Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Brandon's bedchamber:

In his relief at the restoration of Mary Anne's good spirits, Brandon allows her to playfully control him for a few moments as she draws his head down for a kiss, then slides closer to him to push him against the headboard.

Yes, he permits it . . . but there is something he must say to her, and each time he attempts to say it, she stops his mouth with another kiss, laughing a little--until, when thwarted in his third attempt, Brandon decides that enough is enough . . .

. . . and Mary Anne finds herself flattened once more into her pillows.

Brandon holds her there a moment, trying to look sternly at her but knowing that the effect is ruined by his smile, by the silent trembles of his own scarcely-contained laughter. But Brandon makes an effort to pull his face straight. "Mary Anne, I am flattered by your, ah, willingness . . ."

"That's putting it mildly!" laughs Mary Anne, and Brandon's grip loosens involuntarily as he contemplates his wife, lying there among the pillows: her fair features, the colour in her cheeks, her gleaming eyes . . . he could almost be persuaded to abandon this conversation . . .

Almost.

"Be serious, for once, and listen."

Mary Anne is quiet, her amusement betrayed only by a telltale quiver of her lips as she smiles at him.

"Your willingness in our . . . game. But Mary Anne, you were frightened by it, I know--long before you would admit to being afraid . . ."

She is listening.

"My dearest . . ." Brandon sits back, looking at Mary Anne. It is a dream, surely: he will awaken alone. That she should have agreed to marry him, share his life, grace his bed, offer him her heart, together with her mind and body . . .

It is real. She is there.

Brandon gathers his wandering thoughts. "I am truly grateful that you wish to please me, but you must understand that if I do anything that troubles you or that you do not enjoy, you should ask me to stop. Do not feel that you must continue in anything, simply for my pleasure. What happened this evening, I meant for a bit of play between us, that is all. I was not trying to frighten you, and I regret that I did."

"Stop that," protests Mary Anne. "I have already told you that you did not frighten me." A pause, then her eyes glint at him wickedly. "So, you will stop whenever I ask, will you? Always?"

Teasing him, again. Brandon wonders, for perhaps the hundredth time, what is the cause of this woman's fondness for mischief. Is it inborn? A product of her upbringing? Some odd result of The Doctor's repairs? She hardly seems able to go without it for ten minutes altogether.

Brandon considers, his own eyes lighting up with amusement. "I shall stop--if I am convinced you truly wish it."

"And just how could you be convinced, sir? A man of the world like yourself, you must know that sometimes 'stop' does not mean exactly that . . ." Mary Anne makes a point of stretching sinuously against the pillows, and Brandon briefly lowers his eyes and prays for strength . . .

"Well, then," he replies, in affectionate exasperation, "you shall have to be quite clear in your request."

Mary Anne shakes her head in mock disappointment. "It seems a pity to have to spell everything out like that."

Brandon sits back and gives her a look. THE look. "As I have not been granted . . ." Slowly, and a little too deliberately. " . . . the power to see into your mind . . ."

Mary Anne shrugs, and Brandon watches in fascinated hunger . . . the lift and fall of one creamy-skinned shoulder . . .

"Excuses, excuses," tsks Mary Anne. "Faint heart never won fair lady, and all that." Her eyes gleam at him. "Of course, a truly accomplished lover would know what--eeeeacck!"

Whatever teasing comment Mary Anne had been about to make about accomplished lovers is cut off as Brandon . . . pounces.

"You were saying, my darling?" Brandon's eyes, dark gold, less than six inches from her own.

Mary Anne's delight in their repartee is unabated, yet she is rather taken aback by the result of her provocation, and has seldom been so acutely aware of Brandon's strength and power. Yet she is equal to the consequences; this is Brandon, who loves her, and she trusts him with her life.

Her soft whisper. "Something about . . . accomplishments, I believe, sir . . ."

"Quite. By all means, my dearest, let us discuss my accomplishments."

"Yes. Do, let's." As her level gaze meets his, and her message is clear: You did not--and do not--frighten me.

Brandon does not have to see her mind to read this message.

"Mary Anne."

"Yes, sir?" Hoping that her voice does not tremble. Much.

"You may recall the occasion of Renie's wedding--"

"I should hope I would."

Brandon ignores the interruption. "--and your own words from that evening."

Mary Anne's skin prickles; she knows the words he means, and it is useless to pretend ignorance. And yet she does. "Words, Christopher?"

"Words." His weight and heat pressed against her, his voice a low, soft growl. "Words to this effect: Kiss me until I beg you to stop . . . "

A sudden movement from Mary Anne--but no, she cannot move, as Brandon's arms close around her, holding her.

" . . . and then, don't stop."

A silence.

Brandon smiles down at her.

"Believe me . . . this time, I shall not."

A companionable silence settled over the two women as they finished the evening's chores. Finally, Claire spoke.

"I'll be feeling better soon I'm sure. There's really no reason to upset Sinclair about it right now."

"He's going to catch on that you're not really well yet. You can't keep hiding your condition forever." Dana could see by the firm set of Claire's jaw that her words were falling on deaf ears. "OK I give up."

Therese's Guestchamber--Delaford

Dev leaned back on one elbow, having polished off a roll and a few bits of meat and cheese, and studied Therese, a grin warming his features.

"What?" she asked suspiciously, finishing her last bite of bread, "what is it?"

"I was simply questioning my lady's wishes, and wondering at my great fortune that aa humble a servant as myself might have the prividege of serving such a lovely mistress."

Therese looked at him, her features stern. "Inappropriate familiarity shall not be tolerated, you must understand this and keep your place, you know."

Dev inclined his head slightly. "Pardon my forwardness. May I serve you?"

Therese rose from the blanket, and slipped into her dressing robe. "For starters, we should make up the bed..." she paused, and reconsidered. " You are to start by returning the blanket to the bed, and then I would like a backrub."

Eamon raised a single brow. "You'll have to pardon my questioning, but that somehow seems...'inappropriately familiar' for one such as myself."

Therese returned his look. "The beauty of being in charge; I may overlook such things, you may not."

Dev quickly returned the blanket to the bed, and collecting their few dishes and the now empty champagne bottle, he set them neatly on the small table along the wall. Stepping to the bed, he made a great show of fluffing one of the pillows. "At your service, ma'am."

Therese stretched out upon her stomach, her arms forward and folded underneath her head. She felt Eamon draw the top of her robe back to her waist, exposing the entire length of her back to the cool evening air. An anticipatory shiver ran along her spine.

"Are you cold?" he asked her, his voice low, and above her left ear. She felt the bed sink beneath his body weight as he sat next to her, his right hand warm and smooth and wonderful against the tender skin of her back.

"N-no, not cold," she replied faintly, turning her face sideways to gaze up at him.

Dev swallowed. He still could not believe the power that Therese held over him. He had never imagined that anyone could affect him to this extent, but when she looked at him in this manner, he felt as if those large, dark eyes were consuming him. He was powerless to deny her anything.

His hands began their duty, roaming across the flesh of her exposed back, kneeding here, working there, his touch firm along her sides, lighter across her shoulders, thumbs burrowing into the muscles of her neck, easing and soothing the tension there. Therese sighed aloud. His ministrations were divine. He continued on in a similar manner for a time, but his hands gradually began to roam lower, easing beneath the robe that covered her backside.

"Watch those hands, you!" Therese admonished, raising her head from her arms.

Dev flashed her a wicked grin, as he cupped her bottom playfully. "Dearest, whould you like me to watch them here...or here ? he asked, trailing the fingers of one hand up the length of her back, around her neck, and below her throat.

Grace literally bumped into Hart as she got onto the crowded elevator in the Global Marketing building. "Good morning," she said, catching her breath and her balance. "Good morning," replied Hart, cooly, leaning close to her ear and whispering between clenched teeth, "a-gain." Grace briefly closed her eyes as she suppressed a shiver down the length of her spine.

They walked crisply to his back office, around the corner from the main offices of Global Marketing. Hart let them into the main room of the back office, where they were greeted by dozens of document boxes, stacked in rows taller than either of them.

Grace looked around at the boxes and started to count. Sixty-four. More than 150,000 pages of documents. "MacGregor must have hit a gold mine," she said. "It will take us weeks just to look at all of this, let alone figure it out." Hart did not reply. He was engrossed in the markings on the outside of one of the boxes.

Grace shrugged off her suit jacket, opened the box closest to her and began sorting through the sheafs of pale green ledger pages inside. Hart picked up the box that had attracted his attention and without a word carried it into his private office. After a while, she noticed he was gone. That was odd, Grace thought. Over the last months, they had spent countless hours reviewing sting documents together. They had developed a pattern of working closely together, sitting at the same table and brainstorming about what they had found. Had Hart found something he didn't want her to see? She walked into his private office and saw him absorbed in a stack of papers. Hart abruptly turned the papers face down as she came closer.

"Find something interesting, Lukas?"

"Not particularly." Hart's voice was bland, almost bored. "I thought they were the interbank wire transfers missing from the last set of documents, but they're. . ." he paused, ". . . not."

Grace walked around the conference table where Hart was seated and leaned over his shoulder. Her hand lightly caressed his neck and the collar of his starched white Lorenzini shirt. "What are they, then?" she asked, bending to look at the papers.

