Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

“You know, Melvin,” The tea dipped perilously close to the edge of the cup. “It sounds like you’re accusing me of murder.”

“For God’s sake, Elliott! This is nothing to joke about.” Melvin Collins pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He began to pace the floor. “The police say you were the last person this Crabbs saw.”

“The police are wrong. The last person he saw was his killer.” Marston kept his eyes on the cup. Small wavelets of tea crested and ebbed against the smooth porcelain. “How hard do you think they’re looking?”

“They’re investigating all the possibilities but it’s obvious they want to know about your connection.” Collins paused at the window and stared down into the street.

“Who told them that Crabbs and I had met?” Marston sipped his tea and frowned. It was getting cold. He reached for the teapot.

“The clerk in the lobby. He said Crabbs sent you a note and you met him in the coatroom – privately. He also said that Crabbs chased you through the lobby.” Collins returned to the table and sat down again. “You can appreciate that the hotel people aren’t happy about the notoriety.”

“No doubt.” Marston blew gently on the steaming cup. “What do you advise me to do?”

“Dammit, Elliott! How can I advise you when I don’t know what’s going on?” The cutlery and china rattled at the lawyer gripped the table. “At the very least I have to know why people keep dying after being in your company.”

“If you’re worried personally, you can leave now.”

“I’m not going to dignify that comment with a response.” Collins hesitated. “Well? Are you going to tell me?”

“I suppose so. It’s rather a long story. Have some tea.” Marston poured out a cup and passed it across the table. It was refilled twice before he finished. He described his meeting with his wife’s father and Belle’s visit to the hotel. The ordinary sounds of the street came through the open window, contrasting with the story being told.

“So it was old Sam Flanagan that Watters was after?” Collins frowned thoughtfully. “I can’t think why Watters would hire someone to do any dirty work for him. He took pride on doing it himself.”

“According to Crabbs, Watters was simply the front man for whoever wanted to get Flanagan.” Marston sat back in his chair, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles. “I’ve wasted enough time over the last week. My brother-in-law is almost abducted, I am arrested, our rooms are searched and ransacked and now a man I spoke with has been murdered.”

“What are you going to do?” The lawyer eyed him nervously.

“We -” Marston ignored the other’s groan. “We are going to do a little investigating ourselves.” He walked to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. “How soon will the police get here?”

“Not long, I would imagine. They’re probably waiting for official permission to come after you.”

“It pays to be a wealthy man. We’re going to need money again so we’ll go to the bank first. Then we can come back here and face them.” Marston shrugged into his coat and adjusted his collar.

“Elliott, it took a big lump of cash to get you out of jail last time. I had to go to the army to make it happen.” Collins frowned. “Frankly, it makes me nervous.”

“Have you found out yet who Buttershaw’s client was?” Marston reached into the wardrobe again and pulled out his holster.

“No and that’s strange.” Collins watched as the guns were primed and checked. “Buttershaw doesn’t need to set foot inside the police station. He’s a corporate lawyer.”

“Well, maybe he felt like slumming. Anyway, get a list of his clients for me. Find out who he owes favors to.” Marston pulled the gun belt around his waist and adjusted the fit. “And let’s find out a little more about the late, unlamented Mr. Watters.”

A loud rap at the door interrupted them. The two men looked at each other. Collins raised his brows in enquiry. Marston nodded and backed away to the window.

The lawyer walked to the door and pulled it open just enough to see who was outside. “Yes?”

“Excuse me, sir, but the police are downstairs. They want to see Mr. Marston.” It was the clerk, trying to peer into the room. Collins blocked his view adroitly.

“Thank you. I’ll let him know.” He eased the door shut and turned. “Elliott!”

Marston paused on the windowsill, one foot on the floor, the other hanging outside. “Don’t worry, Melvin. I have it on excellent authority that it’s a good way to avoid meeting people you don’t want to see. Tell Sam to meet me at Belle’s.” He grinned, doffed his hat and disappeared from view.

"That won't help me! Just leave me alone!" Tears streaming down her face, she pulled away and stumbled toward the wagon.

Andrea stands, bent over in half, while blowing dry her hair. She had needed that shower, but she didn't have time to dry her hair before reporting to makeup. She doesn't notice The Director enter the room. Nor does she hear him speak to Mary over the din of the blow drier.

The Director is a busy man. "She looks fine. Why did you call me, Mary?" He is not angry but wants an explanation.

Mary supplies one. "It's her face. Wait until you see her face. -- I can cover the color with makeup. But, her lips . . ."

Suddenly, Andrea straightens and throws back her head. Her full hair floats for a moment and then settles softly onto her shoulders. Spotting The Director, she smiles brightly. Her eyes sparkle, her cheeks are flushed, and her lips . . . are swollen to twice their normal size.

Andrea cheerily sings her greeting. "Good morning, Sir! -- You look troubled. What can I do?" She feels confident that she can take on any problem and solve it instantly.

The Director sends Mary out of the room with a whispered "Perhaps, some ice . . .?"

He motions for Andrea to sit. "Did you enjoy your birthday?"

She slides into the vinyl chair. "Oh! Yes, Sir! I had a glorious time!"

He would like to be happy for her; but, he is concerned. "Please tell me you did not have your 'glorious time' with one of your fellow cast members."

Folding her arms across her chest: "That's none of your business!"

A gasp from near the door announces Mary's return.

The Director relieves her of the styrofoam cup filled with ice cubes and asks her to wait outside. He pulls a chair close to Andrea and sits down directly in front of her. "Do you know what scene you are to play today?"

Why is he so calm? He knows I've broken one of his blasted rules. "Assuming I'm not fired, I am to meet with George and his attorney about the upcoming rape trial."

He absently plays with the ice in the cup. "And you feel prepared to do that after your 'glorious time'?"

Does he think I'm a child? "Yes. Of course. I'm a professional. -- Besides, he's not in this scene."

Well that narrows down the possibilities. Placing an ice cube against Andrea's swollen lips, he holds a small towel under her chin to absorb the resultant waterfall. "If you wish to continue working for me, you will abide by my rules. Whoever he is, break it off immediately."

Break what off? Hasn't he ever heard of a one-night stand?

The Director continues. "If he refuses to stay away from you, tell him to take it up with me." I'll sack you both.

The ice cube is completely melted. He reaches for another. "Understood?"

Colonel Christopher Brandon is heavily asleep.

Mary Anne, however, remains wide awake . . .

She lies staring at the ceiling, her eyes enormous--her thoughts in such a stir that she cannot even try to sleep; every attempt to close her eyes results in them opening again, against her will . . . to gaze into the darkness webbed with the grey light of the waning moon, or to turn briefly toward her husband, and then away again . . .

Why had she not noticed it? There was something different about Brandon when he had returned this evening, when he made his appearance in the East Parlour. Truth to tell, she had noticed a change in his demeanour from the moment she ran to him--the sudden tension in his limbs as he welcomed her into his arms, as if the mere touch of her had been almost enough to overturn his reason.

I love you . . . beyond all reason . . .

Well, yes, she had noticed that much. Otherwise, he had seemed quite normal, calm enough to explain to her that he had remained in the hallway until her story ended, so he would not spoil it with his entrance, calm enough to speak politely to their friends.

Mary Anne shifts uncomfortably. No, come to think of it--he wasnot so calm after all. There was the way he remained so close to her, within touching distance, while chatting with their guests. His speech had been a little more clipped, his tone of voice a trifle sharper, but she had set that down to the effects of tension, for had they not all had a trying day? She was not inclined to find fault with Brandon for being weary and showing his weariness--though she had found it strange, when she had asked about Dev, that Brandon had cut off her inquiry with the short statement that "Eamon is in the care of Mister Sifuentes." After that, he would say no more about it--and she could hardly blame him for that, either, when she thought how it must have been for him to search the West Wood for Dev, after the sort of day he had endured already. Most distressing.

No, nothing too unusual, up to that point. She had seen nothing that could not be written off to fatigue and strain . . . until, after only a short time among their guests, Brandon had abruptly made their excuses to the company and escorted her from the room, to the accompaniment of some giggling behind them, and a few murmured comments about "honeymoon fever"--remarks that had made Mary Anne clench her teeth, but she had not protested; she had simply determined that she would discuss this with Brandon in private.

But there had been no . . . discussion.

Thinking on what had followed, Mary Anne gathers the blankets closer about her, pulling them almost up to her chin as if to hide herself from view, though there is no one to see her except Brandon . . . and he does not awaken, even as Mary Anne writhes through one of those agonizing blushes that simultaneously freezes and burns across her entire body . . .

Lips gently nuzzled the soft patch of neck just behind her ear. PL's arms slid around Dana's slight form, pulling her closer to him, as he anticipated her response. I can just scoop her up as she softens and carry her inside.

Andrea--um,ah . . . you're welcome, I'm sure--after driving us all incredibly berserk-o-rama! *grin* Well done.

Kate--welcome back, girl! BIIIIGGG squeezy hug. Fun to have scones flying about again.

R, dearest--belated, I know, but for the "stronger than Spanish steel," etc. I am blushing. The red of the reddest Delaford roses. Thanks. 8-)

And now, on with the show. (Wonder if The Director has noticed how long Andrea and Mister I have been . . . missing? *wicked wink*)

Conn flushed. “I do not eat like a pig!” His lower lip trembled and he shifted his stuffed kangaroo to his left hand, thus ensuring that his right thumb was available to provide important emotional support.

Elliott Marston put down his cutlery and frowned. “Niall, you will not speak to your brother in such a manner. Come and sit down.”

