see that he was fighting to remain calm.

"Oh no," she replied, standing up from the bed and coming to face him. "I'm not going to have whatever this is hanging over my head. Come on, out with it."

Eamon took a single step closer to Therese. "How can you act as if you don't understand why I'm upset?"

"Because obviously your anger is directed at me, and I certainly haven't done anything to merit your wrath."

"Haven't done anything?? HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING?? You went out on a horse, in a country foriegn to you, on an unfamiliar animal, leaving the groom behind , proceeded to almost get yourself killed, and you're having a problem understanding my anger!?"

Therese took an involuntary step backwards under the onslaught of his words. They'd never had a row before, and she couldn't think of a worse time for their first. "Listen, I'm just not up to listening to this right now," she said, her voice low, "if you want to think it's my fault that I was attacked by two utter strangers, and only escaped due to my wits, FINE. But think that elsewhere." She indicated the door with her left hand. "Go."

"I am not someone to be ordered about," Eamon stated, his voice rising. "And I'm not leaving until you realize how foolish your actions were today! You don't seem to realize that you could have been killed, or raped, or both! Escaping with some minor aches and pains is nothing--and all of this could have been avoided if you'd made sure to ride out with an escort."

"Fine, this is all my fault then, now just GET OUT, you insensitive cad!" Therese yelled, fighting back the tears. There was no way she was going to cry in front of him now, she wouldn't give him the satisfation.

"Insensitive? I'm insensitive because you've scared me half to death with your immature antics, and now I'm worried sick that you might do something this foolish a second time--and not be able to skitter out of it so nicely...that makes me insensitve??" He paused, for a moment, and crossed over to the door. "You are not to go anywhere outside of this house without me, do you understand?"

"Do I understand what? That you are a boorish lout? Yes, I understand that completely. Do I understand that I am to follow your dictates like some obedient school girl? No, I believe I'm having a bit of trouble with that one."

Eamon crossed to the bed, picked up Dr. Messmer's coat, tossed it over his arm, and stalked back to the door. "You are behaving like an immature brat. If you want to call me names, and fail to see your part in this situation, I will attribute it to your nerves, and will not press the issue further." He paused, and moved to stand in front of Therese. "However, if you so much as take ONE STEP outside without my presence, I will personally put you over my knee and see to it that you don't sit down for a week. If you want to act like a child, Therese, I am more than willing to treat you as a child."

Therese could not remember the last time she'd been so angry. How wouldn't dare! He-wouldn't-- looking into his face, hazel eyes blazing, she knew instinctively that he would indeed, and at the moment he'd probably take pleasure in doing so. Stalkig past him she swung open the door, pulling it open so quickly in her anger that it swung back, hitting the wall on the opposite side with a resounding thud. "I SAID GET OUT!!"

Without a word, Dev moved by her, and crossing the hallway, entered his room. Therese rattled the doorframe shutting it behind him. Once again alone in her room, she threw herself on the bed face down, and curling her arms around one of the pillows, allowed the tears to flow.

And now, time for the happy couple to sleep. Past time, I'd think . . . ;-)

I hope everyone enjoyed the wedding . . . and all that has followed.

Brandon and Mary Anne feel the first delicious touch of sleep, yet neither of them wish for this day to end. There will be other happy days ahead--so they sincerely hope and pray and plan--but this one, the very first, is worth pure gold and to be preserved as long as possible.

Intervals of conversation.

Intervals of silence, in which the only sound is the lovers' soft breathing and the tssssst of the fire.

Intervals of thought, in which each of them steals a glance at the other, thinking: I am blessed and fortunate . . .

"Strange," says Mary Anne softly. "All we've gone through, to arrive here."

"Indeed."

"All this evening, this has seemed new--yet also, quite familiar." Mary Anne blushes a little. "The first night of love for me, but . . ." She sits up a little and gazes tenderly down at the man beside her. " . . . it was like a home that I never even knew was there for me. Until now."

Brandon strokes Mary Anne's right hand and raises it to his lips.

" A ring of amethyst . . . " she murmurs.

"What was that, my dearest?"

"Part of a poem by Elizabeth Browning. I'm trying to remember the rest--all about first kisses."

Brandon suddenly and vividly recalls that terrible hour in The Interrogator's offices. Mary Anne, convinced that Renie was dead--and blaming herself for Renie's death. Brandon, who had been certain that his heart would be crushed by the converging forces of Renie's death, Mary Anne's guilty grief, and his own silent love. And when Mary Anne had turned her stricken face to him, convinced that he must hate her for causing Renie's death . . .

If ever a man came near to devouring a woman alive with kisses . . .

Brandon shakes his head and simply replies, "I recall that Renie and Hans used one of Mrs. Browning's poems in their wedding."

"Yes. I lived with visions for my company."

"And your recitation from Chaucer was a beautiful addition."

Mary Anne grimaces. "Most of what I remember was getting up there to discourse on love--and realizing that I had forgotten my notes!"

"Perhaps that was even better. The words came from your heart."

"I would do better, now," smiles Mary Anne, as Brandon caresses her hand. "What did I know of love, then?"

Brandon clasps her hand gently in his own. "So what is this about an amethyst ring? Mrs. Browning wrote of one?"

"She did, indeed." Mary Anne allows her hand to settle on Brandon's chest and feels the beat of his heart beneath her fingertips as she reaches for the lines:

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
And ever since, it grew more clean and white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its "Oh, list,"
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst . . .

Brandon smiles, passing his thumb across Mary Anne's ring.

I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half-missed . . .

Brandon's favourite pattern for kissing her, always. The first, a soft touch of his lips against her forehead.

Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed!
That was the chrism of love, which love's own crown
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state; since when, indeed,
I have been proud and said, "My love, my own."

Brandon gazes at Mary Anne for a long moment, then draws her down beside him, into his warm arms.

Kisses.

With grave deliberation, Brandon presses his lips to her hand, just about the ring of amethyst. A second against her forehead.

The third upon her lips is folded down . . .

And as Brandon withdraws from the kiss and looks into her eyes, they each exclaim in the silent language of their hearts: My love. My own.

The fire has burned very low, and the room has darkened, but Mary Anne lies in Brandon's embrace, secure and safe, and feels the day begin to overtake her at last. The blandishments of sleep, almost as irresistible as Brandon's enticements to pleasure had been.

Almost.

Comfortably settled, curled against Brandon's warmth, Mary Anne finally ceases all resistance to the end of this day and the beginning of the next. Her last memory of that night is of Brandon's arms folded about her, his breath stirring her hair, and the velveted caress of his voice at her ear as he murmurs, "Good night, my love. Sleep now . . ."

And Mary Anne does.

The Director motions Friedman towards one of the visitor’s chairs in his office. “Please have a seat.”

“You have a nice office,” states the detective upon a brief visual perusal of the room. His southern accent is more noticable now that the two men are inside. “You keep it very neat.”

The Director looks about. It certainly looked a good deal more neat than it had the night prior. Housekeeping must be behaving in an overzealous manner these days .. though, for the life of him, he could not understand why. He smiled at Friedman and took a good look at his surroundings again. They were impeccable. Very strange. “Thank you.”

Friedman returns the smile as he sits down and pulls out a small notepad. He flicks through the pages as the Director takes his own seat behind the desk.

“So ..,” the Director folds his hands and rests them on his lower torso as he leans back in his chair. “What do you want to know?” he asks.

“I’d like to wait for my partner, if you don’t mind,” answers Friedman without looking up from his notepad.

“Certainly,” answers the Director with a glance at his watch. His scratching of the Achilles/Kari scene on Set 5 was going to go to waste if this detective-person took up any more of his time. Of that he was sure.

Yet before he could finish his thought, a woman with wild, short, brown hair burst through the doorway. She is wearing a dark leather jacket, a chambray shirt, and light-colored trousers. She is holding a styrofoam cup. She closes the door behind her and enthusiastically approaches the desk, hesitating briefly to slurp her beverage.

“You must be the Director,” she says as she advances another step and offers her right hand in greeting.

The Director raises from his chair and grips her hand in a firm handshake. “How do you do?” he asks with a withering smile. He nods towards her styrofoam cup. “I see you found some coffee.”

Repeat offender . . . *sigh*

Mary Anne lies in the bed, a rather dazed--but unquestionably pleased--look upon her face. The experimentation with the ice cream had been more successful than she had thought or hoped, and matters had, for the second time, taken their inevitable course . . .

Mary Anne grins, recalling a moment when she had thought she would expire with laughter--a moment when Brandon, in the same thoughtful and solemn tone in which he would discuss philosophy, theology, or literature, had commented: "The trouble with ice cream is that it is cold."

But Mary Anne's grin softens to a loving smile as she watches Brandon, who is moving quietly about the room, extinguishing candles, putting out lamps . . . tending the low-burning fire . . .

"Don't move," entreats Mary Anne. Suddenly.

Brandon's eyes flicker toward her in a puzzled glance, but he obeys and remains absolutely still.

Mary Anne catches her breath. That trick of the shadows. The fire, so darkly red . . . and Brandon, caught at a moment when the play of light and shadow across the robe, carelessly draped about him, and against his skin, and flickering in his eyes . . . stripes of darkness and flame, and that golden gleam . . .

As if a tiger stalked about the chamber, all power and gleaming pelt and sinuous grace . . .

Mary Anne lets out a long breath. "All right."

Brandon shakes his head, not quite sure what that was about, but he knows he is being admired, and smiles, allowing his robe to drop away as he slips back into the bed and draws Mary Anne into his arms, and she curls close to him with a soft sigh.

