Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

"Doctor…" began Ed.

"Ah, my boy. Here already? You can put your bags over there for now." The Doctor waved to the other side of the room without turning to look at Ed, in his usual distracted way.

"I don't have any bags!" Ed bit out each word. "I see she has talked to you about this already."

The Doctor stopped what he was doing and turned and looked at Ed. "She is right you know. You need to take the boys as far away from this mess as you can. Gallifrey is the best place…"

"And what exactly do you know about 'this mess'? Has she decided to confide in you rather than me?" Ed ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. "Do you know what she said? Either I go or our relationship is over anyway, so I should still get far from her as possible. Does she think I'm stupid? I can see what she is trying to do…"

"She is trying to keep you safe, yes, by any way she can. She knows you won't leave without her, but frankly Ed, you must."

Ed opened his mouth to protest but the Doctor held up a hand to command silence, led Ed to the sofa, and made him sit down.

"She has got herself in a situation, Ed. A delicate situation. Any little thing she doesn't bargain on could cause a disaster. Its bad enough Therese has been taken, without…"

"So this is about the Interrogator. She told me she had to face HIM alone, but there is more, isn't there? Why is she always so reckless? She can't cope without me… she can't."

"If she were a normal girl, I'd agree with you. But she is half Timelord. I have to trust her instincts in this." The Doctor patted Ed on the shoulder. "But don't worry, as I have done her whole life, I will be close by to make sure nothing happens to her. She thinks she can do this by herself. She reasons that one person can do things an army cannot. There is sense in that. She is doing this for you, for you all. Now she has started, she must finish the task."

"That's c**p. She's half Timelord, but she told me she couldn't follow the Timelord classes. She doesn't know what she's doing. I can't take much more of this - do you know how it feels? She keeps pushing me away. If I had any sense I'd have gone before now."

The Doctor was a Timelord, and thought differently to humans. But humans had always been his favourite. He had a soft spot for them, and their emotions. And if he admitted it to himself, he did know how Ed felt. "I'm sure I'm not the first to tell you, you can't order her, she will do it anyway. The best thing is to steer her in the right direction gently. That's what I'm here for. She does care for you and all her friends, very deeply. That is why she is doing what she is doing. And Ed, you might not realise this, but Claudia is probably our only hope at the moment of getting Therese back alive."

"She knows where HE is…" breathed Ed. "She lied… to me."

"She may very well know where HE is, but for some reason she hasn't volunteered that information. It may be safer for Therese if an army of AR personnel doesn't storm the place. HE would have plenty of warning of the attack, and could do anything HE liked with Therese before HE made HIS escape. One person or the Tardis is another matter. If I could just get this old thing to remember the way, I could go to the rescue the same way I did for Claudia. That's what I'm working on now. Another way. If I get this to work, then you don't need to worry about Claudia facing the Interrogator."

"Then please, please get the thing to work. I just want things back the way they were, in the beginning."

It dawns on Dev that Brandon should, at that very moment, be taking serious offense at the insult to his wife; yet the Colonel maintains his silence and, as Dev looks cautiously toward him, returns the look with one of understanding, if not full sympathy. Some irritation, yes, but none of the glacial fury Brandon is capable of unleashing when those he loves are affronted or injured. His eyes remain distant and contemplative . . .

Dev's hands lift, then fall helplessly back to his sides as he realizes there is nothing he can say. Nothing. Nevertheless, he tries. "Colonel Brandon, it seems that I do little else lately, save apologize for my actions. I have no right to expect it, but would you--"

"I would, because I have been as you are now. And you should be saying these things to Mary Anne, and not to me."

Dev hesitates, unable to believe this mild response--and at that, Brandon even smiles, though the smile is devoid of mirth. "What did you think, Eamon? That I would call a man out and run him through, because he fears for the woman he loves? Now, go."

"But--" Dev protests.

Sifuentes rolls his eyes. "Anyone would think, Dev, that you want to be skewered. If you hurry, you can catch up to her. Go on!"

Dev is outnumbered. Not that this persuades him: he is accustomed to facing odds that would daunt a man of less determination. What unnerves Dev more than anything is Brandon's strangely gentle demeanour in the presence of a man who has insulted him and his wife, a stillness as if the Colonel had broken through some barrier and must pause to gather his strength . . . and perhaps, after all, it is best to be elsewhere when that strength returns.

Dev walks off down the gallery without a backward glance.

Mary Anne, meanwhile, is out of the gallery and halfway down the stairs before she hears the rapid footsteps across the landing, then hurrying down the stairs behind her.

"Mrs. Brandon--"

She keeps walking.

"Mary Anne, please."

She stops . . . but does not turn.

HE raises HIS glass in a toast. "To you -- and to me -- and to our mutual fulfillment."

Andrea clinks her glass against HIS. She'll drink to that, as long as HIS fulfillment does not entail torturing her. She speaks no words, but her eyes darken with desire.

HE gladly accepts her nonverbal invitation and places HIS champagne glass onto the cart. Slipping off HIS jacket, HE folds it neatly over the chair back.

Andrea observes HIM intently, deriving pleasure from HIS every movement. Her lips part, and her breathing becomes rapid. She tilts her head back to look at HIM as HE steps directly in front of her.

HE takes the glass from her trembling hand and sets it on the cart. Then HE takes her hand and bids her to stand. "Will your legs support you?"

Andrea isn't entirely sure, but she wants so badly to please HIM. "Perhaps, if you hold me."

Tugging on her hand, HE pulls Andrea to her feet. Deftly spinning her around, HE grabs her from behind. HE wraps HIS arms around her waist and squeezes her against HIS body, forcing air from her lungs. HE speaks directly into her ear. "Do you remember how you jumped when I put my arms around you then?"

Andrea can only nod. She can barely breathe. Digging her fingers into HIS arms, she tries to pry them loose.

HE continues to hold her securely but allows a bit of breathing room. "I asked whether you were ticklish. You said 'Yes.' Do you remember? -- Say it now. Say what you said then."

With no further need to worry about suffocating, Andrea releases her grip on HIS arms. She strokes them instead, through the white shirtsleeves. HE wants to recreate what happened that day, so we can play it out to its conclusion. She paraphrases as best she can. "Yes. I am ticklish. But not there exactly. You are very close however."

"Excellent!" HE is pleased with her performance. "I slid my hands up to your ribs like this."

Andrea's senses are overloading. HIS velvet voice in her receptive ear; HIS warm breath on her exposed neck; HIS probing hands on her wildly expanding and contracting ribcage; the entire length of HIS body pressing against her. She must struggle to concentrate on her role. What happened next?

HE watches her right hand reach toward the cart. Although HE is ever vigilant to ward off an attack, HE does not feel that she is searching for a weapon.

*Bang!*

*Crash!*

*Pow!*

Andrea's eyes open wide, and she swallows hard. Unfinished business? HIS discovery of my ticklish spot? What am I in for here? Her voice is reduced to a whisper. "Might I have a glass of champagne?"

"Certainly." HE is amused by her discomposure. She was getting a little too comfortable for HIS taste. Some tension should heighten the excitement for them both.

Andrea watches HIS fingers curl around the neck of the bottle and is reminded of HIS arms encircling her waist. It was months ago. She had her back to HIM while searching for something chocolate in a fridge on one of the sets. HE had come close to her ticklish spot then, but the Director had burst in . . .

POP!

Andrea jumps at the sound. She sees HIM grin at her as the foam flows from the bottle. After she laughs off her reaction, Andrea clears her throat. "As I recall, you said something about showing me mercy."

HE pours champagne into two glasses. "Your memory is selective. Mercy was to be shown only if you revealed the location to me. If, however, you left me to find it on my own . . . "

Andrea takes the proffered glass into her shaking hand. "And, if I reveal it to you now?"

HE shakes HIS head. "Oh, it's much too late for that. I've been waiting months for you to volunteer the information. Do you have any idea what it's been like for me? All this time, waiting and wondering. Anticipating. -- It's been torture."

. . . the approach of Dev, closely followed by Lt. Sifuentes.

"What in God's name is all of this about?" snaps Dev, glowering at Brandon and Mary Anne. Then, turning: "Brandon, that is you, isn't it?"

Out of some impulse she cannot explain, Mary Anne relaxes her stance, making her posture as inoffensive as possible . . . allowing her arms to drop loosely to her sides . . .

Dev doesn't know it's me . . .

"Mister de Valera." In acknowledgment, as Brandon slowly removes his helmet. "Mister Sifuentes."

"So, it is you," scowls Dev, leveling his dark gaze at Brandon and paying no attention whatsoever to Mary Anne. "You tell me that I am to try and rest, that you will see I am not disturbed-- except that I am, almost at once, by this Alliance person--" Witheringly.

Mary Anne sneaks a glance at Scout, who is admirably in control of his temper; indeed, from the look on his face, one would think he did not have a temper to lose. His expression is quite bland, suggesting a sort of weary consciousness of having seen everything before; outbursts of ferocious temper from worried and frustrated Irishmen are evidently nothing new to him.

"--and as for the bloody Alliance, it will be a miracle if the Commander returns any time this week, to say nothing of us being in time to help Therese--"

Mary Anne waits. Perhaps, just perhaps, Dev will speak his piece and then they can do something with him--but it would be no use to try, right now.

"--and this Scout suggests a walk about the house--"

Scout speaks up. "It was that, Dev, or watch you go crazy or batter yourself to death against the walls. There's nothing like a good walk to steady your mind."

"There is nothing wrong with my mind!" roars Dev. "But I am beginning to wonder about some others--all that there is to be done to get ready to find Therese, and I come up here, Brandon, and find you behaving like Errol Flynn--"

Brandon speaks for the first time. "Errol Venn? I believe he is some relation of Mister Diggory Venn--"

"Not amusing, Colonel!" retorts Dev.

No, thinks Mary Anne, who is watching Brandon now. Definitely not amusing. The look on Brandon's face . . . it is questionable, whether he even realizes Dev is in the room. His look is that of a man who has returned from a long journey to a far place, one where he has encountered strange terrors and lived to tell of them--even to take some pleasure in the memory of how he had faced and overcome them.

He was afraid, marvels Mary Anne. I really think he was frightened at the idea of us fencing together, because of what happened before. But he suggested it anyway, and went on and faced it, all of it . . . oh, Christopher, you are a brave man. I do love you.

Brandon's face, with that blank look of a man who gazes inward at a revelation . . . pale and still, glassy-eyed.

And Dev, full steam ahead. "--in the middle of a fencing lesson, yet. Little use that will be against the likes of HIM." Dev turns. "Now if this man can use a gun, that will be different--"

Scout interrupts, his voice mild and patient. "That's a woman, Dev."

That halts Dev for a moment, as his eyes rake over Mary Anne from head to foot. "A woman? Fighting like that?" Pause. "How can you tell?"