It was a pity there were no guidebooks available for new brothers-in-law, he mused as he ate. He could certainly use one now. While his relations with Liam had improved dramatically, he wished the boy would not look at him with such adoration. Hero worship was not a stable basis for a lifetime bond.

Hero worship was not what he had felt for Cal Torken. He had recollections of pond duckings and practical jokes that were spectacularly unfunny. He grimaced. No, certainly affection was not the right word at all.

“Can we go to the Emporium again, Elliott?” Niall spoke around his oatmeal. Marston averted his eyes. “I want to get another book.” He retrieved his escaping breakfast with his spoon.

“Now, look, Elliott is a busy man. You can’t expect him to be available every day.” Sam took her napkin and cleaned up as much of her younger brother as she could reach.

“Oh. Sorry.” The boy looked crestfallen.

“I do have some business this morning, Niall.” Marston infused as much joviality into his voice as he could muster in the morning. “But this afternoon should be fine. If there’s no more fighting.”

The boys sat up straighter. “Yes, sir!” They fell on their oatmeal with renewed enthusiasm. Sam and Marston looked at each other across the table and shared a secret smile.

They were well and truly married now. For the rest of their lives they could look at each other and share memories that no one else could ever know. Like the glowing embers in the fireplace at midnight. He almost laughed. Or the frantic search for his missing vest buttons before the maid came to clean the bedroom.

He was so lost in thought he didn’t hear the knock or the door opening. “Morning, Elliott.” Melvin Collins stood on the threshold, his briefcase clasped under one arm.

Marston blinked and spilled some tea. “Oh, good morning. Have you eaten yet?” He gestured to the sideboard loaded with chafing dishes.

Collins held up one hand. “No thanks. I had a visit from someone interesting this morning. At my home.” He hesitated and looked at the boys, now watching with interest.

Sam understood. “Come on now. Let’s go get ready for shopping.” She herded her siblings out the door and pulled it shut behind her.

The two men looked at each other. Finally Marston spoke. “Who was your visitor?”

Collins slipped into Sam’s vacant chair. “You know, Elliott, we have a very good relationship. More than just lawyer and client, I always thought.” He pushed the china aside and leaned his elbows on the table. His voice was somber.

Marston’s brows rose. “I always thought so too. What’s wrong?”

The lawyer ignored the question. “And that’s what I said this morning. But when the chief of detectives comes to my door with information about your activities that I know nothing about…Well, let’s just say I have to wonder.”

Marston stared. “A detective?”

“No, the chief of detectives. From the police. He investigates murders.” Collins shifted in his seat and adjusted his glasses. “You had a talk with a man yesterday in the lobby of this hotel. According to witnesses, you seemed to be quarrelling.”

“His name was Hiram Crabbs. He said he had information about Ches Watters and was willing to sell it. We were negotiating.” Marston put his cup down very carefully on its saucer. “Unsuccessfully, it turned out. Have the police picked him up?”

“No, they’ve cut him down.” Collins gazed with implacable sternness at his client. “He was found hanging by the neck in the stable behind this hotel just before dawn this morning.”

"I believe that I am hot."

Andrea cannot argue this point with HIM. A small area of sensitive skin across her lower abdomen lies exposed to HIM. Her hands tightly grip the straps as she awaits HIS next move.

Leaning over this surgical field, HE purses HIS lips to blow onto her delicate skin. HE watches her abdominal muscles spasm just under the milky surface. When HE hears her soft cry, HIS attention is drawn to her face. "Why so grim? Shouldn't you be giggling?"

Through clenched teeth, she replies "I don't giggle."

HE considers this statement and realizes that HE has never heard Andrea giggle. HE does, however, recall her deep, throaty laugh. "Why not a laugh then?"

Turning her face away, "I don't feel like laughing."

HE does not believe that she is being stubborn. Rather, she appears genuinely distressed.

HE reaches for her hands and finds them curled into tight fists around the straps. "Open . . ." As HE straightens her fingers, HE discovers indentations in her palms from her nails. She was close to drawing blood.

After massaging the tension out of her hands, HE places them palms down at the side edges of the Yoga mat. "Hold onto this instead."

From Andrea's involuntary movements when HE blew air across her skin, HE has a good sense of where the spot -- rather, the two spots, are. HE holds HIS hands just barely above each spot. "I will not move my hands. Breathe deeply to raise your abdomen to my hands."

Andrea lifts her head for a better view. Her abdominal muscles contract.

"Relax! Put your head down and close your eyes. Now, inflate your belly." HE wants to give her enough control to ease her distress, but not so much that all sense of danger (and excitement) is lost.

Andrea does as she is told. Soon her hands squeeze closed around the edge of the Yoga mat, her neck arches, and she lets out a low chuckle. Then a squeal. She is truly enjoying herself, for the moment.

She tries to catch her breath, but each inhalation brings her into ticklish contact with HIS hands. She fights to regain control. If HE keeps HIS word and does not move HIS hands, she should be able to avoid touching them. She should be able to, but she cannot.

An alternative plan of action occurs to her. She arches her back and raises her hips toward HIM. Pressing hard against HIS hands brings Andrea relief from HIS teasing touch.

Somehow Andrea feels victorious. She played by HIS rules and won. Her challenging eyes ask HIM What are you going to do about it?

HE has not moved HIS hands. "Game over?"

She is panting but manages to nod.

HE slips HIS hands under the sheets. "You've been a good girl. Ready for your reward?"

To his credit, he does not kiss her into submission for longer than it takes. And it does not take long, as his kiss steals the breath from her mouth. He holds her still with strong arms, his hands wrapped around her upper arms as if they were thin twigs. But he need not have held her this tightly to keep her from struggling.

She is quiet when he releases her from his lips, but not his grasp.

Simultaneous with the end of his kiss, a gentle knocking on the door comes. Company, just as he had anticipated . . .

"Mrs. Gruber? Excuse me--is everything all right?" The doorknob does not move, however.

Renie, finds her voice, though from where she cannot say. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm just resting. Thank-you." Adrenaline pumps though her, though she is frozen almost stock-still. It is a strange pair of sensations.

By this time, her bedmate has rolled out of the sack, and, with a touch to a table lamp, brought some dimmed light to the room. He is--and has been--clothed. She could not tell for sure in the tangle of blankets.

"I'd like some--raspberry tea brought to the computer desk, please. That's all." Her lips are warm from his kiss.

The dutiful attendant withdraws, leaving Renie, still sitting in bed, to turns towards the man standing by the dimmed light. Her anger and outrage at him is considerable, and keeping it in check is no easy matter. She could slug him one. But he wears no sort of smirk or other evidence that he's pleased by what's happened. She feels ridiculous, sitting alone in the bed, so she slides out, and slips her shoes on.

She does not look at the man who stands behind her, but feels him looking at her. "If I don't like the extremely believable explanation you're about to give me, I will have you ejected from the plane. At this moment. Without a parachute, Colin."

"You won't like whatever I say."

"You snuck onto the plane. My plane. I trusted you."

He would fain tell her the whole truth, not because he had any aversion to it, but because he didn't want to hurt her.

"I didn't sneak on. I came aboard, just before you. It wasn't my idea. Hans--"

Her head turns to look at him. It's an involuntary movement. "You told Hans?"

Colin shakes his head. "You don't know me better than that? He knew. As soon as he left you this morning. It was Hans that had already arranged the jet--everything. Even the Egdon details. I found out when I called later on. It was all done."

"And he let me go? Without saying good-bye?" The airport. The signals. The pull she felt. Someone, unseen, reaching out for her. Hans.

Colin drops his voice. "He was there--at the airport. He watched you leave." He sees Renie feel it. And wishes for some moments that he hadn't come.

"Us. He watched us leave. So he knew you were coming?" Her voice is quiet. She has lost most of the anger.

"It was me, or him. He asked me to go, and I refused. I said I didn't think you wanted a watchdog. He said if I didn't get my ass on the plane , he would go." He wonders if she sees that his acceptance was the lesser of two evils. "I couldn't let him go, Renie. The Hansbank needs its CEO right now. This thing is big. Very big." When she doesn't answer, Colin goes on. "Look, if you want me to leave when we get there, I will. I'm not forcing myself on you."

He cringes at his abominable choice of words, and sees her hackles rise again.

"Was forcing yourself on me in bed part of the assignment?" A slightly acid tone. Renie goes on, now hot on the offensive. "What did you think you were doing?"

Colin shuffles about a bit, unable to look at her directly for the first time since the "explanation" began. "I didn't want you yelling your head off, making a scene. How's that going to look? You, in bed with me . . . "

"I didn't know you were here!" argues Renie. The fact that it was she who climbed into bed with Colin, and not vice versa, is beginning to dawn on her. Ludicrous for her to take any moral high ground.

"And I didn't know you came in! I was dead asleep!" counters Colin. "I boarded, went to the loo, then decided to have a good look round. This comfy room, that bed," he motions to it with his right hand, "looked--I just thought I would have a lie down. Close my eyes." He turns to face her again. "I dozed off. I was just as scared as you were, when you--touched me with your hand, and started screaming bloody hell." She thinks I was stalking her, for God's sakes. But Colin knows he must be the icon of patience and soothe her, without any trace of condescension. "Renie, just think. Hans is a smart man, but he's also insanely jealous and protective. If he hears we've been in bed, behind--"

Renie is about to protest that they were not in bed, but merely in the same bed together, when she realizes that Colin is probably right. "But--did you have to kiss me to shut me up?"

Here, Colin smiles. "I panicked. I didn't want to try and smother you or anything. I had no choice." He pauses, letting that sink in.

"Sorry," said Kate. "It looked like you were a prisoner."

"Well, I suppose I am, sort of. And why should I be the only one in trouble round here? Come on, let's get inside, I'm sure everyone will be really pleased to see you, even when we explained what happened!"

