Robert Vaughn. Captain in his Majesty's service, late of the King's American Dragoons. Decorated veteran of the American War of Independence. And now?

He fought from sighing in annoyance. Damn the colonists, damn the Horse Guard and bloody well damn all of London! Bad enough that Cornwallis had given up the ghost to Washington, but worse still was the reception when Robert had finally arrived home in London! He had heard that a goodly portion of English population actually supported the Americans. A sensible, stout minded man, Robert had dismissed it as alarmist talk. More the fool he when he returned to find it all too true. There were even members of the common public openly wearing broaches with the likenesses of Washington, Jefferson and Franklin upon them. His red coat with its blue facings brought little but scorn, disinterest at the least. Even the officials at Horse Guard had been less than thrilled to deal with him, an officer of minor provincial unit attempting to retire and collect his half pay. Instead fellow veterans helping a comrade out, he had discovered the purest hell of bureaucracy run by adjutants and aides that had never gotten the briefest whiff of black powder.

Questions, questions, questions, too many bloody questions! They had found no record of the order that transferred Robert from the 23rd Dragoons to the King's American Dragoons, and in there eyes if there was no paper then it did not happen. Never mind that he had received correspondence from Horse Guard addressed to him as an officer of the KAD! They then had fallen to threats and intimidation: how involved had he been with the destruction of a graveyard and church to build fortifications in New York? He hadn't been in the least, the orders actually coming from far above him or anyone else in the unit! Brushing it all aside, the clerks in their finery then attempted evasion: The KAD were stationed now in New Brunswick, did the Captain wish to remain with them there? Or perhaps purchase a recently opened Majority in the 23rd, now the 19th Light, bound for exotic India?

No, he did bloody well not! Three weeks of this nonsense went by until out of desperation he had called upon his former commander, now Lord Rumsford, to come to his aid. Lord Rumsford was sympathetic enough to come to his plight, with the understanding that such favors had best not be called upon too often... or at all after this.

Weary of the indifferent public and the snide society of the wealthy, Robert had decided to simply remove himself from London. The countryside of northern England was... peaceful. Relaxing. Idyllic, even, with its rolling green hills and wandering streams! The family manor had not been properly tended for the duration of the war, his wife far more interested in remaining in the highlife of gentility at their townhouse. But Robert had made plans. Repairs were well underway, the house habitable even if the grounds needed quite some tending. He was quite looking forward to a life of leisure away from the battlefield and away from the gossiping tongues of scandal that ran amok in 'polite' society. There was even a quant little inn just down past the village. It reminded him of the tavern he and his fellow officers had commandeered in Huntington. If only-

His valet interrupted. "Sir? You wife requests your presence in the parlor."

Robert felt every ounce of joy taken in his new sanctuary drain away. His wife. Why in God's name had she insisted on coming?? Five years had changed him, he knew. And it could scarcely be her fault, he was all too aware. He simply was no longer in love with her. Times had been when her tender young frame pressed against his six foot stature had brought the greatest of pleasure, her delicate hands caressing his brown hair more soothing than the finest, hottest tea, and her voice! Such a voice as to sing to make angel's weep, he once wrote of her! Now he was simply tired of her. She would find no real joy in rural life, he knew. She was a creature born to dances and masques, fond of entertaining friends and neighbors and engaging in the latest gossips and fashions. In his war ravaged eyes, he saw her as a simpering, weak willed wisp of a woman with no real spirit.

Straightening his cravat in the mirror, Robert shrugged into his second best black frock coat as his valet helped. He decided that a retreat was in order. "I think I'm off for a bit of... what's that Scottish word? Lunting! That's it! Nice walk along the lane with a good pipe. Just the thing for me."

"Just as you say, sir," the older man nodded sagely. His gentleman's gentleman was no gentleman, but a former sergeant and Robert's trusted aid. Robert knew he could rely on Higgins. "Shame you left before I could finds you, sir. I'll attend her ladyship direct I will."

"Good man, Higgins. Good man." He ran a quick hand over his jaw to ensure his stubble was not too noticeable, grimacing at the thirty-some odd face that glared back at him in the mirror. Robert would never have called himself an attractive man. Handsome in a rather rough way, perhaps, but never attractive. He honestly did not see whatever it was his wife saw in him. "There's that inn just down the way. I think I shall stop for a quiet pint or two. Possibly three, should I dare to be reckless."

Theo hunkered down in the dust until his snub nose all but touched the dirt of the road. Not that it would have made much of a difference, the boy's face had long ago given up any attempt at being clean. Alongside him, Harper, a fairly decent chap even if most of the decent in him was more that he could be depended upon to have a ha'penny or two in pocket or at the very least, a bit of twist, was just as bent over. The pair of boys yelled into the dust and behind them, Little Jonathan Little danced and hopped about in anticipation, yanking at the hem of his untucked shirt.

The reason the boys were so worked up was the slow, languid stroll (not quite unlike that of the man making his way up the lane) of two frogs in the road. One either side of the frogs, wood had been set to suggest to both that they go one way, but the frogs weren't quite of that mind. The smaller one had leapt atop the wood on multiple occaision and had they not already agreed that such action could be remedied, Theo would have been out a rather nice canker on a string, this day's prize.

Little Jonathan Little's eyes were set upon the race and not, as they were supposed to have been, on the road, or the young man might have noticed the quick steps coming up behind. He certainly felt the arrival, however, as his ear was caught handily between strong fingers and pulled red. With a yowl, he danced to the side, his head cocked as well as it could to take the pressure off of those fingers.

“Theodore Hammil, you oughter be ashamed of yerself!” the young woman let go of Little Jonathan Little and quick, cuffed the scrambling Harper. “And you, too, Harper Smith. Look at y'both, like a pair of ruffians!”

Theo, not half so befuddled by the sudden appearance of his sister, jumped to his feet and pointed down into the dust with a triumphant, “Ha! I won!” The sudden shove of his fingers had left a rather confused frog just past the bit of string they'd laid down at the end of the wood, while Harper's frog tried for freedom over one of the sides.

Harper, hand to his head, hadn't the same strength of will that his friend had and hadn't moved out of the way of the cuff, but had taken it as was proper. He glowered over at Theo and shoved his hand into his pocket to pull out the canker and string.

“Over a what?” the girl yanked it from Harper's hand, “A bit of chestnut, is that it? Theo, if Da happens t'see you, you'll be more'n sore t'night. G'on boys,” she shooed the other two and turned on her unrepentant brother, her hands on her hips and her black hair flying about her shoulders. “You! You'd best be getting yourself into the back. There's wood to chop and if it weren't that the stove were going out and I were to get more, you'd have waited til dark t'restock it. You're lucky it was me that found you in the road.” She glared at her brother who only glared back. When his silent glower grew too much to take, she stamped her small foot in the road.

“Well?” she snapped.

“You've my prize.”

“This? Oh, you! Of course, you'll have your prize won't you! Well, here, take it then!”

Neither of the pair took note of the older man about to come upon them, they were accustomed to knowing everyone and being known by everyone. Hammil's children, it was said, were in need of a mother. It was too late for Dear Bess, she was wild as the wood, but Theo could still be saved if a woman were to but put herself to the task. The girl, they could hope only that she'd settle down once her father married her off. But then, the chances of that happening were more and more rare, despite her pretty looks, as her father needed her for the inn. No, a wife for Hammil and then, make a wife of his daughter, that was the thought on every mind.

