Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

But in thinking of the Wine Bar, and being trapped with HIM . . .

She begins to laugh softly, to herself. A reminiscent chuckle as another memory returns.

The sitting room in the Manor House.

Renie. Repeatedly urged by Mary Anne to reveal all--just how, exactly, had Renie persuaded HIM to release Mary Anne?

Two friends. The crackling fire. Conversation. Tea.

Renie, on the brink of a dreadful revelation . . .

Renie's voice. Muffled, as the carpet soaks up the sound as well as the tears . . . "I know you would never have done it--you, who are so . . . so . . . "

"So you let . . . HIM . . . "

"Yes, Mary Anne. HE said it would be only once, then it would be over, that HE would never again . . . "

Finally, Renie must speak the awful words--for only then will she be truly free--"FORGIVE ME MARY ANNE! I GAVE HIM YOUR SECRET SPAGHETTI SAUCE RECIPE! I let him take it. He had heard us exchange recipes earlier, it seems in the evening. My beef stew for your meatball spaghetti sauce--and HE's wild about spaghetti sauce--absolutely wild. I had written the recipe down, and since I had no pockets in that red dress, I had put the paper inside the back of my dress--snug against the back zipper . . . "

By now, Mary Anne is giggling. Remembering that moment of truth--Truth? Hmmmph. Spaghetti sauce, indeed!--she feels her panic recede: the movement in that corner is merely the shadow from the flickering light of her candle; the crouched form there against the wall is only a pie-safe and the glare of myriad tiny eyes is only the glow reflected from its front panel of punched tin; the scent from the shelves above her head is no more than tea, Earl Grey. Unfortunately, not hot.

She sighs, for her curiosity has not abated. I wonder what Renie had to do--truly--to persuade HIM to let me go. But I promised I'd never mention it to her again.

And Mary Anne is a woman of her word.

Thank you, dearest. Even when you're not here, you help . . .

Mary Anne knows that it must be very, very late and resigns herself to not getting out of the pantry before morning. Another sigh. She is not especially looking forward to being found in here, especially if her rescuer is one of the housemaids--who will, doubtless, be quite properly respectful to her face but will probably gossip about it later to the rest. Yes, the staff here is composed of honest and hardworking men and women, but people will be what they are, and for the mistress of the estate to be trapped in the pantry in the dead of night is quite out of the common way in the Delaford routine.

But there is nothing to be done. Plumping up a meal-bag as she would a pillow, Mary Anne settles her head against it . . .

Mary Anne is curled up on her makeshift sofa of flour sacks, with the old blanket wrapped about her and a corner of it pulled over her head. The stone wall that had, a moment ago, been so pleasantly warm now seems to give off no heat at all.

That particular scent of tea.

Among the human senses, smell can be the most evocative, bypassing the higher functions of the brain and startling us with our primal reactions. Mary Anne had known that to be true, had known that a scent can trigger memories that sweep us back in time or around the world . . .

Not just the smell of tea itself, but tea in an enclosed pantry, mingled with other subliminal scent- triggers: old stone, spices, flours . . .

HIM.

Mary Anne trembles, and remembers. The Wine Bar Party. Being trapped in the pantry with The Interrogator--the sting of the needle when HE had drugged her.

She is afraid, again. Or, if you choose, still. Still afraid. She cannot help it. Scent and surroundings . . . for a moment, she fears she will rush the door again, pounding with all her strength to be let out. Though HE is not here--Is HE? , she thinks, peeking nervously from the shelter of the old quilt--the experience is appallingly vivid, and there is the added trial, now, of seeing it from HIS point of view as well. Manage her thoughts how she will, HIS memories are difficult to suppress; at times the effort requires her to set aside her own recollections as well.

"Help me," she whispers. "Please, help . . ."

And help does arrive, in a most unexpected manner.

Underwater. He holds his breath, making his way towards the surface. Water everywhere. Blue. Streaks of light throughout. The water ripples firmly, evenly, as Hans' strong stroke propels his body through the pool.

There was no one else here. He could swim in the buff had he wanted to--but his navy Speedo swimming trunks were comfortable enough. He blasts across the pool again, trying to feel the repetitious movement and nothing else. Shoulders, arms, thigh muscles, taut. In motion. He picks up the rhythm, losing count of the laps . . . his arms begin to feel a different kind of ache . . . finally, he stops at the pool's edge only when his body lacks enough breath to keep him from dizziness.

Standing in the shallows, he blinks the water from his eyes, and checks his Baume & Mercier. He had swum for thirty minutes. Without stopping. With the animal-like grace which has often been admired, Hans pushes himself up from the pool, the water running quickly down his chest and legs. His suit wet, leaving no detail unaccounted for. He towels off, wiping his face and beard first. Alone, there is no reason not to dry himself off completely, right here, poolside. He pulls down the navy trunks. Off they come.

The ring of Hans' cell phone, sitting on a little table.

He dries his hands, and reaches for the phone. "Jah?"

"She's landed safely, sir. They're in Egdon. All of them. The pilot set her down on a flat bit of field right there in Wessex. The Hansjet had been off course, but still en route, when radio help gave the pilot all she needed to know. She'd been riding the eyes of the storms, instead of trying to break though them. The strain must have gotten to her--she thinks she saw a blue phone box up there. It's a miracle."

The physical aches in Hans' body have gone. "Has anyone taken credit for the critical radio coordinates?"

"Very strange, sir. No one knows where the flight coordinates came from--or from whom. Mrs. Gruber is being looked after by a Doctor--though Mr. Molyneux didn't give a name. He said he would call you once she'd been examined, and that the Doctor was a good one."

"Show the rescue team our thanks in any case, Bruno. It's been a long day."

"Yes, Herr Gruber." *Click*

And thank-you, Doctor. You are a rare breed. Standing as he is, he can feel her. Feel Renie's skin, as it had felt to him early that morning . . . her ear and neck, the smoothness, the warmth of them, the ruffle of her gown against him. There . . . against him . . . there . . .

And . . . there. As surely as the sun rises, and the sea swells, so does Hans Gruber rise to the occasion of her imagined touch, and he smiles.

Gary Mitchell makes a note of The Sheriff's suggestion, but he does not otherwise act on it. Not yet. "Miss Andrea. Since no prosecuting attorney has yet been assigned to this case, I thought we might deal directly with each other."

Andrea was already on her guard. Now, additional alarms blare in her head. "...'deal', Mr. Mitchell? As in 'make a deal'?" She internally questions the wisdom of continuing this meeting without legal counsel of her own.

Mitchell presents his perfectly reasonable argument. "None of us here wants this case to go to trial, where you would be called upon to reveal some highly personal information."

Andrea had been concerned about how she would hold up under questioning, relating the awful details of the incident. "And, what is the alternative?"

"My client will agree to keep his distance from you -- you will never see or hear from him again -- IF you drop all charges against him."

Andrea would like to avoid testifying. However, "This isn't about me alone. I need to prevent 'your client' from ever assaulting another woman."

Mitchell was prepared for this response and easily switches to his Plan B. "At my request, the judge will order you to submit to a physical examination."

George snickers, expecting Andrea to squirm at the prospect of another violation to her person.

However, Andrea feels confident that this threat is a non-issue. "I have already been examined by Dr. Marian Dubois."

He has a ready objection. "An AR doctor. A member of the organization responsible for hunting, capturing, and holding my client. I could argue that her testimony is inadmissible."

Andrea realizes that a physical at this time would show that she was not raped -- thanks to Rasputin's healing of her injuries. She searches for something that will be acceptable at the trial. "During her examination, Dr. Dubois collected evidence to prove my case."

The lawyer refers to his notes. "Are you sure about that? I'd like to speak with this doctor and review her evidence."

Andrea glances at Dot, who places a quick call on her cell phone. "Dr. Dubois is on her way here."

Now, the lawyer detonates George's ammunition. "While we wait, perhaps you will share with us how you got that nasty bruise on your face."

Andrea isn't about to answer any question that she deems irrelevant to the case. At the same time, she doesn't wish to overreact and appear defensive. "I'd rather not say."

Mitchell senses that he has her on the run. "Oh? Is that because Lord Nottingham isn't the only one of your lovers who has struck you?"

"That's enough!" Mesmer and Hamlet angrily respond in chorus.

Andrea is too shocked to reply. George grins at her and comradely punches Mitchell in the shoulder.

Pigment on canvas? No. Look more closely. A battlefield of life, sparks of the divine, in beauty, ugliness or torment. The artist opens a vein, releasing some of his own self into the work. He fights with it. Surrenders to it. Gives up on it, only to redeem it with a renewed passion. The artist: nurturing mother, forgiving Father. The Creator. Heart and soul invest the work, drive the brush, the pen, the fingers. Not merely vision or experience, but life's essence animates the form, this canvas, this page, this flesh, this clay of earth we walk upon. When you so love the world, what miracles may pass through?

The camera comes in close on the eyes of the portrait. Paintbrush tips. The artist has nearly captured those eyes . . .

A penlight, in her green-flecked eyes. Left. Right.

"She'll need an internal examination when we arrive in Egdon. The new hospital there should be notified. How's your hand?"

Colin makes no answer to the nurse but confers quietly with the pilot, who speaks with him on the intercom. Then he clicks it off, darkly. "We'll have to make do until we get there. We've lost radio contact due to these storms."

Meanwhile, in the cockpit, the first mate pours another cup of coffee for the pilot. Unsure of the exact whereabouts of her craft, she calculates possible headings by numbers. She scribbles them by hand, visualizing how storm currents might move. An off-course island landing is out of the question. Not under these conditions. But to fly to their original destination would be equally dangerous, Mrs. Gruber needs medical attention . . . Mr. Molyneux had urged safety first--but either way there was a risk. A duty to her crew, and a duty to the wife of the Hansbank.

She cannot wait for cavalry; she must decide.

In the private room of the jet, Colin takes Renie's fingers in his hands. His right wrist is bandaged--gauzed lightly, then wrapped in ace bandage. A cut and a sprain, the nurse had told him.

If only he had been able to grasp her.

As for Renie, the nurse can only guess. At the exteriors. The interiors, full of unquiet slumbers.

. . . utter blackness overwhelmed me, and I fell on the floor . . . I had no command of tongue, or brain . . . Before I recovered sufficiently to see and hear, it began to be dawn, and . . . I thought as I lay there, with my head against that table leg, and my eyes dimly discerning the grey square of the window, that I was enclosed in the oak-panelled canopy bed at home; and my heart ached with some great grief which, just waking, I could not recollect." (homage)

Colin whispers a few words aloud, and draws the blanket loosely about her shoulders, over the chiffon dress. There is no one else who can hear. "Claudia, what have you done?"