Claudia bent down to the unconscious form of her guard, and checked that she was OK, then relieved her of a little item and hid it in her shirt. Arm in arm, Kate and Claudia walked up to the front door of the house. On passing the sentries Claudia threw a comment over her shoulder. "One of your friends had a little accident. I think she might need your help." She pointed over to the lawn. The guards looked at her looked at each other then dashed off to pick up their fallen comrade.

He knew some of the emotion was due to the guilt and shame of their earlier actions. How had such a demon posessed this group of good, decent men? Was this the world into which he was bringing Dana? How could he possibly keep her safe and provide for her in these savage surroundings?

His heart was wrenched anew when he recognised the garmet in her hands. With tiny, precise stitches, Dana was attempting to repair the ruffled petticoat that she had so prized. This was the first time he'd seen her touch it since washing it so ferociously two weeks ago.

But wait, she ought to lock the door behind her. As tempting as this rest is, a moment of caution can save the embarrassment of a helpful crew member.

She locks the door.

Then, she is back at the bedside, slipping her fingers again over the coverlet, closing her eyes. Pulling back the coverlet, then the sheet below . . .

. . . She sits, breathing softly, on the edge of the bed, then lifts and slides her legs beneath the spread and between the cool crisp sheets, stretching out her arms to feel the--

"Aaaaaaaccckkk!"

SKIN!!!! She touched skin!!!!!! Wildly, she beats at whatever is just next to her--first with her hands, then her arms . . .

A jumble of blanket now squirms beside her--THERE IS SOMEONE IN THIS BED!!!--she whacks madly around her, unable to think clearly enough to simply jump from the bed, and heedless of the muffled voice shouting "Wait! Stop! Someone's going to hear you! STOP!!!" from beneath the blanket . . .

Finally, a clear, disentangled VOICE emerges from the bed next to her.

"WILL YOU STOP FOR A MINUTE!!!"

"No! I--"

She can speak no further. There are warm lips covering hers, more firm than passionate, stopping her mouth.

In seconds, Renie freezes, dead still.

A moaning, screeching noise began to echo and keen through the crisp still air, emanating from the now distant west wood. Claudia smiled to herself thinking of a story she read often to the boys. It's the Spittler, it's the terrible bloodsuckling toothpluckling stonechuckling spitler for sure! She grinned to herself. Suddenly her guard was by her side, her imagination getting the better of her.

"Beware, beware the forest of sin, none come out but many go in," said Claudia out loud, quoting the story again.

"What?" said the guard. "What was that?"

Claudia laughed and put an arm around the guard's shoulders pulling her close in a comradely hug. "I'm sorry, did I say that out loud? That was just the Tardis, on its way again. Come on, let's get inside and see if there is any food left."

Renie sits, unaware of the gradual rise of the plane. Instead of the purr of powerful engines, she hears the words of her wedding vows to Hans: ". . . thou, thief, have set a fire to the land, and hold me, stolen, in thy sweetest hand." She feels the heavy white silk organza wrapped about her, the soft brush of her silk train against her back and sheer tulle veil against her cheek.

White slippers. She remembers how Mary Anne had carefully brushed away a smudge from them. Mary Anne. Her dear friend, who had stood beside her through thick and thin. Mary Anne, who had always been a true "Maid of Honor," even when she was at her most devilish . . .

Even when their friendship had been tested. Even when she had learned why Renie had stalled Hans for so long. While some souls may take such friendships for granted, Mary Anne never hesitated to show her love for her friends. Once earned, her friendship was stronger than Spanish steel, gentler than Brandon's touch, and warmer than Kate's scones.

Mmmm. Scones. Another growl from her stomach. Removing her seat belt, Renie stands ups and steadies her feet. Yes. A bite to eat and a rest before any computer time. To refresh herself. She must decide what she will say to HIM, what she will write, to try and elicit some sort of answer from HIM. About Therese. About Claudia. Then maybe she will have something useful to tell Mary Anne and the others at Delaford. Something besides how much she has missed them all.

Turning the doorknob of the private room--for this door locks from the inside, to prevent unwanted intrusions--she finds it darkened. Very relaxing indeed. Her eyes are slow to adjust, and sleep now beckons to her more insistently. Slipping off her shoes, she begins to pat at the bed, seeking with her fingers to find the edge of the coverlet to slide it back . . .

"We'll be ready for take-off in a few minutes, Mrs. Gruber. Whenever you give the word. You're all set here. " Colin's powerful laptop, modem, and a gaggle of gadgetry has been unloaded from the limo and expertly assembled for her at the desk. A Hansbank executive might never need touch the ground, with such an office. In fact, the fleet of Hansjets were built to accommodate the many needs of its top officials; in the event of an international emergency, the higher echelons of the Hansbank would be more connected and organized in the air, than any government on the ground.

But at the moment, one particular type of need has become more . . . pressing. "Perhaps I should--" A glance towards the aft of the plane. A long trip, and she was drinking so much water. . .

"Of course." The attendant smiles. "Take as much time as you like. Our time is yours."

A trip down the aisle. A growl from her stomach. She was getting hungry--again. Well, first things first. This shouldn't take long . . .

She jiggles the handle. Stuck. Jammed tighter than rush hour at La Cienega and Wilshire. And no one around. Some fancy bathroom.

With a sigh, she walks back through the belly of the plane, past the two open lounge areas and past the more "private" relaxation room, which she has been told has a massage table, queen-sized bed, and a tank of rare fish. The Hansjets were reputedly setting a new standard for private air travel; a reputation well-earned.

Back at the fore of the plane, Renie motions to a woman heading into the cockpit. "Would you please tell the pilot to wait just a moment more? The . . ah, the door of the commode seems to be stuck. Could you help me, please?"

"Of course, Mrs. Gruber." The woman leads the way back to the lavatory, where, with a twist of the wrist, she opens the door. No obstruction. No problem.

"I must be more out of shape than I thought," laughs Renie. Thanking her rescuer, Renie attends to pressing matters, and is relieved to be quickly back to her soft sofa in minutes. Maybe I ought to lie down. Or have a massage after we take off. Mmmmmnn. No. I should try and contact HIM before I leave. A wrinkle of worry passes across her face, her brow creasing with concern. Maybe I should have told Hans I was leaving. I could call him. But he's with Colin in that lunch meeting about the Hansbank's financial situation. I don't want to worry him . . .

The computer attendant returns, holding a box of floppy disks. "You can be at the work station for another few minutes, if you like. But there is no telephone/modem access during take-off and until we reach 3000 feet. The modem will switch on automatically. Buzz me if I've forgotten anything." He points to a keyboard built into a cocktail table, just beyond the desk. There she sees intercom buttons for contact with personnel from computer support, catering and bar, even the pilot. Renie touches the pilot button. "Yes, Mrs. Gruber?" A woman's voice.

An embarrassed flush passes over Renie's face. It is the voice of the woman who had opened the bathroom door for her. She was the pilot. "I'm back in my seat, and in your hands."

"Very good, ma'am. May I suggest you buzz the masseuse--once we're out of the gate. Pilot out." *Click*

The plane begins to roll away, past a plain white jet, just landed. A man--yes, he moves like a man--hustles from the plane. Rushing to his wife? No, his girlfriend, probably. Few men hustle like that to their wives.

With a good look, she would have recognized Lukas Hart III, the man who had made life scary indeed, for her husband and her friends. The man who had bombed Sinclair's office. Who had almost made her turn away from Hans, before she could discover the truth of his innocence. But the angle of the sun, the turn of the jet, and his fleetness of foot help obscure the man's identity to her gaze. It is to her own longing for Hans that she attributes his seeming likeness to the man she loves so deeply.

As the plane pushes away from the earth, she thinks of Hans, driving her, blindfolded, to the Griffith Observatory, on their wedding night. The rush of the car . . . the lift of the plane . . . then, up the observatory steps . . . the rustle of her gown . . . into that room . . . freed from the blindfold to find the saturation of light from legions of candles . . . .

Where the breath of desire flourished in great gulps and tiny whispers and the fire of love burned brighter than the furthest star.

Mary Anne is touched by the sustained applause that follows her storytelling, and finds that a deep, old-fashioned curtsey to her listeners is a convenient way to hide her eyes. These people have all been on edge after hearing the rumours flying about the house, and she can hardly blame them; she has been so nervous since Brandon left the house to pursue Dev that she had been able to eat very little of the excellent dinner set out for her and her guests.

But she is not the only one here with worries: Hudson and Looey await the signal that the forces of UNIT are on the move, with possible Imperial assistance. Joanna McCoy wears the look of inward concentration common to doctors who expect casualties and know from long experience that they cannot cheat death--at least, not always. At times, perhaps, when all goes well.

But all of this anxiety has been set aside, briefly, for the sake of a story--and Mary Anne is finally able to look at her guests once more, without the fear that she will disgrace herself by bursting into tears.

She is a little worried, however, as Lis and Valmont move toward her once the initial buzz of comment begins to quiet down. Lis, as Mary Anne knows, is troubled by what is to become of Claudia. They are dear friends, and no one even casually acquainted with Claudia could have ignored the gossip around the house this day.

Lis is bearing up well-- making an effort. Valmont, however, is always an unknown quantity . . .

"I had great pleasure in the story, Madame." The Vicomte's voice is soft, but there is honest energy here; it is not his customary venomous drawl. "I had thought I would be disappointed, when I was led to expect the brigand would demand the lady's virtue. It is the theme of so many . . . tales." An insinuating lift of his eyebrow, but his grin draws the sting from it.

