Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

Several hours later, Colin waited patiently for Hans to finish reviewing the slender file he had compiled on Grace and the massive trade in Hansbank stock. Through his network of investigators and informers, Colin had identified five stock brokers who handled the sales that were driving down the price of Hansbank stock. Hans put the papers down and shoved them across the polished desk top to Colin. It was too neat, too complete, though Hans. And too vague as to the motivations of the too-squeaky clean Ms. Alexander. Hans steepled his fingers and looked hard at Colin. Must I suspect everyone now? Even Colin? Hans quickly pushed the idea from his mind. He knew Colin was loyal, above reproach. But. . . with the very future of the Hansbank on the line, could he afford to overlook any suspect?

Colin knew his report was accurate. He had identified the five stock brokers through his network of investigators and informants. Four were undoubtedly working for the Investors -- from records left over from the attempted virtual crash of the Hansbank by Hart and the Investors, he had linked four of the five brokers back to individual Investors. The fifth trader he couldn't place yet, but he was sure it was just a matter of time before he could trace that broker, someone named Abbott Merisel, to another of the Investors. On paper, Merisel looked like an unsavory character, an ex-convict who had been released from federal prison over a year ago. He had never been a stock broker before, but had mysteriously acquired a license within weeks of his release from prison. His brokerage statements listed a Beverly Hills address not far from the Hansbank.

Colin had thought Hans would be pleased. But Hans' face was set in harsh lines, his penetrating stare trained directly on Colin as if he were trying to read his mind. Hans quickly calculated risks, weighing what he knew against what he didn't. His mind made up, he decided to gamble. "Find Abbot Merisel. I don't care how. But I suggest you start with Ms. Alexander."

Colin was mildly surprised. While he doubted Grace was involved in the trading scheme, Hans was clearly undecided. Colin wanted to ask why he would put his trust in her. Hans answered his unasked question. "It's not that I trust her. But she will either lead us to Merisel, or reveal herself in the process. We cannot lose either way." As usual, Hans had cut to the heart of the matter.

Colin excused himself to contact Grace. It would not matter to Hans that Colin had given his word to her that he would not involve her further, nor would he bore Hans with such a detail. Colin knew to whom he owed his loyalty.

"Put those hands up where I can see them. Back away from the door."

Marston obeyed slowly and turned around. And blinked in surprise.

The gunman was a youth, not much more than a boy. Large blue eyes watched warily and a lock of blond hair fell over his brow. But there was nothing boyish about the weapon in his hand or the confidence with which he held it.

"Now you just go right back downstairs and wait in the parlour for somebody else." The boy pointed to the stairs with a quick jerk of the gun. "There's nothing in that room you want."

"I have reason to believe otherwise." Marston looked over the boy's head. "Don't worry. I can handle this."

The young gunman turned his head and looked over his shoulder. Immediately Marston reached for his arm, gave his wrist a fierce twist and caught the gun as it fell from the boy's grasp. Then he backed up.

"OWWW!"

The door opened suddenly and Sam appeared in the hall. Her gaze swept from the boy to Marston and back again. "Are you all right?" Then she whirled on her employer. "What did you do to him?"

"I taught him that it's not nice to point guns at people." He felt his patience start to slip. "Why don't you introduce us?"

"He was about to go into Dad's room." The boy was glaring at him with great dislike from a safe position behind Sam. "I stopped him." A brief smile flickered across his face. "You should have seen him jump when I stuck the gun in his back."

Sam ignored this observation. "Mr. Marston, this is my brother Liam." Her tone was formal and precise. "Liam, this is Mr. Marston, the man I work for."

Liam looked Marston over with a critical eye. The rancher reciprocated. Aside from sharing the same color of hair and eyes, the two siblings were not at all similar. The boy was husky and his complexion was ruddier than Sam's with freckles sprinkled over his nose and cheeks.

The weight of the gun in his hand reminded him of their shared familiarity with weapons. An interesting family, he thought. He wondered if his children would inherit the same skill from her.

"I'm sorry I've kept you waiting, sir." The smile she directed at him was not reflected in her eyes. "If you'll just go back to the parlor, I'll be down soon."

Marston met her gaze for a moment. "No."

Her face threatened to crumple; she was blinking rapidly and her lip trembled. "Please."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "Sam, whatever it is, I can help. Please trust me –"

A sharp pain in his leg interrupted him. The boy had kicked him. "Let her go!"

"Liam, don't do that!" Sam found a new outlet for her feelings. "This doesn't concern you!"

"Yes it does! You always treat me like a kid!" Scowling aggressively, Liam didn't take his eyes off Marston. "I'm almost grown up. And if it concerns the family, it concerns me."

A door opened down the hall and a female head popped out of a room. "What's going on? Is it time for work yet?"

Sam muttered something under her breath and pulled the two males into the room behind her. She shut the door firmly and sagged against it, looking up at Marston with an angry expression.

He smiled at her and then looked around. It was quite crowded. A large bed took up most of the far wall; a man was lying on it under several blankets despite the warmth of the evening. A truckle bed had been rolled into the middle of the room and prepared for the night.

Aside from Liam, now sitting on a chair in the corner and still glaring at him, the room also contained two young boys. One stood beside the prone man, staring at the newcomer by the door. The youngest stood in his nightshirt, his thumb in his mouth. As Marston watched, he ran across the room to Sam and burrowed his head into her side.

"Mr. Marston, this is my brother Niall." The boy beside the bed nodded once. "And this is Conn." She ruffled the hair of the child beside her. He shook his head and didn't look up. "And this is my father, Sam Flanagan. I think I explained to you that he stays in bed."

Marston walked across the room. Niall stood his ground then stepped back at the last moment. The rancher looked down at the bed and stretched out his hand.

The man in the bed was haggard and emaciated. His breath came in shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling quickly in a way that was almost painful to watch. His skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones and nose. His face was pulled down on one side and saliva ran from the corner of his mouth. A faint aroma of medicine and strong soap pervaded the air.

Only when Marston looked at his eyes, did he see the any sign of the man who once inhabited the tall body, now gone forever. The eyes were clear and blue, and the gaze was focussed and sharp as it examined the newcomer.

For a moment the two men gazed at each other.

Commander Hudson lifts her hands briefly to quiet the exclamations that follow her story. "And that," she finishes, "is where we believe The Interrogator is holding Therese."

"The caverns of the West Wood," murmurs Brandon, prompting Mary Anne to glance at him uneasily. His voice, thick and strained . . . his eyes . . . could the illness that struck the Willoughbys be appearing at Delaford? But with a second look, Mary Anne reassures herself that Brandon could not be feverish, not with those traces of moisture on his face. But his eyes trouble her. When has she seen them look like that--?

Brandon sips water, clears his throat, and continues. "I should have thought of it," he muses. "Anyone who has grown up here avoids the West Wood on principle; it is a name of terror. Even the gamekeepers stay at the borders and do not go any further toward the centre than they can help--"

"Why should that be?" asks Dev, who is at the edge of his seat with impatience. Now, now he has some idea of where to find Therese!

"Because," replies Brandon, "it was at one time a haunt for brigands of every description: highwaymen--"

Mary Anne cannot help smiling to herself, just a little.

Brandon, however, is serious. "-- smugglers, and the like. There were times when people were curious and ventured into the wood, and never came forth again. Naturally, this gave rise to all sorts of tales. And such disppearances are still known to happen."

McCoy nods. "Now we have some idea of why, if HE has set up shop in there. Or any of HIS people."

Hudson unfolds a map and spreads it on the table. "Thanks to Willoughby, we may be able to stop any more 'disappearances' like that. He very kindly provided this map and explained the route to the caves--"

Brandon frowns. "And how is Mr. Willoughby so conversant with such matters?"