If only Colin could know Claudia was about to do.

Colin rises from the bed, and walks to the jet's small window. Below them, only water.

Therese contemplated the door as it closed soundly after The Interrogator's abrupt departure. She had not expected HIM to leave so rapidly. Not that she was unhappy to see him go. Quite the contrary.

She felt along the inside wall by the door, found the light switch and illuminated the room. At first glance this area was identical to the one she had recently left, and she wondered why HE had brought her here. She knew little about HIM, but already realized that HE did nothing without decided purpose. Moving about the room, she crossed over to a brief recess in the far wall. It was definitely something, but what, specifically, she was unsure. A threshold, or doorway of some sort, was her assumption--but how to open it?

She was kneeling, running her fingertips along the indentation when she heard the lock slide in the main doorway. So soon? was her first thought, and she stood to await HIS return.

But it was not HIM. The person who moved, or perhaps skulked was the more appropriate term, through the doorway was more slender, and shorter in stature. In his hand he carried a cloth sack. He regarded her as if she were something wholly unpleasant, and turned to re-lock the door.

"Who are you?" Therese demanded.

"I am called Minion," he informed her with a wispy voice. "I am instructed to bathe and dress you. You are to comply."

Therese glared at the slim, pale man before her. You and what army? was her immediate thought. "That is out of the question. However, should you choose to show me a restroom and shower facility with a locking door, the outside of which you are more than welcome to stand beside, you shall find me to be most amenable."

"HE said you would prove difficult." Minion's tone was accusatory bordering on exasperation.

"In this instance, HE was correct." Therese planted her feet, broadened her stance, and glowered at him.

Ignoring her completely, Minion crossed over to the recess in the wall that Therese had regarded so intently, and pressed a small remote that was clipped to his belt. The wall parted with a silent glide, revealing a stark, white lavatory, sink basin, and stall shower, reminiscent of standard hospital issue.

Therese took one look at the facility which had been revealed, and non-too gently shoved Minion from her path. Rushing to the basin, she reached for the faucet--only to have his hand clamp firmly over her own. "HE said under no circumstance are you to drink."

Therese did not even bother to respond to his rebuke, but pushed her hip into his side, swept her bare ankle behind his calves, and knocked Minion to the floor. He looked up at her as she dashed to the sink, the shock clearly evident on his face. "HE SAID NO!" His words came in a shout, which appeared to shock him yet further, as he still attempted to deal with his own incredulity at her direct defiance of HIS orders. It was simply unfathomable to him that anyone--especially this ragged looking slip of a girl-- could ever consider disobeying HIS wishes.

He awkwardly clambered to his knees, then regained his feet, and took Therese firmly by the shoulder, pulling her away from the faucet and causing the water she had cupped in her hands to spill down her shift before she could scoop it to her mouth. When this happened, Therese finally gave into her rage, and Minion had the great misfortune of being her sole target.

Therese is not normally a violent woman, but she had taken all that she could stand. Not only had she suffered at HIS hands for almost 24 hours, but this--this creature--who obviously worked for HIM in some capacity, was attempting to prevent her from drinking the first fresh water to which she had access in over a day. Grabbing him by the arm, she threw him sideways, sending him crashing into the side wall. He hit, stumbled forward for a moment, and threw out his arms to either side in an attempt to regain his balance. Therese allowed him no such luxury. She kicked his feet out from under his body, and pushed him once again to the floor. She had just straddled his chest, and was preparing to make short work of him when she was suddenly and forcefully jerked off of Minion's prone form.

Therese whirled around, murder in her glare, and found herself confronting HIS shoulder. Balling up both fists, she dove at HIM, screaming in her rage. HE deflected her blows easily, her fists bouncing harmlessly off of HIS side, as he grasped her tightly about the waist, and spun her around into the cement wall. Using hip and torso HE pressed her firmly against the harsh surface, and continued to exert pressure, forcing her slender frame into the unyielding material until her antics subsided. "Finished now?" HE asked her calmly.

Therese did not respond, and attempted to slip from his grasp, but she couldn't move a millimeter. She was securely pinned.

HE looked toward Minion, who had scrambled to his feet by this time, looking very much like a chicken whose feathers had been ruffled one too many times for one day. "Sir. . ." he began, then faltered lamely.

"Redeem yourself, Minion--find me the Hansjet. Soon." He scowled at his underling darkly. "Do not disappoint me again."

Minion allowed himself an almost relieved sigh. "Yes sir," he responded, before rushing from the room, and back to the logical, precise world of microchips and circuitry-- entities he understood.

The Interrogator scowled at the top of Therese's blonde head. He was preoccupied, certainly, but here, at least, was a brief diversion.

Sam Marston had slipped right into the routine of the household but Elliott Marston found the stillness a trifle confining. Tiptoeing up the stairs and along the hall to get to their room was one thing, but conducting business in a whisper was just a bit much, in his opinion.

“What do you think I’m runnin’ here? A day school for wayward orphans?” Belle retorted when he complained. “These gals work hard and they need their sleep. So you just hush up, Mr. Big Important Sheep Rancher.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the reasons.” Marston commented as he followed his wife to the kitchen and the back door. “It’s just that it’s so hard to remember all the time.”

Sam pulled on her gloves and smiled. “I know.”

“And I don’t want you taking any risks out there. If you think you might be followed, then you stay at the hotel.” He crossed his arms and frowned. “I’m going to miss you until you get back.”

The disgruntled look on his face was so perilously close to a pout that she almost laughed. “I will be careful.” She reached up and pulled his head down for a kiss. “Now you just stay indoors and out of trouble while I’m gone, sir.”

He pulled open the door and checked the back alley. The hackney cab was waiting. Sam climbed in and pulled the shades down in both windows so no one could see. The driver clucked to his horse and the cab lurched forward. Marston watched it turn into the street and disappear from view.

With a deep sigh, he shut the door. Being apart for even a few hours was fretful but he knew that it was vital that the boys be sent back to the ranch without delay. Ted and Barney would take care of them on the way and make sure they didn’t come to any harm. He wondered briefly who would protect the ranch from the boys.

Moving as quietly as he could, he slipped up the back stairs and along the hall to his room. Belle had tried to talk him into staying in the basement storage area but he had rejected that idea immediately. He preferred a front room with a window so he could watch who came to the house.

He rounded the corner and almost ran into Belle. “There you are! Been looking for you.” She crooked her finger at him. “You wanted to talk to Ches Watters’ gal? Well, she’s awake now.”

Lilly was waiting for him in the small back parlour. She lounged on a sofa in a pink velvet dressing gown that had seen better days and had been designed for a woman built on less robust lines. A stale aroma of attar of roses hung in the air. The sound of the door closing behind Belle caused her to wince and look accusingly at him as he sat down.

Marston eyed her for a moment. Awake wasn’t the word he would have used. Perhaps conscious would have been more accurate. Although just barely.

“You the fella wants to know about Ches Watters?” She drank her tea with little sips, blinking at the afternoon sun coming though the curtains.

“Yes. I understand you were with him the night before he died.” Marston leaned forward in his chair. “What did you talk about?”

She laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound. “Weren’t talkin’ he had on his mind. If you gets my drift.” She winked at him.

“Uh, yes, I realize that. But you told Belle what Watters said when he found out Sam Flanagan had left.” Marston waited, then prodded her again. “Apparently he was upset.”

“Yeah, he was. Got real mad when Belle told him that he was probably bein’ protected by guards.” She frowned in concentration. “Said he was gonna get that boy – what’s his name now? The oldest one – Liam, that’s it. Said that Liam would know where the old man was.”

Marston frowned. “Did he say anything about associates or partners who were looking for Flanagan too?”

“Mister, I told you what I know. I don’t stick my nose in a man’s business. Only thing was I liked those boys and that Liam was cute.” She smiled and gave Marston a sidelong glance under half-closed lids. “Not as good- lookin’ as you, though.” She set the teacup down on the side table, then stood up and gathered her dressing gown more tightly around her figure. Then she smiled again and launched herself at him.

Marston had a confused impression of a pink whirlwind a bare second before she landed in his lap. The force of her assault knocked him back into the depths of the chair. She was completely awake now. He spluttered for air as her arms circled his neck and squeezed hard.

“I’m…not…interested!” He tried to unclench her hands. “Let…go!”

“Now, honey, don’t be that way. We got plenty of time before I gotta go to work.” A wet kiss missed its target and landed on his ear. “So let’s go upstairs and have fun. And for you I’ll even take my clothes off.” She took careful aim and tried to kiss him again.

His groping hands managed to catch hold of the chair arms. With a heave, he pulled himself forward until his feet gained a purchase on the floor. Lilly clung with all her strength the entire time. With a grunt he reached up and succeeded in prying her grip loose. She kicked her legs in the air as she flailed around, grasping at him wildly. He stood up and she landed on the floor with a loud thud.

“Now that’s not friendly!” She huffed up at him with a hurt look. “Wouldn’t have cost you nothing. It’s free anytime before supper. House rules.”

He sucked in a lungful of air and let it out again. “Thank you. But all I want is information about Ches Watters.”

“I told you all I know.” She got to her feet, rejecting with scorn his offer of assistance. “Now I gotta go. I’m hungry.” Pulling her disordered dressing gown around her, she made for the door.

“I know Watters wanted Flanagan to kill a man.” He was talking to her back. “If you remember anything else -”

“Well I won’t! Ches was a good customer. Never asked for credit.” Lilly paused on the threshold and looked back with a frown. “He was some mad that night. Cursin’ and carryin’ on real bad. I felt sorry for the old man. And even sorrier for the man Ches wanted dead.” She padded across the hall in her bare feet and began to climb the stairs.

Marston followed her to the foot of the great staircase. “If you could remember the name of that man, it would be very helpful.”

“Actually, come to think of it, I do.” Lilly’s voice floated down from the landing. “Ches wanted the old man to kill some guy named Elliott Marston.”

Visibility was almost nil and the sounds of shouting voices and frightened animals filled the air. PL wiped sweat from his eyes as he worked, guilt, fear and hangover for the moment forgotten. Dana passed into view, a bucket of river water in each hand. It seems the women had organized to wet down the perimeter so no more sparks could cause problems.

And then, the wind was gone. As the sun cleared the surrounding hillsides, the air stilled and settled.