The scent of fine Cavendish drifted up from the pipe's bowl in plumes, whisked away be the later afternoon wind as Vaughn strolled down the road. He had been worried the embers might well go out before he arrived at the inn, no easy method at hand for relighting while on the road, but fate had been with him. So with walking sticking one hand and briar in the other, he smiled to himself in contentment. Was there ever so perfect an afternoon? The sky above was a glorious azure, hung with a golden sun but filled with the gentlest of cooling breezes to keep off the late summer heat. Trees were still green and full. Bird song was clear and melodious to the ear while the solitude brought a quiet calm to his soul. Best of all? No wife. For the first time he began to see why tinkers and vagabonds might prefer life upon the road.

"Bah. Damn Londoners. They can keep their 'Season'," he sneered. "This? This is life!"

Rounding the bend in the lane, Vaughn saw a sight that only made him grin wider. Two young men, boys still actually, caught at some mischief along with a third. Their reactions were all too typical of some of the drummer boys and bandsmen he'd known, ashamed for having been caught and stuck in futile anger at the one doing the catching. His brown eyes danced merrily at the sight of boys being chastised by the older girl. No. Not a girl, he realized. That... is a woman! He felt his heart skip a little at the sight of her. Round and full, whereas his wife was slim and flat, and with flushed cheeks and dark eyes. And definitely full of spirit! He had to keep from laughing outright as she forcefully smote the one boy (her brother?) with whatever his 'prize' may have been and then chase the two about the road, striking their heads and scolding them harshly. It was like something right off of the stage! One of those strange, farce things by Moliere that his father had loved. Or-

Of course! Shakespeare! Was she not the very spirit and image of Kate?! The taunts she lashed her brother and the other young man with could well be called shrewish! And, God's Blood, wouldn't Robert love to tame her! He was a full blooded man of his time, a quiet romp with a doxy or willing tavern maid all part of life. There were few men he knew, even those of the cloth, who hadn't either keep a mistress or gone on the razzle now and then. It was so commonplace among the aristocracy and the well to do gentry that morality didn't even enter into it. And so pipe in hand, his tricorn set at a rakish angle upon his head, Robert approached her with the most charming smile as he could summon up. He tugged at the lace upon his wrist to straighten it as he spoke.

"Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear." He doubted she would get the reference, but he found it amusing to quote the play all the same. It was a wonder what she would make of him: overly tall in dark emerald frock and breeches, golden flowered waistcoat, black tricorn and boots. Robert knew he scarcely dressed at the height of fashion, but he was well aware that it was far more flash than the villagers themselves wore. Even if looks did not impress her, the display of modest wealth might. He waved his silver-tipped walking stick towards the inn. "I find this August weather has brought something of thirst to my throat. Is the barman at his taps and might you care to join me?"

The girl turned at the strange voice and her eyes widened in surprise. True, gentlemen enough they had what with the country estates on either side, but rare it was a single one could be found walking in town. It was more the wives and servants one saw.

She had bright blue eyes which, had she been of a more subdued color, might have seemed muted, but as her entire face was framed in raven hair and her cheeks pinked by the winds and youth, they perhaps seemed more alarming then otherwise. Her gaze swept him with a keen and quick thought behind them. He was a dapper fellow, fine looking and clean. The cut of his cloth, above what a servant or footman might wear, it would not have taken the fine walking stick to inform her as to his station. And had Bess been any other girl, she no doubt would have had the correct maidenly flutter. But he was so jaunty and playful and it teased and tempted at her wilder, more fae side. She laughed, covered her mouth and took a step backward with a second laugh.

The laughing was not derisive and her hand left her mouth to settle at the hollow of her throat, fingertips trapped by the swallow's wing of bone. Her small, fine head tilted to the side and her lips curved openly. “It's Bess,” she said. “My name. You said Kate, but it is Bess and what a clever one you are, giving a name to get one.”

After introductions, at least on her side, were completed, she glanced at the inn at whose yard they were just shy and turned back to him with another gay laugh. No doubt he knew her, though she did not know him. And if he did not, then what fun! “It is beautiful out, i'nt it?” she bobbed to him then held out her arm for him. “I've been assured, sir, that th' barman is indeed at his taps and more'n willing he is to give a fine gentleman as y'self a seat by his fire. I will be the one ter person-ally guarantee it.”

As she took his arm, offered or not, she guided him toward the inn and laughed once more, her own world a private joke which he may or may not have been in on. “Have you traveled far, sir?” she asked by way of conversation even as she led him across the yard to the door of the tavern.

"Robert Vaughn, Mistress Bess," he smiled smartly. Her... accommodating nature seemed promising, and should things go the way he sought a room would be a cheap enough expense for a night's pleasure, especially if she brought that same liveliness as she had just demonstrated! She was warm besides him. The way her hip brushed his own as they walked only made him smile all the wider, vivid images of what else she might rub against him flashing though his brain.

"And as for travel?" Chuckling as she took his arm, he could only hope to further impress her. "Why, I've come all the way from the Americas, my dear! There and back again! And eschewing the wondrous entertainments of London, I have come back to my own here." He gestured vaguely back over his shoulder towards the Vaughn estate and its pompously named 'Grenmere Hall.' Leaning his head down close to her ear, and so taking advantage of a closer view of her charms, he whispered confidentially in her ear. "And allow me to say that for all my travels and the sights that my eyes have seen that left me stunned before God's creation, you are the most beautiful of all that I have seen."

Through the door of the inn and he was bellowing in full swaggering confidence, "Hallo the inn! A place by your hearth and good health to you, innkeeper. Two draughts of your best dark stout! And rum! Rum, my good man, rum! I have a great thirst and coin for it." The liquor was more for her than him, to drown any reservations she might have and give her a good warm glow. Oh, those rosy cheeks! He was of no real doubt that she was far from a blushing maid, but the spirits should bring enough of a flush to her face to make her look of it. Boldly he grinned at Bess in anticipation. "And a greater appetite to follow!"

The inn, as he expected, was mostly empty. What few travelers as there might would still be well upon the road, the London Season not quite ended yet. A few more weeks and he knew he would find this place packed elbow to elbow with gentry between and betwixt the city and their country homes, leaving him mourning for his lost serenity. Now, however, he and the lively maid upon his arm had near privacy. Townsfolk would be about their business this late in the afternoon. A few older men, long past the age for chores, gawked at them as they entered, but he paid them no real mind. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled forth a half-crown and tossed it negligently upon the bar. "And should any man here have marched beneath the King's colors, let him drink from my wallet this night!"

The girl was, in the end, still young and having been raised in a village so well accustomed to her strange ways, a goodly bit cozened and her wild innocence guarded. To she, he was silly, with his flair and his obvious flattery, not to mention how easily he was to be made a fool. It could not be said that she did anything out of spite or malice, for she was not the type. Rather, she flitted about like a robin in the brush, brightly lit breast and piping his tune merrily, and if she were to lead a traveler or two astray, then they had best learn to leave the birds to their hedge.

All the same, she likewise enjoyed being looked upon and much like the male robin red-breast, preened under his eye and careless words.

As he settled in to his table, the innkeep gave a nod and swiped his great bar rag over the oaken top. The inn keep was a man built more like a smith than a barman, with sloping shoulders and a heavy brow upon which little hair still grew. He was grizzled, had a chinful of hair to his breast, and a ready smile or thunderous frown as the mood sat him. This new cockleburr with Bess leading him in incited little emotion. The fine cut of his coat and the delight in his heralding call merely instituted the beginning of a season, a time filled with many a man entering by coin flashed and still under the thrill of the hunt, whether it be horse or foot, upon his brow.

She, however, drew out a great scowl and the barman jerked his thick head, his beard jostling against his white placketed shirt front. “G'on, gel. Get to th' cups as I get th' man his rum.” And without a moment's hesitation, she with a bob, let loose Mr. Vaughn's arm and murmured a contrite, “Yes, Da,” as she hurried toward the back rooms where the kitchen and stove awaited.