As she reached for the top document, Hart swiftly and unceremoniously plopped the stack of papers back into the box. "Nothing important. Some backups to accounts we've already seen." His voice still bland, he casually placed the cardboard lid on the box and stood up, brushing her hand away from his shoulder. "Let's see what else is out there in MacGregor's treasure trove."

**DARK HARBOR, USA **

Having arrived at their luxurious island house by late afternoon, David and Alexis break out a bottle of red wine and relax at a shaded picnic table which sits at a high point on the edge of the island, overlooking the blue waters of Penobscot Bay. David has changed clothes and is now dressed comfortably in a grey sweatsuit while Alexis is still outfitted in her trademark black, the same black she's worn all day. They chat amiably with each other discussing friends, Boston, his latest case ..

A short while later, David decides that he has had enough wine, but Alexis gladly refills her glass and proceeds to finish off the expensive bottle. Peering at him from behind her sunglasses, she suggests having dinner in town. A light meal of Maine lobster followed by dancing .. just like when they were first married?

David shrugs off the suggestion. After his night at the gallery, the evening spent sleeplessly with Kari at his New York apartment, the unexpected flight to Boston, and the long drive up to Maine the day before, he feels exhausted. He’d rather spend a quiet night at the house. At least tonight anyway. With just the two of them. Does Alexis mind? He forces a smile.

With a slight, disgusted shake of her head, Alexis raises her large, spiral-stemmed wine goblet and takes a large drink. Her eyebrows knit together above the rim of her sunglasses as she glares at him from behind the shaded circles. “Really David,” she begins snidely. “Another quiet one?” She turns her head and looks out over the water.

David doesn’t answer. He’d learned long ago that you didn’t argue with Alexis when she was having a “mood.” One could never reason with her then. He sighs as he looks at his beautiful wife. Ever the socialite, Alexis couldn’t stand a quiet night at home. Kari, on the other hand, had always loved them. Especially if David was involved.

The next morning, Monday, Grace strode into her office shortly before seven a.m. Over Hart's protests, she had insisted on leaving his house well before dawn. She retrieved her voicemail messages, sitting up straight when she heard MacGregor's voice. The U.S. Attorney's abrupt message asked her to go to the Global Marketing offices immediately to look at a new set of sting documents he had had shipped there. She hung up the phone and took out the silver keychain with the Global Marketing office keys from her handbag. She could go there now and let herself in, she thought, then wondered who else might be there. Debating whether to call Hart so early, she rested her hand on the receiver just as the phone rang. The incoming call was on her private line, the number she had given Hart just last night. She picked up the phone and heard his voice.

She listened to Hart describe the same call from MacGregor. They agreed to meet at the Global Marketing offices in a half hour.

**MARTHA’S VINEYARD .. THE BEACH HOUSE**

Jamie studied her for another short moment, watching her loose, honey-colored locks that danced animatedly as she thought. She’d cut her hair recently and he’d liked the change. Not that it was much different, just a bit shorter. His eyes roamed her face stopping intermittently to gaze at the features he liked most. Large, blue-gray eyes -- now turned downwards. Endearing dimples that was always present – smile or no. And, of course, the studied furrow of her brow as she concentrated seriously, perhaps too seriously, on the game.

No matter that he had been ordered to not get involved with this woman, and no matter how he had tried to resist her over the past months, he couldn’t, just couldn’t, be near her any longer without tasting her for himself.

It would anger his ‘higher-ups’, of course. They were always watching and he could hear “the voice” even now in his head. Reprimanding him. Warning him that next time he’d get hospital duty. Or that he’d be assigned as vacation relief at the pearly gates when Saint Peter took his annual, month-long holiday. No one ever liked to be assigned to the entrance gates. The new arrivals were always disappointed because they’d expected to meet Peter. And there was nothing as depressing as greeting disappointed new arrivals ...

He shook the thought from his head. Despite all of that, it was a chance he was willing to take. Perhaps “the voice” would go easy on him. After all, Jamie was a ghost .. not an angel.

Charlie looked up from her game pieces and, before she knew what had happened, he reached out an arm and slid his hand around her neck beneath her hair, entwining his fingers sensuously in her honeyed curls. He softly held the back of her head and slowly pulled her face towards his. Her eyes wandered his face and her trademark dimples involuntarily deepened with pleasure when their eyes, at last, met. Golden-hazel and blue-gray melded. Studying, surveying, smiling. A rub of noses. A tickle of his moustache. Her breath against his chin.

Brandon's bedchamber:

Brandon stifles a groan at what he has heard--that Mary Anne had felt guilty for giving up hope. And who, my love, would NOT give up hope, at such a moment? The wonder is, that she continued in her hope until that last possible moment. Yet the Colonel knows well--none better--his wife's capacity for berating and blaming herself in matters where she could not be held at fault; he is the last man in the world to disregard a sensitive conscience, though the barrier between sensitive and tormenting is, at times, far too thin. Such is often the case with Mary Anne.

Brandon is surprised, however, when Mary Anne dries her tears with the sheet and brings herself under control--then turns to him with a tentative smile, which he hesitantly returns, stroking her arm as she leans against him.

Mary Anne looks up at Brandon, her heart in her eyes, and says softly: "But you did arrive in time. That is all that matters."

Brandon swallows, feeling as if he may be the one to weep. "You have no reason--" he begins, hoarsely, then clears his throat. "You are not to blame if you . . . felt there was . . . no hope; it was taking a great risk. There is no reason to feel any guilt or shame at all."

Rage, perhaps. Horror, bordering on madness. Brandon remembers his own feelings only too well; at times they still awaken him in the night. The pain, yes, of being locked into the wall rings, the stripes of the lash . . . but far worse, to be immobilized in his chains, as Mary Anne had fallen at The Interrogator's feet and begged HIM to spare them; to look on in utter helplessness and know that Mary Anne was at HIS mercy . . .

Yet, even in her terror, she had retained the presence of mind to steal HIS keys.

Brandon shakes his head, remembering. That she had given up hope when their one chance had not seemed to materialize . . . the marvel is that they had even that one chance.

And Mary Anne is smiling at him. "I know there is no reason to feel guilty." A twinkle. "Since when do I need a reason?"

Brandon's heart lightens. She is trying so hard . . . "I am sorry if I frightened you, my dearest."

"And you," she pronounces, leaning forward and kissing him squarely on the tip of the nose, "have no reason to feel guilty, either. You could not possibly have realized. Even I . . . well, I thought I had put it out of my mind. It was just the circumstances, that's all." As Brandon opens his mouth to reply, Mary Anne scowls and points a finger at him, tapping his chest. "And before you say something terribly solemn like, Circumstances of my own making, or some rubbish of that sort . . ." Brandon has to laugh, as Mary Anne strives to lower her contralto and imitate his baritone. " . . . allow me to remind you that I had as much to do with the making of these circumstances as you did. I've been tormenting your life out all evening!"

"Ah," returns Brandon, his eyes sparkling. "In short, my love, you are saying that when I am presented with your . . ." Brandon allows his eyes to travel appreciatively over her. " . . . allurements . . . that I am no longer responsible for my actions, and that I abandon all self-control?"

A low, throaty chuckle. "I certainly hope so, sir."

"You realize, Mary Anne, that you are under no obligation--" Mary Anne giggles, and Brandon hastily rephrases, flushing a little, but grinning. "--that you have no obligation . . . if you do not wish . . ."

"I do wish," replies Mary Anne, sliding her flattened palms slowly across Brandon's chest, then up, to link her hands behind his neck and draw him toward her. "Come here . . ."

Hart's gift of the keys to his Bel Air home, and his implication that they should live together, shocked Grace to the core. He trusted her, he said. In Grace's book, trust was earned, over a long period of time, and through repeated tests of fire. Accordingly, she trusted few people. But those she trusted, she trusted without limit or reservation. Had she proven herself trustworthy to Hart? For that matter, did she trust Hart as she defined the term? At this moment, she had to say no to both. For once, she was unable to speak.

Hart watched her face, which gave no sign of her internal debate. But he thought he knew what she was thinking. "I don't know what you think about this, Grace, but I believe trust is a gift, not something you earn."

Grace jerked her head up to look at him. How could he read her mind like that? Was she so transparent? She squirmed to think he could read her so clearly.

Hart saw he had guessed correctly. But he would never let her know that it was just that, a guess. He took a breath and plunged ahead, his voice barely audible, almost husky. "Love is the same way, Grace. At least I think so."

Immediately, she dropped her eyes to the floor. Silently, she retrieved the keys from the floor where she had dropped them and turned them over in her lap one by one, watching the flickering light from the fire bounce off their shiny surfaces.

Hart felt at once that he had miscalculated, overstepped Grace's invisible boundaries again. He rammed one fist into the pocket of his trousers and turned away from her to face the fire. He didn't hear Grace get up and walk over to him, and was surprised when he felt her arms go around him from behind. He saw the keys tightly clasped in her right hand.

"I appreciate your trust, Lukas, and your generosity. I do. But we don't have to rush anything."

It was Hart's turn to be silent. He stood, watching the flames.