Scout breaks into a good-natured laugh. "I'm part of an organization that's eighty percent female, that's how. Never believe that women can't fight. But when you've watched it long enough, you'll see the difference." A wide grin from Scout, displaying teeth of startling whiteness against his dark olive skin. "When a man fights, there are . . . certain areas he tends to protect, automatically. It's second nature to him." Scout nods toward Mary Anne. "That's a woman, or I'll eat my pistol and a whole clip of darts."

"Hmmph," mutters Dev. "So, what if it is? Brandon is still wasting time that could be better used--"

Enough.

"Mister de Valera."

At the sound of that soft voice, Dev starts as if he had been stung by a wasp.

Still gripping her sword in her right hand, Mary Anne reaches up with her left and removes her helmet.

There is a very long silence. Scout's lips purse into a soundless whistle. Brandon looks as if he is only beginning to emerge from his strange mood, and Dev goes pale at the full realization of where his hasty temper has led him . . .

Quietly, Mary Anne walks over to the table where Brandon had left the sword cases, sets down her helmet and sheathes her Aurientine, then fits it carefully into the wooden case. In the silence, the snap of the metal clasps is especially loud. Leaving her gloves on the table, she walks back to the waiting men.

Brandon first. "I'll send up Miss M to collect everything, Christopher. You needn't trouble yourself about it."

Feeling a little more collected now, Brandon nods.

Then, Mary Anne turns toward Dev.

"You have insulted my husband."

I am for it, thinks Dev. He had known well enough that Mary Anne has a temper, but this cold, still wrath is something he had not seen in her before.

"And you have insulted me. I know you're upset about Therese, and because of that, I can overlook a great deal." A pause. "I'll leave now, before you say something that I can't overlook."

Mary Anne nods to Brandon and Sifuentes. "Gentlemen."

Then, pointedly to Dev: "Mister de Valera."

And with that, Mary Anne turns and stalks away down the gallery . . .

Andrea's initial astonishment evolves into great happiness. She smiles brightly, and her eyes shine. "You remembered!"

"I remember everything." HE is truly pleased to see her delight in HIS attentions. Producing a chair, HE entreats her to "Sit."

Suddenly aware of her own trembling, Andrea decides that sitting may be a good idea. Settling into the chair, she sighs and regains her normal level of composure. She glances about the tempting offerings and then looks shyly at HIM. "Thank you." She feels a bit embarrassed -- as though she doesn't deserve all this. But, she resolves to accept HIS gifts graciously.

HE sits facing her and cuts into one of the cheeses. "I thought you might like to sample a variety."

Andrea's eyes travel over the wide selection of cheeses and stop short at a white cheese speckled with green/blue. "Not anything with mold in it, please. I'm allergic."

HE is intrigued. "It might prove exciting to rescue you from an allergic reaction." Images of snatching her from the jaws of death race through HIS mind.

Andrea accepts a morsel of a crumbly orange-colored cheese. Opening her mouth, she allows HIM to place it inside. Her tongue thrills to the taste of sharp cheddar. "I don't know how excited you'd be to hold my head while I vomit."

HE makes a mental note to steer Andrea away from the blue cheese. "Not at all. It would completely ruin the mood I desire to create."

Andrea considers what mood HE might be trying for. "While I was blindfolded, did I hear correctly? Did you lock the door and pocket the key?"

Studying her closely, HE senses not fear but playfulness. "Yes. When you are ready to leave, you may search for it, if you like."

Andrea closes her gleaming eyes to make a wish. She blows out the candle on the cake. "And what shall we do until I am ready?"

HE smiles at her. Events are progressing nicely. "Do you remember offering me chocolate syrup off your finger?"

Andrea blushes. That was months ago. "Yes?" And then she recovers. "I remember everything, too."

Therese leaned back against the wall, her head resting against the cool, concrete surface, legs tucked beneath her body, knees against her chest. She dozed occassionally, certainly never falling deeply asleep, but her body forced herself to rest, lest she collapse. She had no concept of how long she waited, there were no windows in the tiny room, and no alternate way to judge the passage of time. It seemed like hours, it had, perhaps been as much as an entire day. If the truth be known, she did not care, her only concern, and soul desire was to be back home, in Dev's arms.

When she heard the sound of a key being slipped into the lock, the hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention, her heart began to pound, and she could feel the nervous tension flood her body as the adrenaline flowed. She sprang to her feet, palms flat against the wall, legs braced to pounce. Time seemed to pass with deliberate slowness as the deadbolt clicked back into the unlocked position, and the key was removed with a slight grating sound. Patience, she cautioned herself, you'll have only one chance to get this right.

As the door opened, a person entered the room, and Therese had the horrified thought that perhaps HE would not be the one to return. Pushing that idea aside, she tensed, knowing that this would be her only opportunity for escape. Should she fail this, HE would never give her another chance. As she had anticipated, the figure stopped just inside the doorway, taking in the sight of the shredded mattress littering the floor.

It was time. Clutching the two door hinges, and the extra strips of mattress fabric firmly in her left hand, Therese pushed off of the wall, slamming her entire body weight into the door. The force of her thrust tore the thin strips of fabric she had used to replace the metal hinges, and the door rocked forward, crashing into the figure in the doorway, and knocking HIM to the ground. Therese immediately scrambled on top of the pile, sandwhiching HIM underneath her body and the metal door.

She heard HIS strangled yell of pain and surprise, and was confident that yes, it was indeed HIM. She moved the door slightly, exposing HIS head and neck, noting that HE had landed on his stomach. Taking a single metal hinge she stabbed it into the back of HIS neck, using enough force to make an indentation in the sensitive surrounding the tiny vetebre, but not puncturing it.

"Do not move or speak," she warned HIM, "or I will run this metal pin straight into your spinal cord. Place your hands flat out along the floor."

HE paused, shrugging his shoulders against the pressure, and attempted to flip HIS body sideways and out from under her. Therese hung onto the door with a tight grip, using most of her strength to push on the hinge, pressing it more firmly into HIS tender flesh. "Go ahead, try that once again, I'd love to have an excuse to cripple you. Now spread your arms!"

This time, HE did as told, and placed HIS arms straight out from his body. Taking the fabric strips, Therese tied one end tightly around his right wrist, pulling it up and behind his back. Moving the door aside, she straddled HIS hips, and pulled the left arm atop the right, fastening it securely. Remaining on top of HIS body, she reversed her position, and taking the remaining strip of cloth, tied HIS ankles together in a similar manner.

"Very good," HE moved his head to one side and regarded her approvingly. "I am not often surprised by those in your position. But I am curious. . .now what do you intend?"

Therese shifted positions one final time, straddling HIS upper body, and rolling HIM over onto HIS back. Pulling HIM by the shoulders, she leaned HIM up against the wall, and lifting the door, placed it back in the frame.

What did she intend? It was an excellent question. Fighting a queasy feeling in her stomach, Therese realized that she had absolutely no idea.

In his office at the Hansbank, Colin sat back in his chair, trying to comprehend what Grace had told him. Then he logged on to the Internet and retraced her steps. The stock transaction disclosure forms were already in the Hansbank files; they had been forwarded to the bank as required by the regulations of the Brussels stock exchange. Then he place a few calls to old acquaintances -- crack investigators -- in London and Hong Kong, quickly explaining what he was looking for. Last, he dialed Hans' private extension and requested a few minutes of his time. Immediately.

Hans looked skeptically across his desk, waiting for Colin to finish. "Why would you trust this woman?" Hans asked. "Why would she take such a risk when she has nothing to gain. One day she says she can't work for us, the next day she has obviously taken it upon herself to solve the riddle." When you could not, Hans' silence implied as Colin's face colored slightly. Hans looked away, realizing his reprimand had hit home, then muttered, "It does not make sense." Zense. His voice took on a hard edge, ". . . unless she already knew." He suspected the worst, that Grace was working with the real culprits and was trying to throw Colin off the scent by implicating an obvious target, the Investors.

"Well. . . " Colin began, sheepishly. He would have preferred to keep his public drunkeness from Hans, but he needed to explain why he trusted Grace intended to help, not harm, them. Hans listened with one eyebrow raised sky high. "You were foolish," Hans scolded, "but lucky. That is not enough. Add a task to your investigation. I want to know all about that woman, Ms. Alexander [homage], by this time tomorrow. Scrutinize her clients, her friends. . . her lovers. Leave nothing out. Meanwhile, check out what she has told you about the Investors. If she is right, we must prepare our counterattack." Hans was completely focused, his warrior spirit firmly in command.

Colin nodded and left, his marching orders clear. He was looking forward to learning more about Grace Alexander himself.

If you do manage to continue the scene in your dreams, please share any bits you can post here without violating the Golden Rule! *grin*

Meanwhile, I hope you've had a very happy birthday.

He put the bowl down gently, holding his breath until the task was successfully completed. Then he crossed to the door and bolted it, listening for sounds of footsteps in the hall. He had never heard any so far, but it was only a matter of time.

A sound from the bed caught his attention. The man lying there was struggling to lift his hand. He flew back to the bed and bent over anxiously. "What is it?"

The man pointed to the far corner of the room. He turned and checked. Yes, the occupant of the truckle bed was still there, watching the proceedings with large eyes as he ate his boiled potato and carrots. "It's alright, Dad. Conn's eating his dinner. I got it first tonight."

He turned back to the bed with a smile. The man grimaced, one side of his face unyielding while the other moved spasmodically. Harsh noises eventually surrendered to a strong will and became words. "You…your…turn…eat?"

"Yes, Dad, I ate already." He sat on the side of the bed and reached for the bowl. "I need all my strength to keep you in bed so you don't run around and dance a jig." He held out a spoonful of broth.

The man's torso began to shake and puffs of breath wheezed from his throat. "Ha, ha, ha." He reached forward and patted the other's knee, then let his arm fall to the bed, exhausted by the effort.

For some time the meal proceeded in silence. Finally the man relaxed into his pillows, eyes closed, and sighed deeply. His chest rose and fell evenly and he slept.

His son gathered up the bowl and plates and returned them to the kitchen. He bolted the door again and sank down on the truckle bed, finally surrendering to the softness. The growing darkness encouraged his feeling of drowsiness.

"Niall? Are you still awake?" The whisper was urgent in his ear.

"Yes, Conn."

"I want Sam to come back."

"She will, Conn. With lots of money. Then everything will be fine again."

"I want her now, Niall." The voice trembled with tears.

Niall opened his eyes and looked at his brother. "So do I. But she'll come as soon's she can."

Loud footsteps crashed down the hall outside. Niall and Conn froze, their breaths congealing in their lungs. Then Niall reached under the bed and pulled out a six-shooter. He held the weapon in both hands and pointed the muzzle at the door.

Beside him Conn cowered behind his pillow, his thumb hovering near his mouth.

They could feel the floorboards under them shake with the force of heavy treads. "ANNIE! You hear me, woman? " The man's voice was harsh and loud, and Niall pictured him as a giant of eight feet or more, his head probably brushing the ceiling of the hall. Conn disappeared under the covers.

Niall held the gun tighter.

A door opened and a woman's voice, laughing and soft, interrupted the man. They exchanged words and then the door shut again, leaving the hall silent once more.