Hudson looks a little uncomfortable. "It seems," she explains, "that there are still occasional, ah, activities in the West Wood that are less than legal--or there were, as recently as a few years back. Willoughby admitted that at one time he was in debt and, to recoup some of his losses, he . . . assisted in a few smuggling operations."

Brandon does not appear to be surprised, but nods to himself as if this confirmed some suspicion. As for Mary Anne, she says nothing but simply stares down at the table, thinking of the John Willoughby she has known, shocked that he could have been involved in anything of the sort. But she understands that people can be driven by desperation to perform what their friends would not believe of them.

Hudson is speaking again. "--stopped as soon as his losses were recovered, but he was afraid he would be killed if he spoke of it. So he hasn't until now." Hudson smiles grimly. "I believe he thought he might die of his illness, and he didn't want that on his conscience."

Dev speaks up now, leaning forward in his chair. "Well, so much for Mister Willoughby's pecadilloes; the important thing is that we know where to find Therese! Why are we sitting here?"

"One moment, Mister de Valera," puts in Looey. "We don't know at all whether Therese is there--it's simply a place to start. And if The Interrogator is keeping her there, the advantage is all HIS. HE knows his way about those caverns; Willoughby could only tell us a little bit about them from the few times he'd been in the woods."

"However," puts in Brandon, "he knew enough to find me and get me safely away, when The Interrogator captured me at the picnic, here."

It seems to Mary Anne that Brandon is looking a little more like himself now, that strange flush receding from his face, his manner more calm and focused--though something about his eyes still bothers her. without her being able to tell exactly what it is.

She shivers a little. How many times has she had the thought, since Therese was first attacked on her ride, that The Interrogator has been near, so near? Nearer than she had believed. Shadows of the past fall across her, blacker than ever: nightmare hours in rooms with no windows, where a victim cannot tell day from night. HIS offices; the dungeon beneath the Manor House in Egdon; the cellar of Safehouse #3 . . .

It's like HIM. Underground, away from the air and sun.

HE is closer to Hell that way!

With an effort, Mary Anne turns her attention to Hudson, who is explaining, "Exactly, Colonel. Willoughby explained to me how he found you; that gives us a starting route." Hudson settles back in her chair with an expression of grim satisfaction. "And I have already spoken to Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart at UNIT, about reinforcements. Even as we speak, there is a task force from UNIT converging on this area in a giant circle that I doubt a rabbit could slip through. I wouldn't put it past the Brigadier to put in a call to The Empress as well and request assistance from the Imperial Guard if he thinks it may be necessary. At any rate, we are going to find Therese--and we are going to trap The Interrogator." Softly. "This time, HE will find it very difficult to escape."

Mary Anne looks over at Dev to see how he receives this news and gives a soft start of dismay at the look on his face.

But Dev is not looking at her. His attention is fixed upon Hudson, who is taken aback at such scrutiny herself, but returns it without flinching. Which is more than I could do, thinks Mary Anne. For Eamon de Valera, in the severity of his dark suit and white shirt, is nemesis incarnate as he regards the Commander, then reaches up and adjusts his spectacles. There is a quick flash of light on glass, and then he lowers his hand to the table, fingers curled into a fist.

His voice. Cold and remote. "We must be certain--"

Implacable. As his fist beats softly against the wood, emphasizing every syllable.

"--to take . . . HIM . . . alive."

HE plucks the key from Andrea's open hand and pockets it in HIS trousers. "You know where it is if you want to come get it."

"Mmm." Andrea is distracted and cannot manage a suggestive response, as she did when she first heard that line. Floundering in a sea of conflicting desires, she needs a navigator.

"I'll take care of everything. You don't even have to think." It's better if you don't think. HE begins unbuttoning her blouse but stops when Andrea grabs HIS hands to fight HIM. HE looks into her eyes and sees near-panic. In a soothing voice, HE instructs her. "There is a fine line between fear and excitement. By trusting me, you can cross over that line. -- Come with me."

Andrea allows herself to be led to the table. Spun around to face HIM again, she searches HIS eyes for reassurance.

"No, thank you. I'm fine." Elliott Marston, calling upon years of experience dealing with lawyers and army officers, hid behind his most charming smile and strained to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

The inside of the house was not much of an improvement over the exterior. Sateen wallpaper in lurid sunset hues adorned the walls. Large pieces of overstuffed furniture were beached in the two parlors like sea monsters caught on shore. The lights were dim and hidden under pink shades, giving occupants the feeling they were floating through a rosy mist.

"It's going to do old Sam a world of good to see young Sam again." Belle giggled. "Sounds kind of silly when you say it out loud."

The proprietress of the establishment beamed at Marston. From the moment she opened the front door and found her visitors, she had alternated between smiling and weeping. Sam had been enveloped in a hug and cried over like a lost kitten, then pushed up the ornately carved staircase. Pulling out a frothy lace hanky and dabbing her eyes, Belle had then swept Marston into the front parlor for refreshments.

"I'm sure they're enjoying their reunion." Marston cocked an ear and tried not to look desperate.

"It's purely a wonder those boys are staying so quiet." Belle chuckled.

"Boys?" He looked around, startled.

"Those little brothers of hers." The lace hanky waved in the direction of the ceiling. "Little hellions, they are. But then, bless 'em, they don't mean no harm."

Marston retreated behind his drink. Sam had mentioned brothers a couple of times but he'd assumed they were only a few years younger than she was. He'd never considered there would be children in her life.

He probed cautiously. "Do they visit their father often?"

The hostess looked up from checking the level of whiskey in the bottle and stared at him. "Why, they live here! What did you- " A monstrous knocking interrupted her and she flew to the hall to answer the door.

Marston put his glass down and strode to the staircase. Belle was having a business discussion with a group of men. Under the cover of her high-pitched shriek of laughter, he ran lightly up the stairs.

The second floor hallway was an improvement over the first: obviously the unknown decorator had exhausted his creative energy below. Upstairs he had confined himself to splashes of gold paint on the wood paneling and oversized paintings of nude women at the top of the stairs.

There were several doors along the hall. Marston tread softly on the worn rug and paused occasionally to listen. He paused outside the last room where a soft murmur of voices could be heard and considered his next step.

He had no wish to interrupt what was probably an emotional reunion. Sam would not thank him for intruding. But the conviction had been growing since their conversation on the street that he had to remove the older Flanagan from this place and take him to a place where he could be properly cared for. Belle's casual announcement about the rest of the family being residents of this place as well simply capped his determination.

He had the resources to make life easier for her family and he was going to do it. She would see the reason behind his actions soon enough. Or at least he hoped she would.

Squaring his shoulders, he raised one hand to rap on the door while reaching for the knob with the other. A hard piece of metal suddenly poked him in the back and a soft voice whispered behind him.

"Touch that knob, mister, and it's the last thing you'll do. I got six bullets and at this range I won't miss."

To answer your prior questions ..

The FOF character of "Charlie" was based entirely on the actress Nancy Travis (i.e. the bouncy curls, the sunny persona, the easy-going nature, etc). If I could have cast anyone in that role, it would have been her. She is my Charlie through and through.

Anyway, Nancy is the one appearing in the new CBS show entitled Work With Me. She plays Julie Betters (1/2 of a married team of lawyers who, via unexpected turns in life, end up working together at the same firm). It's being billed as a sitcom, and I've not seen it yet (only snips and clips) so I have no idea of the overall quality of the program or its comedic value as a sitcom.

Andrea does not have a chance to react to HIS touch before HE withdraws. The warmth of HIS body, the scent of HIS cologne, and the taste of HIS tongue all fade to memories. Her head spins as she sorts through what HE has told her. "You said that you had plans?"

HE continues to hold her fist, which clutches the key. "Yes. There is still the matter of finding your ticklish spot. I have mapped out a course to explore every inch of your body and locate this treasure."

Andrea shivers.

HE takes hold of her other hand and raises both to the height of HIS chest. Bowing HIS head, HE examines the wrists closely in the dim light. "A slight bruise, nothing more. I would not have injured you seriously. I will not damage you. The Director would have my head if you were unable to report to the set for work."

