With an impish leer, Anne undid the buttons of her dress and let it fall to the ground, revealing the black leather and rubber shift she had cunningly fashioned herself from an old discarded saddle and the gardener's spare Wellington boots.

"My darling!" gasped James, "may I...do you mind if...can I..." Words failed him as he snatched her dropped dress and struggled to put it on himself.

"What ever turns your crank!" Anne chortled saucily, helping him into the frothy garment.

At which point Anne and James both waved to the audience of their friends and relations, all of whom were so aroused by watching the happy couple that they in turn immediately began demonstrating their own favorite positions of the Kama Sutra, and the tables of the public lending library each began to rock in it's own distinctive rhythm.

"Oh my darling," drawled James in a bored tone of voice.

"Yes my dear." Anne said, stifling a yawn shyly.

"I adore you."

"And I adore you."

"Shall we shake hands on it, then my dear?"

"After we've been married for three years, perhaps."

"Excellent."

James cocked his eyebrow in a weary yet pleased manner. Anne shrugged contentedly.

James adjusted his exquisite jabot, straightened the socks with the pink clocks, got onto his horse and rode off toward the sunset. Anne climbed into the carriage and drove off in the opposite direction. And after three years of wedded bliss they did indeed touch hands.

James' face flushed a becoming red shade. Lowering his head towards her, he said, "My darling. I hereby declare my love for you in unambiguous terms, without restraint and wholeheartedly. I really really love you. You are the one I truly worship. It is upon you whom I will lavish my devoted attention."

Anne listened carefully, her moist eyes mirroring the infinite warmth in his. Raising her head towards his, she said, "I love you as well. I am certain that I could not, under any foreseeable circumstances, endure a life without you, my one true love. I adore you. I yearn and trust that you will allow me to cling like a limpet to your side for the rest of your hopefully lengthy life.

Together, secure in the bonds of their eternal love for each other, they turned to each other and began to ki... ZZZ....ZZZ....ZZZ

Anne turned on the hapless Marquis and began to wail. "Suddenly, you've become a wooden caricature with nothing to say. Why are you putting on that dratted overcoat? And what's with the hat? Answer me!"

Silence. James turned his most becoming shade of red, but still, in this chapter, he abruptly seemed oddly incapable of even murmuring "my darling". In exasperation, Anne marched over and grabbed him in her firmest governessy hold. "Kiss me, you fool!" she exclaimed.

He did. Swooning in ecstacy, Anne closed her eyes and experienced what seemed like an eternity of the most exquisite pleasure, as his lips gently explored hers and his strong arms held her tightly yet tenderly.

"Oh August." she sighed.

James dropped her.

"I mean, let us be married in August." Anne said as she struggled to get up off the floor.

James did not look amused.

"Um...my birthday is in August?" Anne continued helpfully.

The frown remained on his face.

"Well, you're a very...very august personage. And would you credit it, as we were kissing, I felt ... a gust of wind!" She concluded in triumph.

"Hah." James replied.

'Well', thought Anne to herself, 'if that's the best dialogue that the man can muster, maybe I'd better have another look at Theo then. Odd, though, how James had seemed to be so animated and interesting in the earlier parts of their adventures together...' She adjusted the bodice of her gown so that she was not so poked in the bosom by the card that perky little Gwen woman had given her. Perhaps Miss Rossiter could be persuaded to take a little vacation? Forever? Uncle Paul might have some excellent ideas on that subject. Head held high, Anne marched from the room, a woman unswayed from her one true purpose in life.

Anne looked over the vista of the Marquis' country estate, then suddenly became aware of a sharp pain in her left foot. Her parasol's ferrule was poking into it. She heard a gruff "harumph" behind her and turned to see Seaforth studiously avoiding her gaze.

"Seaforth," she said bracingly, "I think, although our earlier adventures seemed to have resulted in a sort of comradery, that all that will now be lost with our return to normal existence. Therefore, I will voluntarily walk out of your life and pretend you mean nothing to me."

"Harumph! What!" Seaforth snorted, his visage becoming a truly choleric shade of red. "Perhaps I should insult you and pretend you mean nothing to me as well."

They stared uncertainly at one another. Anne broke the awkward silence by saying, "Well, one of us must admit to our love."