Mary Anne smiles back, though she is deeply wary, remembering an old joke: The key to success is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you've got it made.

And Valmont can "fake it" with the best--or the worst.

"Perhaps," she replies, "you assumed too quickly, Monsieur."

"If so, it would not be the first time." A return of the sardonic tone. "Yes, the story was quite out of the ordinary. Except . . ." A delicate pause. " . . . for its homage to the notion of a brave, good woman performing a miracle upon a ruined man by virtue of . . . virtue. On that point, I fear, these chroniclers of old tales are most tiresomely insistent."

"Truth, Vicomte, has a way of being repeated," returns Mary Anne. "Or do you doubt the capability of women to be courageous and virtuous?" Her voice is gentle but razor-edged.

"Not at all. It is the miraculous part that I doubt."

Mary Anne catches a look from Lis, who is unhappy over Valmont's needling. Knowing the Vicomte as she does, Lis is still at a loss for how to explain what she instinctively understands: that Valmont is not wholly ruined, if only . . .

Lis sighs. She has tried to avoid her old habits with this man, those of melting into a puddle when he so much as smiles at her, but there are definitely times when she feels that she is doomed to love him. Yes, she made her point with him back in Egdon, when she made him suffer for his plotting against Renie. But oh, how much she would rather love him and not be afraid to show him how much--and that he would return it as she knows he can!

As she . . . hopes he can. Or has she been wrong about him after all?

Mary Anne looks straight up into Valmont's eyes. Hard to even tell what colour they are, because of that trick he has of hooding them with half-closed lids.

"Vicomte," she offers, "miracles come where there is faith and love--not where there is doubt." A glance at Lis, and a smile, which Lis tries to return, and Mary Anne relents a little. "Though they sometimes do come in spite of it."

Motionless and unblinking, Valmont looks down at Mary Anne for a moment . . . and then slowly turns toward Lis, who is watching him hopefully.

"Elisabeth," he says, as if testing her name upon his lips. As if he had never spoken it before.

Lis manages to keep her voice steady, though her shaking hands are in business for themselves. "Yes, Valmont?"

"There are some matters I should like to . . . discuss with you. If you would like . . ."

"Yes, I think I would like."

On Valmont's face there is the flash of a smile--a real smile--as with ceremonious courtesy he offers his arm to Lis. "Then, may I have this . . . dance?"

Lis takes his arm and, absorbed in each other's company, they depart the East Parlour.

Mary Anne watches them go, feeling rewarded for her efforts but unable to avoid the cynical conclusion that this could be just another of Valmont's temporary reforms: blissful while they last, but when they are over . . .

Then, recalling her very own words about faith and doubt, she turns back toward her guests--

-- only to be transfixed by a VOICE from the doorway . . .

"A lovely story, my dearest--but what is this fascination you have with highwaymen?"

"You should know!" exclaims Mary Anne as, heedless of propriety and dignity, she runs to meet Brandon and be taken in his arms . . .

Pausing with his hand on the knob, he could feel his heart beating rapidly. Dared he hope that tonight would – finally – be their wedding night? The exigencies of the past few days, Sam’s grief after the death of her father, the boys’ needs for reassurance in their newly orphaned state: all had combined to prevent them from embarking on their newly wedded life together.

He had not pressed for his marital rights. The needs of his new family came before his own and he did not begrudge them at all. It was an awfully big adventure they were undertaking. Only it would be wonderful to be truly, madly, deeply married in every way. He took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.

The room was dark except for two candles on the table, gleaming off the silverware and bone china. The aroma of an excellent dinner assailed his nostrils. Sam was nowhere to be seen.

He walked to the table. A bottle of fine wine stood beside one of the plates, still wrapped in the waiter’s linen towel. The tiny flames flickered suddenly. He turned. Sam stood in the doorway to her room, clad in creamy silk and lace. She was mesmerizing.

Marston swallowed as he stared at the vision in front of him. She floated across the carpet soundlessly. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

“How did your meeting go?” She stopped in front of him, smiling warmly.

“What meeting?” He blinked. “Oh, that one. Not so good.”

“Oh?” She frowned in exaggerated sympathy. “You poor darling. Take your coat off,” She slipped behind him and slid it off his shoulders, tugging to pull it down his arms. “And sit down. I ordered a special dinner for us tonight.”

“So I see.” He groped for his chair. “Where are the boys?”

“They’re all in bed. Miss Stone let them eat lobster and it was all Conn could talk about. I think they’re starting to recover.” Sam proceeded to the wardrobe and hung up his coat, pausing to run her hand slowly down the fine fabric of a sleeve. “Not that they’re not going to miss Dad. But they’ve got a lot of sense and sensibility, and they know that it’s important to remember the good times.” She closed the wardrobe door and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment.

“And you? How do you feel?” He watched her narrowly.

She looked up and smiled again. “Never better.”

For the first time he smiled back. “Then come over here and let’s have dinner.”

He had almost forgotten the pleasure of just being in her company. The food was excellent but he knew he wouldn’t remember the menu an hour later. They drank wine out of the same glass and fed each other choice morsels. He teased her into eating more filet mignon. She nuzzled him into sharing truffles with her. By the time the meal was over he knew all over again that he could search the galaxy, quest as he might, but he could never find the woman to equal her.

The candles guttered in their holders. The evening breeze lifted the window curtains gently. Still they sat at the table, not talking, sipping their shared wine and occasionally indulging in lazy kisses.

By turning their heads slightly they could see the immense king-size bed through the french doors. Down pillows like small foothills rested against the bedstead. White roses bloomed in vases on the side tables. The covers were turned back in warm invitation.

Marston placed the now empty wineglass on the table. Lifting his wife’s hand, he bestowed kisses along each finger, finally turning to press his lips to her palm. She smiled at the tickling sensation of his tongue. He looked up and asked a question with his eyes. She answered in the same silent language. Then he rose swiftly, pulled her up and swept her into his arms.

She hugged him tightly, pressing her face into his neck as if suddenly shy. He strode through the doors and deposited her gently on the bed. With as much of his fast evaporating control he could muster, he began to disrobe. He fumbled with the buttons on his vest. She tried to help. Finally he took a firm grip on the points and pulled. The buttons went spinning through the air and landed on the carpet and the tables. Sam giggled.

He smiled down at her. Wanting to reassure, feeling as if he needed reassurance himself. The vest was tossed in the direction of a chair. He pulled his shirt free of his trousers, considered the number of fastenings on cuffs and front, then pulled it over his head in one fast motion. Sam laughed out loud. He grinned like a boy.

Marriage was a journey, he thought; they would sail on placid seas and explore many a dark harbor. But as long as they were together, it would be a great adventure.

The shirt joined the vest in short order. Sam moved quickly and placed her hands on his belt buckle. She tugged at the leather, freeing it from the loops on his trousers. He froze, closing his eyes in anticipation and praying for control. The belt slid through her fingers sibilantly. His breathing was shallow and rapid.

Sam looked up and licked her lips. Their eyes met and held. He took her hands in his and brought them to his trouser buttons, pressing her fingers firmly against the cloth. Her lips parted and her lids closed. She tilted her head back. He leaned forward.

And the still night air was rent by a passionate cry.

“Sam! My tummy doesn’t feel good! I’m going to be -” The most expensive dinner available at the Royal Hotel abandoned the stomach of Conn Flanagan with considerably more speed than it had shown upon entering.

Another voice rang through the hall. This time is was Niall. “THAT’S DISGUSTING!”

For ten long endless seconds husband and wife stared at each other. Then Sam was running for the door. Marston closed his eyes and fell face first onto the bed. He winced, then rolled over onto his back, his arm flung over his eyes.

For the next half-hour he listened as his youngest brother- in-law was cleaned up and tucked in for the night again. Niall offered brotherly commentary on the folly of siblings who ate too much rich food in a manner reminiscent of barnyard animals. Sam’s voice was too low for him to make out her words but her tone of sympathy soothed Conn’s abdominal anguish effectively.

In spite of himself, Marston chuckled. He was not about to give up. His confidence was strong and not about to die hard tonight.

And now . . . on with our stories, girls. ;-)

There are murmurs of astonishment at the sudden twist in the story, along with a few soft gasps and some rubbing of arms that have broken out in goosebumps. "Dead!" exclaims Tamsie under her breath, while Hudson nods as if her suspicions have been confirmed; she has spent too much time in the presence of Sherlock Holmes to be unobservant.

Mary Anne takes it all in, the startled whispers, the "oooo" from Lis, Valmont’s smile of unexpectedly sharpened interest, and her heart is warmed by the appreciation of her listeners. Impromptu storytelling is a difficult art, and her attempt has been made even more trying by the satiric heckling from Valmont—which, thankfully, appears to have ceased.

"Yes," she continues, "that is what the innkeeper told the lady. That the Highwayman of Blackridge was . . . dead.

"At first, the lady refused to believe it. ‘Dead? But I danced with him, just these two hours past! I did, I tell you!’ And at the look that passed between the innkeeper and his wife, she sprang to her feet, the rage flaming in her cheeks as she glowered at the pair of them. ‘I am not accustomed to lying, and I do not mean to begin now! Neither will I be taken for a liar--!’

"At this, the innkeeper raised a hand and told her, quietly: ‘My lady, I do not doubt you. Indeed, if the Highwayman of Blackridge appeared to you, I have reason to believe you a woman of your word.’

" ‘What do you mean?’ asked the lady, her anger giving way to curiosity.