He could see Sinclair now, uncharacteristically grimy, moving among the wagons and people, a pat on the shoulder here, and whispered word there. The test of the crisis showing in the walk, he was equal to the task.

The camera flies in through the tinted window, not unlike a plane. The back of the head of Hans Gruber. We see him reading . . .

Radio Tower Report . . .

Hans stares at the words, reading them again. Rarely does he read anything twice. Rarely does he need to. But this . . .

02:28 p.m. PST. Aircraft registered as Hansjet #2 reported severe turbulence. Contact with control tower lost. Efforts to reestablish contact will continue. End.

Hours later, there has been no word. And all tracking efforts have been hindered by the storms blowing up side by side over the Atlantic ocean. Even the larger commercial planes were experiencing difficulties.

If something, anything were to happen. . . Hans tries to push the thoughts away, as he pushes the air traffic control alert back to the side of his desk, where it has lain but little since its arrival. The SEC interim report, full of interest this morning lies dormant. Glancing now and again at the sizable folder containing Colin's data on the latest in trading, Hans turns instead to the wood panelling behind him. A touch of a button, and the wood withdraws into the recess of the sides, and Hans selects and enters some settings. A few minutes later, his orders to assemble a search party to fly into the Atlantic storms will be carried out. Maybe from that side of the world, someone will find the Hansjet. And his wife.

Fifteen minutes later, Hans returns to his little room off of his office, where the portrait of his wife hangs on the wall. If only he could keep her in here. Like this picture. If only she had stayed home. If only her life had been different . . . but he stops short of wishing for this, readers. Mary Anne's walk with him upon the Egdon heath had taught Hans that the faults we find in others may be virtues when, through them, they forgive us our own shortcomings.

For even now, he feels his own resolve slipping. His oath to Mary Anne. To spare HIM. Try as he might, Hans cannot shake the cur which dogs him.

So far as my honour allows. I will kill him twenty times over and twenty times again, if anything happens to her.

He lifts his eyes to her portrait a last time, before closing the door behind him. The light over the portrait remains on, her smiling face untroubled and unchanged.

Hart was pleased with her progress. He took a seat on the bench next to her and carefully pulled the skintight glove off of her left hand. He rubbed the heel of her hand, knowing it would be sore after an intensive lesson. "You did well. The pro is optimistic."

Grace closed her eyes, thinking that the lesson was worth the massage, not listening to him.

"You may be able to keep up at Alisal," Hart continued.

She opened one eye. "What's an Alisal?" It sounded like hairspray to her.

"Our destination. We leave today."

She opened both eyes then narrowed them at Hart. "Why do I need to play golf? Are you trying to make me into some zombified country club matron?"

Hart tossed her hand back into her lap and laughed, hard, his head thrown back. A sedate couple ambling by in plaid and argyle gave him a sharp look. Demonstrative behavior was frowned upon at this club. And there was a discreet minority of people at this conservative stronghold -- President Reagan was sometimes wheeled in for luncheon -- who had disapproved of Hart even before his incarceration, but who couldn't turn him or his money away. Hart relished their discomfort.

Grace leaned in close to him. "And another thing," she said, plucking at her knit golf shirt and swivelling her eyes meaningfully at the departing couple, then down at the ungainly spiked golf shoes she had purchased in the pro shop before the lesson, "why are golf clothes so ugly?

He laughed harder. He, of course, looked casually magnificent in a black cashmere v-neck sweater over a crisp white shirt and flawlessly cut grey trousers. "Because, my love, golf is unknown in Italy. Once they learn to play, the clothes will catch up."

He pulled her to her feet and led her toward the clubhouse. Grace was lost in thought, imagining an Armani golfing ensemble which might, might, make this game worthwhile.

Both were young, barely into their twenties, and they looked at him with mingled embarrassment and sympathy. The taller one coughed apologetically. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us. The chief has a few questions for you.”

Marston inhaled deeply, then let out his breath. Time. He needed time to come up with a plan. There was nothing to be gained from resistance but if he could stall long enough something might suggest itself.

“Very well. But first I must drop these bags off at my hotel.” It came out well; he was pleased with the effort.

The two constables exchanged looks. “Well, you see, sir….” The shorter one hesitated. “That’s not possible. We have orders to take you straight back to the chief.” He shifted uncomfortably. “If you don’t mind, sir.”

Marston eyed them carefully. Their deference was in his favor; they responded automatically to the authority in his tone. “No, I don’t mind. However I must insist that you let me return these items to the bank. They are too valuable to be jostled about at the chief constable’s office.”

The men looked at each other again. The taller one spoke. “Er, very well, sir. But we must come in with you.”

“Of course.” Marston nodded. “Let’s go.”

The trio walked along the sidewalk to the main entrance. Marston walked as slowly as he dared, shifting the bags in his grip and once putting them down for a rest before climbing the steps. The police fidgeted while he clasped and unclasped his hands, ostensibly trying to restore the feeling to his fingers. He scanned the street to his left and right but could see nothing or no one who could help him. Few passersby were visible in the middle of the morning and the road was bare of anything save hackneys and horses. As he watched a long wagon pulled by two great draft horses came slowly around the corner. He sighed and picked up his baggage again.

All too soon they were passing through the great wooden doors into the cool marble hall of the bank. Customers turned their heads to watch as the three men passed through their midst to the executive offices. Marston headed down the corridor behind the wooden barriers and the two constables followed, halting immediately outside the executive doors.

Jasper Connaught looked up as he entered. “Elliott, what are you doing back here?”

“I’ve come to return my money to the vault. You can be trusted to arrange that, I believe?” Marston did not try to keep the bitterness from his voice.

The banker flinched. “To be sure. Just leave them here. It will be arranged immediately.”

Marston sat down. “You’ll excuse me, but I would prefer to wait for a receipt.”

Connaught looked affronted and opened his mouth to respond but whatever he was about to say was drowned out by the sound of screams from the hall beyond. The two men stared at each other, then leaped to their feet at the sound of gunfire. The screams stopped immediately and a harsh voice could be heard shouting orders in the sudden quiet.

The banker’s face went white and he began to tremble. With panicked eyes he ran to the door, then returned and cast panicked eyes around his office. His hands shook and he moaned wordlessly as he spun around in frantic circles. Finally he ran across the room to the closet and pulled open the door. His coat flapped as he pawed his way into its depths with both hands and the door slammed shut behind him.

Marston stared in disbelief at the closet. The sound of running feet tugged his attention to the corridor. A slight figure in a shabby coat with a hat pulled low and a scarf covering his lower face appeared in the doorway. Marston reached for his holster but halted when the newcomer held up two guns. He backed up as the other entered the room.

With a backward kick to slam the door, the gunman put his guns on a chair and began to peel off his outer clothes. The hat and scarf went flying across the desk and disappeared from view, followed by the coat. Two shapely hands tugged the lower half of a muslin dress from out of the rough denim jeans and adjusted its length to the proper fit. Marston’s jaw dropped as his wife emerged in front of him.

“We don’t have much time.” Sam whispered fiercely. “Did you get your money?”

He barely managed to nod. Through the door, they could hear a confused buzzing of loud voices from the hall beyond.

“Good. Then we’ll be on our way.” She looked around the room then seized a large bookend from the banker’s desk. With hardly a pause for breath she heaved it through the window smashing the glass into thousands of shards. Then she ran to the door, pulled it open and screamed. “Oh my God! Quick! The robber went right through the window! Hurry!”

There was a stampede of footsteps down the corridor and the two constables, guns at the ready, burst into the room. The fronts of their tunics were covered in dust and they looked considerably more rumpled than before. Sam screamed louder and pointed at the window. They rushed to poke their heads through the gaping glass then hoisted themselves to the sill and out to the street. The sound of their running feet faded as they rounded the corner of the building.

Sam gave her dress a final tug. “All right, let’s go.” She recovered her guns and checked the barrel of one as Marston picked up his bags.

They walked through the now empty hall and their steps echoed against the marble walls. The doors stood open and Marston could see a hackney pulled up to the bottom of the steps. Melvin Collins grinned and waved through the side window.

They were three blocks away before Marston found his voice. “How did you… What did you…?”

“When the police came upstairs to see where you were, I heard the captain in charge give instructions to his men that they were to bring you in for serious questioning. I didn’t like the sound of that. So I got into my work clothes -” She lifted her skirt and flashed her denims at him. “And followed them. I was across the street when they walked you back inside. So I followed you in and pretended to hold up the bank. I shot out some glass lamps and told everyone to get on the floor.”

“Are you crazy!? You could have been killed!” Marston’s voice was hoarse with rage and fear. “What if those constables had shot at you!?”

“Well, I want to talk to you about that. After this is over, I want you to write a nasty letter to the chief constable about those men. It’s a disgrace that I wasn’t shot at.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sam sat back in her seat and quirked an eyebrow sardonically. “Taxpayers aren’t getting their money’s worth from those two. They were the first ones on the floor.”

Claudia peered cautiously around the door, and saw, standing in front of the pantry door, Mary Anne! No, this was too much of a coincidence. Just as she had been thinking how on earth could she get Mary Anne away from the Colonel for long enough to get the evidence for the Interrogator, here she was. It was too good to be true. Someone was watching her, had set her up, and was waiting for her to take the bait.

Perhaps the lack of an AR guard at her side hadn't been an oversight by the Alliance Rose. Perhaps they were watching her, but from a discrete distance, waiting to spring a trap.

Mary Anne reached forward and opened the door, looking up at the shelves, trying to make a choice. Claudia watched her, briefly unsure of what to do. Mary Anne didn't know she was there. She would find something to eat and then return to bed, not knowing she had been watch at all. But the lights were on. There was always the risk Mary Anne would investigate the warm glow coming out of the servant's parlour. And Claudia did need Mary Anne out of the way so she could visit the Colonel.

Claudia made her choice and slowly carefully made her way across the kitchen, each step agonisingly slow, as she was sure she would be heard. Mary Anne took a step into the pantry, just as Claudia came up behind her and gave her a shove. Then she closed the door quickly. Damn! No lock! What could she do? Mary Anne would get out and how would she explain what she was doing dressed as a maid, and pushing her friend in a cupboard? She glanced frantically around the room, and spied a chair just out of her reach at the kitchen table. She briefly moved away from the door, grabbed the chair and dragged it across the floor, then shoved it hard underneath the handle, just as Mary Anne tried to open it and get out. Good, it would hold, at least for a while.