"Besides, you'd wind up doing all the cooking," she said, in a desperate attempt to dissipate the tension in the air. Involuntarily, the corner of Hart's mouth twisted in a tiny smile. Relieved, Grace sat down and began twisting the house keys off the keychain. Hart sat down next to her and placed his hands over hers. "You don't have to use them if you don't want to. But please keep them in case you ever need them." He closed her fingers tightly over the keychain, then lifted the inside of her wrist briefly to his lips.

Grace looked at Hart, trying and failing to read his face. "I'll keep the keys, Lukas. All of them. But I can't imagine being in this house without you." He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. She happily buried her face in the soft wool of his sweater as they watched the fire together.

They were happy, but no closer to understanding each other than they ever had been.

**MARTHA’S VINEYARD .. THE BEACH HOUSE**

Jamie, amused by Charlie’s serious concentration, leaned on one arm on the floor and folded his hands, watching her affectionately as the fire flickered softly behind him. Such intensity!

Suddenly, Charlie looked up to notice Jamie eyeing her with an expression she had not seen before. “What?” she asked him with a quizzical, if not slightly annoyed, look.

“You’re funny,” he said in a slow baritone, a slight smile appearing as he reached out to trace the length of her finger with one of his own. He drew out the word ‘funny’ unnecessarily.

“I am not funny!” she said, sounding miffed as she withdrew her finger from his outstretched hand. She clenched her fists defensively. “I am going to win.” She punched at her lettered squares, jolting them around in a determined attempt to create a sensical word. “You won’t think I’m funny then.”

He grinned as he folded his hands again. “Is that so?,” he asked tauntingly.

She answered in a haughty tone, glancing at him momentarily before returning her attentions to the game pieces, “Yes, that’s so.” The glow from the fire threw soft shadows across her face while she surveyed her squares.

“Well,” he answered with mock aloofness as he leaned in a bit for emphasis. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Claire looked up at Dana's slender form through the front opening of the wagon. Weeks of life on trail had turned the soft, young lady, accustomed to life's finer things, into a strong capable woman.

Who'd have thought she'd be handling a team of oxen?

Dizziness swept over her again and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply and willing it to pass.

Brandon's bedchamber:

Brandon listens, and Mary Anne draws a long breath before she can continue.

"When . . . HE . . . took me prisoner in that dungeon under the Manor house--remember?"

Brandon nods, already knowing what Mary Anne will say, and sick at heart.

"HE blindfolded me, just before he gave me that drug--"

Brandon remembers. The mind-altering bella donna, that can destroy and re-make identities: Mary Anne, almost lost to him, and Renie, a hair away from death . . .

"I should have thought of it," begins Brandon, miserably. "If I had been thinking, I would never have . . ." An impatient gesture toward the black silk.

"But that wasn't the trouble, sir. Well, not all of it." Mary Anne turns and drops a kiss on Brandon's shoulder, so that he will look at her. "After all, I wasn't frightened last night, and you had blindfolded me then. Those memories, playing in The Highwayman with you . . . I don't mind remembering that." An attempt at a mischievous grin. "Why should I mind, when I was the envy of every woman there?"

"But it was different tonight, Mary Anne."

"Yes." Mary Anne frowns, thinking. "I suppose--it must be because I found out this morning that . . . HE was about. It's been on my mind all day, ever since I talked with Dev."

Brandon's eyebrows lift at that "Dev," but he remains silent.

"When he described the men who attacked Therese--" Mary Anne shivers and presses closer. "I knew. HE is here, or was--HE may still be nearby. I told the Commander today that it scares me to know that The Interrogator is anywhere near me, but that I'd rather know, and be prepared. But I must have been thinking about HIM all day long,in the back of my mind."

"That would be enough to frighten anyone," soothes Brandon. "So you had good reason to be nervous . . ."

"Yes. It just all came back at once. The blindfold, and . . . the scarf . . ." At Brandon's puzzled glance, Mary Anne flushes deep red and looks away from him. "I'm sorry, sir. I forgot that you didn't know. I hadn't told you--"

"Told me what?" demands Brandon, rather more sharply than he had intended, pushing away the mental image that had begun to form. "Did HE--?" By the Lord, I should have killed that man when I could!

"No." Almost a whisper. "Not what you're thinking--but he threatened me. When he abducted us from Nakatomi, that first night when he made me have dinner with him . . . he told me that--" Mary Anne swallows. "--my cooperation was the price of your . . . safety. I remember that he--he laughed at me, when I understood."

Mary Anne can hear it in her memory, as clear as yesterday, that taunting drawl. The look she must have had on her face, when she realized--and HIS VOICE, asking her what did she expect from him? Whips? Chains? And the grim joke that it would be too much like work, for HIM . . .

Mary Anne swallows. "HE said . . . that if I resisted, he would . . . restrain me."

Mary Anne's face is burning.

"And that night--he didn't come near me, but he had frightened me so badly, I had a nightmare; I d-dreamed . . ." Hearing the tremble, Brandon draws Mary Anne very close, locking his arms around her, cradling her head against his shoulder.

"I dreamed that HE--with some of my scarves--I could hear HIM in the room with me, in the dark, but I couldn't move--"

Oh, my poor darling, it is no wonder, then . . . "Only a dream, " soothes Brandon--fervently hoping that it was, indeed, only a dream, and that HE did not truly . . . but Brandon would die before he would voice such an idea to Mary Anne, and concentrates instead on calming her.

"Christopher, he'd put shackles on me before, you know that, but I had been able to move--a little--and I'd be sitting up, at least. But to be . . . like that. I can't describe to you what that's like. Even though I only dreamed it. I felt like I couldn't breathe for the fear, like it was crushing me. I was never so glad to w-wake up in my life! The idea of being that helpless in front of someone who . . ." Mary Anne's fingers close on a fold of the sheet. " . . . who means you harm, with no way to resist--nothing you can do . . ."

Which is, of course, why you did exactly the same to HIM, when you had the opportunity. But that is another thought that Brandon would perish rather than voice at this moment.

"And when The Interrogator had me in HIS room . . . he threatened me with that again, and I told him I wouldn't fight him. I knew I couldn't stand it if HE . . ." Mary Anne swallows hard, determined to voice her dread, if only to reduce it to manageable terms. " . . . if HE . . . restrained me. Tied me. So I just . . . gave up. HE . . . made me undo the buttons on his shirt for him--took my hands in his, and--"

Mary Anne lifts a fold of the sheet and swipes furiously at her eyes.

"--and then I heard the rustling sound, when he--took the shirt off. I had just--closed my eyes and given up; all I could think about was living through it, and if I had to look at HIM, I didn't think I could bear it. I just gave in and stopped fighting."

The hair rises on the back of Brandon's neck. He is certain he can guess what is coming next . . .

"And then, sir, you--you arrived. I had given up hope, and then you were there--"

The sheet is not enough. Mary Anne lowers her face into her hands, trying not to cry, but it has all come back so suddenly, when she thought she had set it aside. "You did get there in time, but I had already . . . given up . . . on you . . ." Ragged breaths. "I'm sorry, Christopher. I'm so sorry. I must have felt . . . guilty, ever since. Thinking that if I could have resisted, if I could have hoped . . . for only a few minutes more . . ."

... Andrea's guestroom door swings open wide ...

Dr. Marian Dubois is pleasantly surprised to see Andrea standing, albeit with a great deal of assistance from Doctor Mesmer. As Hamlet left the house to join the search for The Sheriff and The Interrogator, he had told her that Andrea was unconscious with a high fever. Marian breathes a sigh of relief that Andrea is apparently out of danger.

Andrea's coughing has quieted, and she is breathing with ease. She tests her wobbly legs and reasons that she can probably release her tight grip behind Mesmer's neck and lean against him without sliding down his body. Her tired arms drop to her sides.

Mesmer continues to support Andrea while he watches Marian approach his patient. The two doctors nod to each other.

Andrea wonders at the third hand she feels on her person. Her hair is gathered away from her ear. She stays very still as some object is momentarily inserted into the uncovered ear.

Marian reads off the thermometer display to Mesmer. "102 -- high enough to aid her body's defenses in fighting the infection; and low enough that she isn't completely debilitated. Well done, Doctor."

Andrea is too weak to protest being spoken about as though she is not present. Her new-found legs give way, and Mesmer helps her into bed.

Marian walks to the window and closes it. She lifts the cover from the bowl on the food tray. The soup is cold and untouched.

Mesmer steps next to Marian. "If you will stay with her now, I will bring more hot soup."

Marian smiles and nods. She did not want to fetch the soup herself. Hamlet had asked her not to leave Mesmer alone with Andrea. Although Marian does not share Hamlet's concern, she is glad to be able to effortlessly fulfill his request.

The Interrogator turned his key in the lock, pushed the door open and viewed the room. An empty plate sat discarded on the dressing table, the bed was empty. The small room was quiet, seemingly deserted. Momentarily puzzled at the emptiness, he never the less entered and closed the door behind him.

Claudia appeared from the doorway to the bathroom, her hair wrapped up in a towel, and another wrapped round her body, and knotted at the front. She started when she saw HIM there, she hadn’t heard the door open. “Oh, hello.”

He sprang from his position at the door, and grabbing her by the shoulders pinned her to the wall. “I know why you’re here.”

Her heart pounded and her breath quickened. Not found out already, surely? “You do?” she breathed, hoping her voice didn’t sound too shaky.