“One'a th' King's men, are ya?” the bar keep sniffed, ferreting a tankard from some hidden recess and setting it under a tap to pour. “Byron, there, he's back from th'Americas. You'd be too, I don't doubt.” To the side, at a small, low table, a thin man sat with sallow face and one arm about his middle. As Vaughn's attention came on him, he gave a nod, then set the hidden hand onto the table, though it was not truly there to be set anywhere. The arm stopped shy of the wrist and was bound lightly, no doubt to keep the phantom pains from pulling too much. The boy, for despite the look of age and weariness, he couldn't have been more than twenty three, had the look of a farmer, or what may have been a farmer before the battle which had stolen his hand.

“Always a pleasure, ser, ta serve a man of th' King,” the barman gave a grim smile. At the other table, where three older men sat at their cups, there was a watered cheer of “Hear, hear.”

“What is your name, sir? Come on, have a bit of luncheon on us and I'll keep it to yer tab,” he had already disappeared the half-crown from the bar into some unknown pocket or box. Despite Vaughn's offer, the rest at the tavern gave no indication as to asking for a drink from that money, though the barman still pulled two tankards of ale and set both atop the oak.

Bess whisked back in then, with a basket of crusted bread wrapped in a thick towel which she set at the table with a wide, red smile, her eyes dancing. “Ser,” she bobbed to him then went to get his tankards as her father poured the rum.

“Bess,” the innkeep halted her as she'd gathered both in hand, “one of those is to young Hammish, who was a King's man.” And by that, all but she, knew that Vaughn had been found out and none held him wrong for it.

“Yes, Da,” the girl murmured and served Hammish second after she'd given Vaughn his. Her father gave her a meaningful stare when she returned for the rum, for it was obvious she had already chosen to dote on the fine gentleman, doing in three trips what she could have done in one, and giving him a smile each time. At the very least, this time she had the modesty in her blush and she cast her eyes to the side before she made her way to the kitchens once more.

It was not with some small disappointment that Robert watched bess head off out of sight and into the kitchens. He hadn't counted on the innkeeper being her father. It had been too many years since he had been in the countryside, ten at the least, but his first to actually visit the inn. Why bother when his own house was a just a goodly walk up the lane? While the men seemed not to hold his interest in the young woman against him, Robert still wanted to make a good showing of it.

"Robert Vaugh," he graciously answered the barman, "I have but recently returned to Grenmere Hall, it being in my family for several years. I find myself in need of relaxation and rest after my many travels and have decided to restore the manor to its former glory."

He shot a quick eye to Hammish before looking back Bess' father with a genuine smile. He raised his voice just enough to carry across the room to the one handed youth. "In fact, I am still in need of stout young men! The gardens and ground needs much tending, and if not that there is a plenty of labor and coin for those with a willing hand. They'll find me a fair master. I know a soldier's sins, God save me, have committed a few of them myself. Those without much more to lose would do well by me, especially those of strong constitution and brave countenance. The King, long may he reign, might give a man a handful of shillings for those who kiss the book. I would give a good crown to he who swears service to me. So an you know such a willing young man in need of work, send you him to me at my manor, and I'll see to his needs."

The beer was surprisingly good, bitter and dark stout that was far better than the German lagers he'd grown used to back in New York. The rum was... less so. No doubt watered so as to make it last, cut with spring water and bolstered by cider to hide the fact. He didn't hold it against the innkeeper, though. The taxes upon rum were outrageous, and had Robert been in command of a Navy ship instead of horses he would have done well to enter some small smuggling himself. As it was, however, he could scarcely complain as to his lot in life.

As late afternoon settled into early evening and more men entered the bar after their daily duties, it became clear to Vaughn he would not have a chance to get Bess to himself again that day. Her father kept the girl busy, most often at the other side of the room and away from his table. While this did not keep him from giving her amenable glances and smiles, his knees ached to have her upon it. He had to have her. He would have her! It would just be a matter of time and patience, a well planned campaign to mount his attacking guns against her and breech her breastworks! Oh, but for the damnable chaos of the battlefield that threw her father between them! Like any obstacle in war, Robert would find a way either through it or around it.

Clear that his first attempt would be for naught, Robert prepared to leave some four hours after the fact, paying what was owed and bidding the man to keep any change in thanks for such a brew as he'd not had in many a year. Stepping out into the evening air, the stars floating overhead and the moon just beginning its pale rise agains the darkening sky, Robert Vaughn began a thoughtful walk homeward.

Diana Vaughn, Mrs. Robert Vaughn, set the quill to the side of her page, dusted the paper, and let the sand remain for a time as she looked out onto the wild gardens. She was a slight thing, with wrists as frail as a sparrow's. Her long neck and small body were almost too young for her twenty two year old frame. From the day she had married at seventeen, she had grown little if at all in any of her stature, remaining almost childlike in form. Woe to any who let her appearance dictate her inner character however. For little known to any but her closest companions, Diana was a force of nature. It had been only natural for she to become one. Newly married, her Robert had left her to the tender mercies of the social circles. Without him to direct or aid, with little but his name and that only as a weak door stop in that he was in the Americas (none dared to even think that he might not come back, let alone say it aloud), Diana had had to play the part of the waiting wife, the winsome and bonnie girl. Gone were the times when her very look upon this or that person played a position shifting in the great Game that women played within the dances, the card games, the lawn parties. Rather, she found herself, rather without any warning, off the table. She was Robert's and where was he? Why, he was gone and left her nothing but a quiet, delicate memory of mornings at his side and carriage rides about the park.

For a short time, Diana had sat in her parlor and waited on a card, on a visitor. Her melancholy at having lost her husband to his journeys might have inhibited her very happiness had she not had a very good friend in Miss Fannie Bolton, a pastor's daughter and Diana's age. Fannie, it could be said, was a creature of unfathomable good nature and much advice, most importantly advice to Diana that not only did melancholy make one tiresome, but it also made one pale and wan. What man would with to return to a wife who had spent all of his time away, seated in the window, watching for his return?

“For,” Fannie laughed gaily, “this isn't some romance of long lost captain's ship, my dearest. You walk no rooftop and you'll not be seen to waste away with grief. Come with me and we'll go to The Midville-Price's house this very night. I have heard tell that the Austrian will be there!”

Diana would, in years to come, be hard pressed to recall the name of this newest enticement, the Austrian, who brought out his horses and who spoke with a perfect tongue, almost without any hint of accent. It wasn't the intrigue which made her get out of her chair and go to make merry with her dearest Fannie, but the realization that she was, strangely, very much alone and must make her own way or fade to obscurity. To Fannie and to her lady's maid alone she told her thoughts. To the world, she showed but a girl who would make the best of her fates.

And so, with gentleness, with laughter, with a quick wit and sure, but genteel manner, the girl made herself into a woman any man would be proud to return to. She made acquaintance with those higher than she, kept secrets for some and offered secrets for others, and fast made her way into what she felt was an arena of the social circles few her birth could be expected to go. Her nimble mind often caught her a ledge upon which she would swing, only to climb higher until it was not so much her husband's return which she clambered for but the trials themselves. Her independence was not so much a hindrance as it was an opened cage door and she a bird newly tried to its wings.

So it was, that five years passed and when the note came to warn her of her husband's return, Mrs. Robert Vaughn was not so content with the idea as she might have been four years prior. He, she assured herself, would want to go about business with his older friends and she, relegated to being his wife once more, must do the same.