Then Mary Anne started pounding on the door, and screaming to be let out. Claudia quickly moved to the kitchen door and closed it. Hopefully that would keep the sound away from the rest of the house. It was a big place, and she hoped no one would hear the noise.

Mary Anne sits in relative comfort, if not in luxury.

The Delaford pantry is quite large, as befits a prosperous and well-conducted estate, and the interest of her explorations has temporarily diverted her mind from the problems of why Brandon had behaved so strangely and why she has been shut in the pantry.

One of the first things she had noticed is that one side of the room is distinctly warmer than the other. That'll be the side nearest the fireplace--the stone's holding the heat, even though the fire's died down. All right, start with that.

Trying to ignore her protesting muscles, she had dragged several large sacks of meal and flour over to the warmer side of the room. The result is a sort of half- couch, with the finishing touch of an old blanket that she had liberated from its former position of covering several small barrels that had turned out to be filled with apples, packed in straw to protect them from bruising.

Mmmm. Yes, that'll do . . .

And so it is that Mary Anne now rests on her improvised cushions, savouring the chill crunch of an apple while basking in the warmth radiating from the stone at her back, and trying once more to think about what has happened to her.

It is hard to think clearly, for the warmth is making her drowsy; the drowsiness, however, is offset by a feeling of unease that she cannot explain--past the obvious reasons of wondering who would want to lock her up in here. Something in the room itself . . .

She looks around, steeling herself against her nervousness even as she dismisses possible reasons for it, one after another.

Fear of the darkness? No. Her candle burns steadily in its candlestick, and if one is not enough, there are more, carefully wrapped in stiff paper and stacked on a far shelf.

Lack of air? No. She had taken the trouble to hold her candle near the small crack in the door and had seen the reassuring flicker.

Claustrophobia? She has never suffered from it before . . . and this pantry is not one of those closet- sized enclosures but a genuine storeroom. No. None of that fear that distorts one's perception into imagining that the room is growing smaller, that the walls are closing in . . .

Still, even though she is quite free of that particular phobia, Mary Anne wishes heartily--for those few moments--that she had never read those stories by Poe.

Don't think about things like that. Think of something else--that you'll be out of here in a few hours, at most. Or try to get some sleep . . .

But for now, sleep is out of the question. That glimpse she had of a dark- sleeved arm, just before the door had slammed . . .

One of the maids? But why? Why would someone in a good situation here at Delaford take a risk of losing it, doing a thing like that? They'd have to know they'd be sent off without references . . .

Hmmmmmm. Alliance people wear dark jackets . . . But again, who in the Alliance Rose would have any motive for such a thing?

For that matter, no one could have known I'd be coming down here . . . it had to be someone who was here, and saw the opportunity, and took it.

But--the opportunity for what?

It is maddening. Mary Anne shakes her head, silently vowing that if she finds out who has done this . . . she does not even trouble to finish the thought in her own mind, but her expression is eloquent.

Trying to relax and free herself from the bewildering spiral of her thoughts, Mary Anne settles back against the pile of bags and takes deep, long breaths.

Hint of a smile as she recalls her wedding night . . . Brandon, settling her carefully into the nest of pillows on the bed.

So gently . . .

Don't think of that. Not now.

Another long breath. The scent of apples, though she had carefully closed the barrel after making her selection. The richness of bread. The tang of tea--very near, that one; the tea-crocks must be on the shelf just above her--and a whiff of savoury cordials, along with other smells that are not food at all, such as the sweet hint of beeswax when she had opened the paper-wrapped candles.

All of these speak of welcome and security; why is it, then, that with every breath her muscles tighten, and her eyes dart warily from corner to shadowed corner . . .

Perhaps it wasn't someone here at Delaford . . . ?

A catch of her breath, like a small, soft cry. Who among us here at Delaford would want to do this to me? No one.

Someone else, then? From outside . . . ?

And then it hits her like a blow in the stomach, so that she curls inward, her arms wrapped about her as though she cowers before some physical menace--invisible, but real. Real enough, to her.

A memory.

A pantry! And the smell of tea . . .

Finally, The Sheriff of Nottingham is seated again behind the table. His lawyer and Dot stand on either side of him, recovering from restraining George when Hamlet and Mesmer entered the room.

Satisfied that the accused is sufficiently sedate, Mesmer conducts Andrea into the room. She stands in the doorway for a moment to survey the scene. Somehow the table seems a flimsy barrier between her and George. She does not look him in the eye, but carefully notes his position in the room.

Nottingham does look at her, closely. Suddenly, he slams both his hands on the tabletop. "You're not going to blame me for that! I didn't do that!" He points to her bruised face.

Andrea's eyes are immediately drawn to his angry countenance. She marvels at her ability to enrage him by simply stepping into the room. Her pounding heart settles down after assurance that George is making no further move toward her.

With Hamlet nearby on her left and Mesmer on her right, Andrea summons the courage to speak softly. "No George. You didn't do this." She indicates her left cheek, where The Interrogator struck her.

The lawyer extends his hand in greeting. "Miss Andrea. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gary Mitchell. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us."

To shake his hand would necessitate a step closer to the table. Andrea does not attempt it, but she does bow her head in acknowledgement. This man appears harmless -- professional, well-groomed. If she were oblivious to his objective, Andrea would find him attractive.

Mitchell speaks again. "Please take a seat, and we'll get started."

Mesmer sets a chair directly behind her. She need only bend her knees, and she is sitting. Mesmer, Hamlet, and Dot remain standing, vigilant.

Mary Anne beats on the heavy boards of the door until her hands are stinging, and she stops only when she realizes how bruised they will be if she continues. Black and blue.

And she has called out repeatedly, hoping that whoever has done this . . . well, that it was an accident. That they will hear and come to let her out.

Accident? Not likely. Not when whoever it was wedged a chair up under the door handle!

She tries throwing herself against the door--perhaps she can dislodge the chair? But no. The door panels are heavy and well-fitted, save for that one small crack near the center, just wide enough to allow her to peek out--but not wide enough to be of any use to her otherwise. A stout door.

Damned English Oak!

Before she quite realizes that it has happened, Mary Anne is sitting on the floor, tears running freely down her face. She only just manages to avoid sobbing, and is heartily ashamed of her own weakness, but the truth is that the accumulation of small discomforts and disturbances has worked upon her almost as thoroughly as an illness or an injury. She had been awakened very early the previous morning, to the shocking news of Therese's abduction; there had been the confrontations in Brandon's study, and the fencing afterward, not to mention the quarrel with Dev--though that had lasted only a short time. But then, the meeting in the library with the Alliance personnel; her anxiety for Brandon, when he and Sifuentes had gone in pursuit of Dev . . . all of this would have exhausted and troubled her. It would have been more than enough.

But then . . . Brandon.

Mary Anne wraps her arms about herself and shivers; to reflect during the aftermath of such passion and regard it with that mixture of awe and embarrassment and amusement . . . it is one thing to do so when settled, more or less comfortably, in an enormous soft bed, near the warmth of her husband who--though he had not harmed her--had revealed to her the existence of a Christopher Brandon that she could hardly have imagined. Even at his most ardent, he had never been like this. Yes, one thing to think over such puzzlements in warmth and comfort, but quite another to do so when seated upon a stone floor, feeling the chill seeping into her bones.

And she hurts. Her hands burn where she has pounded on the pantry door; her right side throbs where she has thrown herself against the wood, as if her slim frame could possibly have any impact. Her bones ache from her earlier . . . exertions . . . and many sore twinges deep in her muscles warn her that she will probably appear to be in appalling condition by morning. I didn't just FEEL bruised; I will BE bruised from head to foot.

And she is hungry!

Well, she's in the right place for that, at least. Dragging her sleeve across her eyes, Mary Anne stands up--with a few little exclamations at her body's sharp protests--and begins to explore the Delaford pantry.

Jasper Connaught leaned back in his leather chair and watched his client’s actions. “You realize, of course, this is highly irregular.”

“Yes, I know. But it’s necessary, I’m afraid.” Marston closed the second bag and placed it on the floor beside the first. “I expect the police will be here very soon. There aren’t many places I visit regularly when I’m in town but this is one of them.”

The banker’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “We at the First Commercial take pride in the quality of our customers.”

Marston crossed to the window and looked out at the street. The two uniformed constables he’d seen from the seamstress’ shop loitered on the sidewalk directly opposite the bank, watching the doors. Probably waiting to arrest him when he emerged. They wouldn’t dare anger the authorities by coming into the bank to do it. He was safe as long as he was in Connaught’s office.

He turned back to his unwilling host. “Jasper, loath as I am to dispense with your hospitality, I’m afraid the time has come for us to part. If you’ll take me to a safe back door into the alley, I’ll be on my way.”

The First Commercial Bank occupied most of an entire block in the town. The back alley was used only by special arrangement with the authorities to deliver and receive shipments of specie and currency. A tall brick wall sealed off one end of the alley and a large iron gate stood at the other to keep regular traffic out.

At the door of the office, Marston paused and adjusted his grip on his luggage. “For your sake, Jasper, don’t let on I was in here. It would probably bring you nothing but trouble.”

Connaught stood up. “Let me take you to the door. Those back stairs can be tricky.” He appeared to ignore his client’s comment. Marston felt slightly guilty as he followed the older man.

The banker marched down the hall past the other executive offices. At the very edge of the lobby he veered left and descended a flight of stairs that Marston knew from experience led to the great vaults under the main floor. The light was dim and threw exaggerated shadows along the wall as the two men proceeded.

They passed the vaults and kept moving. Marston was totally reliant on his host now. The hall was practically a tunnel at this point and the light even less reliable. He could not see much further ahead than Connaught’s back. The sudden appearance of a steel door caught him by surprise.

“Here we are.” The banker pulled on the bolt and it swung back with a tinny screech. The door swung open and daylight flooded through. “Best of luck Elliott. Now and always.”

“Thank you, Jasper. You’re a true friend.” Marston took a firmer grip on his bags and stepped over the threshold, blinking in the glare. The first things he saw as his eyes became accustomed to the light were the two policemen, waiting with folded arms. He looked around frantically. This was not the back alley; it was the street.

Marston whirled and stared at Connaught, still standing in the door.

“I’m very sorry, Elliott. I didn’t want to do it. But I had no choice.” The banker nodded in sorrowful farewell and stepped back into the gloom. The door slammed shut and the sound of the bolt being shot echoed in the silence.

Surprise mingled with relief. A deep sigh. "I've never played a round of golf," she said, automatically.