I should be tired, she thinks. Exhausted, in fact. Up so early this morning, and the ceremony and the dancing and . . . everything.

Mary Anne shifts position slightly, and has to repress a . . . wince. Yes, she is aware, now, of some unaccustomed aches and pains. But even if she is tired, she is not ready for sleep. Not yet.

Her eyes stray to a handsome ornamental clock, wrought in brass and chocolate-veined marble, that rests on the fireplace mantel. After midnight. So, the "day" itself is officially over. Thanksgiving it would have been, back in the States, but Mary Anne feels as if she has had Thanksgiving and Christmas together, combined with every other day of joy and celebration in the calendar.

Brandon sees her looking at the clock. "So," he laughs. "Do you suppose, Mary Anne, that anyone is still enjoying the party downstairs?"

Mary Anne giggles. "There was probably a race for the guestrooms," she replies, "the moment we were fairly out of the way! Let's see. Renie and Hans--they can't keep their hands off of each other, anyway . . ."

"Pot and kettle, my dearest . . ."

Mary Anne gives Brandon a playful kiss on the chin. "I can see that I will scandalize your staff! I can hear the talk now, about the new mistress and how she can't keep her hands to herself around the master . . ."

"Or vice versa."

"I hope so." Mary Anne chuckles. "Ed and Claudia, well--need I say more? And that Therese . . . Dev's eyes were burning her clothes right off of her. I'd be willing to bet they didn't stay at the party much longer . . ."

Brandon laughs, but he is privately wondering: what of Andrea? Had she, perhaps, left with Hamlet, and if so, had it ended happily for her? For him?

Brandon, who is happy at this moment with the world-embracing happiness of a satisfied lover, lets go a silent wish that Andrea will find peace after all of her trials. Hamlet muses Brandon, is an excellent man, and he loves her; anyone can see it. But she must find her own way. And the path has been so difficult for her. Miss Andrea, I hope that life will treat you kindly, now . . .

But Brandon speaks of none of this to Mary Anne. Sharing her wakeful mood, he draws her close and settles her comfortably against him as they talk quietly, exchanging their thoughts, their reflections upon this day. Upon what they have found in each other.

Upon love . . .

Re: " .. the one-night stand between Achilles and Kari/Alexis .. "

Please change to " .. the one-night stand between Achilles and Kari (aka Alexis) .."

After finally realizing that he had been put on perma-hold by his young, mai-tai-sipping charge in Hawaii, the Director disconnects himself from the poolside mobile phone, places his own back in his parka pocket, and gathers up his clipboard. He peruses the rundown of the day’s scheduled scenes. There was much to do. Over on Set 5 (New Orleans) the one-night stand between Achilles and Kari (aka Alexis) was to be shot. The Director picks up a pencil and places a large *X* through the scene. With Kari in Hawaii and Achilles down for the count, he couldn’t possibly complete filming this week as he had initially planned. With that out of the way, he could move up Andrea .. and perhaps Therese as well. Mmm. Yes. That should do rather nicely, he thinks. This way, he would have time to perfect each scene rather than make do with the two-takes limit he was accustomed to.

Just then a hand alights on his shoulder. Startled, he turns around. He is met by a strange face. Strange yes, but, then again .. slightly familiar.

“Yes?” he asks the stranger.

The stranger deftly opens a small leather case and flashes a golden badge. The Director looks puzzled.

“Detective Dave Friedman,” answers the stranger as he places his badge back into his jacket pocket. “I’ve been sent to investigate an alleged attempted murder here on the set.”

“Attempted murder?!” asks the Director in an incredulous manner.

“Alleged attempted murder,” corrects Friedman. Innocent until proven guilty. That was always the way.

“Well .. why .. I ..,” stammers the Director. He had not been notified of any such event. Had the women been fighting over Hans again? Had Mr. I accidentally stabbed someone wth his skewers? Had George been swinging from the chandelier (how many times had he been told to get down from there?) and fallen off? Had Sinclair finally attempted to slide down the banister and, unable to stop himself, sailed out the front door? And why would any of that count as *attempted murder* anyway?

“If you have a moment,” states the detective as he motions towards the Director’s office. “My partner and I would like to have a word or two with you.”

The Director looks around. He sees no partner. “What partner?” he asks curiously.

Friedman waves in the direction of the caterer’s display. “She’s over there,” he answers nonchalantly. “She’ll be joining us as soon as she rounds up a cup of coffee.”

Andrea figures that, with her luck, she would walk smack into Hamlet if she were to use the door. She opens the window and climbs out.

She feels strong hands grab her about the waist, and she gasps. Great! Just great! I avoid Hamlet and run into ...?

After her feet are firmly planted on the ground, Andrea turns to face The Highwayman. Colonel Brandon? Although the last man she saw wearing the costume was the colonel, her intuition sends her conflicting information.

Andrea raises her right hand to her chest, and her left hand reaches out to the man before her. Simultaneously, the fingers of each hand trace along the remembered lines of pain on her body and HIS.

Again, she has surprised HIM with her knowledge of things she should not know. HE wants to question her and get to the bottom of this. But, HE hasn't the time. Other business must come first. "Where are they holding The Sheriff?"

Andrea is startled by HIS intensity and the question. "I don't know what you are talking about."

HE slaps her across the face, knocking her to the ground. HE kneels beside her and grasps her hair to pull back her head. "I know the AR have captured The Sheriff and that they brought him to this house. Where is he?"

Her mind races to seek an answer which might result in her release. "Please, I honestly don't know. No one has informed me that The Sheriff is in custody. I swear it."

HE opens HIS hand, and Andrea's head falls to the dirt. HE walks away to continue HIS search.

Mmmmm--Dev in that emerald dressing gown. Talk about the wearin' o' the green! 8-) Such handsome nightwear on the men around here . . .

Therese had never been so glad to spot someone familiar in all her life. Reining in the black, she stopped before Dr. Mesmer. "They've not followed me, have they?" her words came out in a rush, panic written on her features.

The good doctor took in her appearance in his precise, careful way, and could feel the terrror emanating from the trembling girl. Her shirt was half torn from her body, hair was wild in it's disarry, her face deeply scratched, and a large bruise was beginning to discolor the cheekbone beneath her right eye. "There is no one in pursuit," he assured her, reaching up to assist her from the horse's back.

Therese was spent. At the doctor's assuring words, her body went limp. Adrenaline had fueled her to this point, but as the reality of what had happened to her, and the ability to allow someone else to handle the rest of this situation became apparant, she found that in her fright, she was hard pressed to even move. She slid off of the horse's side, grasping futily at his neck, and surely would have fallen had not strong arms held her up, and supported her weight against his own. Removing his jacket, Mesmer draped it over her shoulders, covering the areas revealed by the rent in her clothing.

Tossing the reins over an accomodating branch, Dr. Mesmer hastily secured the black, and then lifted Therese into his arms to carry her into the hall.

One of the maids working on the cleanup detail gasped as she crossed paths with Dr. Mesmer and his burden, and he called to the woman. "Have Mr. de Valera sent for immediately, instruct him to come to the main foyer."

The maid took one look at Therese's face, and shot for the stairs, calling, "Right away sir!" over her shoulder.

Dr. Mesmer gently laid Therese on one of the setees lining the foyer, propping up some pillows beneath her head and shoulders, and tucking his jacket more closely about her. "Are you injured anywhere other than your face?"

"I think that man sprained my wrist when he bent it behind my back."

She felt him take her hand in his own, and palpate it gently, feeling for the bone, and making sure that everything was in its propper place. Whoever it was who had attacked the girl, the indentations of his fingers could be plainly seen on Therese's lower arm. "Nothing is broken, at any rate," he assured her.

They could hear the thud of hurried footsteps then, and looked up to see Eamon lunging down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time in his hurry. His emerald dressing robe fluttered out behind him, bare feet slapping the stone floor. He dashed to Therese's side instantly, leaning down besider her, and craddling her in his arms.

"Shh...now, what's happened here?" he crooned to her, voice soft in her ear. Therese clung to him tightly, burying her face in the crook of his neck. They remained like that for several moments as Therese gathered her composure, and finally, with a sigh, she leaned back once more against her seat.

"I was attacked during my ride," she began, trying to sort the jumble of facts in her mind and turn it into something intelligible. "There were two men, in the West Woods. They pulled me from my horse..." she continued her tale, carefully recreating the scene in order to leave nothing out.

Dr. Mesmer rose from his postition where he knelt before Therese. "Now that you're here to see to Miss Therese, I'll inform Hudson," he said to Dev. "When you're feeling better, Miss Therese, have Mr. de Valera accompany you to the commander's quarters, she will wish to speak with you."

"When I discovered that you had eaten hardly anything," says Brandon, as he sets down the ice buckets, "I had Miss MacLeod prepare some food and bring it up here, before I took you out of the ballroom. Just in case."

Brandon arranges the table to his liking, then steps through the connecting door to Mary Anne's private room. Watching the Colonel as he moves through that door, Mary Anne smiles again at the thought of what a considerate gift that was: to provide her with a spot for quiet and privacy, a place that will be all her own.

She has no doubt that she will need it. She is mistress of Delaford now, and though she will have much assistance in learning her new duties, she is certain that there will be many perplexing moments when she will have need of that solitary retreat.

Brandon emerges, carrying with him the long lace robe that had been left lying on the floor when he undressed her. He offers Mary Anne his hand as she gets out of bed, then drapes the robe about her and escorts her to the table.

Mary Anne begins to lift the covers from the dishes, suddenly aware of the insistent complaining of her empty stomach--which she hopes will not growl too loudly. Mmmmm. Miss M had chosen simple food that would keep well . . .