“Because you’re scared of ME. Because you enjoy the feeling of being scared…”

“What?” she frowned at HIM. He’d obviously been thinking on the situation, and come up with a conclusion, but he seemed to expect her to follow a train of thought she hadn’t been party to.

“All you’re life,” HE continued, “You’ve always run towards anything you’re afraid of. You tell yourself if you face your fears, may be one day you’ll overcome them. And it makes you feel good to appear so brave.” HIS hand moved under her towel to feel the thump thump of her heart. “And I think you have become addicted feeling frightened, the symptoms are so close to passion – the quickened heart beat,” he leant in to brush her lips with his, “the ragged breath…” HIS mouth found her ear, “so close you can’t tell the difference any more.”

“That’s why you think I… I have feelings for you?

“Yes,” HE pulled back, and sat her down on the bed. “But now I think you want to become your fear. You want to become ME.”

“I, I don’t know what to say. You obviously know more about my motives than I do.”

“You think about it and get some sleep. I will talk to you more tomorrow. Some arrangements need to be made…” HE pulled open her towel, and looked, but didn’t touch again. “Get into bed.”

**MARTHA’S VINEYARD .. THE BEACH HOUSE**

As Charlie took a sip of her coffee, she glanced around the neatly ordered kitchen. Over her shoulder, through the open window, she could see the ocean breeze blowing softly through the birch trees. Their leaves danced in the slight wind and made her smile. The house itself was quiet, save for the distant sound of the waves brushing against the shore. She heard a shore bird call to its mate somewhere out on the beach.

This was the place she loved so much. Her home on the island. It was all she’d wanted after the disappointing and tragic turn her life had taken a year or so ago. She had left the big city in search of a quiet life. That was what mattered to her now. She noticed that the afternoon was waning. The sun had crossed to the west where it lingered lazily, casting shadows across the front stairs of the house. She nodded to herself decisively as picked up her coffee cup. Yes. This was where she belonged.

Taking another sip of her beverage, she leaned back in her chair and smiled as she reminisced about the night she and Jamie had first kissed. As she recalled, that had been a very good night. At least, as far as nights go.

They had been playing Scrabble and this particular game had worn on into the wee hours of the morning. The game had started on the coffee table near the fire but had moved, with the greatest care, sometime later to the floor where they could stretch out comfortably on opposite sides of the board.

Brandon's bedchamber:

At the Colonel's demand that Mary Anne tell him now what is troubling her, she remains silent for a moment, and Brandon waits, believing that she is simply marshalling her thoughts. A closer look, however, brings home to him the mutinous flash of her eyes as she looks up at him, the set of her lips, and Brandon stifles a groan at the God-cursed obstinacy of this woman--in appearance so sweet and yielding, but in character so indomitable. She wants him, that is clear enough, and it is equally clear that she does not want to explain her panic of a few moments past, but Brandon--who can be a trifle stubborn himself, when the mood is upon him--resolves that he will be taken out and hanged rather than proceed without the assurance that Mary Anne's fear has nothing to do with his loveplay. She will, by Heaven, answer . . .

At this, an idea occurs to Brandon . . . a delicious idea, and while he is not sure that he can bear it in his present state, he is quite certain that Mary Anne cannot.

"Mary Anne." A pause. "You force me to take stronger measures, if you do not cease this willful behaviour."

A quick gleam in her eyes at this--apprehension and curiosity. And a touch of amusement as well. "Indeed?" He has her attention, and one corner of her mouth lifts in a hastily-concealed grin.

Brandon gives an exaggerated sigh of regret. "Very well. You leave me no choice."

Brandon holds Mary Anne quite still as he moves closer, choosing his target carefully: the excruciatingly sensitive skin at the base of her throat, just above the collarbone. Slowly, ever so slowly, allowing the anticipation--or apprehension--to build . . .

Mary Anne is already shifting about, pressing herself down into the pillows in a futile--not to mention halfhearted--attempt to escape from Brandon's idea of "torture." And as his lips touch her, she allows herself the luxury of a resistance she knows is quite useless from the beginning, for she cannot hold out against those teasing, nibbling kisses and is squirming within seconds, making small noises somewhere between a giggle and a whimper.

"Christopher, you know that drives me--! God, stop, please!"

Brandon pulls away slightly, favouring her with what is, for him, an extraordinarily wicked smile. "I trust you will speak, now?"

When Mary Anne does not immediately reply, Brandon makes as if to lower his head toward her throat again, and Mary Anne wriggles in her pillows in sheer desperation. "Yes! All right! But I'll go crazy if you don't stop!"

"Very well."

Brandon releases Mary Anne and stacks the pillows against the headboard, then assists her as she sits up against them, drawing the sheet about her and eyeing him darkly.

"Christopher Brandon, I had no idea that I had married such a complete and utter fiend!" But she is smiling a little as she says it.

"And I," he ripostes, settling himself beside her, "have married a shameless minx who enjoyed every moment of it--so she need not pretend otherwise."

His arm about her shoulders, drawing her closer. His voice, gentle--and serious. "But you were clearly not enjoying . . ." His eyes travel to the foot of the bed, passing over the discarded black blindfold, and there near it, the rose and the colorful splash of Mary Anne's silk scarf. "My dearest, what is it? If, as you say, it is nothing I have done . . ."

Mary Anne tries to relax into the curve of Brandon's arm, but their unfulfilled desire is between them, taut as a violin string, and she knows that the sooner she explains herself, the better. Yet her thoughts linger over what has just passed between them. Amazing, what can pass as acceptable between people who love each other, so long as it rests on the solid foundation of affection. Brandon's joke of taking stronger measures, and forcing her to speak: it would seem, to anyone who knew her history, most . . . inappropriate. Yet she had not felt at all threatened. Blessed, rather. It would, she knows, have been far easier for Brandon to give in to her wishes and proceed with the lovemaking--it must have been very trying to him, for events to have taken this turn. Yet he had called a halt, determined to get at whatever had frightened her.

It occurs to Mary Anne, not for the first time, that she is loved by a man of exceptional character, and she offers another of many silent prayers of thanks for her good fortune.

Torture, indeed. Not to her. Not to anyone who has been in the hands of . . .

"The Interrogator," she says softly, as Brandon's arm tightens about her shoulders. "I tried to forget; I thought I had put it out of my mind. But it all came back, just now . . ."

Therese's Guestchamber--Delaford

"You realize, of course, that this is probably going to cost you the presidency..."

Dev looked down at Therese from his position beside her. They were lying side by side on the blanket in front of the fire, the food and drink having been forgotten in the wake of their passion. "What, having made love on the floor instead of in the bed? My people are an accepting lot."

Therese slapped him playfully on the chest and shook her heard ruefully. "That is not what I meant, you rube, and you know it. I meant marrying me . You're suspect enough yourself having been born in America, and then you marry someone from the States as well?"

"Given the fact that no office of presidency exists in Ireland at this time, I find it difficult to become all that concerned. If such time does come to pass--"

"It will, you know it will."

"If and when it does, the people will come to love you as I have. If they trust my judgement to run the country, they will simply have to accept my First Lady."

"Good God," Therese looked at him, horrified. "If I marry you, I could end up the First Lady of Ireland!? I hadn't thought beyond you being the President..."

"It is a rather natural progression."

Therese sighed and shook her head. "I realize that, my dear. It is sometimes the more obvious things that are least considered." She sat up, reaching for the plate of edibles that had been pushed aside earlier. "Not that I will have to worry about that--at this rate I'll have expired from hunger by then."

Dev sat up also, and applied himself to the bottle with the corkscrew. It opened with a resounding THOCK! He looked about himself sheepishly. "I seem to have neglected to procure glasswear."

"It is perhaps a good thing you're destined for a presidential role--you're NOT cut out for this servant guise." She took the open bottle from him, and drank from it. "Rather hard to make a toast, I'll admit..."

Dev grinned and helped himself to a pull from the bottle as well. "To us," he said, leaning down to kiss her.

Therese's Guestchamber--Delaford

Dev released Therese from his embrace, and stepped over to the bed where he quickly stripped the blanket from the frame. Spreading it out on the floor in front of the fire grate, he took the plate of food from the table, and set it on the floor. "Would you care to join me for a picnic?" he asked gallantly.

"I'll make the sandwiches, if you build up the fire," Therese proposed.

"No." Dev shook his head. "I am your obedient servant tonight, and you shall not lift a finger." He took her arm and gently lowered her to the floor where she tucked her legs underneath her, perching on one corner of the blanket.

Therese couldn't help herself, and covered her mouth as she laughed at his words. "You? obedient?? "

Dev scowled at her in mock ferocity. "Some days of servitude are easier to bear than others, my lady..."

"Indeed," she agreed, giving him a wicked grin. "And have you thought to provide us with a beverage, oh servile one?"

He flashed her a hurt look. "Would you have kept me in your employ til now had I been so lax?" he asked. "It is in my room, I will not be a moment."

Therese leaned backwards, placing both hands behind her back to support her body weight, her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She couldn't keep the grin from her features. Dev, a servant? He wouldn't last a day--an hour--in this household or anyone else's...

He returned after a brief moment, a bottle in one hand, corkscrew in the other. "I trust this will meet with your approval, ma'am?" He held it close to her for her inspection.