"There are ways to fix that," Hart replied. "But most of them involve getting dressed. Unless you vehemently object, we have a lesson in an hour."

"A lesson?" she asked, still on autopilot and looking for a hidden agenda that wasn't there.

"A professional. I'm a fair player, but there are two things a man should never teach a woman he loves: how to drive a car, and golf." He delivered this hackneyed formula without batting an eye.

"Why on earth should I learn to play golf?" she smiled, having avoided it so far in life.

"Because otherwise you'll be bored the next few days," he said, patiently, as though it should be obvious to her.

"What's happening the next few days?"

"Golf," he said, slowly and deliberately, as to a child. "With some friends," he added cautiously, drawing the last word out like a piece of taffy. "At a place you might like."

"Oh." He seemed to know everyone, but she had never met anyone he called a friend. "Where?" She quickly calculated whether she could get away. As long as there were phones and faxes, it didn't matter very much where she was. But she was far less sure about Hart assuming he could plan her time without consulting her, telling her instead of asking where they were going.

"A place with no phones and terrible cellular service," he answered, as if reading her mind.

He chuckled at the aghast look on her face. "No phones in the rooms, that is. There is a phone in the office, but you will have to promise to let the staff use it once in a while."

"Well," she bargained, "once you see my swing, you won't want to take me anyway."

"Possible," he said, dryly.

HIS staff does not disturb HIM over the usual hopeful hackers--which has included the Alliance Rose on more than one occasion--trying somehow to reach HIM or track HIS trails. No, those unrewarded efforts are noted on reports which HE can and does read in lighter moments.

Can it be? To say HIS heart jumps at the meaning of those simple words would be to presume that somewhere in HIS body, HE still has a heart. It would also attach a human significance to HIS feelings--assuming he happens to have any of those around. As it happens, he does. Despite all efforts and any declarations to the contrary.

Claudia's success, then, has begun to bear fruit . . . The Interrogator gives instructions for the confinement of his guest, and accesses his computer. There, the number sequence was given correctly, and then "Black Orchid"--proof that it is either Renie, or someone under her direction. A glance at a time meter causes HIM to scowl.

"This is on the time delay--why didn't you get me sooner!" The irritation in HIS voice following not only from his present annoyance, but HIS last encounter with Therese . . .

Minion--for so it is--as we now recognize him by his weak and weakening knees and smile, replies, in all honesty. "I wanted to be sure it was--was--" His stammering is not without reason, readers. For referring to Renie in HIS presence is not an enviable task now--do you call her HIS "wife" in the same way that Presidents are so named, bestowing a title which she has thrown off? Yet, "Ex" wife-- raises the very hackles of the hound, by reminding HIM of HIS defeat. Surely not by her first name, which not only assumes intimacy, but puts Minion on an equal footing with HIM . . . . And to mention the name "Gruber", well, you see how it is.

"I would not care to disturb you unless it was--the party you were expecting." HE sees the fearful respect in Minion's eyes. "Forgive my stupidity, sir."

HE listens not, nor forgives, watching the monitor as the passwords playback. . . . She had typed in the name of their lost son. Though they had lost him, he would forever connect them. More bitter than sweet . . . Then, finally, the woman he had loved without equal had lighted upon the second password--

--but there is no connection. The screen is black. Had she given up? "Was the connection lost? What was the T.L. reading?" Minion hastily presses several buttons, to little avail.

"Sir, it's as if someone pulled a plug on the other end. The entire signal has been cut off. The tracking locator could not isolate the source. Somewhere over the Atlantic." A rriiiiiippp of paper, and Minion hands HIM a readout of latitude and longitude and several rather more obscure markings, which forces a small smile to HIS lips.

The wrong ocean.

She was on her way to England. The news affords HIM more pleasure than not, though HE could have wished to hear her voice over HIS computer. There are times when HE misses her badly, her laugh, the feeling of her hair spilling across his chest . . . but . . .

HE crushes the crisp readout in HIS hands. He forms a paper globe from it, holding the world in HIS hands. HE looks at it, bemused. "Inform me if Hans Gruber leaves California." HE postures the globe in HIS right hand, as if pondering Yorick's skull. "You must monitor more closely . . . and tell me when my present guest has been tidied up." As HE leaves the room, HE lets the little paper globe roll off HIS fingers . . . into the trash.

Eyes became slits, protesting against even the dimly lit wagon interior. If he thought he had a headache before it was nothing compared to this. Sinclair had one mean hook.

"Fine time you pick to drown your sorrows. Sinclair needs you out there." it was the seldom-heard schoolmarm voice she could pull out on occasion. Then more softly, "I'm sorry I sent you away last night."

The dagger flew true and settled firmly in his heart. She felt bad for not being fully recovered from an enormous trauma and welcoming him with open arms. Did he understand and comfort her? NO, he had to go make an ass of himself. Hell, he was too drunk to even perform, passed out. The betrayal was there, regardless.

"You'll need something to eat. I'll get you some cold biscuits, that's all I can manage right now with the storm.

As he struggled to a sitting position the reality of what was happening outside cut through. "The livestock...."

"They're seen to. Our wagon is secure; Sinclair and I managed."

PL reached up and touched her cheek with shaky fingertips and showed the shadow of a smile. "You're too good for me."

"I know."

The morning after Hart's return, Grace woke very early. But Hart was already gone. She looked around. No sign of him. But neatly centered on the floor of the doorway to the hall was a shiny new white golf ball. She knew Hart played golf (what self-respecting mogul didn't?), but had never seen any evidence of it before. Scrambling out of bed, she picked up the golf ball, then spied another one further down the hall. A puzzled look on her face, she threw on a robe and walked down the hall to pick up the other ball. A smile crossed her face when she saw yet another ball at the top of the staircase. Hart was still nowhere in sight. Instead of picking up the next ball, she pushed it over the top step and let gravity take it down the stairs. The ball bounced slowly down the tile steps. *tock* *tock* *tock* *tock* *tock* It reached the entryway and rolled toward the door. And came to rest against a tall, bulky package wrapped clumsily in brown paper, topped with a haphazard red bow.

Grace cautiously approached the package, then gave the golf ball a little nudge down the long hallway toward the kitchen. It rolled noisily down the hardwood floor. *kirrrrrrrr* Then it stopped. Hart, standing at the end of the hallway, had effortlessly trapped it under his shoe, then stooped to pick it up.

"There is something serious I would like to discuss with you," he said, looking out from under his eyebrows, his voice grave, his hands toying with the golf ball.

Her mouth suddenly went dry. A wave of guilty anxiety swept over her. Did he know she had been snooping at Global Marketing? That she had talked to Colin? How could he? Breathing fast, she quickly looked down, her only chance to conceal what was surely a deer-caught-in-the- headlights look on her face.

"It's not that bad," replied Hart, nevertheless noting her anxiety (at what???). He walked over to her and led her by the hand toward the package in the entryway.

Recovered, she gave him a curious, skeptical look.

"Well, open it, they won't bite," he urged.

Therese stopped her sobbing, forcing herself to steady the ragged intake of her breath. She knew that HE thrived on the weaknesses of others, and instinctively realized that her strength, or at least a show of such, was the only defense she possessed. She straightened within HIS arms, pulling away from HIM as much as she could while restrained within HIS embrace.

HE chuckled, a deep, insidious sound, and she grew angry that such an innocuous emotion as mirth could eminate from such evil. Her eyes flashed as she mentally attempted to fuel her own anger--she knew that her ire would allow her to remain strong when she had no other recourse. "Your resentment of me is quite uncharacteristic, I find it rather amusing."

Therese pulled from HIS grasp, and moved back toward the rear wall of the room. She rose slowly to her feet, limbs shaking, and braced herself against the wall. When she turned toward HIM, her eyes regarded HIM harshly, and when she spoke, her voice shook, not with weakness, but with fury. "I amuse you, do I?" she challanged HIM. "You have taken me from all that I know and love, perpetrated heinous acts upon me, and continue to hold me against my will in order to provide amusement for yourself?" Therese paused for a brief moment in order to catch her breath, and then strode toward HIM purposefully. When she stood a scant pace from HIS person, she raised her arm as if to strike HIM.

HE grasped her firmly by the wrist before she could let fly the blow, and twisted her arm behind her body, spinning her around so that her back was to HIM. HE leaned low over her shoulder, HIS breath warm and dangerous in her ear. "It is the amusement which you provide that has kept you alive this long. Do not try me." HE clipped each word as HE enunciated it, and Therese felt as if each syllable pierced her very flesh.

HE turned her back around to face HIM, and smiled down at her once again. Therese was far more frightened of the ease with which HE traveled from brutality to benevolence and back again than she was of HIS threats. If HE had meant to kill her, it was likely HE would have done so by now.

That, and her faith in Eamon, were the two beliefs which allowed her to continue.

HE grasped her firmly by the shoulder, and pulled her toward the door. "Come with me, it's time to freshen you up a bit."

Therese stumbled after HIM, her bare feet slapping the cold, hard floor as she struggled to keep up with HIS long, graceful stride. After leaving the room where she had been held, HE passed through a long, door lined hallway, each one seemingly indistinguishable from the rest. HE stopped after passing several, and Therese vaugely wondered how HE could determine that this was the one HE required. HE had just unlocked the door when an androginous looking figure approached, and tentatively requested HIS attention.

"What is it?" HE demanded.

"Your email signal, sir."

Therese found herself thrust into another room, the door slamming shut behind her, the bolt sliding into place. She was once again left alone.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! The whole train will know where I am

Boots in hand he moved as quietly as he could down to the ground. Just down the way here a bit and it would appear he was down with the livestock all along. Wasn't that where he'd been going in the first place? How on earth had he been sidetracked into that wagon?

If I get out of this with my skin I'll never touch another drop...

Swinging around the far wagon wheel he was brought to a halt by a sudden wave of nausea that left him leaning weakly against the wagon, fighting for control. Still he could hear Bryant's approach. The new role of wagon master adding a tone that demanded response.

Have to get away from this wagon...

One guess.

His annoyance unbottled, Colin smacks the computer table--"OWW!!"--and Renie has to crack a smile, even if she can't crack the code . . . It has broken the tension.

As Colin kisses his fingers--yes, one by one--with exaggerated humour, Renie's smile twitches and nears a giggle. "I need a doctor IM-mediately," Colin insists, still keeping a straight face, but only with increasing effort.

But one guess remains.

One guess.

"He said you'd begun to think correctly--so I think we're close."

"I think we are too. Only I think we're out of time. Look."