But she cannot understand why Brandon is . . . well, that's more than a smile. The Colonel wears a broad grin as he lifts the ice buckets to the table.

A champagne bottle in one, as Mary Anne had expected. But in the other, packed carefully down in the ice, a porcelain dish . . .

. . . filled with ice cream.

Mary Anne takes one startled look at the the dish of ice cream, and then bursts into peals of laughter. No hysterics in that laughter--not exhaustion or overwrought nerves, simply heartfelt joy.

Mary Anne finally settles back into her chair and wipes away her tears of laughter. "Christopher, what a wonderful surprise!"

Brandon is still laughing, as well. "You will recall what I told you at the Safehouse--that I would not mind if there should be some ice cream on our wedding night."

Mary Anne samples a spoonful. "Mmmmmm. Actually, when you said that, I, ah, thought you had something else in mind."

"Well, we are not in the food court of a shopping mall, now."

Mary Anne eyes him smokily over the rim of her silver spoon. "No. We're not, are we?"

"Now, Mary Anne, take that look off your your face, and have something to eat. I will not have you fainting away . . ." If Mary Anne's gaze was smoky, Brandon's return look is positively incendiary. " . . . at least, not from hunger."

"You're such a tease, sir."

"That, my dear, is absolutely a case of the pot calling the kettle black . . ."

So goes the bantering back and forth, as Mary Anne slices bread, and cuts leftover wedding cake . . . and Brandon fills their glasses with champagne.

The newlyweds are in the best of spirits. Pure joy--which, seeking an outlet, finds expression in their zestful, exuberant laughter at the least excuse. Jokes. Teasing. Sessions of "Do you remember?" Heartfelt gladness in each other's company.

It must be admitted that their delighted mood, fueled by the excellent champagne, veers off occasionally into a hilarity that leaves them both speechless with laugher . . . especially when Mary Anne takes it upon herself to conduct a few experiments with the half-melted ice cream . . .

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a door move. Hans Gruber appeared from the door to the walk in pantry, a bowl in his hand. Their eyes locked - Claudia's large, and her mouth full of icing. She looked down at herself - transparent red gauze covering the top half of her body, and her legs were completely bare. Ordinarily this man made her go weak at the knees, now she couldn't move, didn't know what to do, and couldn't say a thing because her mouth was full of cake.

Hans lifted the plate, and seemed sheepish, not noticing the woman in front of him. "Pickles und Vanilla ice." He said raising the bowl. Then when Claudia frowned he said, "Renie."

A wave of realisation hit Claudia - she dropped the cake and squealed, running to hug him. "Hans! Congratulations! When?"

Mary Anne is abruptly--very abruptly--recalled from her flashback when Brandon pulls her close to him and begins to nibble her ear.

Mary Anne giggles and tries to pull free, but her heart isn't in the effort. Not at all. And as Brandon nuzzles her neck, she gasps, "Christopher Brandon, you know that when you do that--"

"Well, you had not answered my question, my dearest. I thought I needed to get your attention."

Mary Anne rolls slightly so that she is lying on Brandon's chest, grinning down at him as she threatens, "My attention isn't the only thing you'll be getting--"

"Such dire threats," laughs Brandon, and Mary Anne thrills at the way she can feel his laughter against her body--ahhh, that VOICE. Long ago, in the privacy of her own mind, she had dubbed it the "Bedroom Baritone." Excruciatingly alluring anywhere, but especially here . . .

Brandon's laughter dies away, and he reaches up and wraps his arms around her, making no attempt to lift her off of him, but drawing her head down and setting it against his chest, and Mary Anne is quite content to lie there with her ear pressed against him. His heartbeat. And that baritone inquiry . . .

"You had not answered my question." Pause. "Did I hurt you? Very . . . badly?"

"Some," replies Mary Anne. "But not badly." The memory of pain, all but eclipsed by what had followed. "That part was over in a few minutes, and then--" Mary Anne feels the return of that odd shyness she has at times experienced with Brandon. She usually feels that she can speak with him about anything, but this is difficult, even after . . . well, he could certainly have been in no doubt--NO doubt--that what she was feeling, then, was not pain.

Mary Anne lazily rubs her cheek against Brandon's chest for a moment, then shifts about to smile up at him. "--and then, sir, you were wonderful to me. So patient and kind." A pause, as her smile sparkles up at him. "And good." Mischievous twinkle.

Brandon is certainly no fool. His right eyebrow wings upward. "Good?"

Mary Anne laughs. "Do you need for me to tell you how good, Colonel Vanity?" Playfully, she bites at his chest. "You thanked me, for--well, I'm not sure why, still. I should be the one thanking you."

Smiling, Brandon eases Mary Anne off of him, settling her back among the pillows. "I thanked you because--" His expression turns a little more serious, though Mary Anne can still see the amusement lurking in his eyes. "--it was beyond all that I expected. You were nervous, and so was I. That was to be expected. And yet you gave yourself over to what was happening." Brandon's gaze is completely serious now, his voice a low and vibrant caress. "You . . . trusted me to take care of you. To take care with you."

Mary Anne can hear her own heart beating.

Brandon lies back in the pillows and reaches for her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. "My sweet, you made it possible for this night to be all that I had imagined, and more, for both of us. Yes, I suppose I was thanking you for my . . . pleasure."

A bone-deep tremble passes through Mary Anne. The way Brandon pronounces "pleasure . . ." The soft exhalation of the word, the precise consonants, the liquid vowels . . . there are definite advantages to having an acute sensitivity to sound . . .

"Do not be in any doubt, Mary Anne. Ever. You . . . pleased me . . . at least as much as I did you."

"I'm so glad. Because you were marvellous."

It is difficult for a woman to go far wrong, praising the . . . acomplishments . . . of her lover, and for several moments the room is quiet--or would be quiet, if not for the low sounds of Mary Anne and Brandon exchanging their thanks by way of non-verbal communication. And Mary Anne would quite happily allow matters to take their course once more, but Brandon desists after a few moments.

"Is something wrong, sir?"

"No. But . . . you are new to this, Mary Anne. There is no hurry. Allow yourself to recover from the first time."

Mary Anne is indeed aware of a few unaccustomed aches, but she cannot resist teasing the Colonel, if only verbally. "Recover? You make it sound as if I had been ill." She grins up at him from the pillows. "Is that what people mean when they talk about lovesickness?"

"Stay me with flagons," recites Brandon softly, as he reaches out and tucks a loose curl behind Mary Anne's ear and then smooths the back of his hand down her face. "Comfort me with apples, for I am sick with love . . . "

Brandon sits up and stretches, and it is all Mary Anne can do to contain herself as she watches. The play of muscle . . .

"Mmmmm," she sighs. "I could do with some of those flagons and apples about now!"

Brandon smiles at her. "Are you hungry?" And at her wicked smirk, he hastily adds, "For food, I meant!"

Mary Anne suddenly realizes that she is hungry. She had been too nervous to eat for most of the day, and the biscuits that Renie had brought her when she felt faint have certainly not lasted. She is, in fact, ravenous. "Yes. I'm famished."

"Well, that is easily remedied."

Mary Anne expects that Brandon will ring for the servants, but he slides out of bed and, after shrugging into his robe, vanishes into his dressing room. Still some modesty in front of me, thinks Mary Anne, hiding her amusement. Or perhaps it wasn't modesty. Maybe he thought I would attack him!

After some moments, and several trips to the dressing room, Brandon has produced a small table and set it with various covered dishes. And the best reason for the robe becomes apparent after the last trip, from which the Colonel returns bearing a set of ice buckets in his arms . . .

The door in front of her opened sharply, revealing the regal form behind it, and causing Therese to flinch involuntarily. She'd been prepared for a 'Come in!' to be shouted at her, no one actually answered doors on movie sets....

"Have a seat." His voice was crisp as he indicated the seat across from his desk; Therese silently did as she was bade, and perched on the edge of her chair, expecting the worst.

"I wanted to discuss this morning's scene with you," The Director began, his hands steepled in front of him, hazel eyes focused on her.

She swallowed, her throat dry. "Yes?"

"Did you watch the dailies this afternoon?"

Therese cringed. Of all the days to skip out of the viewing.... "No sir, I was down with the wranglers on the set."

He frowned. "Well we're having a problem with the realism aspect of today's scene. I'm just not certain it's believable."

"Er, which part in particular?"

He paused for a brief moment, staring down that long nose of his, as if inspecting a spot of lint. "All of it."

Therese gulped. "How could it be unbelievable? I did my own stunts." She paused, waiting for the response that did not come. "What did you have in mind for the re-take?"

The Director glowered at her. "There will BE no re-take."

"I don't understand, sir..."

"Mr. I has refused to shoot that scene a second time. "Not," he emphasized, "that I can blame him."

"I thought there was padding and protection for that sort of thing?"

"It was still the man's groin, Miss Gellert, padding notwithstanding. There is only so much one can do to protect that area, the rest is up to the actress. And her ability to fake the blow."

"I had thought that you wished the scene to be realistic," she said miserably. "I assure you, Mr. I found it to be quite realistic." He paused, allowing his words to impart their full impact. "In the future, please refrain from being quite so...overzealous."

Therese looked up at him, her dark eyes hopeful for the first time since she'd sat down. "So there is a future then?"

"You've not been part of the industry long, have you?"

Therese shook her head. "Not at all."

"Miss Gellert I am far too busy to toy with people I plan to fire. Were your services no longer needed, you would simply receive a pink slip." Therese stood, her expression easing at his words. Her relief was short lived as he ordered, "Sit down." She sat.