Andrea giggles nervously at this last comment. She had been enjoying herself with HIM, until she freaked about HIS breaking into her trailer. Was it really such a big deal? Does she really have cause to be angry or afraid?

Usually so quiet, the library is humming with voices when Mary Anne enters. She is spotted first by Joanna McCoy, who calls out to her, "Mary Anne! You're looking very well."

"More well than I feel," replies Mary Anne as she draws near. "With everything that's happened. You know all about it, of course."

"Of course."

"How are things at the Willoughbys'?"

McCoy shakes her head. "They'll all be fine, but none of them will feel quite right for a while. Nasty strain of the flu--one of those that makes you feel as if you're going to die, even if you aren't. It hit Mr. Willoughby very hard, because he'd exhausted himself caring for Mrs. Willoughby and his son."

"I understand, though, that he was still able to talk to the Commander?"

"Oh, yes." Joanna suddenly looks uncomfortable. "But she'll tell you all about that."

And now Hudson herself joins them, flanked by Looey and Sifuentes. After the exchange of greetings, Mary Anne--noting that Brandon is nowhere to be seen in the library--turns to Sifuentes and asks, "Have you seen the Colonel? You were still with him when I left the gallery."

Scout thinks. "We spoke together for a few minutes after you--" A hint of a smile. "--left."

Mary Anne glances anxiously about the room. Ah, there's Dev, in the armchair near the fireplace.

Sifuentes continues. "It wasn't long, and then he left; he said he needed to prepare for this meeting, and so did I--"

"I can't imagine what's keeping him--" wonders Mary Anne . . . and at that moment, Brandon enters the library, having changed out of his whites into his everyday clothes and looking quite his usual self.

His usual self, as far as clothing goes. McCoy turns her professional eye upon him and then comments to Mary Anne in a low voice, "The Colonel hasn't been ill, too, has he?"

Mary Anne glances at her husband. "No, not at all." Puzzled. "In fact, we just had some fencing practice. Quite well, Joanna, I assure you!"

"Hmmmm." McCoy seems unconvinced. "Just the aftereffects of the exercise, I suppose, if that's what he's been doing." She ponders for a moment, then shrugs. "Just keep an eye on him. You wouldn't want that flu to show up here at Delaford."

And now Brandon has spotted Mary Anne and moves toward her, even as Hudson raises her voice above the hum of conversation and asks, "If everyone would have a seat, please?"

Brandon's hand closes upon Mary Anne's arm, to escort her to a chair.

Startled at the warmth and force of the grip, Mary Anne looks up into her husband's face, and Brandon's hold loosens at once. "Forgive me, my dear." A smile. "After holding a sword for so long--"

Hesitantly, Mary Anne returns the smile.

Brandon's face . . . flushed. But their practice had been quite strenuous, and he has probably just cleaned himself up in their chambers; perhaps that explains the trace of moisture on his brow. And his eyes . . . huge, dark . . .

She is distracted as Looey passes around the water carafe and glasses that Miss MacLeod had placed on the table, and while she is busy assisting the Lieutenant, Mary Anne fails to note how Brandon's eyes are set so fixedly upon her, and how he thirstily drains an entire glass of water at once and pours himself another . . . and how his fingers tremble, so that he presses his hands firmly against the tabletop until his knuckles whiten and the spell passes . . .

And then all eyes turn to Hudson, as she taps her water glass to gain their attention and announces, "I had some interesting information from Mr. Willoughby . . ."

Light poured through the doors of noisy bars, flowing across the sidewalks and into the streets. Drivers slouched on wagon seats steered their horses through the traffic, hats pulled low over their faces, their freight a matter of speculation only. In doorways and alleys, men engaged in purposeful loitering, their bodies relaxed but their eyes sharp and watchful.

Marston was aware that they were attracting stares. Women like Sam were not often seen in this district: she was young, clean and sober. More than once he felt it necessary to push his coat back and display his gun to the denizens of the neighborhoods they traversed.

Sam did not appear to notice the tension. She walked with determination, ignoring the crowds and the scenery. He wondered if she even remembered he was there.

"When we get there, you'd better let me do the talking." She did not look at him.

One question answered at least, he thought. "I will follow your lead completely."

After another two blocks of silence, he tried to revive the conversation. "Where exactly are we going?"

"It's not much further."

"That wasn't the question, my dear."

She bit her lip and looked at the street. "You're right." Then she tossed her hair back and finally turned to him. "Why not save your questions until I can answer all of them at once? It would be too hard to explain piece by piece."

He waited but she had apparently finished, so he nodded and they resumed their walk.

The gaslights were becoming scarcer in the part of town they were now in. Many times they passed only headless poles whose glass globes had been shattered. Torches were stuck beside doors or alleys. They were dependent on the lights from the windows of the bars.

Finally Sam came to a stop in front of a building at the end of a particularly dark street. There was noise behind the curtained windows but no music or laughter. The light was unsteady and fitful.

"Here we are." She couldn't quite hide the quaver in her voice.

Marston looked at their destination carefully. In the dark it was hard to make out details beyond the fact that it was three stories tall and set back a bit from the street. All the windows on the second and third floors were curtained and none were dark. It was impossible to tell if the paint was recent or ancient but it was peeling in many places.

The door was shut and there was a panel at eye level that suggested some visitors were more welcome than others. The door was made of good thick planks that were not painted. The lock was large and sturdy, and was the only thing that looked new or polished. In the window was a rudely lettered sign that read "Belle's Palace".

Marston turned to Sam. "Your father is here?"

"Yes. Belle is…an old friend of Dad's." She noticed his expression and stiffened. "She was the only one who'd help us when things got bad."

"I'm not judging you or anyone else." He examined the building again. "It's pretty quiet for a tavern."

"It's not a tavern." Sam took a deep breath and let it out in a great gust. "It's a brothel."

"Your talk with Ed didn't go well?" He prompted her.

"No, but I didn't expect anything else. It just hurts a lot more than I thought it would." She lifted her eyes from her lap and looked into his. Her eyes sparkled with tears that threatened to spill over and down her cheeks. "But I'll be alright. I'm tough."

"Miss Claudia, do not need to put on an act for me. I know you have a heart, I've seen you with the boys, with Ed…"

Claudia pushed at his chest. "Shut up, you're going to make me cry again, and my reputation and image will be ruined."

"No one can see us here. Perhaps if they did my reputation would be ruined also." He smiled warmly at her. She laughed and a wayward tear escaped her eye.

"Colonel Brandon, you are too much! Thank you, for taking my mind of things for a moment."

"Do you want to tell me what is wrong?"

"I… Ed and I, we've split up. He didn't like what I had to tell him about the Interrogator, and I can't blame him. It is over, and he is well rid of me."

"We are all concerned for you. But please remember, things said in the heat of the moment often are not meant. You will think on things and he will think on things. You will realise what each means to the other. I don't mean to intrude on so private a matter…"

"You mean a fight is worth it because of the making up? You are right, but I don't think this can be fixed." Claudia leant forward and stroked a hand lightly over the Colonel's hair, and kissed him gently on the lips, before he could react in surprise or otherwise. "Thank you for listening to me, you are a kind man."

She stood up without another word and walked away, leaving a rather stunned Brandon looking after her. He knew she was used to a more free society than he, but still he was taken aback. He licked his lips. Lip gloss, she had been wearing strawberry lip gloss.

He felt an odd sensation at the taste.

Claudia had to complete her mission here and get back to HIS lair as soon as possible. Anything could happen to Therese if she wasn't there to help her. She had few illusions about the Interrogator – she knew HE wouldn't take suggestions from her where Therese was concerned. But she could distract HIM, keep HIM occupied and out of the way. Then perhaps the opportunity would arise and she could leave a few doors open, alarms off, and get Therese away before HE could stop her.