The ludicrous face of a clock has appeared on the monitor. Incongruously, it is a large, smiling face. Its gloved hands show the time as two minutes to midnight--or high noon, perhaps.

If only she knew what HE meant. Stupid password. How did she hope to beat him at his own game? He set the rules, he was master. He had won. To think she could outfox him, unmask his tricks . . . No, it was foolish . . .

Then, from the screen, HIS voice. "You have one minute left, my old darling. And one guess. I believe we can agree that I have won."

"No," she whispers back. A fiery resistance within her. She reaches over Colin's fingers. And types in her last guess.

Two keystrokes. N-O.

The screen begins to change . . .

Without warning--a severe jolt of the plane knocks Colin from the chair--the body of the jet pulls hard to one side--reacting as if punched in the gullet--

--tea tray flying--a crash of crockery as it hits the side of the desk--arms up--no balance--

--her legs taken out from under her, Renie feels the chair, then Colin, slamming into her--mmnnnffff--he tumbles to the floor--tries in vain to grab her--secure her--she is thrown--ugh--against the side of the plane--impact--her leg hitting the heavy side table--

The plane takes four more knocks in the belly before it rights itself, and the crew flood the aisles searching for the pair of passengers.

She found her car and opened the trunk for Hart's briefcase. It was odd, she thought, that he had no other luggage, but she didn't say anything. She offered him the car keys in case male pride wanted to drive, but he waved her off, indicating he was tired from the flight.

"Not too tired, I hope," she said, archly.

Hart caught her implication and trailed a gloved hand teasingly along her thigh, a smile of frank appetite lighting up his face. "Not too tired," he replied, his voice dropping to a growl in her ear.

"In that case, I'd better use the shortcut," she deadpanned as she joined the stream of traffic heading north. Before the San Diego Freeway, she pulled onto an exit ramp leading to Lincoln Boulevard and wound her way through Playa del Rey and Venice. Traffic here was sparse, mostly office workers going home, and the occasional workman's van heading away from the affluent beach towns south of the airport. Hart was unusually animated, amusing her with droll tales of inept customs agents on tropical islands he never got around to naming. She was laughing when, out of nowhere, a blue sedan cut in front of her, forcing her to brake sharply. Her car came to a stop inches behind the blue bumper as it stopped for a red light. On the back seat, her laptop case and a sheaf of loose papers hurtled against the back of the driver's seat. She craned her head to look at the blue car's license plate. Instead of the usual jumble of letters and numbers, it was a personalized plate, the letters spelling out DOGMA.

She narrowed her eyes at the plate. "Somehow I don't think it's the Pope in that car," she said, leaning back to rearrange her laptop case and papers. Hart was silent. She straightened up in her seat to peer at him. "Are you all right?" she asked, brushing icy fingers against his cheek. He didn't answer, but kept his eyes on the blue car as it turned right on Marine when the light changed. He stared after the car until it was out of view.

"Perfectly fine, darling, perfectly fine," he answered at last, his soft voice sounding far away and at odds with the hard set of his face.

Mary Anne grimaces at the squeak of the door leading into the kitchens. She keeps meaning to ask someone to attend to that, but other things keep driving it out of her head and she forgets--until she hears the noise again, and remembers.

After the eerie moments in the portrait gallery upstairs with the wild highlander Connor MacLeod--not to mention the glittering gaze of Brandon's highwayman ancestor, Samuel--Mary Anne finds the kitchens comforting. They are extremely well- kept, and her eyes dwell appreciatively on the stone flooring, sand-scrubbed and carefully swept; the arrays of utensils, each on its proper hook; the enormous fireplace; the prosperous glow of clean copper and pewter; the storage cupboards for plates and cups . . .

And there, the pantry. At the very sight of it, Mary Anne's stomach issues forth another long grrrrrowwwwllll, causing her to giggle a little. "All right, you," she addresses her offending internals. "Just a minute, and I'll feed you!" As if my stomach were one of Sir John's dogs! And I haven't even visited the kennels here at Delaford. With HIM lurking about, no one can set foot out of doors without an escort and be safe . . .

Now that is nothing to giggle about. Feeling suddenly dry-mouthed, Mary Anne fetches herself a large cup of water before turning back toward the pantry.

It is then she notices that some of the lamps have been lighted. Strange. They should all have been put out by now. I wonder who's been down here at this hour?

A shrug. Perhaps someone else, like her, had been down for a late snack. It doesn't matter. I'll put out the lamps when I'm finished.

The pantry door opens easily; it, at least, does not squeak. Mary Anne stands for a moment, breathing in the pleasantly mingled scents of tea and apples and bread, her eyes roving over the contents of the small storeroom in delicious anticipation of her choices. She steps through the door and sets her candlestick on a shelf . . .

. . . when she suddenly feels a hard SHOVE in the small of her back that sends her stumbling forward into the pantry, spilling part of her cup of water before she regains her balance and turns to gasp, "What--!!"

She catches a brief glimpse of a dark-sleeved arm, before the door SLAMS, and just as she recovers her wits enough to throw herself against the door with all her strength, there is a dragging, scraping noise from the other side, and a decisive thump--from the sound of it, a chair being wedged under the door handle.

Mary Anne hammers on the door, but there is no answer.

She puts her eye to one of the cracks and tries to look out, but there is little to see--and certainly no glimpse of her captor.

She is trapped.

She headed across the kitchen to a door at the back. She opened the door slowly with a creak and popped her head cautiously round the corner. All was in darkness. No one about. All the servants had gone to bed a while ago. She hadn’t noticed when. Deep in thought she had sat at the kitchen table going over her plan again and again. Mistakes would not be tolerated. She had to be sure of herself and what she was going to do.

She found a taper and lit it from one of the kitchen lamps, then took it into the other room and lit the wall lamp nearest the doorway. The room was revealed as the soft glow of the light filled it. A small parlour for the servants. Comfortable chairs, and a big plain wooden table where they would eat their own meals.

Claudia looked around, hoping for one thing she had left to chance. Opening doors, closing them. Finally she found what she had been looking for. A maid’s uniform freshly pressed, hanging on the side of the dresser.

Quickly she emptied her pockets, and laid the items on the wooden table in a line. Her lip gloss, a vial of powder, the small object she had taken from the unconscious AR guard, a handkerchief, some money and a comb. Then she pulled off her clothes and folded them in a neat pile on the table next to the things. She struggled into the maid’s uniform. The owner had been considerably shorter and slighter than she was, so she had to leave buttons undone at the back, and hoped they would be hidden by the way she tied the apron strings.

No, no time to call Mary Anne now. They must work fast. Renie is on her feet, beside Colin, staring miserably at the screen. Their exchanges are quick, of necessity.

"What did you type?"

"Mistral." Colin could have kicked himself. "It was stupid, I know."

So HE had left nothing to chance. Even HIS responses were programmed to the guesses she might make. HE had thought this through. Four guesses left. Any number of letters. Any number of possibilities. And time, ticking away . . .

"Maybe someone's name--Andrea--or Therese--or Claudia--or Mary Anne."

True. Any one of those might work. "But that would use up all our guesses. And it might be none of them."

"Don't we have to try one?"

"There has to be a reason for his choice," she says, staring at the keyboard--a maze of letters and numbers before her. The answer is right in front of her. Somewhere. A famous literary phrase? A painter's masterpiece? A song lyric? An anagram? A personal reference to their past?

Her face clouds. Silent for the moment, she touches Colin on the shoulder, and after looking up at her, he rises, understanding her meaning. "I can leave, if you like," he offers. He can't, though, and makes no attempt to step away from her side. "--But I'd rather be here."

Renie assents quickly, feeling the need for as much support as Colin can give. She would let him type this password, if she could manage to utter it. "It's all right." He notices how her fingers tremble, however, as she types. She can type faster--but now, it is as if she fears to place the letters there, as if it will conjure up some form before her. It is a first name. Only a first name. A man's first name. Colin does not know to whom it refers.

She closes her eyes, and presses the return key.

The lack of response makes her think the computer has failed to read her entry. But then, as she listens harder, she can hear HIM. Breathing. HE is there. For a second time, she feels as if HE really is there, physically sitting at the other end of this line. She has not forgotten the strength of HIS presence and HIS will. Not for nothing has HE been chosen for his work . . . her thought ends, as HE speaks. HIS voice, clear. Her guess is no surprise. "No." She hears the pause. HE wants to say more. "--though I can understand this one, in light of recent events."

There! HE had just confessed to the break-in at the medical office. So Claudia was working for him. Doing his bidding . . . HIS few words wouldn't prove a thing in court, of course, but--

Colin puts his fingers over hers, gathering them together in his larger hands. In his grasp, the trembling, and unnatural warmth of her own is undeniable. She will have to relinquish her spot. Otherwise, Colin will not let go of her hands. "Renie, let me. My fingers will be yours, I swear. No more solo flights."

She lets herself be moved aside once more. They trade ideas rapid fire, their voices low and urgent. Each possibility is rejected with only one or two words. Another idea. "Try this--in the Latin." She repeats it.

Colin does not comment, but complies, and she watches him tap out Dante's phrase, "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Return.

HIS voice, snapping up the silence. "So very dark, aren't we? You are struggling, my darling. The pathway to me is as easy as before. You can say it in a single breath. Two more guesses."

Was that a clue? A pathway. As easy as before . . . what did that mean?! There was no password before! Perhaps it meant nothing--a red herring to confuse her. Red herring? No. Say it in a breath. Think-think-think. A single breath. Think. Single . . .

"It's one syllable, Colin. One word. One syllable." A game. This was a game for HIM. Was it "GAME"? As easy as before. The word "BEFORE"? No, no-too many syllables. She went back over her conversation with Colin. Something told her it was a word they had used. They had spoken the password, a one syllable single word which rolled simplicity and irony into one.

"One of these has to work," orders Colin, directly to the computer.

One of them. Which one? "One." She says it aloud. One! That's it--THAT'S IT! O-N-E. Renie hesitates a moment, then orders Colin to type in the letters. He hits return.

"My old darling, you have begun to think correctly, again, but I fear that, sadly, you are not the woman you used to be." You have one guess left." HIS voice licked the delicious irony of his reply.

Mary Anne steps out of the bed, and winces when her foot comes down on something hard. She stoops to examine the floor.

A button. And close by, a hairpin. And there's another. Rolling her eyes, she gathers them up--as many as she can find--and carries them to her own room, privately resolving that she will tidy these chambers herself in the morning, or else have Miss M take care of it alone, with none of the other housemaids. Miss M can be trusted to keep her mouth shut and not gossip, but Mary Anne has not had time to become sure of any of the others.