"Though your career thus far has been short, I am concerned with certain rumors brought to my attention.

Therese sighed. Nothing like the grapevine on a set. "Which rumors in particular, Mr. Rickman?"

"I am led to believe that you frequently become involved with your leading man--" he raised his hand for her to remain silent when she would have interrupted. "I am not here to judge your actions, Miss Gellert, merely to remind you to not allow your private life to interfere with your work."

Therese crossed her legs, uncrossed them, and crossed them again as she chose her words carefully. "Actually, Alan," she purred, leaning forward to lean her elbows on the edge of the desk across from where he sat, and gazed up at him, chin resting in her hands. "the rumor is that I freqently become involved with the director of my films..."

Therese sat back, uncrossed her legs, and rose gracefully from her chair. The Director's face was a picture, and no further comments seemed to be forthcoming.

"Until later then, dearest," she told him with a throaty laugh, and left him alone in his office.

The Interrogator peers in through several guestroom windows hoping to spy Claudia. HE happens upon Andrea's guestroom while Hamlet is still there with her. Even from outside the house, HE can feel the heat between them.

But, why does Hamlet hesitate? HE cannot hear what they say, but it is obvious that Andrea is physically needy and begging Hamlet for relief.

HE can hardly believe HIS eyes when Hamlet exits the room leaving Andrea to cry alone. What reason could Hamlet have for refusing this woman?

HE continues to watch Andrea as she comforts herself and slips out of her emerald gown. HE is disappointed to see the deterioration of her body since HE treated her. She had been badly damaged in the car accident, but HE could appreciate her impressive muscle tone while HE put her back together. Certainly, she should be completely recovered from those injuries.

Looking at her now, HE suspects that she has suffered through a serious illness--something that confined her to bed long enough for her muscles to atrophy. Such a shame. She had been a fine physical specimen.

Instead of sliding under the bedcovers, Andrea gets dressed in her black jeans and white tee shirt. She pulls on a white cardigan and ties the laces on her walking shoes. Wrapping the belt of her fanny pack around her waist, she fastens the buckle.

Andrea glances about the room to see if she has forgotten anything. As far as she knows, Hamlet still possesses her sword and dagger. She'll have to leave them behind. Now that she has made a gift of her candlesticks to the Brandons, Andrea is wearing everything she owns.

She carries a candle to the writing desk and composes a simple note to Hamlet:

Please, do not seek me. I do not wish to be found.

She places the note on the bed along with the flowers Therese gave to her from the bridal bouquet.

One decision remains: to exit through the door or the window.

She felt deeply sad. She had found a whole different person inside herself, and it just made her feel bad for being with Ed at all. He was too good for her, and she had to make sure he didn't suffer having to be near her anymore. She would tell him she was leaving him in the morning.

She made her way down the stairs and thought of the new memories of the Interrogator, and his offices. She had been so keen to please HIM, in every way. HE had wanted her help to interrogate a prisoner. It had been the Colonel. Would she have done it, just to prove herself to HIM? Or would her feelings of right and wrong stepped in? The fact that she didn't know made her more determined to distance herself from Ed, and anyone else she might harm.

The gelding's hoofbeats were muffled by the carpet of dead leaves underneath as Therese made her way quietly through the West Woods surrounding Delaford. There was a clearing up ahead, enclosed on three sides by a low, stone fence, perfect for jumping she thought to herself as she approached the area. She and the black had already cleared several downed logs in their path, and Therese was thrilled with the ability of the horse beneath her. His jumping was bold, he'd not refused anything she'd set him to, but he was easily responsive and controlable; rare and commendable qualities in any horse.

"Did Colonel Brandon train you himself?" she asked the animal, as they continued on, reaching down to stroke his silken neck. "Because my esteem for him as a fellow equstrian is certainly growing." Therese nudged the gelding forward with her calves as they approached the nearest end of the piled rocks lining the clearing, and the horse responded immediately, breaking into a ground eating trot. As they neared the fence she encouraged him further, pushing him forward with her lower leg and leaning over his neck as he moved into a canter, rated his approach to the wall, and cleared it effortlessly.

"Good boy!" Therese said happily, a grin covering her face. The heady rush of jumping never dulled for her, and she was enjoying herself immensely. However, she'd probably been out for fourty five minutes, and knew it was time to get back.

"Well, do you suppose we should--" Therese was cut off in mid-sentence as the horse shied from beneath her, leaping sideways with catlike grace.

"Easy, lad, what's that all about?" she asked him in a soothing voice as she brought the animal back under control with the use of her hands and legs. Odd that such a quiet, well trained animal should suddenly act jumpy "There's nothing--"

It happened so quickly that Therese was off the horse before she had time to react. She'd not seen the figure until he'd leapt out at her from behing the tree, and grabbed her by the left leg, pulling her from her mount. She'd landed, winded, startled, but otherwise unhurt, in a heap on the ground. The horse skittered sideways several feet before stopping with a snort, his eyes rolling nervously.

The man immediately hauled Therese to her feet, and shoved her against a nearby tree. "What in the hell do you think you're doing!?" she demanded, as the panic welled within her.

"Quiet!" the raven haired man snarled at her fiercely, madness glinting in his golden eyes. Flipping her around, and pushing her face into the tree, he twisted her arm back hehind her body. Therese squawked involuntarily at the pain, her heart hammering wildly.

"What do you want?" she demanded, cursing the tremor she could hear in her voice.

"I said be quiet!" the man growled, grabbing Therese's pony tail, and pressing his face close to her own. "Do not make me hurt you..."

"There's no need to terrify the girl."

Therese could hear the second voice come from quite close within the clearing, but she couldn't turn her head to see who spoke, pinned as she was by her attacker.

"Turn her about so I can see which one we've managed to snare."

As Therese felt herself being pulled around, she focused on her captors. The second man was dressed in black from head to toe, as was the one who held her. Both were tall, one a dirty blonde and clean shaven, the other wore his dark hair long and sported a beard. The blonde one stepped before her, and took her chin in his hands, holding her firmly, yet causing no pain.

"I don't recognize her." The dark haired one released her arm and went to stand beside the other.

"She will still be of some use, don't worry."

Therese certainly didn't like the way the two men were talking about her, and was definitely more than a little concerned about her personal safety. Almost without forethought, she jumped forward, kicking at the blonde one with all of her might. Her aim was true, and the man collapsed in front of her, gasping and holding his groin.

As he fell, she pushed him forcefully, using his body weight as ballast, and knocked him into the dark haired one, who staggered sideways, but managed to grab the end of her sleeve as she shot by.

Therese didn't pause for a fraction of a second, and heard the fabric of her shirt give as most of the sleeve came away in the hand of the dark haired man. Reaching the side of the horse at a full run, she grabbed a handful of mane and gave a piercing whistle throught her teeth. The horse threw his head forward and jumped into a canter, alarmed at the rough treatment and the quickness of Therese's movements, which was exactly as she'd hoped. Running beside him, Therese skipped along the ground several times before she was able to find a stirrup and vault onto the bolting animal. Once mounted, she drummed her feet into his sides, screaming for him to go.

They vaulted the wall they'd jumped into the clearing, leaping far higher and wider than needed with the momementum of their pace, and Therese struggled to stay with the animal. Turning to look back over her shoulder, she could see the dark haired one chasing after her on foot. The blonde one, was staggering to his feet, she could hear his "Catch her, she's getting away!" ring through the woods.

Therese leaned low over the horse's neck, and pummeled his sides with her feet, encouraging him to his utmost speed, which allowed them to quickly outdistance the man on foot.

As AR exclaims, when Rickmaniacs write:
"Happy Fancies to all, and to all a good Flight!" 8-D

Love,

Yes, there had been some pain.

Mary Anne had thought herself prepared for it. As much as she might enjoy reading the occasional romance novel, she has told herself not to expect anything remotely similar to those scenes of passion. Right, she had told herself scornfully. Uh-huh. The heroine is completely innocent and the hero neatly relieves of her virginity--and then, sighs and moans and instant ecstasy. Of course! Nothing messy or uncomfortable about it. Suuuuuure . . .

Still, the sensations had been quite unexpectedly sharp, and Mary Anne had been unable to contain a little sob as she turned her head to one side, hoping that Brandon might not see the tears that had gathered in her eyes.

But he had, and then she felt his lips upon hers once again, as if he had wished to draw her pain into his body and conquer it there, for her . . . his kisses, and the whispering of endearments and love names . . . and the pain had slowly faded . . .

And Mary Anne had realized that she may have been a shade too cynical in her mental preparations, for she had tried, in an attempt to steel herself against possible disappointment, to tell herself not to expect a great deal of pleasure, either. Not Christopher's fault at all, if you don't, but you'll have to get used to each other--and some women don't feel very much, the first time . . .

But Mary Anne had reckoned without her enlivened senses, and the tension of desire built by months of waiting and anticipatory suspense, plus Brandon's singleminded determination that this night would be as nearly perfect as possible. For her.

Brandon knows her well, his love and now his wife, the woman he has loved a thousand times in his imagination, and his approach had been a blend of spontaneity and strategy, in which he had denied her no kiss, no least touch upon her maddeningly sensitized flesh . . . no opportunity for a pleasure greater than any she had ever known.

And it had not been long before her little cry of pain had given way to other soft cries . . .

Well, thinks Mary Anne. I didn't faint . . .

Wavering candle flames. Flickering lamps. The fire, burning low. The dance of shadows across the bed . . . where Mary Anne lies beside Colonel Brandon, her head pillowed against his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest . . . as her fingers, from time to time, lazily move against his skin, tracing patterns, not out of any attempt to re-awaken his desire but simply to savour the texture of his skin under her fingertips . . .