"Champagne?" she asked. "You had champagne in your room?"

"I'd planned to ask you to marry me whilst we were here," he explained, "so I brought this along."

"And what if I'd said no?" Therese asked him archly.

"I've seen you drink, my dear, you would have said yes before the bottle ran out..." he lowered himself to the floor beside her, setting the bottle in her lap, and running his fingers through her hair. He leaned over to place a line of small kisses upon her neck, and she sighed and leaned toward him.

"You are an odious man," she complained, with absolutely no conviction.

"Perhaps, but I am your odious man." He paused, his expression turning serious. "You do still wish to marry? I cannot hold you to your commitment in good conscience, given what I did...I've done...to you."

Therese looked into Eamon's eyes, and saw his fear and remorse. He didn't want to lose her, and her heart went out to him. "Oh Eamon," she leaned forward to place her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him softly. "Can you have any doubt? I love you, more than I can convey using mere words. Of course I will be your wife."

He kissed her then, pulling her body to his own until she sat in his lap, cradled in his arms. "I don't only love you and want you," he spoke gently into her ear, "I need you, my love. Without you I would be the monster that everyone thinks I am. My love for you keeps me human. I said I was a man dying inside until I heard you tell Colonel Brandon that your life seemed very bleak without me in it...without you, I would have no life at all. I would be merely a figurehead, fighting for a cause, but empty inside. I will live my life for you, and thank the heavens above each day that we were brought together."

Therese was touched beyond words, and a single tear slipped down her face. She pulled his face down to meet her own, and held him tight.

**MARTHA’S VINEYARD, USA . .THE BEACH HOUSE**

Charlie sat in her sunny-colored kitchen on Martha’s Vineyard and reminisced over a cup of coffee about the night that she and Jamie had finally given in to their feelings for each other.

In the days since, Charlie had found herself thinking often about that night. The night that Jamie had first kissed her. She fingered her chin absent-mindedly as she remembered every detail. The tickle of his moustache, her hands in his hair, his breath against her chin and the feel of his lips. The kiss .. that kiss .. had been soft, lingering, and the predecessor to future ones. She realized that she was falling in love with him and that there was nothing she could do to stop her feelings from progressing. So instead of fighting it, she gave herself up to the idea, revelled in his attentions, enjoyed his caresses, appreciated his simple nearness .. just as she had done with someone else in the not-so-distant past.

Hmmm.

Someone else.

She bit the corner of her lip as memories came flooding back.

Not-so-distant past.

Strangely, the past, that past, seemed, now, so very long ago.

A past that consisted of kisses that did not belong to Jamie ..

O'Hara ended his story, silence filled the wagon. His gaze moved over Dana searching closely for a reaction.

She had received the news almost stoically-no comments, no interruptions. Now she sat like stone her whitened knuckles the only discernable sign of the story's impact.

I shouldn't have told her...now she'll be looking over her shoulder forever...

PL played his hole card. "We need to leave this wagon train. I can drop the assumed name and he'll lose the trail thinking we've gone on to California. We can layover at Ft. Hall and join a new group headed for the Oregon Territory."

Brandon's bedchamber:

Mary Anne claws at the knot of the blindfold . . . and then feels warm, gentle fingers encircle her wrists--which, for a moment, makes her struggle all the more frantically, until she hears the Colonel's voice. "No, wait, Mary Anne . . . here . . . be still . . ." Mary Anne catches her lower lip between her teeth and forces herself to be calm as Brandon, bypassing the knot altogether, simply slides his fingers under the edge of the silk and lifts it free.

Mary Anne had automatically closed her eyes just as the wrapping was taken away from them, but opens them instantly the moment the black silk is gone . . .

. . . to find that Brandon has shifted himself about on the bed, placing his body between her and the grouping of lamps on the nearby table.

Shielding her. Protecting her eyes.

Mary Anne blinks, seeing only that dark shape at first, the outline of the man before her, kneeling on the bed beside her, silhouetted against the glow of the lamps, but as her vision adjusts and clears, she looks anxiously up into Brandon's face, meeting there the questioning gaze,the troubled frown...but it is Colonel Brandon, no doubt about that, and Mary Anne sinks against him, laying her head on his chest, breathing deeply to calm herself, certain that any instant she will burst into tears of relief.

Well of COURSE it's Christopher; don't be a fool! Who did you think it would be-- But Mary Anne is not ready to answer that, not even in the privacy of her own mind, and shoves the question away, concentrating instead on her own breathing, the reassuring rhythm of Brandon's heartbeat and the warmth of his skin against her own . . . He's so warm, always, he must have live coals for a heart, I think . . .

And Brandon, to his great credit, says nothing for several moments. Mixed emotions, very mixed indeed: concern for Mary Anne, and pity for her obvious distress, and the guilty conviction that what he had meant for a game has somehow gone terribly wrong. Has he frightened her, somehow? You go too quickly, Brandon; she is yet quite new to all of this . . . And the wry awareness that his longing for her remains what it was,wrought almost to fever pitch by her response to his whimsical play upon her senses with the scarf and the rose. The fact of his desire for her is immediate and pressing . . . and only too obvious. To him, at least.

Brandon makes no attempt to hurry Mary Anne, but simply holds her, until she eases herself away from him and looks up into his face.

"I'm sorry, Christopher. That was silly of me."

"What is the trouble, Mary Anne?"

"I got dizzy--disoriented. Your mind plays tricks on you; I just got panicky and had to see you."

Brandon cradles her face in his hands, shaking his head in regret. "My darling, I have waited so long for us to be together here, like this--it is easy for me to forget that these pleasures are new to you. Perhaps I expected too much of you, too soon."

Mary Anne feels oddly stung at that, irritation mingling with her concern for Brandon. "No!" she bursts out. "It wasn't anything to do with you, Christopher. Don't be thinking you've hurt me or scared me, because it isn't you."

Raised eyebrow from the Colonel. "What, then?"

A moment of silence as Mary Anne's eyes wander over Brandon. Now that the moment of panic is safely past, there are other matters claiming her attention. "I'll tell you later." A shaky attempt at a smile.

In an instant, Mary Anne finds herself lowered into the pillows, flat on her back, with Brandon kneeling above her . . . his hand on one shoulder, holding her quite still, as the other hand cups her chin, giving her no choice but to look up into Brandon's eyes--as he answers, softly: "You will tell me now."

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA .. THE SAINT ANN**

David returns to the sofa and takes a seat amidst the dozens of wads of tear-stained Kleenex. Turning to Kari, he explains what is to be done. She needs to return to her room for the time being as the lobby staff was not happy to see someone so indecently-attired wandering around downstairs. They were a reputable organization and couldn’t afford to have that challenged in the future.

David explains that he has a couple of pressing errands to run, but he will be back and he’ll bring her something to wear. He asks her size. Still snuffling, she tells him although she is unable to understand why he is being so nice to her. He, on the other hand, has been overcome by a sincere moment of goodwill to a woman from his own town. She had tugged at his heart strings. He had time before catching his flight out of town, and he had the money to spend. And, add to all of that, the fact that Alexis was apparently missing-in-action after her night of passion with Achilles. For now, he reasoned, it was simply the right thing to do.

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA .. THE SAINT ANN HOTEL**

In between snuffles and blowing her nose, Kari explains the situation to Detective Friedman as David looks on. Once he has heard all the details, Friedman begins to write up his police report from a comfortable chair directly across the coffee table from David and Kari. He is leaning back into the depths of the plush chair, his right ankle propped up on his left knee as he scribbles on a small notepad.

“And you are here on business from where?” asks Friedman with a slow southern drawl.

In between sniffles, Kari is able to answer “B-B-B-Boston.”

David smiles broadly. He’d thought so! “I’d recognize that accent anywhere,” he states and then promptly quiets down after receiving a “no interruptions, please” glare from the detective.

“And who are you exactly?” asks the detective of David.

David smiles and leans forward on the sofa, extending his hand across the table in greeting. “David Weinberg.” He glances at Kari briefly and then turns his attention back to the detective. “From Boston.” He places emphasis on the word ‘Boston.’

The detective makes no move to shake David’s hand. “Oh,” he answers, obviously unimpressed. He begins to write in his notebook again. “And what is your relation to the victim?”

David looks stumped. “No relation,” he answers matter-of-factly.

The detective looks up at him curiously. His tone is withering and not the least bit friendly. So much for southern hospitality. “And your purpose here is ….?” asks the detective, drawing out his words again.

“I’m just trying to help, that’s all,” answers David with a shrug of his shoulders. “I thought I could perhaps buy the young lady an outfit so that she might have something to wear home. She did say her flight was to leave early this evening.”

Friedman arches an eyebrow. “That’s very nice,” he says slowly and deliberately. “However, if you were *listening* to the young lady, you’d know that the man who robbed her also took her plane ticket. It’s the height of Mardi Gras season. She’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Flights in and out of the city are booked beyond capacity.” He waves his hand dismissively. “She could be here for days.” He purses his lips and lowers his eyebrow, glancing again at Kari before returning to scribbling on his pad of paper.

Brandon's bedchamber:

Mary Anne hears the rustle of clothing there, just beside her . . .