But the changes! Oh the changes were horrifying. For unlike she, he muttered and paced about, ran to this or that errand to acquire his pay, a task which she could, to some extent, understand. It was, no doubt, of a very frustrating nature to deal with accounts. She had done well enough when he was gone, but she knew the initial shock and how strange it had been, how difficult. No doubt, he would need only to square his accounts with all and then she might receive him once more as her husband. Granted, she would have to direct him toward this or that party to secure their interests with those connections she had claimed while he was away and her mind had already bent toward the task rather handily.

She steered him toward a supper and then a concert and in the venues, she introduced him around, made light of his boorish comments, and attempted to give him subtle guidance as befits a wife, so that he might re-enter the world he had left. It was to be understood that he often talked of his experiences and that held some interest for a week or two, but he so often turned toward how he felt he was being treated upon his return, his frustrations at the lack of recognition, that after a few more gatherings, she found that her space had begun to clear. The work of years and his petulance and single-mindedness were blowing it apart as a stiff wind does a house of cards.

So it was, that she began to work quietly in the background. A word thus and a whisper here, until Lady Dartland suggested Lady Rumsford and together, the women had given their careful agreements. There was little telling the men what it was they were to do, of course, but the best of them knew she was a director of a great play and with a call here or a nod there, she might get the actors to all take their places and thus, keep the story on the stage.

So it was, that Lord Rumsford and her husband came to their accord. With a sigh of relief, Diana made her plans once more and waited for the warmth to come out of the chilly company of her husband. Yet to her horror, it was not to be. No sooner were funds exchanged and actions completed, then Robert announced his intention to leave behind town and go to the country. Diana could stay, he insisted, as he had little to offer her in the countryside.

No – she would not have it. If he were to the country, so would she. Even with her card house rained about her, Diana continued to look at opportunity. If he had done such a disservice to her during this season, she could utilize the countryside for parties outside of the season and, allowing her husband time to rest up from his travels, he would be more amenable to attempting a re-entry into the tonne after. And so she had gone with him. Kissing her Fannie and leaving behind her lady's maid to pack up her things, Diana had left her machinations and her free flights and had instead, bound herself to the earth and her husband.

The earth, she thought as she looked out into that decrepit garden, was not so bright a thing as she had remembered. She had spent some time in the countryside as a child, but there was little sign of color in the brown and green spray of disorder outside her window.

“Higgins,” she called and the older man bowed as he came forward. “My husband has seen fit to not return for supper. I shall eat in the parlor. Oh, and Higgins?” she folded her paper and then quickly addressed it before standing and holding out the envelope to him, “the mail. Thank you.”

The woman watched her husband's valet leave her to the quiet and then she sighed. She would go into town herself the next day. She needed to acquire a maid as well as to look into the gardens. If the letter did as she hoped, the quiet of the building would not be alone nor so quiet much longer. Fannie would be glad of the chance to come and visit.

He wanted to be in a foul mood. His venture to amorously sally forth so that he might attain the beautiful Bess had been thwarted, yet he could find no fault nor grudge with her father for putting a halt on any potential mischief. The image of her was burned into his brain. Since leaving the Americas, the innkeepers daughter was the most vivacious, spirited, ALIVE person he had encountered; the swells and curves of her body and the rosiness of her cheeks were enticing physical extensions of her nature and had captured his attentions. Wandering back towards his hall, he turned his mind from what he had not attained and to how to attain it. Plans began to form in his mind as he ambled along the lane. An officer for most of his adult life, Robert envisioned it as a military campaign, weighing his resources out and judging the strategies most likely to succeed in bringing him closer to his goal. No one simple thrust was going to work, that was for sure. Certainly not with the bulk of her father defending her encampment. If young Hammish came into his service and proved a loyal man, that would be an ally he might readily call upon! Higgins, of course, was his man. The old sergeant was trustworthy in being untrustworthy, knowing well when to bring either quality to bear so as to best benefit himself. This worked well as their interests tended to coincide. After all, hadn't Robert spoken up on Higgins' behalf some handful of times when an irate camp follower or angry tavern wench stormed the fortifications looking for the father of their bastards? Officers and their sergeants could never be friends, of course. That would be as absurd as a gentleman and his butler becoming stout comrades! But there was a loyalty built of shared experiences and mutual respect that served in friendship's stead. Higgins could help him find a way to win his way into Bess's bedchamber, he was positive.

So lost was the Captain in his considerations that he nearly missed the sound of hooves beating their way along the road towards him. Nearly. The jingle of harnesses and pacing of the mounts brought back recent memories of service, for only men trained to ride and fight together upon horseback might ride in such a way. There followed a trooping march of boots. He nearly grinned as he spied red coated militia men approach towards him, their officers' faces high and proud. The British militia was often regarded as something of a joke compared to the regular army, their men rarely seeing combat if at all, as their primary goal was to simply look good with spit and polish and drill. Robert had a slightly different opinion, having commanded a militia unit in the Americas. He knew that any man could be proven or broken upon the field. All that was needed was the chance. And there was something different about this troop. The men seemed harder, their officers exuding the quiet confidence of experience instead of the bravo and swagger of gentlemen playing at soldier. His smile was quite genuine as the major at the head of the column slowed to greet him. With color flying, the regiment marched on past.

"Good day to you, sir!" The commanding officer was an older man, well into his fifties with greying mutton chops and balding head. "Strange to see a gentleman walking unattended this time of evening. Where might you be headed?"

"Home, Major!" Robert warmed to the Major instantly. "I am Robert Vaughn, late a captain of His Majesty's army. American Dragoons. I was just out for a stroll."

"Major Christian Makepeace of the Hillshire First of Foot. Funny name for a soldier, I know." The major held out his hand down towards Robert, who grasped it firmly in friendship. "A cashiered colonial, eh? Gave a thought to it myself a few years ago. Decided I couldn't stand the civilian life."

Nodding ruefully, Robert agreed. "I am starting to think better of my choice, sir. Although I find the country air far preferable! If nothing else, because it is not the city!"

"You are a droll wit, Mister Vaughn. A droll wit indeed." He gestured towards his soldiers. "As the Seasons ends, we've prevailed upon the Resident Magistrate to let us train and camp here for a few months. Most of my lads are ex-army already, looking for easy service. Ha! They learned well enough that the home guard are not as soft as they thought! In turn we are to see to the security and safety of travelers upon the road. Highwaymen and the bandits are rare here, of course, but we mean to keep them rare still!"

Robert nodded towards the columns as they passed. "Your men looked well turned out, major! Well drilled and far more orderly than Horse Guard ever gives us credit for." He gestured in the direction of his home. "The hour is late, and I must be home before nightfall. But I pray you, Major! Tell me you will come to call on me Sunday next as my guest for dinner at Grenmere Hall. You and your officers." He opened his arms wide on welcome. "Those who serve the King in arms are sure to find a place at my table. Come, your word, sir! I'll not be denied!"

Major Makepeace laughter heartily. "Dinner is it? We'll be obliged to you! Training out here has left some of my staff in bad temper, and a night of camaraderie would be most welcome. Sunday next it is, sir!"

The encounter left Robert feeling rather buoyed. He found himself half skipping on the way home, light of heart and full of fancies. A new acquaintance made, a lover to bed, far from the hissing of the city geese that gabbed and preened... Robert sometimes did regret his resignation from service, true, only how could he have asked for a better day? There was a dinner to arrange! And, more importunity, there was a woman to be bedded and the chase would make it all the more delightful. His joyous temperament lasted as long as it took to enter the house and find Higgins waiting for him. The look upon the old non-com's face said it all. It made the glad air in Robert's head become a stagnant murk.

"My wife?" he grumbled.