Niall slowly lowered the gun to the covers, then slid it under the bed again. He looked at the lump in the bed that was his seven-year-old brother. He wished Liam was back from working at the livery stables. Liam was twelve and would know what to do. He wished Sam was back. He wished his Dad was better again and things were the way they used to be.

Most of all he wished he wasn't only ten years old and scared.

Mister I leads a woman by the hand along a dim corridor.

It is necessary for him to lead her, because her face is swathed by a length of black cloth that prevents her seeing anything as she takes one slow step after another, following his patient guidance.

"Where are you taking me?" she quavers.

"You'll see in a moment," he replies. "Now, relaxxxxxx."

A short distance futher and they come to a door. He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces the duplicate key, then opens the door and leads her through, closing and locking it behind him.

"This way," he prompts, drawing her gently along. "Carefully--a few stairs now . . . all right, stop. Face this way . . ." He turns her. "Now, keep still."

He moves behind her and begins to undo the knot that holds the cloth over her face.

"You really are the master of suspense, aren't you?" she jokes, with a hint of a giggle that betrays her nervousness. "Hurry up; I can't breathe."

There is only a low chuckle in reply.

Then . . . the blindfold falls away.

A gasp, as the woman realizes where she is.

The Valley of the Moon set . . . in THAT chamber. She recognizes all of it--the chair where Colonel Brandon had been immobilized, the torture table with its heavy straps, the cart of instruments . . .

Except that now, the harsh white lighting has been dimmed, and there on the cart . . .

A basket of delectably fresh fruit. A wheel of cheeses and an assortment of crackers. An ice bucket with a bottle of champagne. China plates, white linen napkins, silver knives and forks.

And in the centre of the cart, an exquisite cake with a single candle burning in the centre.

The woman turns in utter astonishment to look at Mister I, who smiles at her and intones, "Happy Birthday, Andrea."

After several moments go by without a touch on either side, Brandon concludes that the warm-up period with the foils has been satisfactory, and lifts one hand in a signal to hold. Mary Anne drops her guard . . . then nods and flourishes her foil in a salute, which Brandon returns.

The foils are laid aside.

Through the meshes of her helmet, Mary Anne watches Brandon closely as he passes the Aurientine to her, then picks up his own Salamanca, tilting the blade so that it flashes back sunlight as he tests the balance. One of his gloved hands passes lightly across the fine-honed edge and point, then flexes the blade itself, once. Gently.

Mary Anne's right hand fits itself around the grip of the Aurientine . . . that familiar sensation, as from the first time she ever lifted this weapon from its case: feeling the sword become a part of her, an extension of her own arm. Details. The peculiar tint of the metal, a golden cast rather than silver--hence the name. Aurientine. Of Damascus steel, strong but lethally sharp as well, known for its ability to remain keen as a razor. A blade like this--toss a silk scarf into the air, and the Aurientine will cleave it in one stroke.

A wicked, scimitar curve. Light. Perfectly balanced. Deadly.

Mary Anne risks a glance at Brandon. Difficult to hide her thoughts from him, even though her face is concealed; at times he can read her very stance and posture, the uneasy shift from foot to foot, the turning aside of her body. And so she forces herself to remain still, thinking. Christopher, you're the bravest man I've ever known. The last time you saw me with this . . . faced me, when I held this in my hand . . .

If he can read her, she can do as much with him. Brandon's tension. The distance he keeps between them--does it really have so much to do with the change of weapons? Far more dangerous than foils, these: sabres have points and cutting edges. But the padded jackets, covered in heavy canvas, would stop almost anything short of a dedicated attempt to kill . . . or an extremely unfortunate accident.

Mary Anne watches her husband, and her heart goes out to him in a rush of admiration and love: what else, for a man who faces his fear so dutifully? She spares a moment to wonder just why a man who is so punctilious about her safety had ever permitted her to touch a sword, to say nothing of instructing her in the skills of it. Perhaps . . . well, she shall have to ask him that, at some time. When he had learned she had an interest in swordplay, he did nothing at all to discourage her. Perhaps he thought I'd persist, with or without his approval. Or perhaps it's just more of his concern: that I should learn to defend myself in every way possible.

Or perhaps he simply thought it would please me.

Perhaps he loves me.

Of all possible explanations, Mary Anne likes that one the best.

She needs no verbal signal from Brandon to know it is time to begin their sabre practice. He takes up his stance, as she does hers, both carefully poised and intent. No silly teasing now, no bantering; this will require all of their concentration.

The Salamanca lifts in salute, and the Aurientine answers.

And now, Brandon's low VOICE: "En garde."

Battle is joined, and it is not long before Mary Anne notices a change in Brandon; he has always demanded a great deal from her in these sessions, but now he is relentless and insistent, pressing her hard as if he has forgotten her limits--or else never learned them.

Her only advantage is speed. She is lighter than Brandon and quick on her feet, a small advantage when compared with Brandon's strength and stamina and length of reach; he is three touches ahead before she abandons caution and begins to circle him, seemingly giving up ground, allowing herself to be backed toward a wall or corner against which she could be trapped . . . then darting past him, or ducking beneath a swing or thrust . . .

. . . to touch, lightly, with the point, then leap out of reach and draw him after her.

At that first touch, Brandon starts violently, and Mary Anne's memory drags her away, against her will . . . the dark chamber . . . the Valley of the Moon . . .

Stop. You are NOT there now. She adjusts her stance, taking a fresh grip on the Aurientine, watching Brandon as he shakes off his momentary hesitation-- and advances toward her. That's it, Christopher. What was it you said to me, on our wedding night? It's past now, all past; don't think of it. And she welcomes, almost as she would an embrace, Brandon's next assault that challenges her to the limits of her invention, pressing her steadily, thwarting her escapes almost before she can plan them, far less carry them out. It's all right, Christopher. My darling, I promise you it is all right.

More exorcism than exercise.

The world itself has ceased to exist: beyond these walls there is no world, nothing but this confrontation that began in jest and carries on in earnest, yet with no intent to harm. An undreamed-of release . . .

Until the clash and ring of steel is interrupted by hurrying footsteps advancing toward them from the far end of the gallery--and an outraged exclamation . . .

A long, dark shadow falls across the door of the anteroom, and then a hand twists the knob.

Soft sreeiiiiikk as the door swings open.

In the anteroom, a length of pegboard is fixed to the wall and hanging from this board are numerous keys, with a label above each. A few of the labels:

Delaford.

LA Home, Hans and Renie.

Safehouse #3.

New Zealand Beach Cottage.

The Lair.

The shadow falls across the pegboard . . . and then an elegant, long- fingered hand removes one of the keys from its hook.

Sound of retreating footsteps, and the whispery creak of the closing door.

********************************

A while later:

Again, the door of the anteroom. The shadow, the low-voiced protest of the door as it opens . . .

A hand, with two keys.

One of them is returned to its hook.

Smiling, Mister I pockets the duplicate key and exits the anteroom . . .

She smiled and stretched. It was going to be hard going back to work tomorrow. The first day she had simply sat everywhere: outside, in her bedroom, on the corral fence watching the men work with the horses, under the shade trees beside the main house reading a book. Yesterday she'd progressed to walking about the place, asking questions, exploring buildings whose functions were unknown to her and getting to know the workings of the ranch. She'd spent the evening with Lushy, Moll, Alice and Nell, talking about dresses and hairstyles, laughing over the foibles of men and trying not to blush at some of the things they'd told her.

The sun was lingering on the pillow. She sat up out of the glare and hugged her knees. How to spend her last day of holiday?

The cookhouse door banged open. "Miz Flanagan? Boss says you're to come up to the corral soon's you've had breakfast."

"Thanks, Cody. I'll be right there." Nothing like having your decisions made for you, she thought wryly as she pushed back the covers.

The corral was the center of unusual activity. Horses were saddled and a wagon was being loaded with wooden posts, picks and shovels. Marston leaned against the gate speaking to one of the men. He waved her over as she came up.

Her first thought was that he was dressed more casually than she'd ever seen him. Her second was that he had a very nice smile. She ruthlessly suppressed her third thought before it could get started.

"Good morning, Miss Flanagan. Some of the men are going up to the eastern ridge to repair some fencing." Marston pointed to the wagon, which was almost ready. "How would you like to come with us?"

"Yes!" Sam was thrilled. "That is, if I won't be in the way."

"You won't. You'll be with me." He pushed away from the gate. "We'll ride with the men and then keep going. I want to show you some of the country out here."

It was a perfect day for a ride. Not a cloud marred the wide expanse of the sky. She could have lost her seat a dozen times for staring all about her and not paying attention to her horse. Sam and Marston rode ahead of the men in the wagon and left them behind with a wave when they reached the east ridge.

He seemed to know exactly where he was going. They rode past outcrops of rock and clumps of bush until the men were left far behind and Sam lost track of the time. Finally they climbed a bluff and stopped at the top. A creek, swollen with winter rains, cut through the parched red soil below them. A stand of trees joined with the rock to provide shade.

"We'll walk the horses down from here." Marston dismounted and led his horse forward. "It's rather steep for riding them."

They secured their mounts at the bottom of the trail and refreshed themselves with the cool water. The angle of the rock offered refuge from the glaring noon sun.

"This is beautiful country, Mr. Marston." She gazed at the view across the creek. "Blue sky, red earth – who would ever want to live in town if they could live here?"

"I think, when we're alone, we can dispense with the formalities." He sat beside her and leaned back against the rock. "Why don't you call me Elliott…Sam?"

"Thank you, Elliott." She stared fixedly at the creek. "I'd like that." Using his first name came quite easily to her; she realized that she'd been calling him that in her mind for days, if not weeks. "Do you come here often?"

"Not as much as I used to. I find I'm very busy these days." He plucked a long grass and twisted it in his fingers. "Now I just come here on…special occasions."

"What kind of special occasions?" Her voice sounded high to her ears.

"Oh, not any dates in particular. I mean that when I come here," He leaned forward and stroked her hand with the grass. "I like to do special things."

"Like what?" She cleared her throat but still it came out in a whisper.

"Like enjoying the company of a friend." He turned her hand over and began to stroke her palm with the grass. "I thought we could take some time to get to know each other better."

"That –" She swallowed and tried again. "That would be nice."

"It must be worrisome for you, knowing that your father's in town and you haven't heard from him." He continued to play with the grass, caressing her wrist down to the tip of her index finger and back again.

"Yes. I sometimes feel - That is –" She fumbled to a halt. "I mean, you're right, it is worrisome."

He began to stroke her thumb, then sent the grass across her palm down the length of each finger in turn. "Are you very close to him?"

"Yes." The shivers were running up her arm. "After my mother died, it was just the two of us for a long time." A feeling of sadness swept over her. She pulled her hand away from him and hugged herself tightly.

Marston examined the grass stem minutely, twirling it in front of his eyes. "You told me when you arrived that he taught you how to shoot as well as he did."