Luxury. All of her senses awake, yet satiated.

Touch. Brandon's skin, and the blissful warmth of his body next to hers, his arm cradling her shoulders, and the lingering heat of the fire, and her body's own recollection of its recent pleasure.

Hearing. The soft hiss of the fire, with occasional crackles. Brandon's breathing next to her, and her own responsive sighs, and the distant echo of his heartbeat.

Taste . . . Mary Anne licks her lips briefly. Yes. Still there, the combined salt and sweetness, the flavour of Brandon's skin when she had lavished her many kisses and attentions upon him, and the taste of his lips against her own . . .

Oh, and scent--at times, the most evocative of the senses. One remembered aroma can transport us back across time, across scores of years . . . and Mary Anne is certain that the memory of this night will always recur in combinations of burning applewood and cinnamon-laced potpourri, mingled deliciously with Brandon's own clean male scent and the delicate waft of crushed violet petals . . .

Sight.

Her husband. Mary Anne looks with all her eyes, and with all her heart.

Brandon gazes calmly back at her, his expression serious enough, but there is that telltale crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a slight curve of his lips.

It becomes a game, as they lie and look at each other. Who will speak first? And it is not long before Brandon is smiling openly, and drawing Mary Anne closer to him for a kiss, which she contentedly returns, until he breaks it and murmurs, "Thank you, my dearest."

Mary Anne laughs a little and pushes herself a little higher to lie against the pillows and look into Brandon's eyes. "You're welcome, I'm sure," she softly replies. "Although I'm not sure why you're . . . thanking me."

"Because . . ." Brandon hesitates. "I simply recalled that you had expressed some doubts about whether you would please me. And you had seemed nervous--I expected that you might be frightened. But . . ." Brandon shakes his head at the futility of attempting to express these feelings in words.

Mary Anne smiles at him. "Did you think I would find loving you such an appalling prospect, then?"

Brandon does not answer immediately, but re-arranges his pillows and sits up against them, drawing the blanket up and tucking it warmly about Mary Anne and himself.

"You would be astonished," he replies after some moments. "It is my understanding that this can be rather--" Brandon flushes slightly, but his voice is steady. "--uncomfortable for a woman the first time, and after that, their only impression of lovemaking is of pain. Some consider themselves fortunate if they feel nothing." His eyes upon hers. "Do not deny it, Mary Anne; there was some pain for you."

And Mary Anne cannot deny it . . .

Poolside, a pair of semi-bronzed legs with red toenails protrudes from beneath a sun-umbrella-covered lounge chair. A figure clad in a red swimsuit and obnoxiously oversized hat sips tropical drinks at an alarming rate while simultaneously applying sunscreen and talking on a mobile phone.

Hilo Hattie? Ala Moana Annie? Queen Liliokalani?

No. It is Kari. The very same Kari who was sent overseas on special assignment over the holidays by the Director himself. The very same Director with whom, at this particular moment, she is speaking to on the mobile phone.

He wants a scouting report on locations. She has none at this time.

She waves to the cabana boy. He hurries over to her lounge chair. Pointing to her almost empty glass, she places a hand over the phone receiver and whispers, “I’ll have another.” A big smile. She removes her hand just in time to hear the director cut himself off.

“Who was that?” he asks.

“Who was who?” she responds in her usual manner of answering a question with a question.

“What are you doing?” asks the Director. He was aware that she had not been listening to him. She watches as three children dive, amid shrieks and giggles, into the far end of the pool. The resulting splash echoes resoundingly in the Director’s ear. “What was that?” he asks suspiciously.

“What was what?” she responds in mock innocence as she picks up her glass and eyes the small amount that is left. She hopes the cabana boy is on his way back with her next drink.

“I heard a splash,” says the Director.

She shrugs. “I didn’t hear anything.” She narrows her eyes and glares across the pool. Darn kids! They were going to give her away!

“Are you at the pool?” he asks unamusedly.

“Pool? What pool?” asks Kari as she noisily slurps the final bit of her mai tai from the glass. Aahh. Delicious.

“I didn’t send you to Hawaii to get a tan, you know,” says the Director in an annoyed tone. Another splash. The cabana boy arrives at her side with the replacement mai tai.

Trading her empty glass for the full-to-overflowing one, Kari wriggles her toes in delight as she takes another sip, sighs, and settles back onto the lounge. The sun was high in the sky, and, just beyond the pool, a white-sand beach played intermittent host to a blue ocean as it crested in on white-capped waves and crashed along the shore at regular intervals. Surfers on surfboards could be seen either paddling out or riding in. She adjusts her oversized hat and eyes the distant horizon where blue meets blue .. each indistinguishable from the other.

Opening the stall door, Therese haltered the animal, and led him to the nearby crossties. "We certainly cannot criticize the good Colonel's judge of horseflesh, can we boy?" she asked the animal, rubbing him lightly on his forehead. The gelding tossed his head, as if in agreement. "Don't let it go to your head, old man, no one likes an arrogant horse, even if you certainly have cause to be so." Picking up two of the several brushes hanging on a nearby wall, she began to groom the animal, with steady, even strokes.

Therese sang to herself softly as she worked, practicing some of the Gaelic verses that Eamon had taught her, and was startled to hear a door open at the other end of the building. She looked up to see a bedraggled groom approach her, in various stages of undress...

"Sir? Colonel?" the young man asked incredulously, not believing that anything could have brought his employer to the barn this early on this praticular day. He was a bonny horseman, yes, but....

The young man had almost finished struggling into his shirt, and was attempting to tuck it, as of yet unbuttoned, into unfastened britches, his wool stockinged feet soundless on the cobblestones, when he finally noticed Therese standing beside the horse.

"AAACK! Blimey, Mum! I didna know--" his voice broke off as he threw himself behind one of the partitions separating the stalls. "Ma'am? You're not goin' ta faint, or nuthin' like that, are you?"

Therese laughed at the other man's modesty and obvious distress. "I'm certainly made of sterner stuff than that, I assure you. And I'm glad to see that the rest of the household shared in the wedding celebrations along with all of us. Now, if you'll simply tell me which bridle belongs to the black, and where I might find a saddle and pad, I'll turn my back so you can return to your bed whilst it's still warm."

"Ma'am, I couldna let you do that..." the groom began to protest.

"Go," Therese ordered, "before I step around that partition and--"

"Going, Ma'am!" the groom broke in, and made a dash for his room, shirttails flying out behind him.

Therese returned her attentions to the horse, and in a few more moments had him saddled, bridled and ready to ride. Leading him by the reins, she brought him out into the courtyard, and with a jump up into the stirrup, was off. "Quite a stretch for me, lad, I see the Colonel prefers his horses tall." She reached down to stroke the animal's neck, and directed him to the drive. Her plan was to leave the gates of Delaford, and explore some of the wooded areas she'd noticed adjacent to the entrance.

It was a beautiful morning, the weather was fair, and she was quite possibly seated on the finest horse she'd ever ridden, (other than her favorite mare at home, of course).

Mary Anne, finding herself securely pinned to the bed, sees no point in struggling with Brandon, but smiles up at him instead. "I had understood, sir, that you had surrendered to me. Unconditionally."

The military man smiles back. "A mere diversionary tactic, my darling. Which gave me the advantage of . . . a surprise attack."

"Oh?" twinkles Mary Anne. "Did you need any more advantages?"

A brief silence. Those golden eyes just above her.

"Mary Anne, did I never tell you the rest of my conversation with Hans, that evening?"

Mary Anne plays along. "No, sir, you never did."

Brandon does not take his eyes from hers. "He said that it is the custom of his people for the bride and groom to exchange small gifts on the wedding night." A pause. "And when I asked him what he had given to Renie, he said . . ."

Brandon settles himself even closer, so that his eyes are mere inches away from Mary Anne's.

"He said that he gave her . . ."

A low whisper at Mary Anne's ear.

" . . . no mercy."

Mary Anne swallows and closes her eyes, feeling her entire body flush with heat and longing. A tremor passes through her, and Brandon, feeling the shiver of her body against his own, sets his teeth and fights for control.

Mary Anne opens her eyes, and even manages to smile. "And did he say what Renie gave to him?"

"I think we both have a fairly good idea of what that must have been . . ."

Brandon's great strength, clasping her so securely. Another sigh courses through Mary Anne, and ends in an affectionate little laugh. Another trip into the past. "Oh, sir," she murmurs, "have you no mercy for a poor maiden in your power?"

Brandon remembers. Of course he does. "None what . . . so . . . ever . . ." he enunciates as he grins down at her, making a point of pressing her deeper into the pillows, reveling in holding her there with his superior strength. But Mary Anne knows quite well that strength is not the only weapon in love's arsenal--and that love can wound as deeply as a gun or a knife, or that it can mend and heal. This will be a healing of old wounds for both of them, and Mary Anne, with a mischievous little smile, writhes against Brandon to encourage him and breaks into a giggle as he catches his lower lip between his teeth, fighting yet again for control. "My dear, you are a vixen at times . . ."

"I'm your vixen. All yours." Chuckle. "Aren't you a fortunate man?"

"I am, indeed."

Brandon's smile fades. "I--Mary Anne, I do not wish to hurt you, but I . . . I can wait no longer."

A pause. Brandon's hold upon her loosens slightly, and Mary Anne slips one hand free and reaches up to caress his face. "I understand, sir. I--I know there may be some pain, but . . . you've always been gentle with me. I trust you."