Higgins nodded, handing him a letter. "You wife, sir." The letter told Robert all he needed to know, which was far more of an education than he cared to learn. With firm chin and clenched jaw, he handed the missive back to Higgins. "Go ahead and mail the damnable thing, then. Maybe it will keep her out of my hair for more than a day! I'll... go to her now, I guess."

Saying nothing, Higgins gestured in the direction of the parlor.

He steeled himself, squaring his shoulders and settling his visage, before he calmly entered. "Wife? We are to have dinner guests this Sunday next. A Major Makepeace and his senior officers. I know as you like to entertain, so endeavored to have them visit with us during their extended time here in the vicinity."

Diana looked up as the man, her husband, entered the room. Outside, it had gone dark and for a moment, she thought she could detect something fae and unnatural about him. For that time, he was touched as if by a wild spirit, and despite his being well turned out, a common enough look, her imagination was touched by the gloaming outside her garden window and perhaps the five years had not gone unnoticed by him after all. He had been at war, had he not? He had had to perform atrocities against his fellows, had thrust young men into battle. Not to mention the savages there! The wild tempests during the journey, the creatures she'd only seen plates of. The Americas were a wild adventure she could not fully comprehend and he had been there, then returned to her changed.

But no, as he moved into the room and further into the light, he was merely her husband; brisk, untouched by even her presence, and angered at the lack of care by those who should have cared deepest. Robert hadn't any difference about him but for his disregard of her and her needs. But then, he was a man. What else was there?

She rose. “Dinner guests, this Sunday next?” she parroted. Would that Fannie were there by then! She'd endeavor to press he friend into coming earlier. It would do them well to have more at the table if there were to be soldiers there. “Of course,” she smiled at him. “I shall make inquiries as to the exact number and have the work done. If you could have someone come and clear the garden before then. They look a fright. I'd meant to go into the village and acquire a gardener, but perhaps you can find one.”

She watched him, her dark eyes gauging him. She had seen a man or three coming back from the Americas. They were not all that changed, but for her husband. Then, she had heard tell that those most changed had not returned to society at all. But that would not do! He had all opportunity carefully tended as she had in his absence. Perhaps with some friendly conversation, with some others who were of high enough estate and courtly manner as this Major would no doubt be, her husband would return to his former nature and thus, return to her fold.

“I had meant to ask this a.m.,” she tilted her head in a comely manner, fingers curling about one another before her trim waist, “if you had thought to open our doors for the coming months. We are near enough to the Willoughbys and the Duchess is said to come to her estate which is not far either. It would do us well to consider it.”

Robert moved to stand before the parlor windows, hands behind his back as he gazed out through the panes to the darkening countryside and the stars that were starting to twinkle overhead in the indigo of evening. 'Open our doors,' she had said. Unthinkingly his mind translated the words into 'letting the enemy into our camp.' He could not stand the Duchess in the least. A pushy woman who lorded her title over anyone and everyone, a woman worse than any of the armchair generals safe in their gentlemen's clubs and coffee shops who had the audacity to claim they knew what the army should and should not do. The few times he had met her in the past, Robert managed to remain pleasant and smiling only by secretly imagining his fingers around her fat throat, squeezing. The Willoughbys, at least, were harmless ineffectuals. Bland little people who did bland little things; Robert recalled that the husband had something to do with manufacturing or some such.

Instead of answering her subtle plea to have the very civilization he sought to escape now come to them, Robert focused on her first comment. "I may have found you a gardner, actually. A young man in the village. Former soldier who lost his hand. Seems like a stout fellow. I left word for him to come and see me should he want gainful employment." Shaking his head in disgust, he continued in a soft murmur. "I pray he calls upon me. It is an evil thing for a man to waste away in idleness because no one sees his value."

The thought of it soured his mood further. Was he any better than poor young Hammish? It was doubtful the boy had willfully surrendered his missing hand, and Robert knew enough of the land that he was just as certain the farmers here about would have little use for a maimed laborer. Just so, Robert had not willfully surrounded his former life and the love he once had for Diane. It had been torn from him slowly by the war just as the surgeon's saw had severed Hammish's hand. In London, Robert would have wasted away in idleness. The gentility and nobles had no use for a soldier who may have served faithfully but still returned as part of the losing side of an unpopular war. Here in the countryside at least...

All the same, there were oaths he had sworn to his wife. He afforded her some pity, bound together in ties that neither of them relished anymore but that she was determined to honor. No, he did not love Diane anymore, as much as he wished he still could. Nor could he let her loyalty to him and their marriage go unrecognized. Finally, he reluctantly agreed. "If it would... please you. Then, yes. Invite who you will, my dear. And should you have those still among your acquaintances who may not shy away from men of caliber who serve the King, invite them to Sunday's dinner as well. The major and his men no doubt appreciate dining with those who still see a soldier's worth. Especially if the seeing is done from a pretty face." He turned about slowly and stiffly, but managed to summon up a small smile of resignation. "I... have no desire to see you stifled and stilled from your friends and amusements, and there are days I fear you might wilt from following me into my seclusion. I still maintain you would have been happier finishing out The Season in London. But small gatherings only, if you would? For the sake of my nerves?"

Robert left several things unmentioned in his agreement. Small gatherings would allow him the luxury of escaping if he felt the need without having to make too many apologies. It would also give him more room to continue to ponder the problem of Bess. Or rather, the problem of Bess's father.

"I think I shall have a drop of brandy," he declared as he faced the windows again, "and then to retire. The walk in the country air was refreshing but taxing."

“You have already had dinner?” Mrs. Vaughn lifted a brow at him. They had not been to the house for long enough for him to engage in bad manners. At his casual look, she sighed and gave a nod.

“Very well, Robert. I have sent for Fannie, whom I am sure you know, and I will send word and ask her to invite her sister, who is married but who must no doubt need time in the country. Last I saw of her, she was newly married, her husband in the clergy. One cannot go wrong in giving the girl an opportunity to air her dresses. Her husband will be too busy, but we must balance the table somewhat. The small numbers will keep it quiet for you, but Robert...”

She settled upon her chair once more and watched him as he found the decanter and the dark brandy was poured into one of the snifters which they had equipped for their country home – oh how she missed the lights and liveliness of the city already, he was correct in saying she would be stifled with the drudgery.

“Robert,” she waited until he had poured his drink and turned once more to her. “I do realize of course that you do not wish to upset your nerves overly much. It has been a long time for you and God knows that it has been a long while for me as well. They were unkind to you, all of them, and yet you run, Robert! You run from all they say to you, about you, and in running, you only further the rumors of our living in this shadow of your time overseas. Why, my dear, do you not realize that the adventures you have had, I know they are seen poorly in the salons, but it is merely in the telling of it. Should you choose, you were always so brilliant at the turning of a tale. It is primarily the reason you captured my heart, husband. I saw how often you were looked to, the rapture on the faces of your listeners. You are aware of audience and you exert your presence in a way that we must not throw away. Your tales, they are splendid ones if you set them that way.”

She had gone pink with her hope as she spoke her desires to him. For a moment, young again, she wrung her hands together. “So if you must, I shall keep all gatherings small, dearest. But I beg of you to look outward, lest we be captured by your need to lick your wounds. You could harm our prospects, make lasting damage in less than a full season, if you continue to eschew company.”

Touching her cheek, she looked away from him and gave a small sigh and went still. “I just hope for you, Robert. It is my every prayer that you find a tale to tell that brings you back to the world you left.”