They gazed at each other queerly, then Anne, reflecting that men were truly useless creatures for all but a few improper things, said, "Very well then, it shall be I."

"Darling!" Seaforth exclaimed, sweeping her into his arms and disregarding the cruel blow a frying pan hanging from her utility belt gave to his knees. "I loved you from the first!"

James pulled her roughly to him. "My little darling. If I ever catch you talking to any man like that, I will beat you."

Anne quivered lovingly because he was so masterful. "I...love...you...!" she whispered shyly into his cravat.

"Yes, a man likes his true one to be unspoiled and pure, only for him. So no more talking to any man in my vicinity. After all, I have experience enough for two!"

Her great purple-emerald-golden eyes raised timidly to the figure holding her so tightly, Anne murmured: "Never...only...you...are...my...love...dear...I...will...be...only...yours...until...I...die."

And then love took them beyond the stars.

"You are mine, mine!" yelled James, moving Anne closer to him. His hand went slowly XXXXXXXX Censored by the obsenity boardXXXXXXXX and then they XXXXXXcensoredXXXXXXXX. "I love you" moaned Anne, as XXXXXXX censoredXXXXX

Alistair Erskyn sat in the breakfast room of Seaforth Manor and gazed at his wife to be. She had picked up her fork and was poking gingerly at her eggs, not having fully recovered from the terrible nature of Tibby's cooking.

God, she was lovely. The loveliest woman in the world. He could not recall ever having seen a more lovely lady in his life. Even in her wrapper and her cap falling over one liquid brown eye, she was so unspeakably beautiful. She was amazingly wonderfully beautiful.

She was beautiful.

Suddenly he realized that the platter of eggs was on the table beside her plate and not on the sideboard where it belonged. It was the sort of thing that could not go unnoticed. It was the exact sort of thing that would have put him in a rage just a few weeks ago. It was the sort of thing that would have resulted in an argument, him being gruff and short and she being bravely resistant to his bad mood. It was the sort of thing that would have made them fight. But not now. No, not now. Now he merely smiled at her from across the table and said, "I am slowly recovering from my amazement at your beauty and have realized that the eggs are by your elbow rather than at the sideboard, madam. Would you care to pass them to me?"

He forgot, or chose not to remember, that there were a butler and two footmen there whose jobs consisted of performing such mundane tasks. He did not want to remember that there were servants in the room. He did not want that stuffy old Sludge - no, Fudge - no, Mudge - to be the one to lift the serving platter and slowly but surely carry it to a point just behind his left shoulder and then unlovingly lift a spoonful of eggs and plop them down upon his plate. No, he wanted Rosemary's hands to be the ones that grasped the platter, Rosemary's arms to be the ones that strained with lifting it. Rosemary's body behind his. He did not care that it was not proper to ask her to pass it. He did not care.

He did not care.

Rosemary had been reflecting - she often reflected - upon her good fortune at having the breakfast room alone with her affianced. It was not often that they had any time alone, what with the Seaforth's three children that they had somehow managed to have in one year's time. Not to mention Captain Holt and Flora, who seemed busily intent on not flirting with each other in the company of others until Doomsday. And now she faced her future husband, amazed and overwhelmed with what he asked of her.

He was asking her to bring the eggs to him. Despite the presence of three servants, he was requesting that she carry the scrambled eggs all the way over to his plate. It was improper. She felt her breath coming more heavily at the thought. It was not right. It was highly irregular. Mudge would be offended. The first footman would be offended. The second footman would be offended.

Before she could think further, she was carrying the eggs and slowly, steadily serving them to him. Her hand trembled but she served the eggs. Then, setting the platter down upon the table, she turned to Alistair and said, "Darling, I have something I must tell you."

"What is it, my love?" he responded, turning those lovely blue eyes up to meet her own.

"You and I... are going to have a baby," she announced, feeling a trembling in her heart.

Instead of joy she had expected, his countenance only displayed confusion. "A... baby? But how? Why?"

"Why? I don't know," Rosemary replied, equally confused but for different reasons. "It just seems like a happy ending should include either a pregnancy or a birth. Does it not seem so to you?"