"Oh, yes. He taught me about guns when I was very young." She smiled at a sudden memory. "Rifles were hard until a few years ago but six-shooters I could handle when I was ten or twelve."

"Really." He sounded bored. Glancing up, she found that he was sitting even closer than before. The look in his eyes definitely wasn't boredom. She blinked in surprise and quickly looked down again.

"You know, Sam…it's such a nice day…and the horses are tired…" His voice was soft and husky. "It occurs to me that we could do something that would make this day really… special…if you wanted to."

"How…special? I mean, how would we make it…?" Her voice trailed off.

He smiled. She hesitated for a moment, then smiled back.

*********************************************************

Toby, Ned, Frank and Jack waited by the wagon for some time after they'd finished their work. The noon sun was high in the sky. Marston had not given any clear instructions about their return but they assumed that they would all go back together. As the afternoon wore on, Toby decided to set out in pursuit of the wandering pair.

The bluff overlooking the creek was in sight when he heard the first shots. There was a fusillade of noise, then a pause, then the shots started again. He froze, then ran forward, fumbling with his holster. Finally pulling his gun free, he dropped to the ground and peered over the rocky edge.

"Well, I'll be dipped!" He blinked. "I'll be double- dipped!"

Marston and Sam were standing by the creek. Each had a six- shooter in hand. Across the water and standing on the horizon was a stick with a tin can on top of it. First one, then the other, would take careful aim at the can and fire at it. Most of the time the bullet would hit it and a tinny "ping" would echo the sound of the shot. Rarely the bullet would whine away without hitting anything.

While reaching back to retrieve more bullets from a box on the ground, Marston saw his foreman above them. "All finished?" He looked at Sam with regret. "It looks like we've got to head back." He tossed the bullets back in the box.

Sam laughed and handed him her gun. "Thank you. I really enjoyed myself." She smiled at him. "Mr. Marston."

"You're welcome." He grinned back at her. "Miss Flanagan."

Therese tried to sleep. Failing that, she at least attempted to rest. Which didn't work, either. Tossing and turning restlessly, she finally threw her legs over the end of the cot, and rising, began to pace the room.

After several repetitions, she crossed the small distance from her bed to the table, picked up the pitcher and guaged its weight in her hand. Setting it back in its place, she picked up the folded bedsheet, and shook it open, an idea forming in her mind.

Could she possibly pull it off? She was unsure, but one thing was certain, she'd go stark raving mad if she didn't have something to occupy her. After all, she had nothing to lose.

Therese folded the sheet once again, this time in an oblong pattern, shaping it carefully, then rolling it lengthwise in order to make the piece of fabric both as sturdy and as long as possible. Taking the plastic pitcher, she held the handle firmly, smashing it down forcefully on the edge of the cot, breaking the handle completely off and splitting the body of the container neatly in two. Taking the sharpest edge, she set to work on the cot, neatly slicing open the fabric cover and removing the stuffing.

It took a good deal of effort, and her fingers were cracked and bleeding by time she finished, but the upper hinge from the door frame finally came free. Pulling the pin carefully from its sheath, Therese replaced it with a strip of fabric, knotting it loosely so that it would hold the door in place without causing any suspicion, but would give under any amount of force. The second hinge pin was far easier to remove, given that Therese could use the first to help free the second, and soon she had that one similarly rigged.

Turning to the bed sheet once again, she tied a horseman's knot on the very end, adding an extra half hitch for additional strength. Once that was accomplished, she carefully shredded the foam rubber pad she had set aside after skinning her mattress, scattering the fruit of her labours evenly about the area in front of the door.

Once again, it was time to wait. With a sigh, she sat along the wall, leaning her back against the cool surface, and anticipating the sound of the deadbolt sliding home in the lock.

Two of his guests did not seem to notice his mood. Captain Francis Ogilvy and Lieutenant James Rogers devoted themselves to their host's food and drink with the single- minded enthusiasm of soldiers who did not eat half as well in their barracks.

Marston tried to avoid looking at the other end of the table where Major Ashley-Pitt was seated. The major's knowing smiles were intolerable enough but when he began alternating them with pitying looks, the temptation to commit homicide was almost overwhelming.

Finally the evening ended and the guests departed into their bedrooms with many a shouted goodnight and sleepy giggle. Marston waited ten minutes by the clock on his bureau, then headed out the back door.

There was still light in the cookhouse. He paused on the threshold. Sam was moving about the room, putting crockery and pots away on shelves. Looking up, she saw his reflection in the mirror image thrown back by a window.

"Well, Mr. Marston, how was your dinner party?" She pushed a large bottle to the very back of a shelf and turned to face him. "From the noise you were making, you seemed to be enjoying yourselves."

He pulled the door shut behind him and listened for the click that meant it was firmly latched. His course of action was still unclear to him. When the major had made his comment earlier in the evening, the floor heaved under his feet. He had wanted to run to the dining room and choke the truth out of her. He did not like being lied to.

But in the hallway outside he had stopped and leaned against the wall. His emotions were still roiling but he realized his predominant feeling was…hurt. For six weeks he had tried to get to know her, talking to her several times a day, asking questions about her life and her family. They were more than boss and employee; they were becoming friends. He had told her things he would never have told other employees, even Toby who had been with him since the beginning. Why hadn't she trusted him enough to tell him the truth?

During the delay he had managed to get his feelings under control. He could not afford to let his emotions take control. He had to get to the bottom of this mystery.

Now he leaned against the back of a chair in the cookhouse and watched her. She looked tired but her smile was warm and friendly.

"It was fine, thank you. You did an excellent job tonight." Under half-closed lids, he watched her carefully. "I know it wasn't easy on short notice."

"Thank goodness we had more rice than we needed. It's so easy to boil and the men filled up on it so I could cook for you." She threw her cloth into the sink and sat down in the nearest chair. Stretching her arms out on the table, she yawned and rested her head on them.

He moved around the table to her side. Long hair hung down her back, released from the pins that confined it during the day. Her hands were red and rough; three of her fingernails were broken. She raised her head and looked at him. "And what brings you here tonight?"

The hard knot of anger in his chest loosened and fell away as he looked into her eyes. Surely they were too clear to hide deception. All he had to do was get closer to her. Now that he knew she was hiding something he could probe deeper than he had before. There had to be an explanation.

But he would not ask for it tonight. He saw the exhaustion in her posture and felt like a tyrant.

"I came to thank you." He pulled out a chair and sat down. "And to tell you that after breakfast tomorrow you are not to work for three full days. I forbid it."

"You forbid it?" She smiled at his tone.

"Yes." He smiled back. "I'm a very harsh boss so don't think of disobeying."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Her smile faded. "Thank you. I am very tired."

He rose. "I won't keep you up then. Get some sleep." Looking down into her eyes, he felt a strong wave of protectiveness sweep through him. Somehow he would succeed in getting her to trust him and he would take care of her problems for her.

Tomorrow was soon enough.

Most of the furniture has been moved out of the room, and a rectangular table and several chairs moved in. The Sheriff and his attorney are alone, discussing their strategy. They sit next to each other on one side of the table, facing the closed door.

Their intense conference is interrupted by a knock on the door. As Dot enters the room, both men stand -- the lawyer to show respect; George prepared to fight.

Without turning her back on The Sheriff, Dot closes the door behind her. She nods to acknowledge the lawyer and then cooly regards her prisoner. "Lord Nottingham, please be seated and remain seated for the duration of this meeting."

The Sheriff shifts his weight and snarls. Without approaching Dot, he tests her nerve.

Dot reaches for her dart pistol and curls her fingers around the grip but does not draw. "Do you desire another postponement of this meeting?"

The attorney speaks for his client. "No. We are prepared to abide by your terms. -- Lord Nottingham, we discussed how you would conduct yourself. Please, sit down."

The Sheriff points at Dot and sputters. "She's got her hand on a gun, and you want me to sit down and conduct myself!?!"

With unseen effort, the attorney stands his ground. He calmly pulls his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his business suit and wipes George's spit from his eye. He is relieved that Dot seems well prepared to handle his client. He fully expects The Sheriff to attack him at any moment. His outward appearance remains confident. "Soldier, is Miss Andrea here?"

The British Army was paying a social call on Marston Ranch.

"Always single file, always with those damn uniforms buttoned up to their chins." Toby balanced his chair on its back legs and watched the procession. "It's a wonder their heads don't explode."

Sam smiled at the picture this conjured up. "Are you implying disrespect for our soldiers, sir?"

"Not me. Mr. Marston wouldn't like that." The ranch foreman spat over the railing into the bushes. "The army's his biggest customer."

Marston appeared on the porch through the double doors that led from his study. A man ran across the yard to open the gate. The three riders pulled up in front of the main house and dismounted.

"Really?" Sam looked thoughtful. "That must be a very lucrative contract."

"It is for a fact." Ned looked up from the halter he was working on. "The Boss got rich feedin' the army."

They fell silent as they watched Marston greet the visitors with obvious good-fellowship. Laughter floated through the air as the group disappeared into the house.

"You'll be busy pretty soon, Miss Flanagan. There'll be a special dinner up at the house tonight." Toby lowered his chair to the ground and rose to his feet. "Best be gettin' back to work myself."

Sam continued to stare at the house as the men drifted away to their duties around the ranch. Her employer was quite an enigma. She saw him several times a day, sometimes for lengthy periods, but she was no closer to understanding the man who'd so abruptly changed his mind about hiring her six weeks ago.

She picked up a potato and began peeling it. He was certainly a reserved man, never revealing his thoughts with his expressions and rarely with his words. Such a man could make a fortune playing poker at Belle's Palace.

"Oh!" She gasped, then sucked at her pricked thumb. That's what you get for not concentrating, she thought. Keep your mind on your business, girl. Don't think about your problems.

For the next half-hour she devoted herself to the business of potatoes. The peels piled up on the ground beside her chair as the afternoon sun advanced across the sky.

"Miz Flanagan?" O'Flynn poked his head around the corner of the building. "The Boss wants to see you."

The main house seemed to be an alien place. The habitual quiet atmosphere had been occupied by the noise of male laughter and heavy footfalls.

Sam waited inside the main hallway, uncertain about her destination. Usually she would have proceeded to the study but Marston could be meeting his guests there if this were a business visit.

A door opened down the hall and the rancher appeared. "Ah, there you are. There'll be four of us dining tonight, Miss Flanagan." He walked down the hall and hesitated. "Let's talk in here." Pulling open the door to the dining room, he stepped aside for her to enter.

Footsteps thudded down the hall behind them. "Elliott! I say, do you have -" The soldier stopped in his tracks. "Oh, beg pardon. Didn't realize you were busy."

"Not at all. Miss Flanagan, may I present Major Rodney Ashley-Pitt, of Her Majesty's Western Australia regiment. Major, this is Sam Flanagan who is currently employed on my ranch."

The major's brows rose. "Sam Flanagan?" He repeated. "That is a name not unknown to me." His gaze went down her body with insulting slowness, then returned to her face. She flushed under the examination.