Robert bowed his head to stare mournfully into the dark amber within the tumbler. Her words wounded him all the more for even though he no longer loved her, Diana's words fair broke his heart to where he wished he still did. "I had been quite the storyteller, hadn't I?" he mumbled quietly. And he had been, once. There were times when he was the life of the party, regaling friends and guests with daring tales of adventure during his Grand Tour! The fights upon French docks, attempting to scale Notre Dame, running from the gendarmes, meeting with famed composers in Vienna, duels with upstart nobles in Saxony, dancing with gypsies in Spain and drinking with pirates in Portugal... It was all true, every word of it. Only Robert had spun it such that it seemed to conjure the images of his past before his audience, enthralling him as though they were there themselves. It was at a such a party, he recalled, where Diana had first caught his eye and he her ear. The memory was bittersweet now, as were all of them.

"Would you like to hear a story, my dear?" he asked softly with no trace of mockery. "I do have new ones, you know, ones from the colonies that I haven't told anyone yet. Only they aren't like my old stories. I do not think they would make anyone laugh, and if they did I should question that person's sanity." Robert took a careful sip to wet his lips before continuing. "There's a rather 'amusing' little anecdote about how we had three water boys in our unit, all named Jack, if you would credit it. A... livelier bunch of lads I've never met, not a one of them over fourteen and the best of friends. I'd always thought if we were to have a son..." Robert let that thought peter out and die where it was, a road he was not willing to travel this night. "They were the very epitome of mischief. Harmless pranks, japes minor enough to never offend or inconvenience but crafted well enough to bring a laugh. I shan't... I shan't forget the look on the Sergeant Major's face when he realized his mustache wax had been exchanged for beef tallow. The sad part was that it actually smelled better than his usual pomade. The three of them had this intense rivalry with the drummer boys of one of the other regiments, finding no end to the delight of sneaking to their camp in the middle of the night and filling their drums with water. Each of them adored us. They were our mascots, our good luck charms! And their prayers each night were always the same: Let us be dragoons!"

Robert faltered suddenly. A tear started to well in the corner of his one eye. "They... all died on the same day. Stray round from the enemy's cannon sailed past the lines and into the baggage train." A heavy silence filled the air, the war suddenly brought into the cozy parlor far from the Americas. When Robert was able to continue, his voice was hoarse and strained. "They had been playing at cards. Funnily enough... each of them had a jack in his hand."

Setting the tumbler down, he coughed and composed himself before his wife. The glass was still half full. Robert's face was sincere and honest, and the shining tears that refused to fall conveyed that whatever despair he may have felt when it came to dealing with his wife was no cause of hers, but rather a self recrimination that he was nothing as he should be to her. Robert knew that the core of his resistance to his wife's advances stemmed not truly from dislike; it was born of the knowledge that he did not deserve her. "The more I've seen of this world, Diana... the harder it becomes to find my way back to the old one. I can find nothing... splendid... in any of my stories now... The old ones seem such a lie compared to the new ones, and those are a heavier burden than I wish to carry. As things are now, a retreat is better, even if I must 'lick my wounds' as you say. However else shall I deal with mob? Strut about as though nothing has happened and endure their scorn? Unburden my mind to them in the hopes they might understand? There lie my choices, mockery or pity, and I... I can not say which of them is the worse to endure."

"Best to bed now, I think," he concluded in hushed tones. Robert had revealed more to Diana this night than he had any other since he had returned, fearing and hoping at once how she might react to the realization of just how altered to his nature he had become. "Tomorrow I will get you your gardener, Diana. Invite who you will."

When her husband had gone to bed, Diana sat quietly and looked out onto the garden beyond. It was quiet, peaceful, in her small world. Oh, how wrong had she been! To have children pass in such a way, to lose as he had – he was not made for such losses, her bright lit husband.

Yes, she had heard stories prior to his, where the sad stories made the ladies weep and she too had felt the pain those soldiers could give in their quiet, honorable manners. She had felt the distant awe of a task far more difficult than her own sensibilities might have managed. The woman's heart, while buried under the machinations of society, still felt the pain which had made her tender as a girl. Yet, every time those tales were told to the crowd, the pain was lifted, changed. This was a world far away from her own, kept to a safe distance from herself by the lights and the songs given right after. True, gentlemen touched a finger to the eye and the younger girls would lean on their great shoulders and have to catch their breath. Yet the story, embellished no doubt for such an effect, had been one more diversion and the tears, female and male, always were done up to a purpose which often was met before the evening was over.

Here, in her own home, without the lights, with no violin or pianoforte to distract, Diana was forced to accept the world into which her husband had been thrust. Was it that this world he had traveled to was so different from the others, or had she fallen for the glitter and missed, as a younger woman, the truth buried below the artifice? She assumed the latter. And yet, something this tour of duty, had broken the ability in her husband to play pretense. No longer was he strong against memory, protecting she and his listeners from the horrors which he had been subjected.

She did not cry. No – to cry over him would have been pity when a strength she had never noted prior was finally given to her in the fullness of its gift. Had she been offered such a thing prior, she might have laughed it away. She had been but a silly chit of a thing, hadn't she? She and her dances and her social rankings.

Before, yes. She'd have wept like a babe over his story. Now, she too had been in her own manner of battlefield and while her heart was no less tender, it was far more understanding. She had been a fool twice over, however, and she recognized that in the lamplight which cast a rosy glow over the quiet sitting room. This time, she had thought herself to be the only one. She had failed to see his adventures as the trials which they'd proven themselves to be. But that would be true no longer. Her eyes were open! And her stalwart nature was stronger than his. Oh, but it would be. She was the woman, was she not? Were women not greater in nature in so many ways, built by God to bolster the man whom she had tied herself to? The man would do as he wished, but she – she would guide him now as she had not before.

Firstly, she clenched her hands together, her fingers trembling as she did so, she had to set herself to the task of building her husband into a return to his strength. The trials he had undergone had done so little for his spirit and she, it was her duty to protect him and so she would.

Resolute, she kept to her chaise and when the maid came to put out the lights, Diana begged but the girl's taper and had her go to rest. Diana, however, remained long after when the taper was burned low. Like a sentry, she watched the moon pass and the sun bring a bruised light to the sky. The first birds burst into song as below in the belly of the house the kitchenmaid hauled wood and began the fire for the cook who would waken soon. Diana, pale from her day of enforced watch, stood and went to prepare for her day. Early, yes, but she had a night's worth of vigil to consider.

Across the town, as the first birds broke the night's silence, a girl with dark hair and bright daylight eyes leapt from bed, fully clothed. She bit her lower lip in delight. Before her stretched a day of usual toil, but before that – a witching hour where the fae, the magic of the world was at her fingertips. She slipped from her home, her hair still mussed about her neck and her skin still tangled in sleep. Yet beyond the last line of stone fence, the woods called.

She had been warned many a time against the dangers of being within the trees. Still, she'd argued, if she chose the right hour, when those who would harm her were either to bed or still waking, then there was little concern to have. With a song, piping high and clear, she skipped along a deer trail to her place, a bower of mosses and thick ivy, heavy trees surrounding the small stream. Here, the birds still kept time with her and the quiet of the late morning had not yet settled. Instead, it was aflame with lift overhead even as the sun had not yet risen.

By morning, true morning, the tavern keep's daughter would have returned to her tasks, her life of buckets, washing, cooking, waiting, watching boys. But during that small hour as the world hovered between one world and the next, she was free to dance free and wild. Spinning about the water, she fell to the mosses and took a deep breath of laughter which burbled much like the streams. She was content within herself, no need of a companion, for the ways of the winds soughing in trees and the birds and the stars still winking out, she had companion enough in the hidden hour.