Suddenly, for no reason she can discern, her vague unease sharpens into fear--not fear of Brandon, but of . . . something that has lurked at the edge of her awareness and is now moving closer. A hovering . . .

. . . memory.

Memories. More than one.

Mary Anne tries to sit up, feeling herself suddenly chilled by her own sweat, as if it stands like beads of ice upon her skin. Every hair on her body has risen, quivering, and she automatically turns her head, looking--looking, but seeing nothing.

Movements there on the bed, beside her. Brandon. Brandon . . . ?

Deep within Mary Anne, something cackles with laugher and mocks at her:Are you sure it's the Colonel, Mary Anne . . . ?

At this thought, Mary Anne feels as if cold hands have gripped her, as if fingers of ice have caressed her from head to foot, tightening her skin and drawing the blood from it . . . she is still wearing her double strand of pearls, and is almost painfully aware of the cool clasp of wrought silver against her throat--the clasp that, mere moments ago, had been as warm as her body. She could count every pearl on each of the two strings . . . could even count the knots between the pearls, or so it seems, as her strength drains from her . . . and there is that shift of weight on the bed again, a movement in her direction . . . are you sure it's the Colonel, Mary Anne?

Shuddering, Mary Anne moves--she must move or die of fear--and her fingers brush against the silk scarf . . .

With a cry, Mary Anne snatches her hand back as if it had touched a burning brand. She hears a brief, startled exclamation: "My dearest, what--"

The silk. The rustle as Brandon had removed his clothing . . .

The blindfold . . .

Mary Anne has to force her chilled fingers to work, but work they do, as she tears frantically at the knot, crying, "Christopher, please, I have to see you! Please help me . . . take this thing away . . ."

O'Hara felt the long, slow stretch then return to stillness at his side. Moments passed followed by the flutter of eyelashes against his chest. She was awake.

PL drew a deep breath-filling himself the the scent of her. The sustained release, vowing he'd speak when he drew the next breath. The past days' experiences had been a harsh lesson in the fragility of life on the frontier. He couldn't leave her unprepared for whatever may come.

She deserves nothing less than my honesty. The pattern of a marriage based on lies and distrust must not be perpetuated

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA .. THE SAINT ANN HOTEL**

Kari is reluctant to share her tale with David. He didn’t even know her, and how would that make her look? Inviting a strange man into her bed and then finding herself stripped of everything she owned? She couldn’t have this attractive, older man thinking she was a floozy of some sort! Tears continued to stream down her face as David tried again to get her to confide in him. He wanted to help .. but couldn’t do so unless he knew what the problem was.

Finally, unable to wrest the information from her, he heads off in search of a box of Kleenex .. which the front desk quickly gives him. At least David had taken her off of their hands for the moment. A box of Kleenex was the least they could do. When David returned to the far end of the lobby, he was surprised to see a man standing by the sofa talking to Kari. Who was this? And what business did he have bothering the poor young woman? David hustled back to the seating area and, as he handed the box of Kleenex to Kari, demanded to know what the man wanted of her.

The strange man gave a wan smile and reached into his coat pocket. He drew out a small leather holder and opened it up expertly flashing a gold badge that said New Orleans Police Dept. on it. His picture was displayed prominently below. The name underneath the photo read ‘Detective David Friedman, New Orleans P.D.’ David returned the wan smile with an embarrassed one of his own and motioned for the detective to have a seat.

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA .. THE SAINT ANN HOTEL**

David speaks to the manager as Kari’s heated argument with the young man at the desk escalates. He explains that he is there to visit his wife, but he doesn’t have her hotel room number. He then asks what room his wife is staying in. The manager looks thoughtful and tells David that he will look up the information for him .. as long as he has a few minutes to spare. David smiles and nods. Of course, he has plenty of time. His flight wasn’t scheduled to leave for Logan for a few more hours.

As the manager walks away in search of Alexis’ hotel records, David turns his attentions back towards the young redhead in the towel (who is *still* carrying on at the desk) while he waits. As he watches with interest, Kari, evidently tired of trying to reason with the lobby staff, suddenly picks up a large flower vase that is sitting decoratively on the counter and throws it with force at the clerk’s head. He ducks in self-defense and the vase smatters against the wall behind him. David jumps involuntarily at the sound as a hundred or so crystal shards tinkle to the floor behind the desk. The clerk reaches for the phone and attempts to dial ‘911’, and, immediately, Kari buries her head in her hands on the counter and starts to cry.

Just then, as she sobs in loud wails with her shoulders heaving, the manager returns and informs David that Alexis is not at the Saint Ann anymore. She had checked out first thing this morning. Already?, thinks David. He is justifiably puzzled. What had happened with the Greek? She hadn’t called home to say she was leaving so soon. He had checked their home answering machine just minutes ago, after his meeting. What had occurred? Had she run away with her seducer? He leans against the counter, tapping two fingers against his lips as he thinks. Come to think of it, he hadn’t heard from Achilles either. And it wasn’t like Alexis to rise so early and get on with her day. Perhaps he had convinced her to leave town with him .. and now she was on an Olympic Airways flight straight to Athens. His eyebrows arched again in amusement. Yes, well .. a job well-done if that were the case.

He sighed and, just as he turned to leave the hotel, he caught sight of the young woman with the Boston accent sobbing on the hotel counter. By this time, the clerk was on the phone trying to reach the local police when David, in an uncharacteristically sudden moment of sympathy, steps over to the scene and asks the clerk to put down the phone. He’ll take it from here. No need to get the police involved. He leads Kari over to a sofa in a remote corner of the lobby and sits her down. As he asks her to tell him what happened, he feels that maybe, just maybe, he can help or, at least, be of some mild assistance.

Correction, please: that should be, "she has no way of knowing . . ."

I may never be able to wear a silk scarf again! And I certainly won't be looking at roses the same way . . .

Brandon's bedchamber:

Unprepared as Mary Anne is for the velvety touch of the rose petals against her back, she is even less prepared for what follows.

Brandon, handling her as if she weighed no more than a rose herself, frees her from her gown, and from the light slip of translucent silk she had worn underneath--then lowers her slowly backwards onto the bed . . .

A strange sensation, though by no means unpleasant: to know that if she tried to stand, she would certainly fall. The familiar boneless weakness, that sweet heaviness of her limbs--all that had taken place between them had been only a foretaste, as her body trembles at the touch of the rose, and then the silk, followed by Brandon's hands and his lips.

She cannot see. She has no way of knowing what will touch her, or where, or when, as Brandon varies the caresses, applying himself relentlessly and maddeningly to the most sensitive zones of her body until her breath is coming short, her small gasps giving way to tiny cries, though she herself cannot tell if they are sounds of protest or pleasure.

Christopher, do you WANT me to faint?

There. That is the rose, as if a butterfly had briefly alighted . . .

If you do, I suppose this is the best place . . . I can't fall . . .

The silken whisper of the scarf . . .

Brandon. Astonishing how, at this point, the mere touch of his lips against the jumping pulse at her wrist can make her writhe . . .

"Christopher, please . . . "

"A moment only, my love . . ."

Movement there beside her. A rustle.

That would be his shirt . . .

“Where are we going?” asked Claudia as they walked down the nondescript corridors. HE didn’t answer her, didn’t speak until HE stopped her in front of a door. He opened it and swept his arm through the doorway indicating she should go inside. She was surprised when she stepped in. It was a small room, with a bed, a dressing table and a chair, and another door, which she presumed lead to the bathroom.

HE followed her inside, but HE left the door open. “I hope you’ll be comfortable. I’m not the Ogre everyone makes me out to be, you know.” HE brushed away her long hair and kissed her neck. “I prefer not to use violence, but sometimes I am given no choice. As long as you co-operate you’ll find I’m a very sensitive host.”

“But what….”

HE put a finger to her lips to silence her. “Get some rest. I need to think. I’ll have some food sent to you. I’ll come back when I’ve decided what to do with you.”

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA .. THE SAINT ANN HOTEL**

David continued to stand at one end of the front desk as he looked on in amusement at the woman in the towel. What was she so upset about? Had she run out of hot water in the middle of her shower? That would certainly explain her attire, he thought smugly as he arched an eyebrow. He smirked at the thought of Alexis running out of hot water as well. Perhaps it was a hotel-wide problem this morning. He grinned inwardly. Oh, to see Alexis down in the lobby in nothing but a towel yelling with all her might at the desk clerk. He knew his wife all too well, and, in stark contrast to the feisty young redhead, she’d sooner die than be seen downstairs in the lobby anything but her best outfit. Heck, she even wore her best outfits when no one was around to observe.

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA .. THE SAINT ANN HOTEL**

By this time, Kari had arrived in the lobby. Yet, despite her status as a paying “customer”, the lobby staff was not very friendly nor were they overly concerned about the theft of all her belongings. She continued to insist that she was robbed in the middle of the night. And they had questions of their own. By whom? Well, that was none of their business. Had the thief been an invited guest of hers? She waved her arms as her brow furrowed involuntarily. What did it matter that she had invited the man into her room? He had no right to steal her clothes! Her car! Her airline tickets! Her wallet!