Returning to the room where Brandon sleeps, Mary Anne finds her gown flung across the armchair. Nothing elaborate: a simple day dress in a shade of cocoa-brown with a bit of pink in it, the colour often called "chocolate rose." Plain, but it had been very becoming. Oh, well. Maybe I can repair it.

Shivering at the chill night air, Mary Anne tucks the dress out of sight in her armoire and puts on a long nightdress with sleeves. Over that, a warm, thick dressing gown, and finally, her good slippers with the furry lining. Ahhhhhhh, much better.

In the large chamber, Brandon sleeps on. Lacking his customary attention, the fire has burned very low, but revives a little when Mary Anne gives it a tentative stir. Not too much. Then, stealing a last cautious glance at Brandon, Mary Anne lights a candle at the fire, lets herself silently out of the room and closes the door.

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

The long gallery.

Once out of Brandon's room, Mary Anne had felt something close to a child's fear of the dark as she walked quietly through the shadowy corridors of Delaford by night. The house seems strange and brooding to her, and she knows perfectly well that this is only because she is not used to moving through it at such an hour--and because the previous day had been so stressful. The news of Therese's capture, Dev's reaction, the massing of Alliance and UNIT forces . . . Mary Anne can picture it in her mind, the giant circle of power that is gathering about Delaford and the surrounding countryside even now, awaiting the signal to close in . . . yet another attempt to capture . . . HIM.

All of this, and Brandon's astounding behaviour as well.

Small wonder, then, that Mary Anne feels the hair rising along the back of her neck and she makes her way through the long gallery. The altered light has changed the family portraits, transforming paint and canvas to the semblance of actual presences there in the dark.

Benign, most of them. Fortunately.

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. No harm, there, though he had been a daring man in his lifetime, with a rather ruthless eye to his own advantage.

Brandon's own mother . . . sweet-faced, but with that undeniable sadness about her eyes--the eyes so very much like Brandon's own.

Marianne Brandon. Here, Mary Anne pauses and lifts her candlestick in a brief salute of respect. There is so much you could tell me about him.

She avoids looking at the portrait of Connor MacLeod, remembering the eerie story that Brandon had told her about him, but then the portrait of Samuel Brandon catches her eye and she pauses to gaze up at it. Samuel Brandon, with his glittering eyes, the arrogant lift of his eyebrows, the cunning curve of his mouth in a half smile. A striking resemblance, there, to Colonel Christopher Brandon, but it is all in feature; in expression, the two men are as different as night and day. Christopher could never look so heartless. She smiles a little, remembering what he had told her about his rakish ancestor. And Christopher will never turn highwayman, either! Not if I have anything to say about it.

Her equilibrium restored by her sense of humour, Mary Anne briefly lifts her candlestick toward the portrait of Samuel Brandon, and whispers, "Rest in peace," before proceeding down the gallery to the stairs and making her way toward the kitchens.

The Interrogator considered the slight form of the woman he held in his arms. HE had felt her emotions, and had gauged their progression; she would be far more manageable now. It would be a pity, to have to destroy this one. Her fight had been admirable, though she had never really had a chance against HIM. HE wasn't finished yet, however, there was far more HE could, and would, do with her.

HE gazed down at her. She was small woman, barely reaching HIS shoulder when she stood. Her size had been deceptive, and had taken HIM by surprise at their first encounter. HE could still overpower her--easily, but not so easily as HE had first suspected. Though HE found it odd, she appealed to HIM. Yes, she was an attractive woman, but HE had always had many of those from which to choose. This one possessed such a sense of purpose and determination, completely incongruous with her size, and she intrigued HIM.

Most of the women HE'd been involved with--or at least those whom HE had kept, or wanted to keep, had been closer to HIS size. HE found it appealing to look a woman in the eye, to press her to HIS body, belly to belly, chest to chest, shoulder to shoulder. HE hadn't seriously considered using this one sexually, though the threat of it had been the key to ending her resistance. It was not, however, an unappealing thought.

HE considered the weary, sobbing woman before HIM. Or it wouldn't be an unappealing thought, once HE cleaned her up a bit.

If HE wasn't mistaken, and HE rarely was, this was not going to go over well with her.

He allowed HIMself a small smile. No, HE was not yet finished.

"Give me a minute . . . " Her fingers move upon the keyboard.

Renie taps in a series of numbers. Then, there is a pause. A screen appears, demanding a password. So far so good . . . she carefully taps in the password which had brought her to HIM once before. B-L-A-C-K-O-R-C-H-I-D. The return key . . .

The password screen disappears, and a new screen takes shape. It is . . . the semblance of a black orchid. Leaves and stem in a sharp seductive dance of symmetry, lending credence to the deflowering of paler faced innocents.

Then, to her surprise, HIS voice sends a chill through her, rooting her to the spot.

"Hello . . . my old darling. Come to call, have you? One never knows what net the past may cast over our future." At the words 'our future' Renie feels her heart stop and turn over inside her, as if assuring itself that HIS voice cannot pull any strings bound to it.

A beat goes by. It is a recorded message--obviously--waiting for her, showing her that HE can still anticipate her, expect her, know her in the most intimate sense: her mind. Her face must also have shown some momentary turmoil, for Colin, unmoved as yet, reaches down and feathers her chin up with his fingers. Her eyes, wide at this angle, meet his. Colin's voice comes, slowly, and softer--almost nothing like HIS. He asks gently, "Are you sure you can do this?"

The care in his dark eyes almost undoes her. Her physical state--a woman with child--and the stresses she has either undertaken or which have pressed themselves upon her--well, is it any surprise that tears feel their way into her eyes? Colin cannot look long her at her this way without wanting to kiss them away--so he lifts her by her waist--she does not resist--and resettles her on the sofa where he had taken his fortified tea. Resisting further the urge to take her in his arms and comfort her, he takes a napkin from the tea tray, and dabs her eyes gently.

He takes her seat at the monitor. Studies the contents. His voice loses any softness. "What's the second password?"

Her tears seem lost, suddenly. Gone. "What? There is none."

"Well, there is now."

Games. Yes. She understands HIM well. HE would play, but HE would ensure that she had to play, too. And HE knew that she wouldn't--couldn't--turn away. She would have to try and crack the code.

Colin's fingers, tapping. Then, HIS voice, strident in its triumph. "Far too obvious. Only four guesses to go . . . The first shot is never the straightest, is it, my old darling?"

"Damn! I shouldn't have--do you think there's a time limit, too?"

Renie tries to summon her all of her concentration. She must think like HIM. Time is running out for Claudia and Therese. Perhaps she should have called Mary Anne, and warned her about Claudia . . .

Elliott Marston waited in the alley, scanning the congested street for signs of uniformed policemen and finding none. Presumably they were all in the hotel lobby. He looked up at the window he had just climbed out of. A grinning Melvin Collins leaned out and waved. Marston smiled back, then headed for the street.

He walked quickly, careful to keep the wagons between him and the hotel entrance. Carters looked at him with idle curiousity as he passed. The large windows of the bar and dining room flashed past on his left. He could see the entrance to the hotel stableyard ahead; three policemen stood watching the rear doors of the hotel. His mouth tightened grimly. It had been a good idea to avoid the back.

The traffic thinned out as he left the hotel behind. Now it was ladies doing their morning shopping that crowded his path. Marston pulled his hat low over his eyes and danced through them, mindful not to attract too much attention. He hazarded glances to his right and left. It appeared to be working; he might have been invisible as far as his fellow pedestrians were concerned.

“Mister Marston!”

Damn. He slowed his pace and looked cautiously in front of him. It was the seamstress who had prepared Sam’s wedding outfit.

“How was the wedding, Mister Marston? I do hope everything went well. You certainly had beautiful weather for it, don’t you think?” She beamed at him from the doorway of her shop. Some of the other shoppers turned to look at them.

Marston stepped quickly to her side and leaned against the doorframe. “Well, well, how good to see you again! How have you been keeping?”

The woman blinked in surprise at the warmth of his greeting. “Why…why, just fine, thank you. And how is Mrs. Marston?”

He took two steps forward, forcing her to back up into her shop. “She’s just fine. That was a truly beautiful dress you created for her.”

The seamstress’ smile broadened. “Oh my yes. She looked just wonderful. But a happy bride is a beautiful bride, I always say.”

“And I’m sure you’re right.” Marston sidled around her and closed the door with a quick slam. “In fact, I was wondering just this morning if you had any other, er, things that she could wear during the day for, uh, shopping or going out.”

The seamstress was positively radiant now. “I most surely do. We just got some lovely peach fabric just last month and I wasn’t sure what to do with it. You see, none of my regulars could wear it but it would look lovely on Mrs. Marston. Now where did I put it?” She skittered through the hanging curtains at the back of the shop and disappeared from view. Her voice carried on loud and clear. “Oh my yes. It’s just perfect for a honey blonde like your wife. Abigail! Abigail where did we put the peach? You remember?” Her footsteps rapped across the floor into the back depths of the building.

Marston slid to the window and peered through the lace curtains. Two policemen were walking down the street, from the direction of the hotel. At least one of them he recognized from his post guarding the alley to the hotel stables. He stepped back quickly.

By now the police would know he wasn’t in the hotel. They would look for him that much harder because he’d managed to give them the slip. And they would search the most obvious places for him first.

Which made it imperative that he get to the office of Jasper Connaught at the First Commercial Bank of Western Australia as fast as humanly possible.

The seamstress’ voice was still audible but her words were indistinct. Three strides took him to the hanging curtains she’d disappeared through earlier. He found himself in the sewing area: tapes and reels of colored threads were piled on a long counter against the wall, a full-length mirror was propped in a corner and bolts of fabric in dozens of hues were piled to the ceiling. Two windows with panes of cracked glass looked out over a small garden surrounded by a high fence with a gate. He focused on the gate.

No door to the garden was apparent in the sewing room. He glided across the floorboards as gently as he could to a curved archway and peered around. It was a kitchen even smaller than the garden and at the far end, the back door.

Marston discarded his concern about being overheard. To bound across the room, wrench open the door and cross the garden was with him the work of an instant. There he was checked: the latch was solidly fastened with rusted wire. Obviously the seamstress hadn’t used the back lane for some time. There was no hope for it. He would have to climb. He had just attained the top of the fence when the seamstress appeared in the kitchen.

“Mr. Marston! What are you doing? I found the fabric.” She stared in perplexity at him.

