Part Five

"Are you going to be all right?" Alistair asked quietly. For a long time they had been sitting at the top of the abandoned servant's stair, far to the back of the house. Behind them, above the landing, a tall, muntined window let in the light of a pale, full moon, lending a shadowy, bluish cast to the surrounding rough-plastered walls and whitewashed stair.

"Fine," Archie replied. There was a bit of an echo in the high-ceilinged, empty space.

Alistair couldn't stifle a laugh. "I still can't believe you planted him a facer! I never saw anything like the look on him! Oh, well, with any luck old Wilkie will have got him so drunk by now he won't remember a thing come morning!"

Archie didn't say so, but he really didn't much care if his brother meant to do him harm. Let him try. He had plenty of tricks up his sleeve, and he'd evaded worse threats over the years, far more often than not, once he'd grown wise.

"He shouldn't have said it," Archie said for what must have been the tenth time, feeling his jaw tighten at the thought, and the simmering anger that he could not seem to shake, rising to the surface once more.

Alistair sighed. "No, but George can be…I don't know…provoking somehow. It's almost as if she's asking for trouble sometimes---"

"It isn't her fault!  There is still no reason---!"

"I know, I know. You're right. But Malcolm and George do know each other Archie, and I really don't think he meant anything. From what I hear, the one time he did try something that wasn't on, she set him right down. She can look after herself, can George."

Archie didn't answer. He leaned back on his elbows and tilted his head back, staring, upside-down, at the cold, white moon.

"It's chilly up here!" Alistair said. "I'll tell you what, cuz, I'm about fagged to death."

"I'm fine. Go to bed," Archie said.

"You're sure? Well," Alistair stood and stretched. "Don't sit here all night, will you?" he gave Archie's shoulder a nudge with his knee. "I'll see you in the morning?"

"Yes. See you in the morning."

When Alistair had gone, Archie lay there on the stair, looking up at the night sky. He gathered, from what Alistair had said, that everyone, including Lady Trim, must believe he'd made a complete fool of himself. Perhaps, but only he had seen the horrified look on her face, and only he had known what it meant, and he had not been able to bear it. Years ago, he had only sat and watched her suffer. He could not let it happen again, even if it made him look like the biggest fool in the world. But it had not been only for her, had it? Should the quick, hot anger, the violence he had discovered inside himself have come as such a surprise to him?

It was cold, and his arse was numb from sitting so long on the hard stair. He was tired. Too tired to think any more, or to worry any more tonight. He got to his feet and started down the darkened stair to the second floor.

Clearly the servants believed that everyone had gone to bed, for downstairs it was completely dark, and he had to feel his way along the heavy carved molding that topped the paneled wainscoting running the length of the hall. The guest rooms were at this end of the house, and he was unable to stop himself thinking that she was somewhere near. Fast asleep, probably, and he imagined her so, breathing softly, her white skin bathed in moonlight, her marvelous, wild red hair spreading dark upon the pure, white linen.

"Oof!" he could not help the exclamation as he suddenly ran into a console that was pushed up against the wall. Lurching forward, hands fumbling, he barely managed to rescue what felt like an enormous flower arrangement in a very tall vase. Regaining his balance and setting the object to rights as best he could manage, he looked about him, hoping he hadn't just woken everyone. He hadn't made so very much noise, he didn't think. Carefully he felt his way around the table, and continued on his way, one hand on the wall and one hand now held out before him.

He'd taken no more than four steps when he heard the sound. The soft, sharp click of a latch, a door opening, the faint swish as it moved over thick carpet. He froze, afraid to turn around, but suddenly the light of a single candle illuminated the little circle of space where he---and she---stood still.

"My avenging angel."

There was no hint of mockery in her voice, only gentleness. He turned around slowly, finally. She looked so small to him all of a sudden, where he had always thought her rather tall for a woman. She was in a white night dress, high necked and full, and the green woolen shawl. Instinctively, he cast his eyes down, and saw that her feet, narrow and very white, were bare.

"F-forgive me. I'm sorry to wake you, my lady. I bumped into something in the dark." He whispered.

She smiled, "I wasn't sleeping."

He couldn't seem to speak. What was there to say? She was still smiling at him, and she cocked her head to one side. "Archie."

"My lady?"

"Please call me George," she said very softly. "For we are old friends. Or do you not remember? You were just a little boy when I came to stay."

"O-of course I do," he smiled. "I'm so sorry, I should go before I wake everyone."

"You have nothing to be sorry for," she came a few steps closer, and she was looking up at him, the light from the candle in her hand casting the bones of her face into dramatic relief. Once again, he could not help but notice the beauty of her skin, how very smooth and soft it looked. Suddenly his mouth went very dry.

"I was awake because I was thinking of coming to find you. But…here you are! Shall I tell you something Archie?" she asked softly.

He waited, thinking that even the sound of his breathing sounded monstrously loud here in the quiet and the dark.

"No one has ever defended my honor before, sir. And with such fervor! You needn't have done, you know, but I could not help but be impressed—" She bowed her head, and dipped in a little curtsy. "---and honored."

Again, he felt afraid that he was being mocked, but hearing her voice, and seeing the smile in her eyes, he could not believe it.

Slowly he shook his head, "No one…"

He was only repeating her words in his distraction, but she misunderstood him.

"Oh." She lifted her chin, and she crossed her arms, wrapping the shawl closer around her. "Of course, everyone knows that men have died for me, isn't that so?"

"Oh, no," Archie said, shaking his head. "I didn't mean to---"

"But it isn't true, not really. My husband, even the man who killed him, they died for their own vanity. It isn't quite the same." She lifted her head and looked at him again, a bit of a smirking smile playing about her lips. "Not that it matters, of course! Either way, they'd both be just foolish and just as dead!"