Marston frowned. "I believe you are referring to Miss Flanagan's father. He has a reputation in certain circles for his expertise in security matters."

"Of course. Your father. How remiss of me. Honored to meet you, Miss Flanagan." He stepped back and started to retreat down the hall.

"Would you excuse me a minute?" Marston held the door open again. "I won't be long." Sam nodded and escaped into the dining room. He strode off after the major.

The soldier looked up with a smile as his host entered the study. "Interesting taste you have, Elliott." He winked.

"Major, I do not think Miss Flanagan appreciated your attitude. I know I don't." It was an understatement. The other's suggestive stare had fired his temper like nothing had in months. "My employees are not to be insulted."

The major's smile hardened into a leer. "Come now, old man, we're both adults here. Whatever your game is, I won't let it out."

Marston took a deep breath. "I'm not playing any game with Miss Flanagan."

The soldier looked at him long and hard through eyes that were not intelligent but did contain a certain low cunning. "Then she's playing one with you." He tossed back his whiskey and walked to the desk for another. "Sam Flanagan – the real one, the gunman – did some work for us two years ago. Not my regiment, you understand, but I had occasion to meet him several times. Got to know him quite well, actually."

He paused to add the minutest amount of water to his drink. Raising the glass, he peered through the amber liquid, then nodded in satisfaction. He turned back to his host.

"Sam Flanagan doesn't have a daughter."

"It's quite simple, Miss Flanagan. I can't possibly retain your services as a gunslinger." He sipped on his tea, carefully balancing the cup on the tips of his fingers. "But we have a great need for someone who can cook. You do know how to cook, don't you?"

The eager look in his eyes mystified her. "Yes, of course. I've cooked for my family since my stepmother died. But...I don't mean to be rude...I need to know..." She broke off unhappily.

"You mean, how much? Shall we say 20 gold pieces a month?" He frowned at his plate and gingerly picked up a piece of toast.

She gasped. "That is very generous, Mr. Marston. Cooks in Fremantle don't make even a portion of that amount. In that case, I would be pleased to accept your offer."

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

"Would you like me to redo those bandages for you?"

"Yes, thank you. That would be very kind."

************************************************************

Sam moved her belongings over to the small bedroom attached to the cookhouse that morning. She was barely in time to prepare an adequate lunch for the men. By dinner time, she was able to provide more substantial fare.

The other women on the ranch were pleased with the arrangement and surrendered their responsibilities without protest. There was some concern about Lushy's feelings but she seemed to take the situation well and could be seen popping in and out of the cookhouse throughout the day.

By the time Marston left the men in the yard after dinner, a general feeling of contentment once again pervaded the ranch.

He sat on the porch and took a deep breath of the cool evening air. He had solved one problem, at least for a while, but he was still without a gunman and time was running out. Important people would be demanding explanations and he didn't have them.

Darkness was falling fast and lamps were visible through the various bunkhouse windows. They glowed like molten lumps of gold in the encroaching gloom.

"Evenin', Mistah Maahr-ston."

He sighed. "Good evening, Lushy."

She swept out of the shadows and up to the porch. He watched carefully but she negotiated the steps and kept most of her balance as she sat beside him.

"Ah'm awful sorry about this mahnin'. Want me to come in tonight and make it up to you?"

"Uh, no thanks, that won't be necessary."

"Okey-doke. No harm in askin'." She wrapped her arms around her drawn-up knees and tilted her head back to enjoy the wind. "I like that new gal."

"Do you?"

"Asked me a whole bunch o' questions about the stockrooms an' the provisions an' where everythin' was kept. Said she was really grateful for mah help." Lushy gave him a sidelong glance. "She was tryin' to make sure that I felt important and that mah feelings weren't hurt."

Marston looked at her with some respect. It occurred to him that it was important for a woman in her profession to be able to read people accurately.

"Asked me about you, too."

Searching his jacket for a cigar, he paused and glanced up quickly. "Oh?"

"How the ranch is doin'. How long you been a rancher. Where you come from. Real interested in how often you go to town."

"Is that so?" He found the cigar and took his time lighting it. The smoke drifted over their heads on its way to the clouds. "And what did you tell her?"

"Told her the truth: that I didn't know nuthin' about you and not much about the ranch." She gave him another look from under her lids and this time the shrewdness in her eyes was undeniable. "After all, you're the boss."

"Yes, I am. And most people around here know it."

"You bet, sir." She rose to her feet and brushed off her skirts. The sky was completely dark now and the sound of night insects was growing louder. In one of the bunkhouses two men were laughing and someone began to tune a fiddle.

Lushy swept down the steps and into the yard. She looked back at him with her sauciest smile. "Don't be too hard on the new gal, sir. She's just tryin' to feel her way around the place."

"Good night, Lushy."

"Night, sir." She paused at the edge of the total darkness. "You're sure you don't want -?"

"I'm sure. Thank you anyway."

She shrugged and disappeared into the night.

Marston leaned back and stared up into the sky. So his newest employee was curious about him, was she? He blew out a cloud of smoke.

By the time he was ready to turn in, he had made up his mind. He would wait a day or two until she was settled in. Then he would make a strong effort to get to know Sam Flanagan.

Intimately.

Time to exercise a few elementary precautions. She had learned a lot about how to hide one's tracks from Hart and their investigation of the Investors. She drove to Santa Barbara, the lovely seaside resort town an hour's drive north of Los Angeles. She found a payphone near the pier and fed in coins to place a call to Colin, persuading his secretary to let her through without giving a name. Explaining she had spent the previous night with Colin helped. The secretary seemed unfazed at her explanation.

Colin, showered and shaved, but still with a mighty hangover, came on the line. Grace had to shout over the wind on the pier. "You're about to owe me another favor, and I'm calling in that offer of a knight in shining armor, too." She explained quickly about Lazarus Brothers and their sales of Hansbank stock on the Brussels exchange for unnamed clients. "All of this information is available to the public. But you need this next bit to put it together. Except I need your word that you won't tell anyone, and I mean anyone, where you heard it. We never had this conversation. You tried to retain me and I refused. Is that understood?"

Colin was silent. He respected Grace's expertise, appreciated her rescue mission the night before and generally liked her quite a bit. But he had to wonder why -- and how -- she had the information he was so desperate for, that all the considerable resources of the Hansbank had been unable to put together, and so quickly after she had declined to work for them. Was she what she appeared to be, the key to the mystery that plagued him, or was she part of a plot against the bank?

"Yes or no? I'm already out on a limb, and I already need that knight." Grace was abrupt. And more than a little scared now.

Colin made a snap decision, hoping it was the right one. "Yes. I'm listening." In two minutes, Grace explained enough to keep the essence of the sting a secret, but gave him enough clues to link the Investors to the sales of Hansbank stock. His eyes grew wide as he listened, barely able to comprehend what she was saying, let alone take down anything but rudimentary notes. He had the presence of mind to ask her one question. "Is there any indication anyone named Lukas Hart is involved?" He had no idea if she knew who Hart was, or about his attempt to engineer a virtual crash of the Hansbank last year.

Grace hesitated. She knew what Hart had attempted, but was taken aback that Colin would focus immediately on him. Having already risked the government's wrath, she was not about to disclose her relationship with Hart to Colin. "No," she said, which she knew was true about the Hansbank sales, if not the sting. "I have to hang up. You're on your own now. And I'm relying on your word."

"You have it, G --" Colin stopped short of saying her name, knowing better than to compromise her in case anyone was listening. Then he heard her click off, terminating the connection.

Marston stopped splashing water on his face and cocked an ear. The shouting had a frenzied quality to it.

"Please sir! Come quick! We got big trouble!" The back door opened with a slam and the petitioner was suddenly in the hall. An agitated rapping on his bedroom door followed.

He tossed his towel into the wash basin and threw open the door. It was O'Flynn, wringing his hands and dancing from foot to foot. "Mister Marston, Toby says you got to come! It's real bad, sir!"

Horrific visions of dingoes in the lambing pens flashed through his mind. "What's wrong?"

"It's Lushy, sir. She's..." O'Flynn gulped in air. "She's decided to make a real breakfast again."

Marston stared in disbelief. "Oh...my...God!" He grabbed his boots, pulled them on and set out for the cookhouse at a fast sprint, damning Matthew Quigley with every step.

The American sharpshooter had made an indelible impression on Marston Ranch and its inhabitants. In addition to killing a number of the men, he had inspired the aborigines who worked on the ranch to return to their own people and homes. The result was that changes had to be made in the way things were run.

The men had been replaced without too much trouble or expense. Additional women had been recruited to serve the men in their own unique feminine way. But to date Marston had been unsuccessful in finding a cook to replace his aboriginal servant. Experienced and skilled cooks preferred to remain in the towns where they were assured of work and renown. Few were willing to venture into the outback to slave over hot ranges under the burning sun for ranch hands with simple tastes and poor palates.

A compromise had been worked out with the women whereby they would take turns producing the meals every day. The result was that the variety of food offered was minimal but edible, and the grumbling of the reluctant chefs was kept within bounds.

Except for Lushy.

Lushy had arrived at the ranch in the same wagon as Quigley and Crazy Cora. Her name was really Lucy but with her strong southern American drawl and her constant state of slight inebriation, it came out sounding like Lushy and so it remained.

While the other women preferred to ignore anything that didn't pertain to themselves, Lushy had expressed a real interest in the workings of the ranch. She asked questions about the animals, listened keenly to the men describe their work and could be relied on to offer personal rewards or consolations commensurate with what kind of day they'd had. That she often forgot what she was told within hours of hearing it, that she gave the sheep and oxen individual pet names like "Sugarball" and "Sweetcakes" and that she referred to the dingoes that preyed on the livestock as "doggies" were admitted by the men but forgiven; they were felt to be small quirks in an otherwise attractive personality.

She was also the only woman who threw herself into the cooking chores. She perused the old cookbooks she found and searched out innovative recipes. She cheerfully spent hours over the range in even the hottest weather, experimenting with different ingredients and flavors. If her talents had approximated even one-tenth of her enthusiasm, the men would have been in culinary paradise.

The crowd of men around the cookhouse door fell back when Marston arrived. They greeted him with silent, pathetic stares. Toby, the ranch foreman, exhaled with unmistakable relief. "She's in there, Boss," he whispered.

"Let me handle this." Marston paused on the threshold. "Keep away from the windows and don't let her see you. We don't want her to get spooked and do something rash."

The men stampeded around the corner of the building in a herd. Marston pushed open the door and entered the cookhouse.

The room was empty except for the half-dressed woman stirring something in a bowl on the worktable, humming to herself. A large pot stood on the range, wafting the wholesome scent of oatmeal on the air. Beside it a large cast iron frying pan filled almost to the brim with lard sizzled and spat evilly.

Lushy looked up with an unfocussed smile. "Mahnin', Mistah Maahr-ston. You lookin' for breakfast?" She groped with one hand along the table and lifted a half-full glass to her lips.

Marston cursed silently. Someone had left the stockroom door unlocked again and allowed Lushy to get her hands on the rum.