Feeling almost ready to weep at the force of his own desire, and at the winning sweetness of Mary Anne's surrender to him--how much more powerful is that surrender than any amount of resistance!--Brandon fondles the hand that is stroking his cheek and turns it, kissing the palm softly . . .

Mary Anne lies back among the pillows, and feels her arms drawn gently over her head and held there, for Brandon knows that she might involuntarily resist him if she feels any pain and he does not want her to hurt herself by struggling . . .

. . . as he presses himself closely against her, murmuring comfort and reassurance, and covers her body with his own . . .

Unaware of the scented candles and cones burning elsewhere at that same time, Dana lit the groups of candles at the corners of her bath. She sank slowly into the very hot cloud of scented bubbles. Warm water enveloped her limbs as the sounds of celtic harp filled the room.

Ahhhhhh, alone and quiet at last. she abandoned the magazine she'd brought along to read and surrendered herself to the full enjoyment of her surroundings.

"There you are!!!!"

Dana sat up quickly, sloshing bathwater over the edges of the very full tub. "PL O'Hara! What are you doing barging into my private quarters at this hour?"

"Where is he?" PL's wild eyes searched the corners of the room.

With a catlike stretch, Therese stood and went to the bags sitting in the corner near her bed. Searching through them quickly, she retrieved her favorite pair of breeches, paddock boots, knit shirt, and riding gloves. A quick brush through the hair, pulled back into a ponytail, teeth brushed at the basin left on the dressing table, and she was almost ready to go. After returning Eamon's robe, of course.

She tapped lightly on his door before entering, and he looked up from his pillow, a sleepy smile on his face. "Silly girl," he told her, his voice low and raspy from sleep, " always up and about at dawn. My eager little ruffian."

Therese closed the door behind her, and crossed over to the bed. "Lying in, are we?" she teased, crawling upon him, she straddled his stomach, a leg folded back on either side.

"Not if you've come to join me." The voice was velvet, and he placed a hand on either hip, caressing her softly. His thumbs lodged in a belt loop on each side of her breeches. "Though by your attire I would say you'd other plans."

"Colonel Brandon has offered me free use of his livery."

Dev sighed and rolled his eyes, his hands dropping to his sides. "The poor man had absolutely no idea what he was doing, did he?" Therese leaned forward, and kissed him softly. "There's no need to be petulant, dearest. I shall promise to behave myself. I'll only ride for an hour or so before anyone else is up anyway. Then I'll be right back here with you, smelling of fresh air and sunshine."

"And horse." "Probably so," Therese agreed with a smile. As she went to step over Eamon's stomach, he took each of her legs firmly in either hand, and used them to flip her over on her back. Rolling on top of her he nibbled gently on her neck before resting his weight on his elbows and peering down into her eyes. "What if I won't let you go?"

Therese tried to shift herself underneath him, a move frequently achieved in armorous play. However, Dev was nine inches taller and sixty pounds heavier, and with no help on his part, she was solidly pinned. The equestrian in Therese rallied for the cause, ignoring the jangling nerve endings throughout her entire body that were about to suffer a meltdown at the prospect of being separated from Eamon's contact. "But the colonel told me I could ride the black! His very own horse. It is the most magnificent animal..." She looked up at him, dark eyes pleading.

"You, my dear," Eamon replied, dropping a quick kiss on the top of Therese's nose, "are incorrigable." He rolled to one side, allowing her to rise from the bed.

Therese grinned down at him as he stretched out again in the bed. "I'll hurry back, I promise."

The Director diverts his attention momentarily from Alexis in order to answer the ringing phone. He pulls out the antenna, punches the *answer* button, and places it to his ear.

“Rickman here,” he says solemnly.

A high-pitched voice on the other end begins to speak in a furiously fast manner. Alexis raises an eyebrow in the direction of the mobile phone and takes another sip of coffee. There is some static on the line. As it grows louder the voice on the other end grows louder as well .. obviously in an attempt to be heard over the ensuing noise. The Director winces and holds the phone away from his ear. He grimaces at Alexis as she stands and heads off in the direction of Hair and Makeup (the requisite first stop of the day for all cast members), leaving him alone on the phone in the midst of the chaotic set.

As Alexis arrives on the set the following morning, coffee in hand, she is startled to see an emergency aid car parked outside of the wardrobe trailer. Equally startling is the sight of the director ushering emergency response team workers through the doorway.

“What's happened?” she asks in alarm as she approaches the Director.

He purses his lips together and, with a slightly furrowed brow, glances towards the trailer entrance. Deafening, rhythmic snores can be heard emanating through the open door. An emergency worker exits the trailer with his hands over his ears. The Director motions her away from the trailer to explain.

“It’s Achilles,” he says somberly.

“What do you mean ‘it’s Achilles’?", asks Alexis in an incredulous manner. Though not regularly involved with him on the job, she *had* helped him rehearse his lines (what few he had) whilst Kari was reconnoitering overseas on behalf of the Director and, as a result, she had grown rather fond of him as a co-worker.

The Director waves his hand in the direction of the trailer. “I mean he is the reason for all of the commotion.”

“What happened? Is he hurt?” she asks sounding, once again, slightly alarmed.

The Director looks thoughtful. “Not exactly.” The trailer windows rattle as another snore emanates from within.

“Is he ill?”

Another thoughtful look. “Not exactly.”

She becomes impatient. “Well then what exactly?” It was not like the Director to be evasive.

He shrugs and looks puzzled. “He won’t wake up.”

At this, she begins to laugh. “He won’t wake up?“ She laughs again. “He won’t wake up?” She shakes her head and takes a sip of her coffee. “Is that all?” she asks through her giggles.

However, the Director is not smiling. He turns to face her. “It’s not a laughing matter. He really will not wake up. We’ve tried everything. At first I thought he was just faking it because I know how he is about his early morning calls, but he’s been poked, prodded, and goodness knows what else and he just continues to sleep. We called emergency response an hour ago. His vital signs are fine. They say they’ve never seen anything like this before.” The Director looks worried.

Alexis places her hand on his arm. “Do they say he’s in danger?”

“They say he’s not. No.” He shakes his head.

Alexis takes a sip of her coffee as the Director’s mobile phone begins to ring from his parka pocket. He reaches for it as Alexis speaks again. “You know, Achilles was always bragging that he could do his scenes in his sleep.” She giggles and glances towards the trailer as yet another emergency worker enters. Another roar-of-a-snore whistles through the doorway.

About to stray across the borders of the Golden Rule territory soon, so be warned. And may The Empress be merciful.

Sweet agony . . . exquisite torture . . .

These terms, and others of a like nature, run continuously through the mind of Colonel Christopher Brandon as he lies among the heaped pillows of the bed, the recipient of Mary Anne's most loving and inventive . . . attentions.

A fine beading of sweat stands on the Colonel's forehead; his fingers occasionally curl tightly against the pillows, then release . . .

"Mary Anne . . . you are killing me!"

"Not I, sir." The soft trill of her laughter. "Kill you, now? I intend to keep you alive for a long, long time."

"Not if you continue like this," groans Brandon. His adored Mary Anne . . . all those times before, when she had tested him, teased him, driven him near to distraction--or so he had thought, then.

But now . . . now that she is free to let her imagination run riot . . .

She had begun rather hesitantly, as Brandon lay among the pillows and looked at her expectantly to see what she would do next, without encouragement or instruction. A kiss had seemed the way to begin, and so she had proceeded, fondly copying Brandon's own pattern with her: the kiss upon the forehead first, and then upon the closed eyelids, and down to the corners of the lips . . .

The mood had changed, briefly, as she had begun to explore and caress his body as he had hers--but then she had stopped, passing her hand across his chest. Brandon had opened his closed eyes, to see Mary Anne staring sadly down at him--at his chest, with its scars. The long sabre scar is, of course, the one that draws attention . . . but Mary Anne is gazing, with tears in her eyes, at a smaller scratch, now healed and hardly visible.

But it is the wound of her Aurientine, when she had fought the duel with Brandon for the life of The Interrogator.

She had bent forward, then, and Brandon had felt the warmth on his chest, first of her tears, and then of her kisses upon that small scar. Mary Anne had simply lain beside him for a moment, her face buried against his chest, and at her smothered sob he had put his arms about her, holding her to him, stroking her hair.

"Shhhhh. Hush, my darling. That is past, Mary Anne. All past . . . don't think of it . . ."

Her kisses, then, upon his body . . . restless, seeking, urgent, as if determined to atone in love and pleasure for that wound inflicted by her evil self.

That long sabre scar, for example. Mary Anne had devoted herself to that, as a beginning, kissing her way along it as if the touch of her lips had the power to heal, and banish any mark of a wound . . . and that had ended in more laughter for both of them. For Mary Anne, as she had nibbled her way along that scar where it slants down across Brandon's ribcage, had become aware by the silent shaking of his body that her husband is rather ticklish himself. Not quite so much as she, with her extremely sensitive skin; Brandon had managed to contain himself, even after Mary Anne had raised a wicked eyebrow at him and given him another playful nip in the ribs, just as he had done with her--but at the warning lift of his eyebrow, she had decided it would be wise to desist. And so matters had progressed . . .

Until now.

"Mary--" Startled intake of breath, then long sigh. "Anne . . ."

"Mmmmm. Yes, sir?"

Oh. That tone of voice, so sweet and demure. After she has been . . .

Brandon struggles to distract himself. Somehow. "Do you remember, after Ed and Claudia's party? Hans and I were talking, and you came to us . . ."

"I'm not likely to forget."