" ‘I will tell you the story as I had it from my father. It seems that when the Highwayman was caught, the men who hanged him . . .’ The innkeeper hesitated. ‘Please know that I do not excuse theft, my lady! In some ways, the man’s punishment was just, for all that I can tell. But it seems that it was badly done—and cruelly. He took a long time dying, and the last sound in his ears was the laughter of those men who trussed him up and hanged him . . . they were making jests about his feet kicking, about how well he danced the gallows-dance . . .’ The innkeeper was quiet for a time. ‘I have no stomach for such things. I prefer to be left in peace, my lady, and I try to do the same by other men.’

"The lady was sickened by what she had heard, but she braced herself with a sip of wine and said, quite steadily, ‘Go on.’

"The innkeeper gave her a long look. ‘The way I have heard it told is this: he appears to a lady who has not heard his story, and offers her just such a choice as he did you—to give him her jewels and whatever valuables she may have about her . . . or to have that dance with him.’ The innkeeper smiled a little. ‘You would think the choice a simple one, would you not? But it seems that few have the courage to step out of their carriage, deciding instead to—‘ He nodded toward the lady’s throat, where the splendour of the necklace still blazed. ‘—fling him their treasures and run away. But a few, my lady, are like you and have courage! They choose . . . the dance.’ His voice softened and his gaze was full of admiration, as was his wife’s when she timidly refilled the lady’s cup and smiled at her.

" ‘I . . . see,’ the lady ventured. ‘So . . . when I granted him the dance . . . ?’

" ‘ I do not understand it completely,’ confessed the innkeeper. ‘But it is said that the bravery and spirit of those who choose that dance with him is a blessing to him— that the beautiful dance takes away some of the ugliness—‘ He coughed a little. ‘—of that last dance he ever had, there on the crossroads gibbet. It may be that it brings comfort to his soul.’ "

Silence reigns in the East Parlour.

"At that the lady was still for a long while, before she finally said, very softly, ‘Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing . . . ’

"And then she smiled at the couple sitting before her, and gestured for them to freshen her cup and fill their own. And when they had done this, she lifted up her glass and cried, ‘A toast! To my partner of the roads, who was much the best dancer I have ever met—for he stepped lightly and did not tread on my feet, and would never have tired before cockcrow!’

"She drank, and then spoke more gently: ‘May he rest in peace.’ "

Rapt silence in the parlour, as Mary Anne briefly lowers her eyes—then raises them once more to her audience, and smiles.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of the Diamond Lady and the Highwayman of Blackridge . . ."

Elliott Marston stood on the threshold and examined him. He was just the sort of person that the most prestigious hotel in the colony would be likely to have working in the stable, if the regular employees were taken ill and anyone at all would do. He was an old man, with a lined and weathered face and scruffy white hair. His palms rested on his knees, then ran along his legs, then clasped in front of him before finally being shoved in his pockets. He jumped to his feet as Marston entered.

“You Sam Flanagan?” He rushed into speech, thrusting the question ahead of him like a battering ram.

“No.” Marston decided that it would do no harm to maintain a superior manner. “He’s dead. What do you want him for?”

The old man seemed genuinely surprised. He blinked rapidly for a moment, then stared at the floor. Marston waited patiently.

“I got some news for Flanagan.” He seemed reluctant to accept the news he’d just heard.

“Well, that’s too bad. We buried him this morning.” Marston walked to the loveseat under the small oil painting between the windows. He seated himself, then pulled one of his cigars out of his pocket. The old man stared at it and licked his lips. “Who are you?”

“Crabbs, the name’s Hiram Crabbs.” He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the cigar, watching intently as Marston lit it and inhaled the smoke. “Me and Ches Watters, we was real close. Ches told me a lot of stuff.” Crabbs’ eyes turned cunning. “Thought Flanagan might like to hear it.”

“Flanagan couldn’t care less right now.” Marston exhaled and watched the ash glow hotly. “But I might be interested.”

“I heared your name. You’re Marston, the rancher.” Crabbs pointed a shaking finger at him. “You’re the one what shot poor Ches.”

“What’s your news?”

“Ches and me went drinking the night before you -” Marston looked up with a mean eye. The old man flinched. “I mean, before he was killed. He wanted to meet Flanagan real bad.”

“I heard he wanted Flanagan to do some work for him. Work Flanagan wasn’t interested in.” Marston sprawled back on the sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. His air of ennui seemed to annoy his visitor.

“Yes, well, that’s what you think. But I know different.” Crabbs sidled up to Marston and leaned forward confidentially. A powerful aroma of cheap whiskey smote the air. “Ches did it for a favor for someone. Someone who wanted Flanagan some bad.” He leaned back and leered for a moment, his mouth revealing black stumps where some of his teeth used to be.

“Who?” Marston gazed up through half-closed eyes at the cigar smoke drifting up in a lazy spiral.

The old man’s grin broadened. “How much?”

“You’re annoying me.” He blew another cloud and watched its progress.

“It were somebody real big who had it in for Flanagan. He was real mad that Ches couldn’t get Flanagan to agree to a meeting so’s that Flanagan could be killed. Ches said,” Crabbs paused and looked over his shoulder at the open door. Then he leaned forward and dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Ches said the man hated Flanagan for years.” He stepped back and tried to gauge the effect of his words.

Marston returned the other’s scrutiny. It wasn’t likely that the old man had any real information about Watters’ business. But he might know a name. Whether he was prepared to surrender it easily was still to be determined.

“In other words, you don’t know anything. You’re wasting my time.” Marston stood up suddenly, his fluid movement startling the old man into skittering back a few steps. He reached into his vest and drew out a gold coin between two fingers so it could be seen. Crabbs stared at it hungrily. “And I haven’t got all day.”

“I’ll give you the name of the man who Ches dealt with. But I want one hundred gold pieces. Then I can tell you.”

“You must be joking.” Marston replaced the coin in his pocket. He strode to the door. “Now you’d better leave before you get thrown out of here.”

“Look, Marston, I ain’t fooling you. This man, he’s important in this town.” Crabbs moved to block the exit, his arms extended on either side. “You don’t understand -”

Marston pushed his way past. He fully expected the old man’s greed to work in his favor. Crabbs followed him down the hall, huffing almost tearfully, entreating that attention be paid. They entered the lobby, empty save for hotel employees who looked outraged at this violation of the Royal’s portals.

“Please listen to me!” Crabbs grabbed Marston’s arm and pulled him to a halt. “You got to - ” He froze in mid- sentence, staring in horror to the street beyond.

Marston glanced quickly over his shoulder and saw nothing to evoke such a reaction. The crowded sidewalk was full of shoppers as usual. Horses and wagons crowded the road beyond them. He looked back at his visitor.

Crabbs let go of his arm and backed slowly away from him. His eyes were glassy were fear and he cowered back as he retreated. Then he whirled on his heel and rushed to the back of the hotel, finally running through the service entrance to the stableyard beyond.

Marston turned and marched outside to scan the street. The shoppers were still there along with some businessmen leaving their offices after working late. Two soldiers were tying up their horses at the tavern across the road and carters were unloading sacks from the back of a large wagon in the ally beyond. One of the laborers glanced up at the hotel and then went back to work.

Marston frowned thoughtfully and returned to the lobby. He had the strangest feeling that something had just slipped through his fingers.

And it was not a feeling he liked.

Andrea's eyes darken with desire, and her self-consciousness over her nakedness fades away. She wants HIM, not merely HIS hands rubbing her feet.

HE recognizes her need, but HIS intent is not to satisfy her -- not yet anyway. HE wants her to be relaxed and trusting, compliant. Her arousal is unnecessary for HIS purpose and will only serve to discomfort her. HIS light touch will seem a tease, or worse.

Maintaining their locked gaze, HE releases her feet to slide HIS hands up and down her legs, brushing against every inch of skin. HE observes her shudder: a normal response at the usual sites. HE determines that her ticklish spot is nowhere along either leg.

HE lifts her legs onto the table, turning her in the process. It's time to move on to other areas of her body.

With HIS face so close to her own, Andrea expects a kiss. But, it does not come. Instead, she feels HIS breath warm her neck and HIS hands push her shoulders to lay her down. She complies and hopes that her obedience will be rewarded with a kiss. And, again, she is disappointed. She bends her knees slightly and presses her thighs together.

HE stands erect and takes her left hand, raising it toward the ceiling and straightening her arm. Watching her closely for a heightened response, HE strokes the length of this arm, drags HIS fingertips through her armpit, and smooths HIS hand along her side.

Although her breathing is ragged, Andrea does not react as a woman being tickled. "You are so cold."

A raised eyebrow. HE knows that she isn't talking about the temperature of HIS hands. "Is that meant to be a measure of my distance from the spot?"

HE lowers her arm to the table and lays a strap across the palm of her hand. "Hold onto this. You may want something to strain against as I get warmer. -- If you let it go to fight me, I will restrain you."

Andrea clenches her teeth and forces her hot breath through her nose. She watches HIM watching her, as HE duplicates the examination on her right side and places a strap in that palm. She closes both fists and tugs on the straps, testing their strength. No, she does not wish HIM to restrain her.

HE disappears into the shadows and quickly returns carrying two folded sheets. HE snaps each sheet open and places the first over her upper body, from her neck to her navel. The second covers her legs. As a surgeon, HE exposes only the skin HE will operate on.

Jake Brooks had been an evil man who had harmed many women. Running Bear had no stomach for such abuse but he neither relished nor regretted the death. It was simply fact now. He knew that many of the men in the wagon, busy arguing with such conviction, now regretted their actions. Left without a leader in a strange surrounding they were now immobilized by guilt and uncertainty.

His eyes met those of the tall man with the haunted eyes and lilting speech. He was new to the group but respected. Perhaps he could bring this group into focus once more.