"Damn, damn, DAMN!" It was a blasphemous mantra, uttered again and again under muttered breath as he wound his way between the trees and carefully avoided crashing through the underbrush. Pursuit could not be far behind, he knew. He had botched the job to a degree he could not have imagined, and now flight was his only choice. When word of the opportunity had reached his ears, he had quietly smiled to himself: a coach, traveling through the night and it belonging to a wealthy patron of the arts? How could he resist such a temptation? Then again, how could he have known that the coach had an escort that had fallen behind?! What sort of guards trailed at a distance?! The conveyance halted, coachman and passengers surrendering with bitter grumbles and recriminations, jewelry and coin jingling in the black velvet bag... and then there came two riders up and over the hill behind them, each at full charge! And there he was, on foot, with his own mount secured deep within the wood. The horse was still fairly young and untrained, and he had feared its nervousness would have given him away too early. The two bodyguards would have easily skewered him where he stood, but never fear! He raised his one flintlock to shoot down the first of them... only to have the bloody thing misfire! The odds were suddenly not in his favor as he saw the glint of setting moonlight upon their upraised sabers, the cavalrymen quickly closing the gap when, of all the be damnable things, the coachman pulls forth a blunderbuss pistol, a dragon, and brings it to bear! The highwayman had little choice but to draw the second of his two pistols and shoot the fellow directly. The body crumpling from the driver's seat, he then turned to flee. If he hadn't had to waste his second shot, he might still have taken out one of the escort and had a chance. Too much had gone wrong too quickly, and flight was the optimal option.

So it was into the gloom of the false dawn he ran, cloak snapping behind him as he dove into the hedge brush and through the forest... to then realize that his bag of plunder was still in the hands of the last victim! All of that work, all of that planning! And what had he to show for it? Almost nothing. It hadn't been a total loss, granted, the simple gold ring he had personally snatched off the hand of one of the men rested snuggly in his vest pocket; a plain band of yellow with no distinct markings? Difficult to identify and easy to pawn. Still... it had hardly been the heist envisioned over his ale cup.

He pulled the velvet cloak of claret closer around himself as he made his way, cocked hat pulled low over his head and head bent to help hide the lace at his throat. He must to horse before the sun rose! For as dramatic and fine as his coat and deerskin breeches may have been, accented by the intricate guard of his rapier, they were not the best attire in which to hide in the green wood. The highwayman could only hope his lithe figure, slender if strong, would make it easier to hide within the darkness thickened by trees.

It was then he heard the singing, the splashing, the high and light laughter of a young woman. Beneath the eye mask of black leather, his lips twitched into a frown as he softly drew closer. The shadows of the great trees hid him well as he crept further and further closer until he might hear the trickle of the stream as well, and then to espy the woman, the sight of whom brought him up short in astonishment. What was this?? Alone, she lay and roll in the moss giggling and laughing. Was she a mad woman? What strange leisure was this? Had she not been so beautiful, the faint dawn illuminating her shape and nature, the scene may not have come across as so surreal to him. [i]She is beautiful, isn't she?[/] he distantly thought, and the sight of her distracted his mind from thoughts of pursuit. He found a fae attraction in simply watching her at her play, admiring not only her physical charms but the very lightness of spirit that exuded from the dark haired lass. It was a demonstration that was both wonderfully innocent and wickedly decadent at the same time...

A branch distantly snapping behind him broke his reverie, causing him to glance over his shoulder. Had he heard voices? Were they so bold as to chase this long after him into the darkness? If they had heard the girl's merriment and were following the sound of it as well...

It happened without planning or forethought. Panic, cold cunning, desire to remain at large combined with fascination spurred him onward. His mask he tucked deeply into his waistcoats, his tri-corn pulled further down over his eyes to help hide his youthful face. And then he was at the steam's bank, falling next to her and wrapping a kid-gloved hand about her mouth and another about her waist from behind. The startled movement of her rump against him as he pulled her close was pleasantly distracting, only he had no time for such distractions at the moment. He hissed into her little ear. "Forgive the boldness, fair one," he jibed in a pleasant tenor, "but seeing as how you have drawn my hunters close to me, I think it only fair that you help me put them off my scent! I'll not harm you or take unfair advantage, so long as you play your part in this. Those who hound me will not think to look for me in the arms of a lover. Help me to fool them, and I shall vouchsafe your maidenhead and reward you greatly as well." Then, in far more sincere tones he added, "I will treat you fairly, maiden."

The snapping of branches was closer now...

She would have fought, but for the magic of the moment stealing away her ability to self-protect. Here was a spot where none could harm her and therefore a man come to her so quickly, knees in the moss beside the small stream must be no mere mortal but a prince, a fae lord, a forgotten viscount far from his lands. She held herself still, his hand upon her mouth, the palm of which was soft and smooth leather gloving well used and cared for. A smell of forest came with him and underlying it, something more clean than the drunken farmers and less heavy than that of the captain whose arm she had taken but one day before. Around her waist, his arm was like iron and he held her firmly enough to make any struggle, had she wished to, improbable. Not impossible,mind, for Bess had a way with rope, with boys' arms, and grasping fingers of those men well into their cups. One simple arm would not have held her overly long.

His warmth spread across the chill of morning on her back and she took in a short breath which she held as he spoke. Hunters? Was he hart to some Wild Hunt?

Her body tense at his speaking so openly of the safety of her maidenhead, let alone daring to pretense that she might be a lover even to one as he, she forced her head slightly to the side and twisted as she attempted to look at him, to see his eyes. He was in shadow, under the wood overhead and the waking sky as well as the wide brimmed hat. He could be troll or ogre, something even worse, perhaps! She felt a thrill stir through her at the thought of her moment broken by some man of another surreal land who promised a hunt and adventure.

Even as her mind raced, she could hear his hunters closing in and taken by the romantic promise of more to her life than drudgery and wash pails, she gave a short nod. Still, she supposed, she could scream if he looked like he might devour her, or if his hunters seemed reasonable. With a gasp, she pulled a scant inch from him and stared up at the darkness which was his face. Another nod as she assured him she would comply. He had not threatened her with violence – instead, he'd merely made promise of her safety. She only had to concern herself with her reputation then.

He gave her a smile which was bright with relief despite the gloom of the early morning. Pulling his hand from her mouth slowly, ready to place it again upon her lips should she take so much a a sharp breath, he reached for the hem of his cloak. With a flick of his wrist, the voluminous fabric fell across them both, highwayman and maid, to mask them from the weak rays of sunlight that threatened to pierce the forest’s shadows. They were cocooned close together in that thin privacy, his tri-corn knocked aside but face still hidden beneath the thick material. Boldly, he grabbed her hip and rolled her to his side so they might lay face to face with one another upon their bed of moss. The highwayman’s breath smelled of peppercorn, faint traces of some citrine cologne clinging to his skin.

Another snap of twigs upon the forest floor, and he knew how close his pursuers might be. Their voices were clearer now, more distinct. Two men, he decided, the same two that had run him off so rudely from his prize, and his guess was confirmed by their low voices as they spoke to one another.

“ ‘ere. You sure ‘e went this way?”

“No other way he could have gone,” a slightly more educated voice replied. “The gully that way is nearly impassible even in the day time, and the other way leads back to the road and the village. He’s a rather noticeable character. I doubt he would be stupid enough to go that way. So our bandit must have made a straight course this way.” There was a pause. “What’s that there, down by the stream.”

The Highwayman wanted to swear vociferously. The possibility of capture was far too near for his liking, and it was only by skill and guile that he could ensure his escape. Skill and guile… and a pretty face.

“Giggle, lass,” he hissed anxiously, “Giggle as though you are with a lover who is amusing you! Else the next lass to embrace me will be the rope maker’s daughter!” Impatience and fear emboldened him. “Here, like this then!” Kid gloved fingers found her ribs and danced lightly along to tickle her. He reflected that this was actually pleasant, or at least would be were not two armed men seeking his head for a bounty. It would be an easy thing to let his hands wander roguishly over her, to take what pleasure he might in the situation. Only while a thief and a bandit, the Highwayman was no cad or ruffian.