"When Hans told me later to go and rest, he said . . ." A gasp, and a pause. "He . . . said . . . that I would need my strength with you. I told him that perhaps you could be persuaded to take pity on a tired old man . . ."

A giggle. "And what did Hans say to that?"

"He said--" Concentrate, Brandon! "He said that if you did, he would never think so highly of you afterward . . ."

A low chuckle, delectably naughty. "And what would Hans think of me . . . sir?"

"I am quite . . . certain . . . that he would think he had . . . Mary Anne, please! . . . he had seriously underestimated you . . ."

The sweet witchery of that laugh. As if he can feel the sound of it upon his skin. "Perhaps he wasn't the only one . . ."

Tormenting him . . . bending her head, and slowly . . . slowly . . . moving her head so that the strands of her hair lightly brush against his skin, raising waves of shivers . . . that silken touch . . .

Every man has his limits.

Colonel Christopher Brandon has reached his.

It must be admitted that Brandon takes a distinct pleasure in Mary Anne's startled gasp when he sits up abruptly among the pillows and grasps her by the arms . . .

. . . and has her, within seconds, securely pinned to the bed . . .

No. Andrea does not love him. What can she say to cause him the least pain? How can she convince him to spend tonight with her? "Hamlet, I need you, and I want you. Please stay."

Hamlet releases her hands. His eyes show his disappointment, but he is not crushed.

Andrea continues her plea. Even if Hamlet turns her down, she needs to know that she tried her best to make him understand her request. "Hamlet, after what George did to me, I want to feel the touch of a man who truly cares for me. Please, Hamlet, show me how it's supposed to feel."

Hamlet strongly believes that "how it's supposed to feel" is dependent on loving the one touching you. He observes her eyes fill with tears. Although he has decided not to spend the night, he will not leave her like this. He steps close to her.

When Andrea rests her head on his chest, Hamlet strokes her soft hair. "I do love you, Andrea. I cannot--I will not stay here knowing that you do not feel the same. I continue to hold onto my hope that you will--someday--open your heart to me. It is because you are so special to me that you must love me before I ..."

Andrea looks up at him. He nods in the direction of the bed. She suggests a possibility. "Perhaps my love would come after ..."

Hamlet shakes his head. "It is more likely that you will remain indifferent toward me. You may even congratulate yourself for getting what you need from me without giving me what I need from you."

Andrea pulls away from him. Does he really believe that she would do such a thing? And, why not? Hasn't she been taking from Hamlet all along? What has she ever given him in return? The privilege to keep on giving to her.

Her tears spill onto her cheeks. The realization of how badly she has treated Hamlet pains her deeply. Unable to speak, she opens the door and steps aside to allow Hamlet to exit her guestroom.

Once he is in the hallway, Hamlet turns to face her. "Will you be all right alone? I could try to find Dot ..."

Andrea shakes her head. She'd rather be alone.

Hamlet would like to reassure her of his continued friendship. He grasps the doorknob, and, just before pulling the door closed, he says "Sleep well and join me for breakfast in the morning."

... Andrea does neither.

Colonel Christopher Brandon has been quite pleasantly surprised.

He had thought, as nervous as Mary Anne seemed at times during this day, that he would have to lure her along in lovemaking, with many pauses to reassure her and allay her fears. Not, he reflects, that it would have been unpleasant . . .

But Mary Anne has taken to the proceedings, surrendering herself into his arms with a sweetness of trust and a sensual abandon that moves him to a delight he has not experienced for years, with a corresponding sense of playfulness that he could not possibly express anywhere but here--with Mary Anne, who loves him, and whom he loves beyond all reason.

Brandon feels himself caught between moments of deep, passionate solemnity. A phrase returns to him from the Latin of his schooldays: gravis ardor, the weight of love. The burning heaviness of it, in which a human body seeks to express and experience more than it possibly can, and needs the help of another to draw anywhere near that expression of regard and tenderness for another human creature. The very quest to speak, with the body, what language cannot utter is enough to bring tears to the eyes . . .

Such moments as these, alternating with moments of humour and even hilarity. Brandon recalls as well the wisdom of the ancient Greeks, who always said of their goddess of love, Aphrodite, that she was "laughter-loving." There is solemnity, yes, and majesty in the bed of love, but always room for play and lightheartedness and laughter.

As, for instance, when Brandon is lavishing his kisses and caresses upon Mary Anne's body . . . and she suddenly gives a little shriek and squirms away from him, giggling. "Don't, I'm ticklish there!"

Grinning, Brandon moves her hands aside and gives Mary Anne another gentle nip in the ribcage, which leads to another little gasp and a brief wrestling match in which Brandon is easily the victor. Yet he takes pity on the apprehensive wriggles of his bride, firming his kisses and caresses so that Mary Anne's breathless laughter quickly gives way to sighs . . . and then to soft little sounds of pleasure . . .

As to Mary Anne, she does not understand how the human body, work of wonder that it is in all of its complexity and subtlety, is built to endure such sensations as she has been experiencing. Such pleasure. Every nerve awake as it has never been in her life before, and Brandon--almost as if he means to make up, in one night, for all of the time he has longed for her--seems determined to seek out every one of those nerves and sate them to the full.

His warm hands. His kisses. There . . . and there . . . and . . . there . . .

Mary Anne's eyes fill with tears at the power of those sensations, and at the realization--one that inspires in her a tenderness and humble gratitude--that Brandon, as long as he has waited for this night, is thinking of her before himself. Seeking first her pleasure and delight, before any consideration of his own.

Even among the best men of the earth, it is a rare man who would do this.

"Ah. Christopher . . . ?"

"Yes, my darling?"

"I want to . . . let me love you."

"I know you love me, Mary Anne--"

"No, I mean--let me do for you, what you're doing for me. This is your wedding night, too. Please, let me do this for you."

Brandon hesitates only for a moment. Mary Anne, though she has had no chance to gain skill in lovemaking, is--as he knows very well--a very inventive woman. Naturally imaginative. As his mind dwells on the attentions she might lavish upon him, Brandon quivers with anticipation, and seriously doubts whether his already precarious self-control will bear the test.

But how can he refuse her? He can refuse her nothing. Not at a time like this.

Those enormous blue eyes--brimming with tears of passion for him, and filled with desire to return to him some measure of what he has already given her.

And the night is young.

"Very well, my dearest," murmurs Brandon, bestowing one last kiss upon her body and smiling up at her . . .

. . . and slowly, with a touch of the drama that had made his portrayal of The Highwayman so riveting, Brandon stretches himself out upon the bed, settling himself among the pillows and raising his hands.

Mary Anne. Kneeling on the bed beside him and smiling down at him. "What's this? Are you . . . surrendering to me?"

A soft laugh. "Unconditionally."

Those golden eyes, turned upon her with burning desire, yet with amusement and curiosity as well, as Brandon waits to see what Mary Anne will do . . .

“Something happened,” said Ed, holding her closely, stroking her hair, kissing her forehead.

“I remembered some things. But I don’t want to talk about it yet. I need to think.”

Ever her rock, her grounding force, holding her tightly, Ed brought her back to what was important what was real. Their love. The boys.

She knew that the Interrogator played on people’s weaknesses, found a way in, then took and destroyed what he found. She also knew he had a power over her, but knowing it was also to her advantage. She plotted silently in her head, all the things she would say and do when he did come back for her.

If she could control her body, and listen to her brain, she could be with the Interrogator, get close to him, and help bring him down, finally from inside his own organisation.

Of course, Ed must never know what she planned.

“You made sure I would,” she pulled herself free of him, but took his hands. “But you know that I can’t give in to these feelings.”

The Interrogator smiled. He hadn’t been able to fulfil his desire for revenge on the Brandons, but he was beginning to see a way he could still get back at them. He pulled his hands from hers, and slowly, finger by finger, loosened his gloves, and they fell silently to the floor. She could see his strong long fingers, hands white in the darkness and at the end of dark sleeves. They flexed in the air, as if playing an invisible piano, and then touched the skin at her throat again. She jumped as if from an electric shock. His hands were warm, not icy cold. There must, after all, be a heart in his chest, pumping blood round his body. She couldn’t help herself, she was in his arms again and urgently kissing him, tearing at the clasp of the cloak, searching for the buttons…

And he let her, hoping for a revenge so sweet… “Come with me,” he murmured in her ear, “come away with me now.”

“I…” she breathed, taking ragged gasps of air.

Then suddenly a voice from the darkness. “Claudia? Where are you?” It was Ed, finished putting the twins to bed, and now looking for her, to continue where they’d left off.

Panic in her eyes. “You have to go, now! There are AR agents everywhere, be careful.”

“You aren’t coming with me?” He played his hands up and down her back, a skilled touch.

It took a lot of effort for her to say, “I can’t. Not now, go quickly.”

He mocked her with a low bow, and leapt over the railing of the summerhouse. “I’ll be back for you,” she heard whispered from the darkness.

And there Ed found her, white and shaking. “What on earth?”

“I don’t feel well, Ed. I’ll feel better after some sleep. I’m sorry I’m giving up so early this evening.”

Andrea is thrilled by the physical sensation and does her best to show her intense appreciation.

Encouraged by Andrea's response to his kiss, Hamlet places his hands on her waist and then slides them around to her back. He pulls her close to him and up slightly.

Andrea arches back under his kiss. Her toes barely touch the floor, but she trusts him not to let her fall. She ignores the pain of her bruised ribs pressing against his body.

Hamlet ends the kiss to gaze deeply into her eyes. "I love you."

Andrea slips her hands behind his neck. She tries to pull his head down to her for another kiss. She wants to stop his talking as much as she wants to continue kissing him.