"Good morning, Lushy. Are you making something special?" He inched his way to the end of the table and smiled back at her.

"Sho' nuff, sir. Some real down-home fritters." She saluted him with the now empty glass. "Stick to yer ribs lak a mustard plaster."

"That's very thoughtful of you." He strolled along the length of the table. "You take good care of us."

"You bet, sir." She giggled and winked.

The end of the table was within his reach when she suddenly whirled over to the stove, clutching the bowl with one hand. Marston held his breath as she fumbled with the spoon, her sleeve dipping close to the hot fat. At least she'd left her glass behind and there was no sign of a bottle.

"It jest plum breaks mah heart to keep feeding those hard- workin' boys that mush every mahnin'." Lushy dug out a spoonful of batter the size of her fist and held it over the frying pan. "Stuff ain't fit for hawgs back home."

"But the men like it, Lushy." He looked at the large pot out of the corner of one eye. The oatmeal was close to bubbling over. "It's really very good."

"Mistah Maahr-ston, you are in for a real treat." The batter hit the lard with a splat and hissed like a wounded tiger. She leaned over the pan to examine the results. Marston was behind her in two quick strides.

Small flames appeared where dollops of fat had landed on the range. Lushy frowned at them. "Don't want a fire." She reached up to the shelf above and pulled down the missing bottle of rum. "Stuff's mostly water anyway." She threw the contents on the heated surface.

WHUMPFF!

"Well, damn!" Lushy stared open-mouthed at the range. Marston wrapped his arms around her waist and leaped backward.

Catching the back of his knees against the nearest chair, he landed on the floor with Lushy on top of him. He opened his eyes and saw a column of flame rising from the frying pan. Black smoke poured out of the windows and door. On the range the oatmeal gave a loud burp and boiled over the edge of the large pot. Outside the nearest window, a collective groan was heard.

Ten minutes later, Sam Flanagan was shaken out of a troubled sleep by Elliott Marston. She goggled at the bedraggled apparition beside the bed, reeking of smoke, animal fat and rum.

"Miss Flanagan, if you want a job on my ranch, I'm prepared to discuss terms."

The thin sunlight of this cold day filters through tall windows in a long gallery on the topmost floor of Delaford, very much like the gallery that holds the family portraits on display. This area however is warmer, with its southwestern exposure, and contains little to attract any notice--a few small items of furniture that are not wanted anywhere else in the house, some faded old carpets.

Said furniture has been pushed against the walls and the carpets rolled neatly out of the way, as Brandon, now clad in a set of extremely well-tailored whites, deposits his Salamanca and Mary Anne's Aurientine on a table and sets beside them a case of light foils.

The good-natured teasing that had begun in the study continues as they examine the choices of weapons. Foils first, safely blunted for practice; then the sabres. For those, extreme care will be required. Thus, the heavily- padded jackets, the durable gloves, and the protective helmets with a mesh screen that will cover the entire face.

Brandon sneaks an admiring glance at Mary Anne. Her body should appear quite shapeless in the thick and concealing whites. Nevertheless . . . his imagination fills in the outlines more than adequately. A considerable distraction, that.

Mary Anne, meanwhile, considers an Italian foil with an elaborate grip and then turns to wink at Brandon. "I'll try and be more careful this time, sir. You have my word: no pokes in the posterior!"

"I shall hold you to that," retorts Brandon, flushing in spite of himself as he remembers their practice at Safehouse #3. Ah, but then Mary Anne had just begun to come under the influence of THEIR machine . . . remembering how it all ended, he shakes his head.

Mary Anne sees the look, and knows well enough what Brandon must be remembering. "Sir . . . does this distress you? When we . . ." She hesitates. Brandon's duel with her evil self--it must be a terrible memory for him.

Brandon turns and looks at her. "Yes. It is something I do not like to remember, but I cannot permit that to affect me. I am certain that I have not done with fighting, so let us be about it."

After a moment, Mary Anne nods, then sits down to adjust the lacing on her shoes to make certain the fit is correct; it wouldn't do to lose her footing at the wrong moment, especially during the sabre practice.

Brandon watches her for a few minutes, then adds gently: "Have I troubled you, my darling, with all of this discussion of my will this morning? Your response to all of this . . ."

Mary Anne shakes her head. "I just don't like to think of you dying. Especially when we know HE is about somewhere. It seems to bring it all . . . so near."

"With The Interrogator or without HIM, you know that I shall die at some time, and probably before you. It was simply the prudent thing." A pause. "And something you should consider as well, for you will have noticed that I have already transferred some monies for your own use. They are yours now, and you may bequeath them as you please. Have you ever gone about making your own will, Mary Anne?"

Brandon is a little startled at the long shiver that goes through Mary Anne, and her strained reply. "Once. But I'm certain it wouldn't be legal. There were no witnesses, and I . . . didn't have much to leave."

My greatest treasures had always been . . . STOP IT! Don't think about that, Mary Anne! It was long ago . . .

But it is hard not to think of that dreadful afternoon. Her preparations to offer herself to HIM, in exchange for Renie's life . . . the growl of thunder, the darkened sky . . .

Then, as now, HE was so near, so very near . . .

"Mary Anne?"

Mary Anne looks up into Brandon's worried face, then gets to her feet. "Let's get on with it, sir." She forces a smile. "I still owe you for all that down in the study, and I can't wait!"

Brandon returns her smile, choosing not to press the matter. "Very well, Mrs. Brandon, and never say that I did not warn you . . ."

Mary Anne put out her tongue at Brandon before fitting her helmet into place, then setting down the Italian foil in favour of one with a plain domed hilt.

Brandon helps himself to the discarded Italian, checking the balance--and with a nod, fits his own helmet.

The combatants take up their stance facing each other, turned slightly so as to display as little target area as possible. The foils are raised in salute, then dropped.

Brandon's voice, slightly muffled by the protective mask. "En garde."

For some little while, the gallery rings with the metallic clash and hiss and slither of intersecting foils, along with Brandon's occasional instructions and Mary Anne's playful replies.

"Not so much movement, my dearest--"

"Movement? I'll give you movement--"

"Your opponent should not be able to predict the next stroke, that is the point--"

"Speaking of points--" The whisk of a foil tip, pressed against Brandon's jacket.

"Touche', Mary Anne. Very good. But now, try this--"

Mary Anne's response is a mock-scream that is more than half giggles.

So intent is Brandon upon pressing his attack, and Mary Anne in fending it off, that they do not realize they have drawn spectators . . .

Remembering Colin and the Hansbank information she had uncovered, she drove back to her office to call MacGregor. She triumphantly explained what she had found to the U.S. Attorney. MacGregor listened, but limited his enthusiasm to "uh huh," then promised to get back to her about releasing sting documents to the Hansbank. Grace put down the phone somewhat perplexed. She had thought the U.S. Attorney would have been pleased with her discovery. Oh well.

MacGregor called her back within an hour. The government flatly refused to release any sting documents to the Hansbank. "Why not?" she half shouted, shocked that the government would be so secretive when the threat to the Hansbank was so great. "Well," MacGregor dissembled, "if you can figure it out, so can they. Keeping the sting under wraps is more important. Besides, this Gruber guy, he's German, isn't he?"

"The bank is incorporated in Delaware, and according to its last annual report filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission, paid millions in taxes to the U.S. government last year," Grace replied tartly to MacGregor's xenophobic insinuation.

"Well, that's ok, but the sting. . . the sting is our priority. Make sure it's yours, too." MacGregor was all charm this morning, thought Grace. She didn't know about the tongue lashing he had endured from his superior when he had forwarded what he thought was her reasonable request to release documents to the Hansbank. He had been instructed to keep this outside lawyer in check, to watch her carefully, but not told the reason why.

Grace sighed, exasperated, and shifted into her outraged advocate mode, a special tone of voice lawyers use when it would be unproductive to call the other guy a jerk. "I understand your position, Mr. MacGregor. Rest assured the sting is my priority. But I suggest you consider the possible impact not only on the Hansbank, but the rest of the economy, and change your mind. I believe we can trust the Hansbank not to compromise the sting, considering what it has already been through at the hands of the Investors."

"No. The discussion is over, Ms. Alexander. I suggest you forget what you found, permanently. You don't want to find yourself on the wrong end of the government's scrutiny, do you?"

Grace put steel in her voice. "Exactly what are you threatening me with, Mr. MacGregor?"

"Goodbye, Ms. Alexander." MacGregor hung up on her.

Well he knows what the cost of such obedience would be--to both of them.

If I win, I lose.

Yes, he will do whatever is necessary to protect Mary Anne. He has placed his own body between her and the perils that have threatened her, endured torture for her, shed blood for her.

But her spirit is a precious thing to him--stubborn as she can be at times, he will not see her crushed into some mere form of compliance under which the spirit revolts while the flesh submits.

It was all very well, a few moments ago, for him to joke about whether she had become obedient when he suggested the fencing practice. Heaven knows he had never meant for this to happen . . .

This is not the way.

And almost before Mary Anne quite realizes what is happening, Brandon takes her arm and leads her back to her seat. However, instead of taking his own seat as before, Brandon kneels before her chair and looks up into her face.

"We will set aside this talk of commands, and obedience," he says softly. "My dearest, please consider this my humble request to you. With all my heart, I wish to keep you safe. There is no loss of honour for you in it. Please."

Mary Anne is smiling before Brandon finishes, both in relief that a quarrel has been averted and in appreciation for his strategy. Yes, she knows quite well she is being deftly managed; judging from Brandon's look, he realizes that she knows it. But she does not mind in the least, not this time. Give him credit: a lot of them would have just bashed away and insisted that their orders be followed. I have married a very intelligent man . . .

Mary Anne is grinning openly. "On your feet, sir." She takes his hands in hers and tugs at his arms, urging him to stand. "For a man to kneel is all very well if he is proposing--or praying. I'm wary of it any other time--"

"And so you should be." And now Brandon resumes his seat. "Well, Mary Anne?"

"Yes, sir. I will . . . stay put. But I just hate it that there's nothing I can do! I'd be afraid to face HIM, you know that--"

"There is no shame in it. Not for any of us. Especially not for you."

"I know, but I'd hate to think that fear is what's holding me back, that perhaps I'm really relieved to have an excuse for keeping my distance."

Time for Brandon to play his trump card. "Mary Anne, there is an important duty for you to perform."

"Oh?" Suspicious. "And what is that."

"When Therese returns--" WHEN, and not IF. "--she will need help. You know that."

"But I can't give her that help! She'll be a case for Doctor Mesmer, most likely--"

"You misunderstand, my dearest. Yes, perhaps she will need the assistance of Doctor Mesmer, as well as that of the Alliance doctors for whatever--" Brandon's eyes close, then open. Mary Anne shivers at the look in them. "-- injuries she may have sustained. But what may be more helpful to her than any other aid, could be the friendship of one who has suffered just as she has done. You will know, Mary Anne--to the full--exactly what she feels."