"Perhaps, but... we have not even..." Alistair darted an apprehensive glance at the wooden-faced servants, "well, you know..."

"Well, not for lack of trying on your part," she snapped, pushing away from him peevishly.

"C'mon, sweetheart!" he whined, making a grab for her that she eluded. "It would develop our characters so wonderfully!"

"Develop... our characters!" she spat. "Oh! If that is not just like a man!" Then she stopped, horrified to see tears spring to his eyes.

"Rosemary... I have been nothing but a trial to you since the day we met," he choked out.

"Oh, Alistair," she shook her head. "Of course you have been. But I love you anyway. I love you."

He rose and clasped her tightly to his chest. She nestled deep in his arms. It was a perfect moment. She loved him and he loved her. And they were to have a baby. It was perfect.

It was perfect.

"Did you not want to cast caution on the flames?"

Air became scarce. She had come here hungry for this, yet feeling safe behind the fact that it was impossible. That it posed too great a risk to her carefully planned life, and his.

"There is no need," he said against her knuckles. "You can have just what you want. You wanted to see me, I believe?"

He let go of her hand and stood to begin unfastening the cuff of his shirt.

Rosemary gaped. He was going to take her literally and strip? She hadn't meant that. She really hadn't thought how they would get from current state to nakedness. As he pulled his shirt out of his breeches, however, she couldn't bear to stop him.

But it was the first step.

To where? To what?

Could she finally satisfy all her burning curiosity?

Here.

With him?

If it were only curiosity, however, she would not feel this breathless sense of peril. They really shouldn't. They were playing with truly perilous flames.

Her heart raced so unsteadily she feared she would faint so she picked up her glass and took a deep drink. Too deep, so she choked. When she had her breath back, he was laughing, the sort of gentle warm laughter that friends share. It melted her, turning her as soft as the fat tears of wax sliding down the side of the uneven candle.

Honesty and friendship. Honest embarrasment. Friendly humor. With this man she could permit herself to be exactly what she was. Even uncertain.

Trust. Astonishing trust. She's never realized how little she allowed herself to trust.

And he, who must live as guarded as she in many ways, trusting her.

He pulled the shirt up over his head and dropped it. Then he tugged the ribbon off his hair so that it fell loose around his face to his naked shoulders.

His broad shoulders.

Did all men look stronger out of their clothes, she wondered, studying him as he paused to allow her to. Paused perhaps, to allow her to retreat, to run back to her room.

Oh, no. She welcomed this fire, even though it could burn her to a crisp.

She knew she would feel less wanton naked, but she obeyed, enjoying feeling wanton with him.

Once he was sure that she was deeply asleep, he eased her out of his arms and onto her pillow, but rested there, studying her. At the different angle, she still looked young but now he could see her firm chin. The body he'd tangled with had not been childish at all, but that of an active strong woman.

A truly remarkable woman...

She'd amused and alarmed him with her quick wit and understanding, her boldness and courage, her problems and needs.

Then she'd teased that dangerous kiss. Their kiss. Still, he'd remained in control. Not seriously threatened. Until tonight.

Unique.

Shattering.

Forbidden.

She woke as if from a dream to bright sunshine shafting through a slit in drawn curtains.

Alone.

Bolting upright, she saw nothing to suggest the night. No oil, certainly no lover. Even the pillow he would have used was smooth.

Had she dreamed it? No, traces of oil remained on the sheets, in stains and sensual perfume. He'd been here. He, the essence of him, had come within touch of her questing fingertips.

More than that. For a short time he had been hers, mind, body and soul.

But now he was gone, and his careful obliteration of his presence filled her with despair. The final battle had not been won because it wasn't a matter of will, after all. That could have been changed by a stronger will.

For him, it was a matter of soul.

What, save God, could help him with that?

Muddled last night, she'd assumed she was in his bedroom, but of course, she wasn't. This room, though grand held no personal items. Anyway, he wouldn't take her there and risk her reputation. Not the omnipotent, omniscient, infinitely controlled Alistair. She beat her hands on the bed. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him!

Then she sank her head in her hands. She had to face the day as well. The king. Society. Him.

Oh God, oh God. They could end this day forced into marriage to save her reputation. If he'd retreated behind the walls again they'd be in a worse state than when they'd begun.