Hamlet resists her efforts. Didn't you hear what I said? After setting her down on her feet, he grasps her wrists and slides her hands to his chest. He holds them over his heart. "I ... love ... you."

“You remember.” It wasn’t a question, HE knew at once that she did.

Claudia was reeling with she shock of the memories flooding back into her head. It was as if she was living them for the first time, but condensed into a few moments. She couldn’t move or say anything as the images and feelings sank in, and made her realise she was a different person than the one she knew.

Her hand was the first thing she could move. It stroked his face, and moved up to untie the silk mask over his eyes. The black silk slid away, but HIS face was still an unreadable mask.

“I loved you,” she said, startled at the sound of her own voice in the still of the night, “Mr I”.

“You made love to me,” he agreed. “Then you left. Don’t you wonder what great things we could have achieved together had you stayed?”

Claudia was indeed thinking what would have happened if the Doctor hadn’t rescued her, what would she have become? Another shiver shook her body at the thought. She was sure that HIS hands, still on her arms were the only things stopping her from collapsing in a heap at his feet.

“Why do you do this to us all? Why do you keep coming back?”

The Interrogator knew exactly what she meant. She was referring to the way HE approached the ladies of the Realm one by one, ensuring they each had some feeling for him, which would stop them from turning him over to the authorities.

Mary Anne relaxes into the pillows . . . then raises herself again, with a puzzled exclamation: "What the . . ." She rummages among the cushions--then smiles. "Christopher, look."

Brandon looks, and becomes aware of some light, sweet scent that he had thought was Mary Anne's perfume. It had, until now, taken second place to other scents of the room--the sweet applewood on the fire, along with the rich, dark potpourri of bark and greenery and cinnamon that Brandon prefers to the Delaford rose mixture set out in the rest of the house.

Brandon takes a closer look. Mary Anne, holding . . .

Flower petals. A handful of them, dark purple and creamy white.

Violets. Thickly scattered among the pillows of the bed.

Brandon exchanges looks with Mary Anne, and they declare with absolute certainty and in perfect unison: "Renie!"

Mary Anne is laughing with delight. "Now, that's just like her! But where did she get violets at this time of year?"

Brandon smiles. "That would be quite easy. Chance, my chief gardener, keeps violets the whole year around in one of his greenhouses--and he and Renie have always been on good terms. One word from her, and he would have given her all the violets she wanted."

"It was sweet of her," muses Mary Anne, remembering that the violet is the symbol of affection and fidelity--and that Renie could have put far worse things in the bed. "Christopher," she continues, "I think Renie might be ill or something. She looked so pale--and there were a couple of times when I thought she might be sick. Like she was . . ."

"No, Mary Anne," the Colonel quietly replies. "Not ill."

Suddenly, all of the details that Mary Anne had noticed throughout this day accumulate to critical mass in her mind, and she knows the answer. "Oh, my," she whispers, then begins to laugh. "Renie's--she and Hans--she's going to . . ."

"That would be my guess," chuckles Brandon, privately reflecting that he is surprised it has taken this long, since Renie and Hans can scarecely keep their hands off of each other. Still, she had been away from Hans in Egdon for so long. "I am certain that Renie will tell us everything when she is ready."

With a sly smile, Mary Anne gives a long, seductive stretch leans back once more among the violet-scented pillows. "I wonder," she murmurs dreamily, "what she and Hans are doing right now . . ."

Brandon needs no further invitation. "Shall I go to their guestroom and ask them?" he replies, grinning, as he gathers up a double handful of the violet petals and sprinkles them liberally across Mary Anne's body, rubbing them gently against her skin to release their scent, then bending close to inhale the fragrance, and to playfully blow them away . . .

"Ooooh," exclaims Mary Anne, with soft sighs of helpless pleasure at each touch of Brandon's warm breath upon her skin, as the petals lift and float about her, then re-settle into the sheets.

"I wish," says Brandon admiringly, "that you could see how you look."

"Perhaps you should hang a mirror above the bed . . ."

"I meant . . ." Brandon gestures to the petal-strewn sheets. "The flowers . . . and these . . ."

Mary Anne had not even noticed, until now, that Brandon had not removed her jewels. Naturally, she was still wearing her rings--her amethyst and silver that Brandon had given her as an egagement ring, and the circlet of diamonds that he had set upon her hand this day. Those aren't going anywhere. But her earrings, and the silver chain of amethysts and pearls . . . he had not taken those away when he undressed her.

"Like some . . ." Brandon grins, searching for the appropriate comparison. " . . . legendary courtesan, fit for an emperor. Or like the prize beauty of a sultan's harem."

"I'm your harem now."

"Or like Queen Cleopatra in all of her splendour . . ."

"Oh rare for Christopher!" teases Mary Anne, drawing a finger across Brandon's waist and down the saddle-hardened muscles of his thigh.

"Mary Anne, are you attempting to send me mad?" exclaims Brandon, as he bends forward and unclasps her necklace, trying to frown upon her with mock ferocity, but his face insists, despite his best efforts, on breaking into a smile.

"Mmmmm, rather," laughs Mary Anne, "now that I can do so and not compromise that honour of yours." Slyly. "I never dared to make my best effort before."

"If you dare me," growls Brandon, "prepare for the consequences."

Leaning down over Mary Anne, Brandon grasps one of her earrings between his teeth and pulls it loose, sending Mary Anne into hilarious giggles at how he looks when he sits up again. Her dignified husband is proving quite unexpectedly frolicsome in the nuptial bed! Colonel Christopher Brandon, the man of propriety and reserve, sitting there smirking at her with an earring dangling from his teeth . . .

The second earring quickly goes the way of the first, but Brandon is by no means finished with his attentions to Mary Anne's ears and the immediately surrounding regions, knowing as he does the sensitivity of her skin, and it is not long before Mary Anne's inclinations to giggle go the way of the earrings.

It had always been Brandon's custom, in his outbursts of passion for her, to begin by kissing her everywhere he can reach. Every inch of exposed skin--and now it is all exposed. Nothing hidden from him. No secrets. No defenses. The one man in the world against whom she has no defenses, nor even the wish for any.

And it soon becomes clear to Mary Anne that, although Brandon has undressed her, he means to clothe her again . . . in a garment of tiny overlapping kisses, fitted closely together . . . as he begins the fitting at her throat, and works his way steadily down her body . . .

From the strength of Brandon's embrace as he carried her to their bed, and from the rain of kisses upon her face and throat and shoulders, Mary Anne had quite expected to be swept away in a flood of his passion, drowned in a thunderstorm of it. But Brandon settles her gently into the nest of pillows piled upon the bed . . . so gently . . . and pauses for a moment, looking down at her. For a beginning, he loves her with his eyes alone.

And she returns that form of love, frankly gazing back at him with an ardent innocence that wrings his heart. Longing and trust written plainly upon her face . . .

The room glows with light. Candle and lamp, moon and star, and the crackling firelight--and Mary Anne thinks that she has never seen anything so beautiful to her as Brandon as he sits at the edge of the bed, gazing down at her. His gleaming skin . . . his amber eyes . . . his hair, in all its mix of colours, now shining golden red . . . a man of gold, there above her . . .

Brandon sweeps the room with a gesture, and softly asks, "Would you like for me to put out the lights?"

"No." Mary Anne raises one hand, touches the shadows at the hollow of Brandon's throat, then passes her fingers along the slope of his shoulder and down his chest. Brandon's eyes close as she murmurs, "Leave the lights. I want to . . . see you."

"And so you shall," he answers, smiling, as he opens his eyes again. Those lover's eyes, golden as the firelight itself, holding her there as strongly as his arms. "I had hoped you would say that, because I wish to see you as well . . ."

Loving her with his eyes. And then with his hands, caressing her, embarking upon a slow exploration of her body, as Mary Anne sighs and relaxes into her pillows . . .

The Highwayman's other gloved hand moved to mirror the first, holding fast to her other shoulder. Then both hands moving in to grasp her long neck, thumbs resting at the dip in her collar bone. Vulnerable, her heart quickened, and the hands moved down to feel the heartbeat.

"You're making this very difficult for me..." she breathed, "I might just have to…."

"It wouldn't be our first time," said the Highwayman, and suddenly his hands had grabbed her arms and pulled her to him, so his sliver buckle dug into her stomach. She gasped out loud.

Ed chuckled watching her dab the glowing skin at her neck with a napkin and slapped her behind. "I'll be right back, keep it warm for me."

"I'm going into the gardens, come and find me when they're settled." She whirled away and out of the double doors before she changed her mind and followed him upstairs.

It was dark, but not pitch black, the glow of lights from the house, lit an enchanted path that she followed, until she reached a part of the garden that seemed oddly familiar. She didn't remember spending too much time exploring the gardens on her last visit, for the Delaford picnic, a year ago. There in front of her was the summerhouse, the gazebo and she felt herself move up the steps as if reliving a dream. She had been here before, but when?

She lent on the railing and looked out over the gardens. It was beautiful, even on a cool winter's evening. She sighed, shivered, and rubbed her shoulders. She was cooling down and beginning to feel the chill in the air. Suddenly there was a gloved finger, tracing her jawline, caressing her neck, and resting firmly on her shoulder. The hand, insistent, turned her to face its owner.

Jumping down from her perch -- if truth be told, in order to get a better view of the, er, proceedings -- Zelda gasped, then slapped her hand to her brow as she viewed the spectacle before her.

"oooOOOooooo my, My, MY . . . Oh heavens . . . Whoo hoo . . . she whispered, exhaling her chilly breath into the room. "That's one way to use ice cream!"

S