As her pleas went unheeded, she raised her voice and began to get exceptionally angry. It was as if they were taking the Greek’s side! *He* was the villain! Not her! The young man staffing the front desk folded his arms and listened to her tirade with an unamused expression. Kari stamped her foot, tossed her hair, clenched her fists and pounded them loudly on the counter (which was just about up to her shoulders). As she continued to make noise, travelers who were passing through the lobby on their way to lunch or out on excursions eyed Kari in her towel with raised eyebrows and disapproving facial expressions. As she drew unwanted attention to herself, the young man at the desk began to insist that she return to her room where someone could attend to her problem in private. Yet, fed up with the hotel’s lackadaisical attitude to her dilemma, she refused.

It was at that moment that a tall man with a confident countenance sauntered into the lobby. David Weinberg had come to find his wife. His early morning meeting had gone well and, since it was such a beautiful day, he had walked the few blocks to the Saint Ann in order to visit Alexis before heading to the airport. That is, he thinks smugly, if she is even here. He fully expected to catch her returning from her rendezvous with the man from Athens and making excuses as to why she had been out all night. David had little doubt that the Greek had failed in his attempt to seduce Alexis. How could he? Why, if anything, Alexis, after one look at his handsome physique, had probably seduced him! Either way, David reveled in the realization that she had been had. In more ways than one.

As he approached the desk and waited for assistance, he eyed the young woman in the towel at the other end -- who was arguing vehemently with the hotel desk clerk -- with eyebrows arched in merriment. At his age, he thought he’d seen everything.

The interior of a Conestoga wagon was hard and cramped but it felt like the lap of luxury. Add to it the capable care of the woman he loved and it seemed to PL that heaven could offer no comparisons.

It had been Dana, having become increasingly practical along the journey, who had finally pulled away from their embrace to attend to his leg. Upon careful examination she declared it to be no more than a flesh wound. Warm water and bandages were quickly obtained. Dana climbed back into the wagon, her eyes searching quickly for the reassurance of his presence. The smile that lit her face upon seeing him just as she'd left him touched his heart.

The wound was carefully cleaned and wrapped. Then with a basin of clean water at her side, Dana ordered PL stretched out flat upon the blankets and proceeded to sponge the journey away. Several times, impatient to touch her, he opened his eyes and lifted a hand as if to interfere in her task but was gently rebuked. PL closed his eyes and allowed the bliss to envelop him as each limb was, in its turn, lifted and cleansed.

Finally he heard the rustle of her garments then felt the heat of her flesh on his. "May I move my arms now?"

Brandon's bedchamber:

Mary Anne feels as if her world has turned upside down.

Only a few short hours ago she had been priding herself on her success as a lover; after her wedding night--and the warming memory of Brandon's fervent response to her attentions, to her pleading "Let me love you"--she had felt herself invincibly alluring, a femme fatale, a true woman of the world.

Until now.

She does not need to see his face, to know his mood. Brandon is both gentleman and gentle man--but for all that, he is a man. Neither saint nor angel, but a man, and one who is deeply in love with her . . .

She requires no convincing. Yet it is all too evident that Brandon will not cease until she is thoroughly convinced.

His touch. His kisses. Through the thin fabric, the silk of her gown as insubstantial as mist before those implacable caresses . . . had he not warned her of all he would do with her, before he even troubled himself to remove her gown?

Brandon pauses for a moment--a moment only, and then Mary Anne shivers at the touch of something sliiiiding across her outstretched arm, accompanied by a faint whisper of violet sachet, and a mystery is solved, the mystery of why Brandon had stepped into her room . . . if she can trust her remaining senses, the Colonel has brought out one of her silk scarves and is drawing it slowly across her arm . . .

Mary Anne trembles as the scarf is withdrawn from her arm and then . . . after a moment's pause . . . trailed across her exposed neck and shoulders . . . all over her body, the skin springs up in gooseflesh, taut as the surface of a drum.

"Christopher . . . !" Her voice, strange in her own ears. Halfway to a sob already.

Brandon. Unexpectedly close. "Shhhhhh. I am here." His hand against her hair . . . he lifts a strand, and she can only guess that he is pressing his lips to it, can practically hear the touch. "Your skin . . . like silk . . ." Brandon draws a long, shuddering breath, and Mary Anne relaxes, if only a little. All that Brandon is making her feel, he feels as well, and she plucks up courage to smile.

"Well . . . that was interesting."

"Was?" Brandon's soft laughter. "Surely you do not think I have finished?"

Again, the shift of weight. The sound of Brandon's footfalls. He has gone to fetch . . . something, as if an idea had only just occurred to him, and Mary Anne tries to prepare herself--though for what, she has no idea.

It is all pleasure, nothing but pleasure, and she cannot account for her unease. Brandon will do her no harm, yet she has experienced this mood of his at least once before: when she awakened him at the Manor House and, still half in the grip of his nightmare, he had seized her and pulled her down beside him . . .

Nothing had happened, but Mary Anne remembers well the conversation that had followed--her shamefaced confession that, though she loves him dearly, there is definitely something in her that takes pleasure in driving him mad. And the heart-stopping rejoinder, most unexpected in this chivalrous gentleman, that he understood. That he would like to chain her to him, so that no one could take her away, and drive her mad in return . . .

Mary Anne cannot see, but she can feel and know. Something of that same ruthless tenderness is upon the Colonel even now, and it would be sweet music to him, to hear her cry out in his arms . . .

Did you think, Mary Anne, that after last night you knew all? Foolish woman. You've only just put one foot across the threshold . . .

Brandon is back in the room.

Mary Anne can hear a tiny snick and it is all she can do not to gasp, for she recognizes the sound.

The click of an opened knife.

She knows that Brandon carries one for routine tasks . . .

Mary Anne sits up on the bed, scarcely able to bear the suspense, fighting the impulse to tear off the blindfold. Yet her trust in Brandon is strong, and as she hears him draw near once again, she resists the temptation to curl herself into a shivering ball right in the middle of the bed.

The settling of Brandon's weight there beside her. His arms around her, holding her. "There now. There." Impossible for her not to tremble, feeling herself near to tears behind the black silk. "Are you frightened, my love? I will stop . . ."

Pride is stronger. "No. I'm not afraid." Mary Anne summons a smile. "I'm with you, sir. There's no need for me to be afraid . . ." The lilt of challenge in her voice. "Is there? Let's go on."

"Very well."

Brandon's hands, unfastening her gown, opening it, spreading it to bare the length of her spine, where his fingers linger entrancingly for a few moments, until he reaches for . . . something.

Mary Anne's acute senses come to her rescue, and she smells the object before it touches her.

But nothing could quite prepare her for the sensation of . . . petals . . . caressing her back.

A long-stemmed Delaford rose, from which Brandon has carefully trimmed the thorns.

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA .. THE SAINT ANN HOTEL**

Brushing a tear from her eye, Kari turned and headed back inside. She needed to report what had happened. However, upon repeated calls to the front desk and promises from the staff that someone would be sent upstairs immediately, no one ever appeared.

After an hour of sitting on the bed and waiting for help to arrive, she decided to take matters into her own hands. Though, she had no clothes to speak of, she resourcefully took a bath towel (at least Achilles hadn’t taken *those*) and wrapped it around herself in the style of someone who had just stepped from the shower. Looking in the bathroom mirror, she ran a hand through her mussed-up hair and pinched her cheeks to give them a bit of rosy color. She grumbled to herself as she viewed her rumpled reflection. Why had he needed to take her makeup as well?

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA .. THE SAINT ANN HOTEL**

From there, it didn’t take the inquisitive redhead long to discover that not only was Achilles not in the shower, but he had left her altogether, and, by the room’s appearance, taken more than a few items with him. And that was putting it mildly. As she perused the room, she slowly realized that he had disappeared with very nearly everything she had brought on the trip. Strangely enough, the only item he had left behind was her suitcase .. though it was of no use to her now as she had absolutely nothing to put in it.

The items she counted as missing were her purse, every article of clothing that she had brought with her (oh, how she regretted not putting on those pajamas last night!), her airline tickets, and the keys to her rental car .. with a quick look out of the window to the parking lot below confirming that he hadn’t taken just the keys but the car as well.

Still wrapped in the sheet from the bed, she stepped out onto the lanai and gazed at the horizon as she fought back tears. This time, she had really messed up. Not only had she blown the Alexis Chandler interview (although that *had* been Alexis’ fault) but now this had happened as well. Her editors at the Boston Globe were not going to be happy about any of this. She had only been in New Orleans for the total of one day and she had screwed up royally. The Globe had paid her way down to Cajun country in hopes of gaining the coveted Chandler story. Not only had they bought her airline ticket, paid for an expensive hotel room, and provided her with a company car (they had one in every major city around the country), but they had placed their trust in her as well.

A soft breeze blew at her tousled hair and ruffled the loose ends of the sheet as the sun soaked into her bare shoulders. She closed her eyes and shifted her face heavenwards in the direction of the sun. She didn’t know what she was going to do. Her mind began to turn. This was far worse than any previous situation she had encountered. And she knew without a doubt, that, as a result of her undeniably stupid indiscretion, her professional life at the Globe was over.