He stared at her, blinking.

"Oh, my dear!" she whispered. "Do I shock you? Oh---I never meant to call you foolish!"

"No, I---"

"I am sorry Archie, "she laughed quietly. "I know I am peculiar! I don't really expect anyone to understand me!"

"But I do." Saying the words was automatic. So natural, so inevitable, like an exhalation of breath, and now he was taking a step towards her. He raised his hands, as if he would touch her, then stopped as he saw her look up, and he thought she seemed to shrink away from him, ever so slightly. Oh, damn and hell!

"My la---George!" he whispered, and his throat was so tight he felt he would choke. "Please don't—Please! I must speak to you!"


                                                             ******


He was in her room, seated on her little damask wingchair before the fire, and she sat before him on a little gilt footstool, her knees drawn up almost to her chin, and her shawl wrapped around her. With the fire behind her, her hair was ablaze with the warm, red light, floating about her thin, pale face like the halo of the sun.

"I was sixteen when Phillip seduced me," she was saying. "What did I know? I thought I was in love. It thrilled me the way he frightened me, the way he wanted me. I loved his pride, even his jealousy. If he had been denied me, no one could have kept me from running away with him, but why would they have denied us? It was a fantastic match. No one knew the truth, and I was such a little fool."

"No. It wasn't your fault," Archie said.

"Wasn't it?" she asked. "There is something about me, Archie. I love to play with fire, even when I should know better. I try and try to resist, but soon it becomes like the itch that will drive you mad! My Papa used to swear I was the devil's child, with this red hair of mine!"

Her wild, amazing red hair. "He had no right to hurt you."

"I know." She lowered her head.

"I am so sorry. I have been wanting to tell you that for so long," he said. "And when I saw you again…"

"So that is why you are always watching me?" she asked with a little laugh, and unfolding herself, turned and picked up the poker to jab the shifting embers of the fire, sending a sudden exodus of bright sparks scurrying up the flue.

"Forgive me," he said, embarrassed. "I can imagine what you must have been thinking of me."

She laid the poker on the hearth and turned to him. She was suddenly so close, their knees were all but touching. And when she spoke, once again he had to wonder if she must not be mocking him, but again he could not believe it, not when he saw her sweet smile, the gentle honesty in her eyes.

She said, "I believe I must have thought, 'That beautiful young man must be in love with me.'"

 She was putting out her hand to him and he could only hold his breath as her fingers brushed his cheek, and suddenly he gasped and brought his own hand up to catch hers, holding it, small, hot as the fire, against his cheek.

"I think---" he began and suddenly he knew, of all the urgent confessions of this night, there was yet one more that would not be denied. "I don't know…that I am not."

"Archie…" she did not try to pull her hand away, although he knew he was squeezing it so tightly he could feel the fragile bones compress. With a little noise that sounded like sobbing, he turned his head and pressed his lips against the burning palm, and she moved towards him, coming off the footstool and dropping to her knees before him. Her free hand touched his face and moved into his hair, and before he could think what he was doing, his arm was around her, pulling her close.

Why didn't she stop him? In his arms, she was perfectly quiet and soft, and he could feel the heat of her, warmed by the fire. He had never kissed a woman, had no idea how, but surely that was what he meant to do. Did she know it? There was a dizziness in his brain that made him feel giddy and mad, and from deep in his belly a fierce heat was rising, as hectic and volatile as sparks from the fire.

 Slowly, awkwardly, he leaned in to her, and still she did not pull away, and finally, he put his lips to hers. Soft as rose petals, and he sighed against her mouth and moved his head a little to the side, brushing his lips over hers. The barest touch was like a lick of flame, and suddenly his insides felt singed.

"I'm sorry! I don't know what I'm doing!" he gasped breathlessly, pulling away.

"Yes you do," she whispered, taking his face in her hands. "Try again."

This time, she held him, and when he brushed her lips once more with his, she pulled him nearer, and then, as he grew bolder, pressing harder, she let her lips part slightly, and he felt the slight flicker of her warm, wet tongue, and instinctively, he opened to her. He wanted to taste her! The fire, the strange madness surged in him. He was trying to be so careful, but he felt unwieldy and half drunk, and his own frantic breath was roaring in his ears as he opened his mouth and pushed his tongue into hers. He felt as if he was lapping at her like an over-eager pup, and he could no more control himself than he could have added two-and-two at that moment, or lord help him, even have remembered his own name! He knew he must be holding her too tightly, at any moment she would try to push him away---

"Here, darling, here," she was laughing at him sweetly, softly, as she turned her head away at last, and she leaned back in his arms. He let her slide away, but he did not let go; his hands were wrapped in the folds of her shawl.

 When she looked at him again, she reached up and put her hands in his hair, loosening his queue, brushing the gently waving golden strands over his shoulders with her fingers.

"You are so sweet," she whispered. "So beautiful. It's all new to you, isn't it?"

It was so obvious, of course. His cheeks flamed with shame.

She moved closer to him again, her hands resting on his shoulders, her body between his thighs. He knew that were he to pull her close enough, she would be able to feel just what she did to him. Oh God, he burned, he ached! What was he to do?

She came in slowly, her arms sliding around his neck, and her warm, soft, smooth cheek was touching his; her gentle breath was in his ear.

"Shall I show you, my angel?" she whispered, and the length of her body was pressed to his, her soft belly curving into his crotch and he could not help but shift his hips to move against her.

"Shall I teach you how to play with fire?"

Go to Part Six