"Of course, the lady believed there must be some deception here. He was a highwayman after all, was he not? A bandit. What grace, what honour could she expect from such? After the amusement of the dance, perhaps he would expect her--" A glance at Valmont. "--finery, or her favours, and laugh at her for ever believing that a dance was all he would demand."

No motion, save Venn drawing Tamsie a little nearer and setting his arm about her shoulders, smiling down into her wide eyes before they both turn back to Mary Anne.

"But when their dance was finished . . . he bade her a courteous farewell, and was gone. As quickly as that.

"The lady stood a while in the road, staring at the prints of her own little slippers in the dust, listening, but could not hear his footfalls, nor the sound of hoofbeats, nor any other noise of his going--was it because her heart was still beating hard, that she could hear little else?

"Finally, then, she returned to the carriage where her coachman was well-nigh quaking, and after rallying him a bit that a woman had been braver than he--"

A soft laugh from Valmont. Exchanges of grins among the Alliance personnel.

"--she had him set out to look for an inn along their way, for she was in no frame of mind to attend a ball, after this. Though she would have had a good story to tell, if she had gone!"

Mary Anne waits for the laughter to quiet itself, then continues.

"After a time, they came upon an inn--a poor one, but it looked quiet and clean, and it would be a place to rest and see what news they could hear of this highwayman, if any.

"They were well looked-after, for the innkeeper and his wife were glad to see the colour of the lady's money--but they were honest, for all that, and didn't try to cheat her. The food was good, if it was plain, and the hot wine was rough and bitter even with the honey in it, but the lady was glad enough to have it, for she was beginning to feel what had happened. Now the adventure was over, she could feel herself tremble as she thought what her fortunes might have been, if she had met another such man who would not be so easily . . ." Sly look. " . . . satisfied."

A deep chuckle from Giles.

"Well, the innkeeper's wife saw the lady was pale and shaking, and asked kindly after her, whether there was anything else they could do for her before she retired for the night.

"Imagine, if you will, the lady's surprise when she told her story. For the innkeeper's wife turned pale as her apron and whispered, 'Save us!' before she called to her husband--who,when he heard the story, sat down as if the strength had gone out of his legs.

"And finally, he told the lady: ' I have kept this inn since I was of age to do so, and my father had it before me. It happened when my father was yet a boy-- the Highwayman of Blackridge was taken and hanged at the crossroads. He has been dead these many, many years . . .' "

Collins ran his eye down the page before sliding it into his coat pocket. “Everything will be replaced by tonight. How are the children reacting?”

“Very excited, actually. It’s quite ghoulish.” Sam smiled in spite of herself. “And it’s taken their minds off…other things.”

“Yes, I understand.” Collins stood up. “If there’s nothing else…? Elliott?”

The man staring out the window didn’t respond at first. Finally he looked over his shoulder. “No, Melvin, there’s nothing else. We’ll talk later.” Collins nodded at the dismissal and left.

Marston resumed his examination of the street below. The gaslights gave off a ghostly glow in the advancing twilight. Carriages pulled up in front of the hotel and disgorged the gentry of Fremantle in their evening finery. The doormen would be kept busy until the dinner hour was far advanced.

“I guess the honeymoon’s over when a man would rather look at the street than his wife.” Two arms slipped around his waist as the voice whispered in his ear.

He reached around and pulled her to his side. “Feeling neglected, are you?”

“Feeling overwhelmed, actually. It’s been a trying week.” She looked up at him. “What are we going to do?”

His expression was grim. “I have no faith in the chief constable anymore. We’re on our own.” He squeezed her shoulder affectionately and smiled down at her. “Where are those in-laws of mine?”

“Having dinner with Miss Stone in the restaurant. I hope they’re not too much of a handful for her.”

“Then it’s the perfect time to take a closer look at their rooms.” Marston let her go reluctantly. It had taken a great deal of effort to keep the boys out of their rooms so that Sam could determine if anything was removed. They would have to work quickly before dinner was over.

“But nothing was taken.” Sam was already at the door.

“No, but something may have been left behind.”

*********************** They started in the room shared by the younger boys. It was not large, with two single beds and one closet. The trunks containing their new clothes and toys were back in their proper places. Niall’s books were piled on the bureau and Conn’s tin soldiers made a large lump under his pillow, where he had hid them to be safe. All of Sam’s persuasive talents had failed to alter his fixed belief that the invader had been searching for his soldiers and that only a miracle had prevented their abduction.

Marston and Sam divided the room between them. Sam knelt on the floor and checked under the furniture, paying particular attention to the desk under the window. Marston looked at the closet floor and examined the area around the trunks. There was no sign of anything that didn’t belong in the room: no marks, no overlooked items, no dirt. Finally they looked at each other in surrender.

“Liam’s room.” Sam spoke with confidence.

That room took even less time to inspect. In minutes they were back in the hallway, frustrated and hot.

“Our rooms?”

“Yes.” Marston frowned. The condition of their suite had puzzled him since their return from the funeral. Sam’s room had received the same treatment as the others: ransacked and disordered. The same was true of their dressing room. But his bedroom and office remained untouched. Or so they had assumed.

“Mister Marston, sir?” They turned. The clerk bowed jerkily, and handed over a message. He retreated several steps and waited for the reply.

Marston opened the message. Deer Sir, you mae be intrested to noe what I noe about Ches Watters. Sum fokes wud pay lots to heer it. It was unsigned. He turned it over and looked at the back. “Who gave you this?”

“A man who’s waiting downstairs, sir. The manager put him in the coatroom.” The look on the clerk’s face indicated that he thought the manager had been excessively kind to the visitor. “This man would like to see you most urgently, sir.”

“Very well. Tell him I’ll be right down.” He waited until the clerk was on the stairs before responding to Sam’s look of inquiry and tugs on his sleeve. “This may prove interesting, as our new friend promises.”

But it was soon apparent that the Hansbank jet was departing, not arriving. A beautiful woman with long dark hair walked slowly toward the plane. She seemed distracted, lost in thought. Porters briskly carried her luggage up the stairs and into the cabin of the plane. Grace had seen enough photos of the Gruber wedding to recognize Mrs. Gruber, dressed not in the famous Hansgown this time, but a beautifully simple chiffon that danced gracefully in the breeze from the nearby ocean. Grace was momentarily distracted, admiring the woman's dress, slowing down her realization that of course the man at the window was Hans Gruber. She swung around, absolutely sure she did not want to encounter the CEO of the Hansbank, accidently or not. But the man was gone from his post at the window. Probably gone down to the jet to accompany his wife, Grace thought.

Her attention turned to another private jet taxiing to the gate on the opposite of the terminal from the Hansjet. No markings on this plain white bird. She moved to the gate at that side of the terminal, watching to see who emerged from that plane. A moment or two later, Hart ducked his head out of the low door of the plane and stood, scanning the windows, impatient while the crew secured the staircase. The white plane blocked his view of the Hansjet. She heard Hart bounding up the stairs to the gate, then turned nervously around to see if Hans Gruber was still in sight. The Hansjet was still there, but there was no sign of Mr. Gruber. Hart walked through the gate alone and headed directly for her. He dropped his briefcase at her feet and wrapped her up in his arms, nearly pulling her off balance.

"I take it you're happy to see me?" Grace said, when she could breathe again. He ignored her and plunged on, "Good news. We can go home. Business is just about taken care of, and Joy has found herself a snug little 32-room place in Holmby Hills for herself and her vaquero. Can I get a lift?"

Grace beamed at him. Could everything be resolved so quickly? She was happy to see him, and glad Joy had left his home, but she couldn't stop thinking about the Hansbank trades. And Hans Gruber's presence here at the terminal -- coincidence, or not? Another piece of the puzzle she didn't understand, or not? She resisted the urge to congratulate Hart on his stunning success in luring the Investors into the sting via the Hansbank trades. But she couldn't say anything about it without admitting to snooping, obviously, and it would be torture to lie to him about what she'd been doing in his absence. It was also prudent, she decided,not to mention the Hansjet, or Hans Gruber's presence in the terminal, coincidence or not.

"So. What have you been up to?" Hart asked, one hand holding hers tightly as they walked to the exit. Grace kept her face bland. "Work mostly. You know how boring I am when you're away."

There is, of course, no reply to Brandon's announcement.

And yet the Colonel is certain that Eamon de Valera is there, within yards of him. Brandon has an intuition not granted to all military men, but familiar among them: many a soldier can tell of moments when he had no warning except an indefinable something that told him danger was near, and by giving ear to the warning he saved his life. So it is now, as a similar instinct tells Brandon that the random gleam in the thicket is not the eye of some nocturnal animal in cover, but a human presence. The stillness, the struggle not to be heard, is almost audible.

"Eamon." Brandon's voice, filled with sympathy, low and clear. "This serves no purpose at all. It does not help Miss Therese--in fact, it may endanger her if any action of ours alerts The Interrogator to our presence."

Standing by, Sifuentes gives way to a grimace of pity. That, Colonel, is hitting below the belt. Telling him we may be endangering her by being here . . . But he sees the necessity of the statement. It is true, after all.

The silence persists, and the two men exchange wry glances. Dev is made of sterner stuff than to give way that easily, though the silence is now almost palpable; Sifuentes lifts his shoulders in a half-shrug, as if to say: Looks like we'll have to do it the hard way.

Brandon sighs, then gathers his thoughts to speak again.

"Mister de Valera . . ."

A slight gesture from the Colonel and Sifuentes begins, slowly, to circle around to the left, quietly, a shadow among shadows. Any sound of his movements is covered by Brandon's voice, seeking the words to draw out of hiding a man who is frantic with anxiety for the woman he loves and convinced that his desperate course is the only way to save her.

"All day, you have driven yourself mad imagining what Miss Therese could be suffering at HIS hands."