The Kitchen--Delaford

Dev considered the woman before him. She was the picture of affronted indignation...but there was something else...his supposed actions had injured this woman greatly. She was obviously willing to risk her job and security in defense of Therese, a virtual stranger. The story Colonel Brandon told him before in his study...he wondered what she had witnessed over her many years at Delaford. His hand flashed downward and forward, quickly removing the blade from the hands of Miss MacLeod, twisting it harmlessly from her grasp.

She looked down at her hand in disbelief, almost as if wondering how it could so suddenly be empty, before once again turning her gaze, and her glare, upon Dev. "Go ahead, ye baggerin' divil, take a poke a' me as ye did the wee lass, 'n weel see wha' tha's aboot."

Eamon sighed. He was going to have to see to it that he and Therese missed no more scheduled meals...it was not readily apparent to him what a 'baggerin' divil' was, though he gathered it was in no way complimentary. "Miss MacLeod," he began, lightly stepping sideways and around the figure of the woman before him, he crossed over to the chopping block on the far side of the room, and laid the knife on the counter, placing himself between the irrate housekeeper and that end of the kitchen. "I assure you, things between myself and Miss Gellert are not as you have surmised. I am not about to strike you, just as I did not place the bruise upon her face."

"Och, weel, I feel much better know, knowin' ye can stand afore me and call yerself an innocent man." The woman's voice lowered as it became more harsh, "Young Hayes said i' sounded as if ye were killin' the lass, an' 'e no is one ta be blatherin lies."

"A grievious error," Dev conceeded, "one for which the woman in question has accounted. I realize my actions must have scared the young man, but he was not in any danger from me."

"Why should I believe anathin' ye see fit to tell me, ye--"

"Miss MacLeod," Dev's voice was forged steel. "You have been intolerably rude, insulting, and threatened me with castration. Though I am barely acquainted with you, I have still not been moved to strike, regardless of how appealing that action may currently seem. Given this, can you truly imagine me raising a hand to a woman who is not only half my size, but one whom I love dearly?" He leveled his gaze at her, hazel eyes darkened.

Miss MacLeod met his look, and did not find him wanting. Her head dropped, and she crossed to the pantry where she withdrew a plate. "Seems then, yers will be the last meal I prepare 'ere afore I'm sent away."

Dev crossed over to stand in front of the housekeeper, and her head lifted defiantly. "Miss MacLeod, if you choose to leave Delaford, it will be of your own volition, not because of anything which transpired here this evening. Your concern for Miss Gellert's welfare is quite well intentioned--though I cannot speak highly of the manner in which it was carried out."

"I'll no' be grovelin'..."

"No, I would rather think you'd not." He took the plate, which had been piled high with bread, meat, and cheese as they had spoken, and left the kitchen, a rather dazed Miss MacLeod watching him depart.

Therese was still awake when he returned to her guest room, and she opened the door at his knock, her dressing robe tied around her. "You were gone longer than I thought, dearest," she told him as he entered the room.

Placing the tray upon the small corner table, Dev turned to Therese, drew her into his arms, and kissed her soundly. "What was that for?" she asked, when he finally released her.

He gave her a slight grin. "The result of an irrate Scot, a meat cleaver, and a sincere desire that you are a very quick healer, my dear."

"We'd best get you back and get that leg seen to. The Wagonmaster has called a day's halt to prepare for the next portion of the trip and to look for you."

PL stared morosely into the flames. The ignominy of his situation coming home to sit upon his shoulders. Having the entire group's travel stalled for his sake felt a great burden. "I suppose...."

"He'd have done the same for any one of us...Dana was quite insistent about a search party though. Poor man didn't stand a chance against her."

I understand there's some really good eating on a snake, but there's one problem--all those little tiny ribs . . .

Flashback ..

**NEW ORLEANS, USA .. THE SAINT ANN HOTEL**

Kari lazily awoke at a late hour the following morning. The sun was streaming through the slats in the window blinds, creating intricate patterns on the walls and across the room’s carpeted floor. For this time of year, it was another unseasonably warm and beautiful day in New Orleans. She closed her eyes and turned towards the pillow beside her, feeling for her companion of the night before. Her brow furrowed as she searchingly plunked the bed with her hand. Pillow, blanket .. but no lover. Hmmm.

Thinking he was playing tricks on her, she opened her eyes and looked across to the other side of the bed. The sheets were mussed but there was no sign of the Greek. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, and looked around curiously before she was struck with a sudden thought. No doubt, she thought with a lingering smile, he’s in the shower. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She fell back onto her own pillow as the lingering smile faded into a satisfied smirk at the memory of the night prior. She gathered the sheets around her and stared at the ceiling. The previous night had been the best she’d ever known.

However, as the minutes ticked by while she rested, she came to the slow realization that the room was strangely silent.

Still.

Hushed.

**FOF SET**

The one-night stand scene between Kari and Achilles had effectively been scrapped per director’s instructions. He’d wanted to kill the shoot the moment they hit take number 20, but his commitment to the production stopped him. It was only the meeting with the staff accountant that confirmed his initial instinct had been correct. The bill for the day’s film stock alone was more than the pair’s weekly salaries combined. It would never happen again as long as he was running the ship. Of that he was certain.

Claudia, kneeling at the feet of the Interrogator:

“Love you? love isn’t a word one would normally associate with YOU.” His hands increased their pressure on hers, but he didn’t say anything. “It’s more a hunger, a hunger that can’t be satisfied: an obsession. You made sure when you gave me those drugs that I’d be affected profoundly. I’m yours, but I can’t call it love, not when it started from an artificially induced feeling. I want to be here, I want to learn things. That should be enough.”

One of his hands released hers and stroked her hair gently. “Are you trying to tell me what should be enough for me to trust you? I don’t trust easily, you should understand, that I have to be careful.” HE stood and pulled her to her feet. “Obsession is good when it focuses the soul, but be sure it doesn’t blind you to what is going on around you.”

HE pulled her after him, towards the door. “Where are we going?” she asked.

Brandon's bedchamber:

Mary Anne swallows as Brandon eases off her slippers, and quavers, "Christopher, please don't tickle--!"

"I shall not," soothes Brandon, patting her right ankle reassuringly, as he begins to firmly stroke and knead her feet between his strong hands, now sinking his thumbs into the arches, now cradling her heels in his palms.

Brandon's hands are warm and comforting, but Mary Anne shifts restlessly about a bit on the pillows, thinking: I know that a footrub is supposed to be relaxing, but I've never felt less relaxed in my LIFE!

Brandon obviously senses her unease. "You may trust me, Mary Anne. If I do anything at all that you do not like, simply ask me to stop, and I shall." A pause. "My only intention--" A hint of playful threat. "--is to give you . . . pleasure."

Ohhhhh . . . "Well," begins Mary Anne, trying to sound casual, "I suppose I can stand that . . ."

"Can you, indeed?" A soft laugh.

Oh, good Lord, I'm lost. And this is only the beginning.

Brandon passes his palm gently over the tops of her feet, stroking, and then Mary Anne, feels, briefly, the touch of his lips as he presses a kiss on each. " How beautiful," he teases, "are thy feet with shoes, O prince's daughter . . . and even more beautiful without."

"Please don't laugh at me, sir!"

Brandon pauses. "Laugh at you?" Bewildered.

"Well--" Mary Anne hesitates, then blurts out: "I don't like my feet!"

A silence. Then Brandon's puzzled voice. "Whyever not?"

"They're so . . . big." Then, as Brandon chuckles, Mary Anne crosses her arms and fumes. "There, you are laughing at me!"

"No, I am not. Now, I want you to listen to me carefully." Brandon is obviously amused, but there is that firm note in his voice as well; Mary Anne knows that tone, and knows that it is wise to pay attention when she hears it. "There is nothing wrong with your feet. Nothing at all."

"Well . . ." Mary Anne, no longer feeling quite so defensive, uncrosses her arms. "I know it's a bad habit some women have, picking something in their appearance they don't like. But my feet have always seemed like gunboats--" At Brandon's hastily smothered whoop of laughter, she frowns again behind the blindfold. "There, see?"

"Gunboats, indeed. I have never heard such nonsense." A caress around her ankles, and Mary Anne shivers slightly, her rage dwindling. "My dear, you are a tall woman, and there is nothing the matter with your feet." She can practically hear the smile in Brandon's voice. "If they were as small as you seem to wish, you could not walk well. And when I see you walk toward me--" Again, that deft caress. "Believe me, I would not have anything . . . impede your progress." Another note in his voice now, commanding, but still amused. "And understand this: you will not find fault with your appearance. Not before me. If you do, I shall have to be quite . . . severe with you."

"Oh?" Mary Anne tries to match the bantering tone, but can feel the pulse fluttering in her throat. "In what way, pray tell?"

A shift of Brandon's weight. A movement of the air--he has leaned closer to her. "Wherever you find fault with yourself," he enunuciates, slowly and distinctly, "I shall lavish my attentions there, until you are convinced that I find it beautiful."

"Indeed?" Mary Anne struggles to bring her breathing under control. "Why, sir, that is an invitation to misbehaviour. If that is the penalty that awaits me, I shall be tempted to find fault with my entire body . . ."

"You may feel free to do so, but remember--you have been warned."

It is only then that Mary Anne becomes aware that Brandon, in caressing her ankles, has been slowly inching down her silk stockings, which he nows slips free as he resumes his caresses against her feet . . . and ankles . . . and . . .