"That may be true, but how will it help her?" Mary Anne wrings her hands in distress, trying to block from her mind the idea of what Therese may be enduring at that very moment. Pain. Nightmare terror. Despair.

"It will help," continues Brandon as he captures Mary Anne's fingers in his and strokes them gently, "because she will no longer be alone. That is always the worst of it, is it not? The conviction that no one can understand." A pause. His lips touch her fingers once, lightly. "But you can."

Soothed by Brandon's voice and caresses, Mary Anne looks into his face with wholehearted trust. "I hadn't thought of it, not just that way." A sigh. "All right, then; I'll do my best when the time comes. But if you should find you have to go, Christopher, please be careful." A tiny smile. "Or there go all of my good resolutions. And--" A hesitation. "--I didn't mean to be so quarrelsome."

"And I had no wish to hurt you. Forgive me if I did."

"Forgiven," consents Mary Anne. But then, the sparkle of mischief flares in her eyes. "Now, I seem to recollect an invitation to swordplay. Hmmmm--I may be letting you off far too easily, Christopher! Perhaps I should let my sword speak for me!"

"Done," agrees Brandon, who also brightens at the prospect. "Though it is likely I am being far too lenient with you, as well. I suppose any prospect of real obedience is now completely out of the question--"

"Too right, sir!"

"I thought as much. Well, we shall see." Ominous tones of mock-threat. "I wager I shall have you disarmed and at my mercy within fifteen minutes, and let that be a lesson to you--"

"You have that backwards, and it will be only ten minutes--"

Bantering and laughing together, Mary Anne and Brandon exit the study . . .

"Honour?"

Too agitated now to keep still, Mary Anne rises from her seat and Brandon is on the verge of leaving his: it goes against all of his gentlemanly instincts to remain seated when she stands. But he quiets himself when she impatiently gestures him back.

"Honour?" she exclaims. "Christopher, why is that when men speak of their own honour, it usually involves bloodshed of some sort or other? Or at least doing whatever needs to be done. But you mean something quite different when you speak of a woman's honour." Mary Anne's right hand curls as if fitting itself about the hilt of an invisible sword. "Honour binds women as well as men--is there never a time for a woman to do battle?"

"Yes," replies Brandon.

Mary Anne cannot quite hold back a startled exclamation at this ready agreement. She had not expected it at all.

Brandon's gaze upon her. Strange. Even though he is seated and she stands, he appears . . . tall.

"There is no need to school you in history, Mary Anne. A time for women to do battle . . . yes. And you know their names as well as I: Deborah, Jael, Jeanne D'Arc, Boudicea, Cleopatra. Women who fought, or who helped to plan the battle--and I have no doubt that it was a matter of her honour to every one, to play the part she did. But for you, it is not necessary at this time. And," adds Brandon with a certain grimness that Mary Anne dares not ignore, "none of these women are my wife."

Mary Anne ceases her pacing and stares at him; Brandon gazes back. The room is still.

"So," breathes Mary Anne, "a . . . command, is that it?"

"You did promise to obey."

" ' . . . to love, honour, and obey.' I always thought it meant something, that obedience is last," retorts Mary Anne. "Especially if it is contrary to all love and honour to do so!"

And now Brandon does rise from his seat but Mary Anne stands her ground, remembering when such an approach from him would have turned her faint with dread. Brandon, however, does not touch her--merely stands and gazes at her, his arms folded across his chest.

"Mary Anne."

So quietly.

"If I gave you a command, would you obey me? Or was it just words--you liked the form of the vow, and so you left it as it was?"

"Oooooh," exclaims Mary Anne, stung almost to tears. But she rallies, lifting her chin and returning him look for look. "If you must know, sir, I left it that way because I knew--I . . . trusted . . ."

Her voices trembles. Let it.

" . . . that, knowing me as you do . . . if you saw fit to give me a command, it would be out of great need. An emergency. And I would obey, because it would most likely be wise for me to do so." She swallows. "So . . . yes. If you command me in this, I'll obey you." She has her voice under control now, and the words are slow, evenly spaced. "I meant every word I said."

He thought about the events of the evening. Up until now his life had been free of beautiful young women who burst into tears in his parlor. He was not sure he welcomed the innovation.

************************************************************

Sam had wept for some time. He sat like a statue, waiting for the storm to subside, trying to think of something to say that would comfort an unknown and grievous affliction. Finally, she swiped her hand across her eyes and sniffed.

"He might as well be dead, sir. He suffered a stroke a few months ago. He just lies in bed, getting weaker..." She faltered, gesturing with her hand to cover the momentary lapse. "He can barely talk. We have to feed him like a baby."

"I'm sorry." He handed her his handkerchief. It seemed as inadequate as his words.

She dabbed her eyes with the cloth. "It was pretty touch and go for a while. The doctor said he had too much fight in him to give up in the first round. But he's getting better."

It seemed important to her that he acknowledge this, so he nodded in an encouraging manner.

"Every day he's a little stronger. The doctor said not but we can see it." The handkerchief was balled up in one clenched fist. "Dad had just finished a job for the bank so we had some money to get by. But the money didn't last. Liam is twelve and old enough to get some work in the livery stables. I did some sewing for ladies and we moved to cheaper rooms. But it wasn't enough."

She rose to her feet and paced the carpet. "That's why your letter was the answer to our prayers. Just out of the blue like that." At the end of the room she turned and stared back anxiously. "Did you really mean it? Thirty gold pieces a month for twelve months?"

"Yes, I meant it." The whiskey decanter on the table sparkled in the firelight and he rose to refill his glass.

The heels of her boots rapped quickly across the floorboards. "I can do it, Mr. Marston. Whatever work you wanted my father to do, I can do it. He taught all of us to shoot. I learned everything from him." She stopped when she reached his side. "Please, Mr. Marston, give me this job. I need it."

The whiskey gurgled into his glass. He replaced the stopper with great care. "It's no kind of work for a woman." Leaving a desperate silence behind him, he walked back to his chair.

************************************************************

His cigar had gone out. The sound of footsteps crunching over gravel distracted him from his search for a match.

"Evening, Boss." A darker shadow paused in the gloom. "Takin' some air?"

Marston peered into the gloom. "Fred? What are you doing up?"

"Just too tired to sleep, I reckon." The shadow came closer and assumed the shape and features of a worker on a sheep ranch. "That trip gets longer and harder every time I make it."

"You're getting old, Fred. Time I put you out to pasture."

Silence fell between them and joined the night around them. Marston relit his cigar.

"What the hell were you thinking of?" He said finally.

"Boss, weren't no way that woman was stayin' behind in town. She pulled a gun on Jack when we wouldn't take her in the wagon." Fred spat into the darkness. It was a gesture redolent of contempt for women who didn't know their place in life.

"So you brought her here."

"Well, we figured she'd have to take it from you." The sheep worker propped one foot on the bench. "If you tell her she ain't hired, there's nuthin' she kin do about it."

"Mmmm." Marston let the remark pass.

"You told her yet?"

"Oh, several times. But she's stubborn." Marston exhaled a chestful of smoke with a deep sigh. "And desperate."

"What are you gonna do? Beggin' yer pardon, sir." Fred hazarded a quick look, then spat again quickly, lest he be thought to be too interested in the answer.

Marston stood up suddenly and threw his cigar away. "Right now I'm going to turn in. And I'd advise you to do the same." There was a faint hissing sound as it landed in the oxen's water trough.

"Yes, sir." The man's chagrin was apparent even in the dark. "Night, then."

Marston nodded. He walked back to the house and entered the main room through the carved front door. Walking with gentle steps down the main hallway, he stopped halfway and cocked an ear. His precautions were unnecessary; his guest was still awake.

She had not yet succeeded in crying herself to sleep.

Therese remained on the floor where HE had dropped her for long moments after HIS departure, allowing her head to clear and her strength to return. Slowly, carefully, she staggered to her feet, testing her limbs carefully to insure that each appendage was capable of bearing weight once more. When she finally stood again, she headed straight for the pitcher on the tiny end table along the far wall.

Peering into it cautiously, Therese's only thought was for water. She had never known such thirst, and craved liquid with a desire of she had not believed herself capable. The container held barely two inches of fluid, and bubbles of carbonation were apparant at the top. The only other object on the table was a small square of white fabric, and taking this, Therese dipped it gingerly into the wetness, ignoring the part of her brain which clammoured for her to DRINK IT! DRINK IT!!

She held the dampened cloth under her nose, a familiar, almost metalic scent emenating from the material. She wanted to cry. It was definitely not water. She gingerly dipped a finger into the pitcher, and drew it to her lips, her mouth puckering involuntarily at the strong flavour. Peroxide. Quite helpful at cleansing cuts and scrapes, but wholely undrinkable. Therese fought back the urge to weep, and immersing the towel, began to bathe her wounds.

When she had finished, Therese prowled the room, inspecting it, one inch at a time. The bed was a simple, single cot, with each leg bolted to the floor. A thin matress covered the mesh surface of the frame, and a sheet lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed. The little night table which held the pitcher was similarly secured, leaving the only movable object in the room as the pitcher itself. Picking it up, Therese gauged its weight, and sighed. It was of the lightest plastic, and would in no way serve as a weapon.

Checking the floor, walls, and doorway one final time, Therese forced herself to lie on the cot and relax. She remained there, her entire body rigid, thoughts swirling, and cursed HIS very name.

Marston shifted in his chair. "I'm glad you like it, Miss Flanagan." With an effort he managed not to gulp his own drink.

It had taken most of two hours but the shock had eventually worn off. There had been an unspoken agreement between them not to discuss the situation until after dinner. The result was one of the most enjoyable meals he had ever experienced. But now he wanted answers from his very unexpected guest.

His initial impression remained unchanged. She was a very attractive young woman in her mid-twenties. When she returned from washing up before dinner, he saw that her hair was even more golden without a layer of dust from the trip. Her personality was vivacious, her smile charming. The only sign that she was less than fully confident of her reception was the strained look in her eyes.

After a minute examination of the carved mantel over the fireplace, she faced him directly. "I suppose I owe you an explanation, don't I?"

He set his glass down on the table with a bit more force than he intended. "You owe me nothing. I would never demand anything from such a charming guest." He leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him. "However -" He cocked an eyebrow in her direction. "- just to satisfy my own curiosity, you understand - is your name really Sam?"

Her dimples appeared briefly. "Yes. Dad was so sure I was going to be a boy that he told everyone he knew that I would be his namesake. Then when I was born he didn't want to go back on his word."

In spite of himself, he smiled back. "A man of his word, indeed."

"Of course, when the boys were born, he kicked himself for giving away the 'best' name." Her ponytail bounced in the air when she laughed.

The atmosphere in the room was lighter now. Marston made his move. "You don't have to give me an explanation. I am the richer for our acquaintance. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself so much over a meal." He walked over to the sideboard and opened a box on the top. After selecting a cigar and rolling it between his fingers, he strolled back to his chair. "I'll miss it when you go back to Freemantle next week."