But she could do nothing while she was still at Delaford.

"Oooof!" Claudia ran headlong into Colonel Brandon, who was hurrying in the opposite direction, wearing fencing whites. His arms came up in surprise and held her by the shoulders to steady her and himself. He looked down into red-rimmed eyes and at a tear stained face.

"Miss Claudia, what has happened?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't see you…" and Claudia burst into tears once again and buried her head into the Colonel's shoulder.

Brandon was unsure what to do, and surprised by the sudden and forceful physical contact. His hands left her shoulders and waved in the air behind her back before he patted her gently and steered her towards an alcove with a window seat.

Or do you want it to be a surprise? *grin*

Whatever, I'll be on the lookout.

When Mary Anne enters, she can see that the maid has followed orders and returned the fencing equipment: there is Brandon's Salamanca, sheathed and resting against the armchair, and there on the the bed is the wooden case--still open--with the Aurientine. But there is no sign of Brandon.

Surely he could not have returned here before her; there would hardly have been time.

Mary Anne looks into Brandon's dressing room. No indication that he has been in . . . oh, well. Perhaps he and Sifuentes had important matters to discuss, especially with the news of Commander Hudson's return. Thinking of this, Mary Anne crosses to her own room and quickly sheds her whites. A few moments to sponge herself down--cold day or not, fencing practice in those protective garments is a warm undertaking, to say the least. Now, a fresh gown, a tidying of hair . . .

A knock at the door.

"Come in."

"Ma'am--"

Miss MacLeod. Naturally. There would be no reason for Brandon to knock-- at least, not at the outer door.

Mary Anne leaves her small room and steps out into the large bedchamber, to find Miss M with her eyes riveted to the wooden case on the bed. "An Aurientine!" Her awed whisper, with its trilled rrrrrrr and liquid Scots vowels, makes melody of the word--and though some might find it amusing, Mary Anne has absolutely no impulse to laugh as Moire MacLeod asks, "May I--"

"Of course."

Mary Anne had thought that Miss M meant only to look at the weapon, but MacLeod lifts out the weapon with the sure touch of profound respect, gently unsheathing it so that the blade flashes, once, golden in the afternoon light . . .

Fascinated, Mary Anne watches Moire MacLeod--truly seeing her for the first time since she had arrived here and been introduced as the new mistress of Delaford. Though she has never before been in any position to manage a staff of servants, Mary Anne is aware of the polite traditions that exist: for instance, that servants are to be kept at a certain distance. Of course, faithful service is to be rewarded, but it is understood that a woman in her position can hardly acknowledge her housekeeper--or her butler, for that matter, or her chief cook or head gardener--as a person with feelings and dreams and desires.

Yes, readers, Mary Anne is aware of these traditions but has not yet learned to conform to them--and she doubts that she ever shall learn; especially now, when it seems to her that a door has opened, revealing the difference between "Miss M," housekeeper of the Delaford estate, overseer of the kitchens, driving force of the senior staff--and Moire MacLeod, who, even in the anonymity conferred by her respectable black gown and starched white apron and cap, is now revealing an aspect of her character that Mary Anne could not have dreamed.

"A bonny blade, sure." The hushed voice.

"How do you know so much of swords, Miss MacLeod?" jokes Mary Anne. "It's not part of the usual skills of a housekeeper."

Miss M straightens, her eyes no longer so rapt, her persona of housekeeper seeming to settle visibly about her. "I'm a MacLeod, ma'am, o' th' clan MacLeod," as if that answers everything.

"I had understood from the Colonel that his family and yours were distantly related. What part of Scotland--?"

"Loch Shiel," replies MacLeod, shortly. "In Glenfinnan."

Mary Anne blinks, at a loss. Clearly, this is something Miss M does not wish to discuss. Perhaps she, like Brandon, had a very unhappy childhood . . .

There might be many another woman who, in Mary Anne's place, would treat MacLeod's attitude as insolent and give her a thorough dressing-down for it; however, very few of these women-- whatever their previous training, home education, and social position--would be in possession of a Damascus Aurientine, to say nothing of knowing how to use it, and so the whole situation would be unlikely to occur. As matters stand, there is an awkward pause, but it only lasts a few seconds as Mary Anne assumes her best "Mistress of Delaford" expression, and equilibrium is restored. "Did you have something to tell me, Miss M? We seem to have left the subject."

Yes. Just right. The golden-green eyes shine gratefully at her, and then the reply she had expected: "Yes, ma'am. T' Commander sends her respects an' would't please ye, t'meet wit' her in th'library, soon's ye're ready."

Mary Anne grins. Let there be another stolen companionable moment, before they must again assume their roles. "I'll wager she wasn't so polite about it as that. Softened it a little, have you?"

"P'raps a little." A hint of a smile.

"Very well. Go and tell her and the rest that I'm on my way down."

Mary Anne hesitates, then decides not to inquire about whether the message has been delivered to Brandon; after all, MacLeod had sent the girl up to collect the equipment and carry the news. Let your people do their jobs, Mary Anne. You're still new at yours, but they've been doing theirs for years. Trust them. "That will be all for now, Miss M."

"Yes, ma'am." MacLeod nods. Briefly, the sun gleams against her reddish- golden hair with its few threads of silver, casting almost the same light as the golden-toned metal of the Aurientine, and then she is gone.

That, reflects Mary Anne, is a very striking woman. Some Celtic warrior princess in that bloodline, or I'm very much mistaken. And I don't think that bloodline has thinned out, not by a long shot. The way she was looking at that sword . . .

With an effort, Mary Anne puts away her curiosity and all such lesser speculation. The problem they now face is to find and rescue Therese--preferably before Eamon de Valera runs utterly and uncontrollably mad.

Hide the swords; hide the pistols, thinks Mary Anne with that mordant humour that surfaces in her at such moments. Not that it would help, when I think of the damage he could probably do with his bare hands . . . It occurs to her that, if Dev overtakes The Interrogator, she could almost feel sorry for HIM.

Almost.

The look on Dev's face, when she had urged him to try and have hope . . .

Another mental picture she must put away from her. No more stalling. To the library--now. And she is curious to discover what Hudson has learned.

Squaring her shoulders, Mary Anne exits the room and heads downstairs.

Therese finished propping The Interrogator up against the wall, then stepped back to look at him warily. She quickly stepped over to the door to return one of the two hinges to the door frame in order to hold it in place before crossing over to take the folded sheet from the bed. Kneeling in front of HIM, she wrapped the fabric tightly around HIS neck, pulled it behind HIS knees, and tied it securely around HIS ankles. This way any struggles would result in the fabric tightening around HIS neck in a noose-like fashion. Having secured HIM in this manner, she patted him down, searching HIS pockets for anything useful. HE carried nothing with him.

"You had best untie me this instant, or kill me right now, given what I am likely to do to you when I get up," HE warned her, gazing up at her with a hard expression.

"You're right about that," Therese returned, "I should kill you." She held up the remaining door hinge so he could see it clearly. "I should drive this straight into your neck, and sever your artery, then watch your blood drain itself onto the floor." She paused. "And I'll probably live to regret the fact that I am not able to do that, not even to the likes of you. Now, if you could just tell me the way out of this little hideout of yours?"

"You won't get ten yards beyond the door to this very room," HE assured her.

"For all I know, you are the sole person in the place, and I believe it's long past time for me to depart." She went to step over HIM, and in spite of HIS restraints HE swung his body sideways, sweeping her legs out from underneath her. Under normal circumstances, Therese would have been able to simply step over HIS legs, but given her weakened physical condition, HE was able to easily knock her to the ground.

Therese could in no way understand how HE was able to do it. She would not have thought it possible for HIM to escape, at least certainly not so quickly or so easily. It took HIM less than a few seconds to pin her beneath his legs, and in a few additional moments, HIS hands were free. HE kicked the strips of fabric from around his wrists, and untied the long sheet, all while holding her down easily with a single hand pressed into her collarbone. She struggled as much as her condition would allow, but her efforts were feeble and uncooridinated.