Silence. Chill wind that briefly rustles empty branches and dead leaves.

"I do not say these fears are unfounded. But . . . I ask you, as you love her: would you be willing to take all her pain upon yourself, that she might be spared?"

The white, waning moon. The pointed stars.

"If HE stood before us now . . ." God forbid! Brandon quells his impulse to glance about the clearing, and persists. " . . . and would allow her to go free, if you gave yourself in her place, you would do it, would you not? I know the man you are."

Surely there has never been the sound of a living thing here, not since the world began.

"I know you, Eamon! You would do what I have described, I know it. This hard deed. You would hand yourself over to suffering and death if it would keep her safe. But at this moment you are asked to do another: will you not attempt it? It is far harder, to leave here with us and wait, and stay your hand until the proper moment. Please . . . we may only have one chance and we will need to strike when it will tell, man! Not unprepared like this. I honour your courage, but you cannot do this alone." A pause. "Believe me, I know . . ."

Brandon pauses at the sound--had he merely imagined it?--of a small, metallic click. Very low . . .

Eamon's pistol? wonders Brandon, who dares not move. No. He will not shoot . . .

. . . if, indeed, it is . . . Eamon . . .

Swallowing his fear, Brandon makes another attempt. "Eamon--"

Whatever else Brandon had intended to say is drowned out by a sudden explosion of motion in the thicket and a series of virulent curses, accompanied by scuffling and, once, the thud of a well- planted fist . . .

Hers, it seems. As she steps from the car which had appeared to take her to the airstrip, her dress catches the light of the noonday sun. The tiny roses contrast with the Hansbank couture. A slim gentleman helps her out. His level of care an indication that he has been informed precisely how precious this cargo is. Someone has seen to it.

"Good day, Mrs. Gruber." Well-trained, he would not presume to say that everything is in readiness for her arrival. And her departure. "Will there be any further instructions?"

Waiting for her. Colin has kept his promise. She has only to climb aboard the plane, and she will be gone.

The sound of guitar strings, as the movements of the figures blur to a slow motion. Two men positioning the moveable stairway into place. The porter, removing the bags from the Hansbank limousine, walking in frozen Muybridge flashes.

A woman's voice sings:

Just one backwards glance
Only turn and look behind you
Look around you . . .

Mrs. Gruber turns. Behind her, a man with signals. She cannot read them. Stop. Go forward. Go slowly. The man moves his arms in the protective silence from the jet's noise. Back up. He is sure of himself. She cannot read the signs.

Take another chance--
There's another just behind you
Look around you . . .

He cannot hear. She cannot understand. As he drops his hand signals, we see the control tower, its windows are grey. We cannot see behind them. The color bleeds from the frame, and in the remaining black and white, the windows lose their colour, becoming clear. Standing, watching, through the glass. Hans Gruber. He speaks into a cell phone, we can only hear guitar. And the woman's voice . . .

If you cannot see me here,
Cannot hear my call
Cannot feel my silent tears
I don't exist at all . . .

No need to feel my arms around you--
Secure, I know my hands will guide you.

She walks across the tarmac, towards the plane. She has forgotten her watch. What time is it?

Resonance: instrument's strings--alone, together. Punctuate the imminent vibrating of engines, unheard, eerily without force or meaning against the singular sound of the echo of a hollow wooden box.

Signals.

Just one backwards glance
Only turn and look behind you
Those who love you . . .

She ascends the steps, her black cage rustles.

She does not turn.

. . . just behind you.

The face of Hans Gruber. Intent. The colours return to the frame, and he disappears, as windows shadow him once again.

To someone who had just stepped from the well-lighted house, it would be all darkness in the wood; to Brandon and Sifuentes, whose eyes have adjusted to the gathering of twilight and then to the glow of the waning moon, it is possible to see a great deal when they look carefully.

Brandon turns his head slowly to the right, then stands completely still, transfixed by something there, near the ground, in that thicket . . .

When Sifuentes had left the house in pursuit of Eamon de Valera and Brandon had followed, the Colonel had been under no illusions: they faced a difficult task. This, Brandon had told himself, is a strong man, one accustomed to evading pursuit, and he is in all likelihood armed. And there had been no argument on any of these points from Sifuentes, who had shown his quality as the afternoon wore on into evening--tireless, efficient of movement, and incredibly observant.

Of course, Brandon had seen the signs himself, for Dev had left a trail. Not that he had intended to, but when making one's way into the deeper recesses of the wood, it is practically impossible not to leave signs of one's passage. Dev has left fewer traces than most . . . but he is tracked by an agent of the Alliance Rose, as well as a man who grew up in these precincts and knows the West Wood--the outer portions, at any rate--as well as anyone in Delaford Parish and Barton.

And now . . .

Brandon can feel the stillness gather around him. Strange, how the normal night sounds are stifled among these thick trees and snaking brambles . . . if any water flows nearby, it pours heavily and silently over the stones . . .

There, in the thicket. Again.

Brandon makes a show of turning away, then pitches his voice to a low murmur, barely moving his lips. He know that the hiss of a whisper will carry further than low but normal speech.

"Mister Sifuentes, do not hurry--but observe that thicket. Tell me what you see . . ."

Obligingly, Scout watches that particular cluster of undergrowth without seeming to watch. Minutes go by . . . but finally, his patience is rewarded when he catches sight of a small flick of light, something that could simply be the gleam of a fox's eye . . .

Sifuentes turns and watches in a different direction for a few moments, before moving back toward Brandon and returning the murmur. "The glasses. It's Dev, all right."

Brandon doesn't answer for a moment. The glasses . . . His spine crawls with a momentary chill, but then he masters himself. This is neither the time nor the place for such thoughts. Especially not the place.

With gestures, with very few words, Brandon and Sifuentes make their plans, and as Sifuentes draws back to stand away from Brandon, he contents himself with one last muttered warning: "Be careful, Colonel. We know he's probably armed--and where Miss Gellert is concerned, he's capable of anything. Absolutely anything."

Brandon nods, unwilling to acknowledge how those words seem to touch fire to his heart as he thinks of his own love, back at the house, waiting for him . . . oh, when this task is done and he returns, and they . . .

Brandon shakes his head. Strange--he has not felt well today, not since shortly after the fencing practice he had with Mary Anne. Had that been the cause? But no, the symptoms of fatigue do not generally include . . . well, enough of that.

Forcing himself to concentrate on the mission at hand, Brandon steps forward a little and clears his throat before announcing: "I know that you are there, Eamon . . ."

The small group of people around the freshly dug pit echoed the minister. The wind pulled at their clothing and rustled the flowers that adorned the pine box. For several minutes they waited, then one by one they drifted away until only the minister and his wife remained with the family.

“Come on, darling. Let’s let the men go about their business.” Elliott Marston pulled his wife away as the gravediggers appeared from behind the trees by the path, their shovels over their shoulders. The men proceeded to their work and the rhythmic sound of earth being piled on wood was soon heard.

Sam Marston clung to her husband’s hand as they walked to their carriage. “You know, something just occurred to me.”

“What’s that, dear?” They were several steps behind the children and the nurse but he lowered his voice to ensure privacy.

“Three days ago there were two Sam Flanagans.” She looked up with swimming eyes. “Now there aren’t any at all.” A smile quivered bravely on her lips but disappeared as her tears began to fall.

Marston turned and pulled her into his arms. He held her tightly as the sobs wracked her body for several minutes. Giving comfort was not something he had a great deal of experience with. He had been far more assured at making the funeral arrangements and arranging for the nurse to stay on to deal with the younger boys until Sam was feeling better.

The great sobs had changed to less emotional weeping but still Sam clung to his coat. He looked over her head at the rest of the family gathered by the carriage. Liam started to walk towards them but stopped when Marston shook his head. He gestured to his brother-in-law to return to the others, then tenderly pulled Sam upright and kissed her brow.

“Stay here while I send the others on their way.” He whispered into her hair.

“All right.” She sniffed indelicately but seemed to have regained her composure. Marston left her leaning against a small flowering tree that shielded her from the looks of passers-by.

The nurse was holding hands with Niall and Conn inside the carriage. Liam hovered around the steps, shifting from foot to foot in his uncertainty. Marston put his hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. Liam smiled up at him.

“Mrs. Marston and I will take a cab back to the hotel. We’ll see you there.” Marston slapped Liam on the shoulder. “Come on now, up you get.” The boy scrambled inside. Marston nodded at the driver and the carriage lurched forward.

He turned back. Sam was directly behind him, pale but calm again. He slipped his arm around her shoulder. “Let’s go find a cab.”

They walked along the path to the main gate. The cemetery was not attached to any church as it was often used by the town to bury people whose religious bonds were unknown. Sam had selected the location because it contained a picturesque creek overhung with willows. It was a peaceful site and she paused at the gate to look back at it. The gravediggers were still at their work.

“Feeling better?” Marston winced. It was such a ridiculous question.

But she nodded. “Yes, actually I do.” She slid her arm around his waist, uncaring of the stares of the censorious. “It was terrible to see him wasting away like that. It’s a blessing that it’s over.”

Silence fell between them for some moments. Marston waved a cab driver over to the curb. They climbed in and settled themselves into comfortable positions.

“You know, you’re lucky that you had him for all those years.” Marston stared out the window, his arm still around her shoulders and his fingers playing with a strand of her hair. “My parents were killed when I was four years old. Aborigines raided our wagon train. I don’t remember them very clearly.”

“How awful!” Sam hugged him tightly. “You know, I really don’t know much about you.” She looked up, pensive, then kissed him.