“That’s just fine! You make up a nice suit for Mrs. Marston and we’ll be around to collect it…oh…let’s say next week.” He assumed the confident manner of a businessman who wasn’t sitting uncomfortably on a narrow board fence. “I’m sure whatever you do will be just fine.” He waved jovially and dropped to the other side. Her spluttering remonstrances followed him over the fence.

He landed on his feet with a soft thud. A swift glance around his person showed no appreciable damage to his wardrobe. He grimaced; showing up at his bank in torn clothing would not be helpful to his interests.

In fact, he thought as he began walking again, he’d better start thinking about what would be helpful to his interests.

While he could still do so outside of jail.

Mary Anne, trying to remember.

Now that she has a chance to think about it carefully . . . no, she had not fainted, never once lost consciousness, though she had definitely been rather dazed . . . and had only slowly recovered herself enough to take note of Brandon lying there beside her as still as a toppled tree.

Now that she has had time to collect herself, Mary Anne can look at her husband with some amusement. Look at him, sleeping it off like a sultan just back from a trip to the harem! Yes--it is amusing to her, now, though she knows quite well it would not be, if Brandon had harmed her in any way. But he had done nothing of the sort. He had been masterful, but not brutal; strong, but not cruel. She had known from the beginning that he is a passionate man, but he had kept it well in check with her until now, taking into account her inexperience, proceeding gently with her, as befits a new bride--however eager she might be. Only now, for some reason, his desire for her had slipped its rein and run wild.

Watching the slow rise and fall of Brandon's chest and confident that he will not awaken, Mary Anne stacks her pillows and sits up in the bed--wincing, as she changes position, at a few unexpected aches and twinges. Any woman would feel bruised from head to foot after such an encounter, but Mary Anne, with her exceptionally sensitive skin, feels as if all of her nerves lie exposed, the very movement of the air across them practically beyond bearing. After a moment, however, she relaxes and sits with her arms wrapped around her drawn- up knees, thinking.

If only there were someone I could talk to about this! But there is no one. Obviously, she and Brandon will speak of it in the morning-- and Mary Anne's eyes gleam with pure mischief at the thought of how she might devil Brandon about his night's . . . work. But not too much, as he will almost certainly be ashamed of his behaviour. He had felt miserably guilty back at the Manor in Egdon, when he had once gripped her shoulder harder than he had intended and left the marks of his fingers; he will indeed be wretched over this, so it would be cruel to torment him too much about it.

Mary Anne grins. If Renie were still here! She's the only other person I could possibly tell . . . I know she'd keep it to herself, if I did. How Renie would tease her, if she knew! But only at the start; after that, she would listen sympathetically--and she would doubtless agree that this is not like Brandon, not at all. And if she gave me a hard time about it, thinks Mary Anne, I'm sure I could give as good as I get. I'll bet Hans doesn't always handle her with kid gloves, either-- though she'd probably like it if he did, every once in a while!

And at the mental image of the formidable Hans Gruber clad in nothing but a pair of gloves, Mary Anne has to put a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. But then another idea occurs to her, one that kills her sense of humour like an extinguished candle: Hans had not been Renie's first . . .

Ruthlessly, Mary Anne supresses the memory; it amounts to an invasion of privacy. Renie's privacy, that is.

For The Interrogator's privacy, she has no special concern.

Any woman who has known HIS mind should be well-acquainted with the lengths to which a man can be driven by desire. Mary Anne can understand it, though she has tried in weeks past to make a habit of pushing away the remains of HIS thoughts in her own mind. Yes, Renie would be the only other person she could tell. Though it would probably be best to keep it to herself, for Brandon's privacy is also involved . . .

Grrrrrrooowwwwlllllll.

No, that is not Brandon; that is her stomach. She had been unable to eat more than a little dinner.

A glance at Brandon. He will not awaken, not for anything less than an artillery barrage.

I could ring . . . no, I'll take care of it myself. I'm not getting Miss M or anyone else out of bed at this hour, just so I can have a midnight snack!

Folding back the covers, Mary Anne steps carefully from the bed . . .

Claudia grinned and began to pile a plate high with food from the buffet. There was plenty left. She was a bit disappointed she hadn't had a chance to talk to some of her friends, but relieved too, as she didn't have to explain what had been happening, or lie to anyone else. She grabbed a knife and fork and took her plate out of the Parlour and down to the kitchen. There was still a buzz of activity here, cleaning up after cooking, maids coming back and forth with dishes. The housekeeper gave her a stern glare, but didn't stop her when she sat down at the kitchen table and started her dinner.

Claudia began to think on her plan of action for tonight. By the time she had finished her dinner the kitchen was empty. She'd been thinking more than eating, and the time had rolled quickly on and it was truly night. She was alone - after the little accident on the lawn the Alliance Rose seemed to have forgotten about keeping a close eye on her. This was very fortunate. Claudia now new exactly what she would do, and how she would do it. The plan was perfect, all except for one little detail she couldn't work out.

Mary Anne takes a deeeeeeeeep breath, and lets it out, slowly. Remembering.

Her thoughts are unconnected, the earlier events recurring to her in brief flashes.

Brandon. Overwhelmingly strong—but the thing that seems most peculiar to her, now, is that she had been able to control her fear, once she had taken the resolution that she would trust him. Indeed, anything like fear had been quickly swept away.

She can feel her face burning again, and draws the bedcovers almost up to her nose.

It is fortunate for Mary Anne that her considerable sense of humour extends to many of the foibles and weaknesses of her own character; otherwise, she could be pretentious, or cruel, or arrogant. Impatient with the failings of others. Insufferably vain.

In her better moments she is none of these—at least, she prays she is not. She does her best.

Yet even her sense of irony and comedy has not prepared her for how she feels about Brandon’s overpowering ardor. Not his usual manner with her, not at all . . .

Flashes of memory:

Opening her arms . . . Brandon pressed against her . . . weight and heat . . . her arms drawn above her head, pinned as he kissed her . . .

His VOICE. "Mary Anne . . . Good God, you are so beautiful . . ."

Ironic curve of her lips, which—now that she stops to take note—are acutely sensitive, feeling almost bruised. Well, at least he knew it was me, with him . . . Yes, it had been disturbing—the way Brandon had seemed to look at her without seeing her, his eyes huge and strangely dark, but his voice had acknowledged her, at least.

What else?

Her own dismayed excitement—that is one of the things it embarrasses her to recollect, for she is not used to thinking of herself in such a fashion. She loves Brandon, yes, and desires him, and delights in his enjoyment of her physical beauty . . . but this. The sheer appetite and craving of it, the wildness it had awakened in her own blood as Brandon had taken his fill of her and seemed determined that she should be equally sated with him.

Don’t be coy. You took from him just as he took from you! A reluctant inward laugh. Didn’t know you had it in you . . . so to speak. Face it; you’ve always been curious—yes, you have!--about how he would behave if he just threw caution to the winds with you. He’s been close to it before. Feels different, doesn’t it, from the way you always thought. You believed it would be scary, but you never expected it to scorch you like this, now did you? Tell the truth. How does it feel NOT to be handled like crystal, for a change?

The truth? Mary Anne is not a skilled liar under the best circumstances, and for now she is hopelessly inept. The truth.

Brandon, with his relentless knowledge of every vulnerable inch of her flesh, driving her frantic with his lips, kisses with teeth in them, biting slowly, then more insistently until the cry was wrung from her--not a cry of pain. Then . . . kissing and licking the sting away . . . blowing softly over the damp circles on her skin, cooling the spots that had seemed to glow, scattered across her body like embers in the dark . . .

Mary Anne shivers. Strange, how that cooling had fanned the flames even higher.

And had she really behaved as she remembers? When he had released her arms and she had reached up to sink her fingers into his hair, gripping his head to draw it down, make him kiss her harder, HARDER—as if he had needed encouraging. Or her hands curled into fists against his shoulders, but not to push him away . . . or . . .

She hopes she had only imagined raking his back with her nails, but fears it might be true and is not about to awaken him to see.

Had she made as much . . . noise . . . as she recalls? Hopefully, not. If so, she can only be thankful that their guests are in a separate wing, and pray that there had been no servants about, passing by in the corridor outside their chambers.

And had she truly . . . fainted?

Colin's smile weakens a bit, Renie's silence is getting to him. He lifts his left hand and rubs his neck absentmindedly. It's sinking in all right, and maybe I'm sunk . . .

Renie thinks over Colin's explanation. He panicked. Conveniently roguish, but eminently believable--kissing her had certainly shut her up. Had Hans really ordered him to go? Pointless to lie, since she could check his story. Hans was watching out for her, with Colin as intermediary.

She eyes Colin with a softer face, partly out of her thoughts about Hans, and party in pity for that increasingly tense look on his face--though with Colin, that might just be one paragraph of the whole story. "So neither of us wants the other along, but we're stuck with each other, right?"

Colin holds out his hand in relief, offering Mrs. Gruber the handshake of truce. "I'll be Bacall?"

Renie shakes her head, but shakes his hand. Truce. "They got married."

"Yes, but we'd get to drink a lot."

She shoves him through the opened door of the private room, and down the aisle. Her raspberry tea, and then some, awaits them, very inviting. She nabs a currant scone, and sits at the computer table. The apparati begins to hum.

Colin collapses on the side seat, by the tea caddie, and pours out the tea. "Not checking your e-mail, are you?" He offers her the cup, his pinkie hanging five millimeters lower than the rest of his fingers.

"HE's holding a woman hostage, and has taken Claudia on, somehow--either he's deceived her, or drugged her." She takes the teacup. "Or worse. Thank-you." She watches as Colin pours himself a cup. "Colin, "her voice changes, amusement leaking into her genuine concern for a moment, "have you noticed how many cups were set out?"

He gives a little shrug. "They saw me board, of course." He takes a small--tiny, in fact--flask from inside his jacket pocket.

Renie grimaces. "You're not going to put that in raspberry tea?!" She's connected. Ready to send a message. A whiff of whiskey hits her nose.

"Live dangerously," she hears Colin murmur behind her as she taps a message into the computer keyboard. Colin takes a sip of his concoction, screws up his face as if he's tasted the absolute bottom of a mead barrel, complete with splinters of wood, then swallows. "All right." He clears his throat, stands, and leans against the desk with his backside. "Are we in trouble yet?" He looks not at the screen, which is behind him, but at Renie, whose green and blue flecked eyes reflect the blue monitor light.

"Give me a minute," is her only reply.