Bess went red at the demand to titter. Here was an adventure and she without the strength to fall into it so wantonly. It was one thing, yes – horrific in its own right, to lay beside a man, unknown and on his word only that she'd remain untouched, but quite another to act vapid and -

Oh! Fingers dug into her ribs, merciless and presumptuous. Her initial squeal was one of dismay and alarm. Despite the hushed tones of men nearby, Bess was not about to allow the man such permissions upon her person. She was, despite being little more than a drudge on a good day, a very good girl and she – she!

The laughter immediately following, she squirmed away from him, or rather she tried to. He had had sisters, no doubt, or was a bully of some boy's school, because her laugh burst from her even as she tried to stifle it. It was far from a giggle, but was a full sound, a young girl caught by surprise and without the fan nor the social graces that came with to know how to simper and make that high, feminine sound.

Instead, Bess fought him as best she could. He was forced to hold her down and she, red cheeked and desperate, beat on his shoulder with a weakened fist as he took advantage. Her reaction was less against the being so near and a great deal more the attempt to escape the barrage.

What the pursuers thought wasn't easily heard over the peals of laughter, no doubt it was obvious to all that someone thought herself alone with her lover. The laughter covered after the first few bursts, Bess slapping a hand over her mouth and trying to quiet herself which in turn gave the clandestine giggles he'd asked for – though she'd failed miserably to begin with. But by then, the men had either crept close enough to spy, or were gone another direction.

“You... “ she gasped aloud as she squirmed under him and hit him once more, the tickling having torn any force from her, so that the blow was ineffectual, lost to the gasps and the swallowed laughter. He was far too adept and she, long from having played with father or mother, had not been subjected to such treatment in years and therefore, was left weak from it.

Gone was the worry of being at the mercy of the man. Instead, she was overcome with the desire to be free of those fingers. They played against her ribs and she could not escape them. Breathless, she would have protested, without care of who was listening, but the very act kept her helpless against him as she tried to find his hands and stop them, the soft laughter bursting from behind a bit lip.

He listened, ears sharp and senses keen even as he mischievously tormented his appointed savior. Please, accept the obvious! he silently pleaded to his pursuers in desperation. The Highwayman had never come so close to being caught before and dreaded the eventual fate should he be clasped in irons: a last dance with the rope maker's daughter, the hempen jig. He had seen a fair share of hangings in his time. There was no desire to be the center of attention at such an event, and he could only pray that improvised escape foiled the hounds upon his tail. His fear was enough that he did not even have room to enjoy the sensation of his hands wandering across her waist, her ribs her-

Hands immediately jerked downwards back towards her waist and hips, an exasperated blush reaching his cheeks unseen. While his new playmate was certainly of a pleasing form and hearty build (and he had most definitely taken advantage of the situation to the benefit of his continued life) he had no intention of taking advantage of her! Well... unless of course she seemed willing. Later, though. Later.

At last his questing ears heard what he was listening and hoping for: a snicker. It was difficult to hear what was being said from some distance away with the cloak muffling any sound and the maiden's gasps and giggles obscuring much of it. Still, he was able to make out bits and pieces.

The coarser man was guffawing. "... a straight course this way you said..."

The other man spoke in the distinct tones of one who is rather miffed. "...doubled back on us... I doubt... trod right upon them..."

"Don't you... to watch?"

The retort was unclear but definitely scathing. It was followed by another leering chuckle and the sounds of the two men fading back into the trees. The Highwayman held his breath for several moments even as he struggled with the girl beneath the cloak. The air was getting hot and warm beneath the heavy material, creating a strange intimacy between them even as he continued to tickle her. Finally, he relented when he felt it to be safe.

As suddenly as his fingers had found her sides, they were removed to toss back the cloak and expose the pair to the cool morning air of the woodlands. The sun was just beginning to rise, the faintest flickers of light and stretched shadows dappling the mossy bank where they rolled. Pushing himself onto his back, he began to chuckle. The sense of relief flooding his mind was profound, the adrenaline surge now leading to a grand euphoria as the ultimate goal was achieved: freedom! There were days when he surmised that his true interest in all of the banditry and playing the road agent had nothing to do with wealth and riches. No, the thrill of it! The adventure! The excitement of having gotten away from a near brush with death, the joys of evading capture! Did the fox feel like this after having tricked the dogs, or the hare after outrunning the hounds? The dogs might well enjoy the chase enough, but it was the evasion and firm knowledge of tenuous freedom that made the hunt what it was!

The chuckle died off as he lolled his head to one side to look at her, his face still mostly obscured in shadows. She might see he was a younger man of fair complexion, a tad unshaved perhaps. There was no hiding his eyes, however dark the forest might still be. Bright, healthy green stared back at her from that obscured face, an inner light of intelligent humor and not some little mischief dancing in their depths. The Highwayman gave a happy little sigh as he looked back at her.

"My apologies for taking such liberties, lovely maiden," he breathed kindly if humorously, "but you have my thanks and my silence on the matter. Had the hunters found their prey, my life would have found its end." Another chuckle of laughter. "And my death? What a scandal it would have caused!"

The laughter stilled then, his tone becoming even more kindly and honest. He rolled to his side and propped his head up on one hand, elbow deep in the moss as he regarded her. "But surely you deserve a reward for saving a man's life? Something more than apologies and carte blanche for a harmless moment, I should think. Money? Jewels? Come then and name your desire, and if it's within my ability and not to my detriment, I shall grace you with it."

Bess drew back and clutched at her skirts when he released her. She panted, attempting to gain her breath back, and glared at him. He, despite her glare, he seemed comfortable enough to simply lay back and look at her with a smile on his face. His teeth were white, she noted. He was no peasant, that much was plain.

Death? His? Her eyes widened. He'd reminded her that yes, all of the embarrassment had had a cause behind it. She'd actually given her leave to treat her that way, in a manner of speaking, for she hadn't asked him to tickle her. But had he not?

“No,” she stood, her lips pressed firmly together as she brushed out her clothing and went to pick at a leaf which she could see clung to her hair. “No reward, sir. Just that you don' not e'er speak o' this.”

She took a step away from him, mindful of keeping her eyes on him as she did so. He did not seem dangerous and he had, as promised, done nothing more than what was necessary to keep his head. Still, she was not about to trust anyone so handsome as he with the ease of knowing herself.

“'Sides,” she scoffed, “who are ya ter promise gold and jewels? You were running fer your life. I'd bet m' hat, if I had one, on yer inability to give more'n your word away. You look like yeh'd be lucky to keep th' shirt on your back.” He hadn't a pack really, nor horse, nor any visible source of more. And he was definitely not from the town as she'd known him.

She did not know his face, that much was true. Backing away from him as he lazed, looking more forest god than man, despite the lack of shadow with the sun having risen and the world about them turning golden, Bess felt something inside of her yearn for the promise of adventure he seemed to exude. Here was her path away from the drudgery, if only she were willing to take it. Ah! But to take such a chance! She was no lad, like her brothers, who might have an adventure or two and be none the worse for it. No – for her, a misstep could ruin her for forever. She was not so foolish as to rush into any promise of more. She'd have long ago lost her innocence to a bit of gold braid or velvet twist if she were so easily won.

Instead, she stomped her foot and frowned at him. His grin made her back come up. “Why, you're worse than m' brothers. You've got y'self inta a world o' trouble hain't ya? An' no way out, I think.” Crossing her arms across her chest, she glowered at him once more and made no move to leave. “Well, don' be askin' for more from me, I'll say. I can see trouble writ all 'cross yer face, I can.”