“We’ve got a lifetime to answer each other’s questions. And even then it probably won’t be long enough.” He kissed her back, then pulled her head down on his shoulder.

Sam listened to her husband’s steady heartbeat through his vest as she watched the town pass by outside the window. Who was this man? What did she actually know about him? It was startling to think she’d married someone she really knew so little about.

She hugged him tighter. It had been a hectic courtship (putting it mildly!) and a traumatic beginning to their married life, but things would be different now. They could return to the ranch with the boys and start a new life together. Everything would be fine from now on.

The cab pulled up in front of the hotel and they disembarked. The doorman bowed them through the entrance with his usual dignity. Almost immediately inside the lobby they met the manager, his face drawn with concern.

“Mr. Marston, I’m afraid I have some very unfortunate news.” He took a deep breath and let it out in a rush.

Sam clenched her fists at her sides, her mind racing with the possibilities. “Is it Conn? Or Niall? What happened?”

Before the manager could speak there was an explosion of noise behind them. It was Niall, bursting with news and energy. “Sam! The rooms upstairs! Someone’s gone through them! Clothes and books and papers and everything’s all over the place. You’d better come quick and see.”

PL emerged from his wagon and crossed to rejoin the meeting. He hesitated briefly as his eyes lit on Claire and the Indian guide. Brooks was the only white person on the wagon train who had any interaction with the fellow. His stern, unsmiling countenance didn't exactly invite idle conversation. He probably didn't even speak any English

At the announcement of "a choice," an agreeable thrill travels through the East Parlour, accompanied by anticipatory murmurs and some pleasant laughter.

Valmont, however, shifts his languid pose against the wall to raise an eyebrow and groan, "Dieu, I had hoped for better than this. The ruffian will offer the lady a choice between her finery and her favours, no?"

"No," returns Mary Anne with a malicious little smile. "The same thought occurred to her, naturally—but if he had made her such an offer, he could have taken her necklace and been welcome to it. Yes, it was valuable, but she had a high opinion of herself, this lady did, and wasn’t about to give herself to some ‘gentleman’ of the roads in the hopes of keeping a string of pretty stones."

"Then she must have been a most unusual woman," Valmont replies, with an arch and irritating grin—- but also with a spark of interest that he cannot deny.

"Most," agrees Mary Anne. "A genuine lady. Just as there are those who call themselves gentlemen, while others call them . . . something else.

"But," she continues before Valmont can interrupt again, "that is neither here nor there, for the choice the highwayman offered the lady was this: to surrender her necklace, or . . . to step out of the carriage and dance the coranto with him, there upon the road. If she would—" Impish look at Valmont. "—favour him thus, he would send her on her way unmolested and she was free to keep her jewels."

"What sort of dance is the coranto?" inquires Tamsie, who dearly loves a dance every now and then.

Valmont speaks up—-more politely. "It’s known in France as the courante," he answers, mindful that Venn has little liking for him and will endure no insolence to Thomasin. "A dance with running steps in it. A very charming, lively thing, if well- performed." To Mary Anne. "Rather like the . . . lady, I daresay. I suppose that dancing was among her other perfections?"

"Absolutely," smiles Mary Anne. "She was on her way to a ball, was she not? And she accepted his offer, for what possible harm could there be in a simple dance?

"Still . . ." Mary Anne lowers her voice and peers about the room, her gaze traveling from face to face. "There was something about the whole business that made her shiver, though she would rather have died than show any fear. She stepped out of the carriage, into the road, and the highwayman held out his hand to her—-and her poor coachman made never a move, for his only weapon was his whip, and that would be a feeble answer to a pistol. But even if the coachman had carried a pistol, there was something in the way that highwayman looked, you understand. The way his eyes gleamed behind his mask. The way he moved, so that you couldn’t hear his footfalls. The way his cloak streamed and floated . . . though there was no wind and the trees were still, still . . . still . . ."

A hush falls over the parlour. Even Valmont has abandoned his languor and is leaning forward from the wall, intent and alert—-though he smiles a little when Lis slips her hand into his as if she can scarcely endure the suspense.

"And so . . . the coachman dared not make a move, not for his life, though the lady flung back her head, so . . ." Mary Anne tosses her head disdainfully. " . . . and SNAPPED! open her silk fan . . . "

Tamsie smiles with the warm remembrance of a few of her flourishes as The Lady in the Egdon pageant.

" . . . and began the dance with the Highwayman of Blackridge, with no music but the beat of her heart to keep rhythm, and no light but the wild forsaken stars . . ."

Emilie sighs with enjoyment. Wild forsaken stars . . .

"For it was the black of the moon . . ."

A noise from the gloom - someone moving through the undergrowth? She pulled her dart gun from its holster and waived it at the trees around her, backing up against the side of the Tardis so no one could surprise her from behind.

Suddenly the Tardis door opened, and Claudia stepped out. The guard whirled and pointed her gun. Claudia scowled at the guard. The gun was lowered, but not reholstered.

“I thought I heard something…” started the guard. She had heard the staff in the house talk of the legends of the west wood. She was a sceptical sort normally, but actually being in the woods in darkness was another matter.

Claudia’s eyes blinked as she adjusted to the lack of light. Too late now to try and follow the Colonel. “Then perhaps we should get back to the house?” she suggested. “before either of us is missed. It must be about dinner time.”

Without another word she took of, her long legs taking longer strides, so the AR guard had to jog to keep up.

“That was the police.” The large man in the badly fitting suit rummaged in his tattered case with one beefy hand. He pulled out a notebook and pencil. “I’m with the army. Sergeant Albert Tomlinson. Intelligence Unit.”

A more sensitive man might have been offended at the look on Marston’s face. “Really?”

“Now then,” He licked his pencil and shifted into a more comfortable position. The chair creaked ominously. “Now then, why did you kill this ‘ere – what’s ‘is name now?” Tomlinson checked his book. “Ches Watters?”

“Because he tried to kill me first.” Marston measured out his words as he watched the pencil move slowly across the page.

“But you’re still alive.” Tomlinson put his finger on the flaw in the other’s argument. “’ow’s that then?”

“I pulled my gun faster than he did.” Marston began to count the bars in the cell door.

“Pulled it where?” The sergeant looked up and frowned. His pencil hovered over the page.

“I pulled it out of my holster with my right hand, pointed it at Watters and pulled the trigger.” The rancher patiently enunciated each syllable. “And he did the same. But he was slower at it than I was. So I shot him first.”

“Ah.” The sergeant scribbled away. “Why couldn’t you say that plain right away then?”

“Sorry.” There were fourteen bars. Marston transferred his gaze and started counting the bricks in the wall.

“Now then, why did ‘e try to kill you?”

“Because I told him to let go of my wife’s brother. Watters grabbed him and tried to drag him out of the stable.” Had it been thirty-two or thirty-three? Marston frowned and started counting again.

“Why did ‘e grab ‘im in the first place?” Tomlinson looked up, his brows knitted in perplexity.

“I don’t know. He just did.” Yes, there were definitely thirty-three. Marston looked at the other man for the first time.

Tomlinson put down his pencil and crossed his arms. “For no reason at all? Don’t seem likely to me.”

“I didn’t say he had no reason.” Marston controlled himself. “All I’m saying is I don’t know what it was.”

For a long moment the sergeant regarded him. Then he picked up his pencil again and resumed work on his notebook. “All right then.” He finished and looked up. “What did your wife do?”

“Nothing. She was too far away.”

“Didn’t scream or nothing?” Tomlinson leaned forward in a confidential manner. “Most women woulda been screeching like a wet hen, if you wants my opinion.”

“Well, Sam’s not like that.” Marston pulled his thoughts away from his wife. It was too painful.

“Sam?” The sergeant’s eyes popped. “I thought we were talkin’ about your wife!”

“My wife’s name is Sam.”

“But that’s a man’s name.” Tomlinson frowned in concentration. “Look ‘ere. This sounds mighty strange to me. Why would a woman have a man’s name? Eh?”

“It’s a family name.” Marston closed his eyes again and dropped his head in his hands. “Her father picked it out.”

“Well that’s as may be.” The sergeant sat back in his chair and looked at the rancher as if from a great height. “But when you first hear it, it sounds almost pre- verted, if you know what I mean.”

Before Marston could respond to this statement in an appropriate manner, the sound of the heavy metal door reached them. It screamed on its hinges then clanged shut again. Hurrying footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Elliott!” Sam appeared, her face framed by the bars. “Are you alright?”

“Sam!” Marston rocketed to his feet, then leaped to the door. “What are you doing here? This is no place for you? Melvin!” He transferred his attention to the lawyer hanging back in the shadows. “How could you -?”

Sam punched him through the bars. “Don’t you shout at Melvin. He tried to keep me away.” She put her hands over his. “It didn’t work.”

Collins looked at his client with smouldering resentment. “You could have warned me, you know.”

Marston looked at Sam and smiled in spite of himself. “Well, you wouldn’t have believed me.” He lifted one hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on her knuckles. “Sometimes I can’t believe it myself.”

She smiled back and clutched his fingers. “Believe it, mister.”

“What’s all this now?” Sergeant Tomlinson lumbered forward, frowning in an authoritative manner. “I ain’t finished questioning this man.”

“Mr. Marston has been released. I have the authorization right here.” Collins reached through the bars and waved the papers in the air.

The sergeant took them and read them carefully, his finger running along each line. There was silence for a moment, then a loud harrumph as he returned the papers to the lawyer. “All right then. Be off with you. Think is was a bloody church social going on ‘ere.” He gathered up his notebook and case and disappeared down the hall.

Marston pulled his coat and hat off the bed and reached for his wife’s arm. “Let’s go. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Yes.” Sam swallowed hard. “We do.”