HE sat up, bringing his hand down harshly across Therese's face in a stinging, open handed slap, her head thudding backwards onto the floor with a dull thud.

Throwing her onto her back, HE leaned over her prone form, pining her body to the floor with HIS own. Therese looked into his eyes, mere inches from her own, and shuddered. HE was livid, but there was something else there, as well. "You were right," she said flatly, "I should have killed you when I had the chance."

"So very right," HE agreed, his voice soft and dangerous. "Though I don't doubt for a second that you'd hesitiate for a moment, if given a second chance." He rolled his full body weight on top of her, pinning her hands to the floor above her head, and forcing HIS leg between her knees.

Therese knew HIS intent, and she knew that she simply could not stand it. She had withstood the pain, dealt with the hunger, the thirst, and the terror of the unknown, but to be physically violated was simply not something she could bear. She fought HIM, pulling strength from reserves she had not known she possessed, thrashing beneath HIS body, and attempting to free herself from HIM.

The Interrogator relished the feel of Therese struggling beneath HIM. Few things were more pleasurable to HIM than the pure, unadulturated feeling of power, and knowing that HE was completely in control.

HE could utterly destroy her in the next few moments, of this, HE was certain.

Therese had been as strong as she knew how, but she had reached her breaking point. She possessed defenses against pain and deprivation, but not against this. The moan that emenated from her was almost unrecognizable as human, and was followed by long, shuddering sobs, which racked her body, and left her quaking. She had vowed she would not show HIM any physical signs of her weakness, would not allow herself to shed any tears, but she was no longer in control.

He forced his knee further into the juncture between her legs, grinding his pelvis insinuatingly into her hips, toying with her, showing her the power he wielded, and tormenting her with her defenselessness. And then HE paused.

HE had not enjoyed a victim as much as this one in quite some time. Usually women were fairly easy to break. As a general rule, they did not deal well with pain, and it was a simple matter to bend them to HIS will. It would almost be a shame to end the game so soon. And it wasn't truly necessary.

HE lifted HIMself off of her slowly, and rose to stand before her. Once HE was off of her, Therese curled herself into a fetal position, and sobbed softly. HE nudged her with his foot several times, but she was oblivious to his prodding. Leaning down HE grabbed a handful of her hair, and pulled her head around until she looked directly at HIM. "Do not forget that I have spared you now, as you so recently spared me. Do not expect leniency on my part again. Now stand up."

She vainly attempted to struggle to her feet, and felt HIS arm clasp her shoulder, pulling her to a standing position. HE gripped her firmly underneath the elbow, and led her from the room. He stepped briskly down the hallway, and Therese knew she would have fallen if not for HIS fingers digging into her arm. They passed several doorways, before HE paused in front of one, and opening the door, HE shoved her roughly over the threshhold before closing the door firmly behind her. Once again she heard a lock slide into place.

Looking around wearily, Therese found herself in a completely bare room, and moving to the corner farthest from the doorway, she collapsed in a heap on the floor.

She looked down at the ground, estimating distance, and cautiously swung one leg over the sill. Her room overlooked an alley between the hotel and a dressmaker's shop. It was lit from the street with gaslight and from the back of the shop where the door stood open. She would have to gamble that the dressmaker was in the front room.

As she balanced herself, she looked to her left and breathed easier. Marston's room did not have a window on this side. She would not have to worry about being caught.

Her room was on the third floor. A pipe ran from the roof to the ground beside her window. After a few deep breaths, she pulled her other leg over the sill, flexed her fingers and reached for the pipe.

Clinging with both hands, she felt with her feet for the struts that held the pipe to the wall. Her arms soon ached from supporting most of her weight. She prayed that her palms would not become sweaty.

As the next window appeared in front of her, she paused to catch her breath, standing on the second story ledge and clinging with all her strength. The urge to look down was almost overpowering but she knew she would not be able to continue if she saw the ground. After a few moments she began to climb down the pipe again.

Her breathing sounded harsh in her ears over the pounding of her heart. She noticed that the gaslight was shining from above her now and gasped in relief that she was close to her goal. She could see her shadow cast against the wall from the light through the shop door. It could not be much farther. Her arms and shoulders throbbed with pain.

"You know, I rather thought you might do something like this." The well-known voice was directly below her.

Sam screamed and lost her grip. The windows of the hotel dining room flashed past as she plummeted. Almost before she realized her predicament, she was caught and held fast.

She stared up at him from the safety of his arms. He smiled down at her.

"What are you doing out here?" She wished her voice didn't sound so querulous; she couldn't help but feel that a more dignified tone would have lent something to the proceedings.

"I've been spending an enjoyable evening with my banker. A fine man. Pity he can't hold his liquor." Marston showed no inclination to release her. "I could ask you the same question, of course."

"I have to see my father. As soon as possible." Her uptilted chin dared him to refuse her.

"Of course you do. Forgive me for not being here to escort you. We'll go right now." He lowered her until her feet were on the ground but otherwise continued to hold her in a firm grasp.

"I don't want you – " It was more comfortable to put her arms around his waist than to keep them pressed tightly to her sides. Or so she told herself.

"Yes, I know. You're afraid he might shoot me." He pulled her closer and at the same time stepped out of the light from the street. "Well, I'll protect you if you'll protect me. Deal?"

They were in the dusky part of the alley now. His breath ruffled her hair. She could smell the twin aromas of whiskey and cigar smoke on his jacket. It was so tempting to let someone else shoulder the burden of care she'd had for so long. She leaned forward and rested her head on his chest.

It was as if he'd read her mind. "It won't feel so heavy if you let me share the load." He kissed her ear. She shook her head. "Yes, it will be alright. Now don't argue with me."

He kissed her again and released her. For a moment she swayed where she stood, wanting nothing more than to be held again. Then she pulled herself together. "Well, then, let's get going. You can't say I didn't warn you."

As they walked down the alley to the street, she saw that he was wearing his holster. She looked up at him. He followed her gaze and smiled. "Best to be prepared, my dear. Now lead the way."

"I understand." Elliott Marston leaned back in his chair and blew smoke at the ceiling. It was never wise to hurry a banker. "More brandy?"

"If it were anyone else, I would not consider the request for a moment. But coming from you…" The older man shook his head, reinforcing the fact that he was acting against the accumulated financial instincts of a lifetime, and shuffled the papers in front of him. "Oh, yes, thank you. Just a spot, please."

"Believe me, I appreciate your making an exception." Marston poured a generous amount into the other's glass. "But sometimes a man has to gamble a little to win a lot."

Connaught sniffed. Marston smiled. A less likely gambler than the president of the First Commercial Bank of Western Australia could not be imagined. The man was all angles and sharp points as his elbows and knees poked out of the chair. The candlelight reflected off his spectacles as he adjusted them with long bony fingers.

"I made a cursory search of our bank's records after I got your note this afternoon. Sam Flanagan does have an account with us, going back about fourteen years." Connaught shifted in his chair and reached for his glass. "We would not normally do business with a man in his, er, profession, but there were...personal considerations...involved."

"What kind of...'personal considerations'...do you mean?"

"Fifteen years ago, we were plagued by a series of robberies. Deliveries of gold were intercepted no matter how often we varied the schedules. Obviously they had help from someone inside the bank with access to sensitive information. We hired Flanagan to find the malefactors."

Connaught sipped his brandy. "He did an excellent job. Within a month the crime ring had been broken and the felons were behind bars."

"And the gunslinger was accepted as a customer of the most exclusive bank in Western Australia."

"Not only that. He was accepted by many businessmen who hired him to advise them on security matters. Overnight his shady past was forgotten."

"Most affecting. Sounds like a fairy tale ending." Marston sipped his whiskey.