"I thought the work would take longer than that. In your letter you offered a twelve-month contract." Her fingers clutched her now empty glass. "You are very hard on your employees."

"You are not my employee." He leaned forward and lit his cigar at the nearest candle. "I did not hire you."

"You hired Sam Flanagan to come out here and take on a job for you." She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "That's what it says in the letter you sent me. I have it right here."

He swallowed and gripped his cigar tighter. It was hard to believe that she was wearing the same sort of linen shirt he wore for working outside. He had never noticed before that they were so roomy in the front.

"Miss Flanagan, I sent that letter to a man with an established reputation as an armed security agent. This.." He struggled for the word. "..substitution is not acceptable to me." He picked up his glass and drained it.

"You sent that letter to a man who no longer exists." Sam looked away from him to the fire.

"He's dead?" Marston frowned.

"May God forgive me, sometimes I wish that were true." Her head fell forward into her hands and her shoulders shook with sobs.

The wagons were already three days late. He would have a reckoning from his men about the delay. That was how he ran things on Marston Ranch: he would be in total control of his domain and woe betide any man who thought differently.

Of course, one man had thought differently and very recently, too. Marston scowled. Just the thought of Quigley could ruin his day and he was determined to be in a good mood today to greet his new guest.

Not that Quigley had had everything his own way. His mood lightened a bit at the memory. As if he would give a man a gun with real bullets in the chamber; the idea was laughable. The first two bullets were the real things; the others were blanks. It was a pity about his two men; he made a mental note to let the sheep loose on their graves to make sure the grass was trimmed.

No, he had to be honest with himself. The Quigley episode was not one he could look back on with pride. But that was in the past now. The only thing that really mattered was the future. And the resumption of his plans.

A slight movement caught his eye. He leaned forward and peered at the horizon. Yes, there it was again. The wagons had arrived.

He turned and rushed down the back slope of the hill where the incline wasn't as steep. Reaching his horse in a cloud of red dust, for once not caring how disheveled his appearance would be as a result, Marston swung himself into the saddle. Grinning from ear to ear, he spurred his horse forward and headed for his ranch.

The oxen were ponderous and the wagons slow; he had plenty of time to repair the ravages of the dust. He waited on his porch as the newcomers entered the gates. A sudden memory of greeting Matthew Quigley on a similar day came into his head; ruthlessly he banished the image.

The wagons pulled to a halt. Marston rushed across the yard. Fred and Jack looked at him, nodding their heads in greeting. He gave them the barest nod in return, his attention focussed on the back of the lead wagon. Had he been more observant, he would have seen that they looked nervous.

The sun was in his eyes again as he came to a halt. "Welcome! Welcome to Marston Ranch." He squinted and reached out a hand in greeting. "I'm glad you've finally arrived."

A figure in the back of the wagon sat up, a dark silhouette against the sun. It stood up then jumped to the ground. To his surprise, Marston found himself looking down into the other's face.

He shifted his position to get a look at the features of the newcomer. Long blonde hair, tied back in a sweeping ponytail, vivid blue eyes like the sky after a winter rain, a curvaceous figure in denims and a linen shirt: for a moment the shock rendered him speechless.

"You…" he croaked. Clearing his throat he tried again. "You're…Sam Flanagan?!?!"

"Yes, I am." She had a beautiful smile, with dimples in both cheeks.

"The gunslinger!?!?!"

"Well, no. Actually, that's Dad. I have to explain about that." She reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out a thick bedroll, slinging it over one shoulder. "Could we discuss this somewhere there's more shade?"

"Uh, yes, of course." He could not seem to stop blinking. "Right this way. Er, dinner is almost ready."

She adjusted the bedroll so that it was easier to carry. With a smile at the men still sitting motionless at the front of the wagon, she headed for the double doors of the house.

Fred and Jack watched the rancher and the lady disappear into the house. Fred tilted his hat back and whistled low. "Boy, I would surely like to be a fly on the wall at that dinner."

Jack nodded. "The Boss is in for an interesting evening."

Dr. Dubois picks up the story here. "I performed the analysis myself. The test was positive. -- We assume that he had some kind of contact with The Interrogator and that HE found cause to help Lord Nottingham."

Andrea shakes her head as the thoughts whirl around inside. "HE was searching for George when HE confronted me." She raises a hand to her cheek and touches the bruise, where HE struck her.

Dot tacks on an epilog. "Lord Nottingham was not happy to hear us dismiss his defense. No doubt, he and his attorney have concocted a new, even more preposterous defense. You must be ready for anything."

While Andrea ponders how she is supposed to prepare for "anything," there is a knock on the door. Dot answers it and admits Hamlet into the room. The AR soldier is glad to see him. "The Alliance is short-handed at the moment, dealing with -- other matters. I could use your help to keep the meeting with Lord Nottingham under control."

"Yes." But I won't change my mind.

"First . . . perhaps the Commander will not ask for my assistance."

"Perhaps?" Mary Anne raises an eyebrow. "You know what she's like about the prospect of civilian casualties. In fact, Sifuentes told me that she's determined to avoid having any."

"And she is absolutely right. However, she is also an officer who makes good use of the resources at hand--and without taking too much upon myself--" Brandon's lips curve in a slight smile. "--I am a resource that could be useful to her. I do not fit precisely into her definition as a civilian--"

"By a civilian," protests Mary Anne, "she would mean anyone who is not a member of the Alliance."

"Fair enough. But I know this area, and have been trained to fight, and--" The slightest hesitation. "--I have encountered The Interrogator . . . upon this ground before."

"I thought you said you did not remember much about . . . that time during the picnic."

"I do not." Brandon shudders. "Thanks be to God I do not. What little I do remember . . ." Brandon is silent for a time. "Enough of that. At any rate, the Commander may overcome her distaste for civilian participation in this case. To put it bluntly, if she thinks it improves her chances of getting at The Interrogator, her concern for me may very well go by the board."

"Then she can set aside her concern for me as well--"

Brandon raises his hand to stop her. "Wait. There is more. Mary Anne, what would say are the chances of keeping Mister de Valera from taking part in the next search?"

A humourless smile from Mary Anne. "Slim to none, I'd say. Unless Hudson has him knocked unconscious and chained to a wall, Dev is going to follow the search. With or without permission."

"Exactly. I may be able to keep him alive, if I am present. Because I have been in exactly the same circumstances--"

Mary Anne colours at the stress on "exactly." Yes, Christopher, you have. What you've suffered on my account . . .

"--he may listen to me, where he would not to anyone else. And there would be a far better chance of all of us getting out alive, my dearest, if . . . I knew you were safe here at Delaford."

"How safe is Delaford, Christopher, if HE got in during the wedding?"

Brandon winces. A definite point, that.

"I doubt HE will try that again, now that the advantage of surprise is gone. HE will know that we are on the watch for him. And there is another matter to consider." A pause. "If I thought I could, in any way, lend my assistance, and I did not--" Brandon looks entreatingly into Mary Anne's face. "That--that monster has in HIS power a woman, one who is new to The Realm, one who--for all her courage and spirit--cannot possibly match HIM in strength. I do not have to tell you what it will be like for her."

Mary Anne blanches. "No. If anyone knows, I do."

"If I left her to The Interrogator--my dearest, I could never look you or any other woman in the face again. I could not live with myself. Tell me truthfully, Mary Anne: could you love a man with so little honour as that?"

Brandon chuckles at Mary Anne's retort, but before he can lead her from the room she puts up a hand to stop him and steps away from him a little, where he can see her face clearly.

"One moment, sir."

"Yes?"

"I want you to know--I'll do that very thing, pull out that armour and come after you with the sword, or any other weapon I can get my hands on, if you have any ideas about taking off with the next search party and looking for HIM."

Brandon's expression changes: no more amusement now.

"I mean it, sir!" cries Mary Anne, as Brandon prepares to speak. "I won't leave you to face The Interrogator alone; I'll tell you that much right now!" Without waiting for any reply, she presses the attack. "Maybe that's why you're settling all this business with the will? Because you're about to put yourself in danger, is that it? Everything all tidied away, just in case--"

"Mary Anne, please--"

"--and the grieving widow nicely taken care of, to be a target for every fortune hunter in England? And a few from the Continent, I shouldn't wonder. Valmont would probably be first in line, if it came to that. I won't, I tell you--"

"Mary Anne."

She subsides into stillness. Well, almost. Flushed and breathing hard. Brandon can read in every line of her body the determination--and behind it, the deadly fear. There is probably nothing she dreads so much as another confrontation with The Interrogator. But she is prepared to brave even that . . .

Brandon's breath catches. It is a moment before he can say--more gently, this time--"Mary Anne." And move close to her once more, lead her to a chair, and seat himself on the ottoman before her, holding her hands.

She is not used to it yet. His touch . . . I thought I desired him before, thought I die of longing all those times we had to walk away from each other in the evening . . . I didn't know anything then! All of that yearning was no more than one taste. One drop of water. One candle burning in the dark.

And even when he does not touch her, such a look as he is giving her now. Tender and respectful--he intends to hear her and take her seriously, but he means for her to listen, as well. Intent. Forceful. Not to be turned from his purposes.

Such a look as I can hardly meet. Do you not know it, my dearest? I am defenseless before you, naked to my inmost heart. Deal kindly with me, Christopher, for I do love you so.

And it is because she loves Brandon and has purposes of her own, that Mary Anne raises her eyes to his and forces herself to return his searching gaze . . .

Grace took his face in both her hands and looked at him intently. "I'm happy with the way things are. Don't doubt that for a minute. One of these days, that might be a good idea, but now isn't the time and Joy isn't the reason." Diplomatic, no. But straightforward, yes. Grace knew she was a complete failure as a "Rules" girl. She also knew that she was taking a huge gamble; Hart was capable of walking out the door permanently if his pride was injured by her refusal. Men were so funny that way.

Instead, he pulled her onto his lap and cradled her against his chest. "I suppose I thought you wouldn't be interested in me if you knew I was married." He had thought no such thing, but believed she wanted to hear it.

"Who knows? I'd like to think I wouldn't sleep with another woman's husband, but love makes you do things you never thought you would," she answered. Hart allowed himself a half smile. He was counting on it.

Grace snuggled closer against his chest. Time to get off this awkward subject of marriage. It had always made her uncomfortable. "Do you have to leave right away?"

"As soon as I can. I just had to find you first." Hart breathed the words into her damp hair, his eyes closed, emotion he couldn't completely subdue making his voice a whisper.

"I'll miss you, but I'll be swamped with work. You would have barely seen me even if you were here." He knew she was trying to make him feel better about leaving. He kissed her quickly on the forehead, trying to tell her she didn't need to try so hard.

She started to tell him about the Hansbank and the Investors, but changed her mind. Not that she didn't trust him with the information, but she was sure any discussion of the Hansbank would remind him of his conviction and time in prison. She decided to skip it, along with the awkward subject of her accidental evening with Colin Molyneux, who was surely no friend of Hart's.

Perfectly content, Grace silently curled against him, holding tight, for as long as he would stay.