"Oh, not entirely. Game poachers turned wardens are rarely popular with their former colleagues. Flanagan became the target of a great deal of animosity."

"Interesting." Marston leaned forward in his chair and refilled the banker's glass. "Were there attempts on his life?"

"Several. All unsuccessful. He kept a low profile, moved around a fair bit, made it hard for people to find him." Connaught smiled his appreciation and lifted the snifter to his nose. "Very nice, Elliott. No price too high for good quality."

"I quite agree." Marston watched his guest closely. It was always a chancy thing, giving a man enough brandy to loosen his tongue but not enough to put him to sleep. "Obviously no one found him since he's still alive today."

"Found who?" Connaught blinked owlishly.

"Flanagan." Marston eyed the brandy. Had he miscalculated?

"Oh, him." The banker frowned in remembrance. "No, no one found him. He outlived most of them. Not a long-term career, being a criminal in this country. Good thing for Flanagan. Started a family once he could make an honest living."

"Really? Who would marry a gunslinger, even one who gave up the profession?" Marston raised his voice to make sure it penetrated the alcoholic fog.

"I never met her, of course. We didn't mix socially." For the banker, this was high wit. He giggled slightly. "She was a widow, quite young. They had two children at least, maybe more. Boys, I think. She died a few years ago. Saw the notice in the paper."

"Had he been married before?" Marston lifted the decanter to examine the remainder. He kept his voice carefully neutral.

"Not that I know of." Connaught waved a hand in the air. "Course, no way to tell what he did before he came here. From Sydney, you know."

Marston's shoulders sagged as the tension eased. "I didn't know that." That might explain why the major didn't know about Sam.

"No reason why you should. None of your weesbax." The banker giggled sleepily. "I mean beeswax." He slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes. His breathing became regular and his fingers opened, dropping the snifter to the floor.

Marston sat back in his chair and stared at his guest. It was a start, but there was a great deal more information he needed before he could put his plan into effect.

HIS strategy proves effective. Maybe too effective. HE releases Andrea's wrist, and her arm drops limply.

Andrea cannot even remember what she was angry about. Her only thought is for self-preservation. This party is over. She can barely whisper. "I'd like to leave now."

Still confident HE can convince her to stay, HE falls back on Plan B. "Very well. You may begin your search for the key." HE clasps HIS hands behind HIS back, inviting her to reach into HIS front trouser pockets.

Andrea slowly rises from the floor and walks past HIM to check through HIS jacket on the chair. She quickly discovers the key in one of the pockets. Without looking back at HIM, she walks toward the door, holding the key in her right hand.

In two long strides, HE catches up with her. Grabbing Andrea's right upper arm, HE turns her to face HIM. "What more do you want from me?"

Andrea stares at HIM, not comprehending.

HE continues. "Everything I did, I did for you. To heighten your excitement; to intensify your pleasure. How can you walk out on me now? Don't you want to finish what we started?"

Andrea is confused but feels she should leave if HE will let her. "I need to get back to the Delaford set. George is waiting for me."

HE sees her waver. "No, he is not. No one is waiting for you. There is no place you need to be except here with me. Give yourself this day."

Andrea stops straining against HIS grasp and searches HIS eyes for the truth. "If you talk me into staying, you'll think that you can do what you want to me."

HE shakes HIS head. "Not what I want; what you want. And, not to you; for you."

HE slides HIS hand down her arm to her hand and feels her fingers close tightly around the key. "But, you are afraid. Perhaps the arm twisting was a bit much, but you were out of control and begging me to rein you in. I know what you need better than you do."

"Thank you." Elliott Marston signed the register and pocketed the key.

"Of course, sir, you know that serving you is our greatest pleasure. We at the Royal Hotel believe that…" The young man's voice droned on and joined the background noise as Marston looked around the lobby.

The usual dinnertime crowd occupied the posh lobby of Fremantle's premier hostelry. Men sat in the dark leather club chairs, reading months' old copies of the London Times and pretending to find the news fascinating. Another leaned against a faux marble column and examined the world with sharp eyes, stroking a solid gold watch chain. Elegantly gowned women sailed through the lobby on their way to the restaurant, the only public portion of the hotel they were allowed to enter.

But something was missing. Marston scanned the scene again.

There she was, half hidden behind a large rubber plant. Sitting in one of the club chairs and glaring at him through stormy blue eyes. No doubt about it. Sam Flanagan was not happy.

He smiled back. He was very happy. Her presence was a matter for self-congratulation. She had put up a ferocious fight against staying at the same hotel and allowing him to pay for it. Appeals to reason (which he disputed), frugality (which he laughed at) and discretion (which he disdained) had been followed by a flat declaration to stay nowhere but with her family.

But it had been difficult to carry on an argument on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. And when she discovered that a porter had already carried her bag inside, she had little choice but to swallow her refusal to pass through the ornate doors. The disappearance of the Marston Ranch hands and the wagons meant that she was stranded without escort or transportation to the other side of town.

And then he had revealed his winning hand: she would receive no pay until she was officially a guest of the hotel. Waves of speechless fury had buffeted him all the way to the registration desk.

"And I found Miss Flanagan a very nice room in the west wing –"

Marston turned and looked at the clerk directly for the first time. The young man faltered to a halt.

"Put her in the room next to mine. The one with the connecting door."

"Well, you see, sir, it's just that –" The clerk licked his lips. "it's our policy, sir, that single ladies are in the west wing to make sure they aren't, uh, bothered or…or anything."

"She won't be bothered." Marston held out his hand. "I'll take the key."

"Uh, well, sir…" The clerk scanned the page in front of him. "Well, there's the William Room, just across the hall…" He glanced up, then hastily returned to the page. "And the George Room, right beside yours, is free." He handed over the key without looking up again.

"Thank you. You've been most helpful." Marston weighed it in his hand. "Now please arrange for two baths to be prepared in our rooms immediately. And send a messenger to Jasper Connaught informing him of my arrival."

The clerk nodded quickly to Marston's rapidly departing back.

Or the oxen. Looking at them eating contentedly in the twilit gloom, no one would believe that anything could be worse than their appearance. Elliott Marston was wiser than that: he knew the importance of sitting upwind of them at all times.

He sat propped himself against the wagon wheel, with a paper in his hand. Frowning in concentration, he read the entries on the list.

On the right side of the page:

1. Ashley-Pitt's claim that Flanagan doesn't have a daughter.
2. Very secretive about her past.
3. Can cook very well; who taught her if her mother died young?

On the left side of the page:

1. Can use a six-shooter very well; obviously been trained by someone.
2. Very sincere and emotional about father's condition.
3. Her desperation was very real on her first night here.

He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and added another point to the same column:

4. Eyes are too clear and honest to hide a lie.

He tapped the page. There was something more. Finally he added a last line:

5. Elliott Marston loves Sam Flanagan - whoever she is.

For a long moment he stared down at the page. Then he stroked a large "X" through the points in the right-hand column.

"What are you reading?"

Marston started violently. The paper fell from his grip. He grabbed it and secured it into his vest pocket. "Nothing. Nothing important."

Sam dropped to the ground beside him. "That's a contradiction, isn't it?" She smiled and dropped her head back against the wagon wheel. "When do think we'll get to Fremantle?"

"If we push hard and don't have any problems, we should be there by the end of the day after tomorrow." He watched her narrowly from half-shut eyes. He'd been doing it for the entire trip.

She played with a thin leather string, first running it through, then winding it around, her fingers, then tugging it free again. The light from the cooking fire seemed to hold her mesmerized. She turned to him suddenly.

"When we get to town, I'd like to go see my family." It came out in a rush.

He assumed his most reassuring expression: benevolent but not avuncular. "Of course you do. It's been a long time." She relaxed and smiled happily. "We'll go together. I'd like to meet your father. He must be an extraordinary man."

Her eyes widened. She sat up, her back stiff and straight. "You can't!"

He stared. "Why not?"

"Uh, I mean," She blinked rapidly, waving her hands in midair between them, then clasping them to her chest. "that is, he's still sick. You don't want to be with a sick man."

"I want to meet your father." He scanned her face, looking for some clue that would explain this intense emotion. "I have something to ask him. And I think you know what it is." He reached for her closest hand.

"You can't!" She surged upright in one swift movement. Her hands were balled into fists now. "You don't understand. He'll get upset."

Marston scrambled to his feet, trying to grasp some part of the conversation before it fled out of his reach completely. "My dear, there's no need for this." He reached for her hands. "Tell me what's wrong –"

Sam reached past his hands and gripped the lapels of his jacket. She shook him slightly in her agitation. "My father is a very sick man. Sometimes he has… fantasies…about strangers."

"Do you mean he's delusional?" Marston reached up and took her hands; he doubted she was even aware of it. "We'll take a doctor with us. The best man in Fremantle. That should –"

"It's not something a doctor can treat." She shook her head firmly. "No, you'll have to stay away. I couldn't bear it if he thought –" Swallowing hard, she shook him again.

"Thought what?"

"That you're the man he's supposed to kill."

Reversing HIS earlier disinterest in the chocolate syrup, HE greedily accepts Andrea's offer of the champagne dripping from her finger. The two actors no longer follow any script. As to what might happen next, all bets are off.

Andrea closes her eyes to savor the sensation of her finger trapped in HIS mouth. HIS lips -- clamped around the fleshy base -- hold it inside. HIS warm, moist tongue licks the sensitive tip. HIS teasing teeth nibble the second knuckle.

She feels one of HIS hands leave her ribs. Opening her eyes, she observes the hand reach toward her birthday cake. The index finger brazenly plunges into the rich chocolate frosting. The sweetly coated finger approaches her lips.

HIS tongue expels Andrea's finger from HIS mouth so that HE may entreat her to "Open."

Andrea's lips were already parted. At the sound of HIS voice, her jaw drops lower.

With scarcely enough room to slip inside, HIS finger leaves a trail of frosting on her lips. Most of the confection does arrive at her welcoming tongue.

HIS other hand (the one still on her ribs) gathers a fistful of her blouse and pulls it out from the waistband of her skirt. Reaching underneath the blouse, HIS fingers lightly stroke her bare skin.

Andrea's knees buckle, and she begins to slide down HIS body. She hears HIS voice -- "I have you" -- and feels herself lifted and cradled in HIS arms.

HE carries her toward the table and sets Andrea on her feet. HE positions her body to lean against the table. "Try to stand for just a moment."

HE disappears into the shadows and returns immediately with what appears to be a bedroll. HE unfurls it onto the tabletop, intending to lay Andrea atop the cushion. But, she unexpectedly backs away from HIM.

Andrea is instantly sober and stiff. "That's my Yoga mat. You broke into my trailer and took my Yoga mat."

To HIS mind, HIS purpose justifies HIS actions. "I wanted to make you comfortable."

She mounts an offensive. "What else did you steal? You probably wrecked the place while rummaging through my things." Andrea feels violated.

HE remains calm while considering how to recapture the earlier, festive mood. "Your trailer is fine. Your things are fine. I left it cleaner than when I entered."

: Mary Anne becomes aware of movement on the landing below her and looks up to see Miss M and one of the housemaids looking at her and Dev.

The housemaid's eyes are rather wide, but if Miss M sees anything unusual in the mistress of Delaford wearing a set of fencers' whites and sitting on a staircase in conversation with one of the guests, she does not show it in any manner--aside from discreetly elbowing the maid, and then turning back toward Mary Anne to announce, "Pardon, ma'am, but th' Commander's back from Mister Willoughby's."

Mary Anne smiles a little to herself. Weeeeeloughby's. That musical Scots voice.

"Is there anythin' ye'd hae us do, then?"

"Of course. Prepare refreshments for the Commander and her people, if they need anything. And I'm certain the she'll wish to meet with some of us--" Mary Anne nods toward Dev. "--Mister de Valera, and me, and the Colonel. Perhaps it would be best to arrange matters in the library. It will be quiet there, and there's plenty of room at that long table."

"Aye, ma'am."

"Oh, and one other thing, Miss M. I believe you'll find Colonel Brandon upstairs in the gallery on the other side of the house. Send word to him of this--and someone needs to collect our fencing equipment. Have it brought to our rooms, please."

"Aye, ma'am." Hudson sets a hand on the maid's shoulder. "Be off wit' ye, Sal, and see to that. I'll look after t'Commander an' such."

Galvanized into action, Sal does not linger to ask questions but hurries up the stairs. Miss M turns to go back downstairs, pausing only long enough to send Dev a brief glance of sympathy, for which he is secretly grateful but stonily pretends not to see.

Mary Anne tries to encourage him. "Now we'll get some real information, Eamon, and we can plan what to do. It will be all right, you'll see."

Dev reaches out and presses her hand for a moment in silent thanks for her attempt, but shakes his head. "I do not know about all right. I keep thinking what HE might be doing to Therese--every moment must be terrible for her. How many moments?" His voice trembles dangerously. "How many moments, Mary Anne?"

"Dev--it may not make you feel very much better to hear this . . . but it's possible HE hasn't really done anything to her, yet. One of The Interrogator's greatest weapons is suspense. Trust me on this one." Grimly. "I'm certain she's horribly afraid, and that's never easy. But as far as actual physical harm . . ." Her voice trails off as she sees how Dev has gone gray- faced, trying to imagine what all might come under the heading of suspense. Or harm.

"I'm sorry," she says softly, trying to call him back from those terrible thoughts. "I can't say much to help you right now, I'm afraid. But I do know how you feel--and how Therese feels. I've been there. But you see--" She smiles. "--I'm here, now. Please, have some hope. It's the only thing that will keep you sane."

"There are times," he answers bitterly, "when I believe that hope is only another form of torture."

"It can be, in the hands of someone like The Interrogator. Someone who would create hope in you, and then destroy it. But HE is not the one offering it to you now. Try, Eamon. Please try."

Ask Andrea. Ask Therese. Ask Claudia. Ask Renie.

Ask yourself.

Mary Anne stops, but does not turn.

There is a silence, and then she hears the sound of steps behind her once more--Dev advancing further down the staircase.

"It is very difficult to talk to your back."

Mary Anne remains as she is, just a few steps from the next landing, one hand gripping the bannister. "Is it?"

"Yes, it is."

"You had no trouble a few minutes ago, talking about me as if I didn't exist, or as if I were a piece of the furniture, and that was to my face. I shouldn't think talking to my back would be--"

"I am trying--!" A pause, and then Dev resumes, his voice quite different. Softened and humbled. "I am trying to tell you how sorry I am for it. If you will allow me."

Mary Anne can never be quite certain what causes her to turn at that moment and face the man waiting on the stairs behind her; however, thinking of it in later life, she will feel over and over that the look on Dev's face at that very moment had more to teach her about compassion than years of study and contemplation and patient effort.

Compassion. Literally, to share in the sufferings of another. Seeing Dev's look, she is oddly reminded of how people say to each other in a crisis that they have to pull themselves together. Here is a man who is only too clearly trying to pull himself together, drawing dignity and self- control about him as closely as a garment . . . yet it is tattered and stained by the events, and altogether too small. As with a literal garment in such a condition, the effect is almost as pitiable as nakedness.

His eyes. Those appalling, tearless eyes . . .

Mary Anne moves up the stairs. "I will allow it," she says gently. "It's all right, Dev. Don't think of it any longer." And as Dev continues to stand where he is, Mary Anne gestures to the stairs. "Sit. You look as if you're about to fall down."

Dev sits down on the stairs and Mary Anne seats herself on a step near him. A few moments pass in silence, and then Dev sighs deeply, removes his glasses and, after cleaning them with his handkerchief, returns them to their place and then exclaims, "It is my fault, you know. I was so set on our being married at once. . . when I think that Therese would still be here safe if I hadn't . . ."

"And you mustn't think that, either," cries Mary Anne, feeling out of her depth in the presence of such relentless anguish and guilt. To have wrestled with such a conviction in her own heart is quite a different matter from trying to soothe it in another's. "How is it your fault? Did you know you would be attacked?"

"No, but I should have realized there could be a chance of it--"

"Yes, and there's a chance that a meteorite might strike us both right here on the stairs, but I doubt it. As for The Interrogator--are you guilty because you are a victim of HIS crimes? Are you responsible for HIS evil? I think not."

So speaks Mary Anne, firm and strong, while thinking, Now if I'm not the pot calling the kettle black, here, then I don't know who is!

If Dev senses the gulf between her thoughts and her words, he gives no sign of it. "No, I am not . . . but I keep thinking that there must have been more that I could have done, something, anything--"

"Against HIM and how many others? You're strong, but you're not invincible."

"As I have discovered." Bitterly.

Mary Anne chews on that. A hard lesson, indeed.

"You see," Dev continues, "Therese is everything to me, simply everything. It is as I explained to her not long ago: I need her. It is not simply a matter of love and desire; she keeps me human. I can devote myself unflinchingly to a cause, work for it, bleed for it, even die for it, yet feel nothing for those who work by my side if I do not have--" A shuddering sigh. "--that one human touch, as if her hand were at rest upon my heart."

Mary Anne, who knows what it is to love deeply and feel that love fully returned, sits motionless and enthralled.

"My first marriage was good. Very happy. When I lost Sinead I threw myself into my work and never expected to feel anything so deeply again." An ironic smile. "I thought it a relief at the time. No great joys--but then, no great pains, either. No heartbreak. And--especially--" A touch of ferocity in his tone. "--no bloody fear. Do you know what it is, Mary Anne, to fear a thing so much that you simply cannot endure it? It is not a matter of will; some fears can be conquered in that manner. You simply nerve yourself and do the thing you dread, even though your heart pounds and you turn sick inside."

Mary Anne nods. "Yes. I know how that feels. There's a saying I heard once, that if you're scared to do something, you should 'feel the fear and do it anyway.' Easy to say, but hard to do."

"Yes. But then there are those things that with the strongest will in the world, you cannot do. You simply cannot, any more than you can breathe without air."

Mary Anne waits. For this man to admit such vulnerability to anyone . . . she is afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest she shatter the moment in which Dev can unburden his heart . . .

Dev turns and looks at her directly, as if to make sure that she does not miss a word. "Everyone tells me to wait, to be careful, that I can't face The Interrogator alone and hope to succeed. Perhaps not. But I can tell you this: I am far less frightened of anything HE can do, than of losing Therese. The one I can face; the other I . . . cannot. Not when she has brought my heart back to life. Not when everything is just beginning for us. Not so soon. Not now."

"Are you sure that's going to be enough?" Elliott Marston examined the paper and calculated amounts and numbers. For some time the scratching of his pen was the only sound in the room.

Sam propped her chin on her hands and watched him. She liked the way his hair flopped into his eyes when he leaned forward in concentration. He was too intent on his work to notice. Her fingers itched to brush it away.

The past two weeks had been wonderful. They had spent several hours together every day, discussing the business of the ranch and the pending quarterly visit to town for more supplies. He seemed to go out of his way to seek her opinion about a wide variety of matters.

Marston continued to scribble on the list. Sam frowned. The fact that she enjoyed being with him didn't stop her from questioning his behavior. It didn't seem likely that a rancher with so many responsibilities could spend so much time with her.

"Well, I think that just about covers it." He sat back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. "If you can't think of anything else you need…"

She hesitated, turning over a half-formed idea in her mind. It seemed like an innocuous request but he might not see it that way. Also she was not sure she wanted to share such private knowledge with him. . She shivered suddenly, as another thought struck her: he might be put in danger if he knew too much.

Unfortunately he was watching her very closely. He reached across the table to take up her hand. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" She forced herself to smile, knowing at the same time that her voice was too shrill to fool him.

"Now, now. This is your boss you're talking to, young lady." He scowled at her with mock severity. "Come on, tell me what's wrong." He rose and walked around the end of the table, still holding her hand. When he reached her side he took the other one and pulled her to her feet.

"You're going to tell me what's bothering you right now." He backed away from the table and out into the hall, holding her hands in a firm grip. She allowed herself to be led, smiling and gently tugging to free herself.

He pulled her into the little-used back parlor, little more than an enclave when the double doors to the larger parlor were open but a snug retreat when they were closed. With a sudden sharp movement he swung her into a wing chair and turned to shut the doors. They were plunged into twilit gloom.

Blinking rapidly, she clutched the arms of the chair with her fingers, then clasped them tightly on her lap. She stared up at him as he pushed an ottoman in front of her chair and sat on it. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, as she sat as far back as she could. She was trapped.

"Now then, my dear." He smiled at her warmly as he once more took possession of her hands. "Isn't this cozy? Just the two of us, having a chat."

"Yes, sir." It seemed a safe answer.

"I thought we agreed that we could be more informal when we we're alone. Call me Elliott." He lifted her hands in his and examined her fingers as if he had never seen such appendages before.

"Yes, Elliott."

"Why did you look so distressed back there, Sam? Whatever it is I can fix it for you." He began to caress her fingers with his thumbs, stroking back and forth.

The urge to share her burden with someone else was suddenly stronger than ever. It was ridiculous, he couldn't help her at all but not in years had she met anyone whose strength she trusted more.

"Is it about your father?" He gazed into her eyes. "You've never really talked about him since the night you arrived. I know you said he was being cared for by friends but even so I'm sure it must be worrisome for you."

A shuddering sigh escaped her. "It's just that…the money you've paid me…if I could get it to our…friends…I would feel so much better…" She cursed silently at the muddled phrases. Trying to keep things secret would mean having to reveal even more if she wasn't careful.

"Well, I could deliver it to them when I'm in Fremantle if you give me the address." He added squeezing to the treatment he was giving her fingers. She shifted in her chair and tried to concentrate. "But I have a better idea."

He lifted her hands higher and kissed the first knuckle of her hand. "Why don't –" He kissed the next knuckle. "- you come - " Another kiss "- along to – " Again. "- Fremantle – " He had reached her other hand now. " – with me?" He covered the second hand with rapid little kisses. "You can deliver it yourself and see that your father is well."

She stared. Her eyes filled with tears. She tore her hands free and threw her arms around his neck. He rose with fluid grace, pulling her up with him and securing his arms around her waist.

"YES! Oh, yes!" She was laughing and trying not to cry at the same time. The oppressive weight on her mind had dissolved in a moment. "How can I ever thank you?"

He pulled her closer. She went willingly. "I'll let you know…" He dropped a kiss on her nose. "Sooner rather than later, my dear."

Have you lost your mind? she asked herself. Probably. She was used to guarding client confidences, well accustomed to compartmentalizing what she knew from what she could say. But the Hansbank would undoubtedly act on her information. Could she successfully maintain to MacGregor that she wasn't the source? And keep all this from Hart? So, your precious sense of right and wrong comes down to how good a liar you can be, she told herself, one corner of her mouth turning sardonically down. So much for your safe, prudent old life.

A commotion broke out among the fishermen down the pier. An excited young boy was reeling in a fair-sized fish. Grace watched as it writhed on the line then flopped, gasping, on the rough wooden pier, the hook in its mouth. I know how you feel, buddy, she said silently to the fish. Then she squared her shoulders and turned around to walk back to her car. First a stop for gas and a sandwich, then quickly back to L.A. She pulled cash from her wallet; there would be no credit card transaction, no paper or electronic trail of her trip to Santa Barbara, no way anyone could connect her with the phone on the pier or her call to Colin.

Kari . . .