Steele Morning - Story 1

by Camargue

What happened to Laura Holt and Remington Steele at Ashford Castle, after the lights went out? We think they took their relationship to the next level – but what else? This is the first chronological installment in my series of tales continuing the fifth season of the show. Like all of them, it is faithful to the official series canon.

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The watery Irish sunlight slanted in through the half-a-dozen windows of the massive room, illuminating the rich decorations. Laura Holt eased silently out of a troubled sleep – her eyes fluttered as she awoke and she remembered instantly where she was. She looked up at the canopied bed, the ornate plaster ceiling and the classical, eggshell blue walls of Ashford Castle's master bedroom; they were still the same as on the previous evening.

And yet, the whole world was different now. Laura swiveled her head to her right: Remington Steele lay next to her, his face placid, deep in sleep.

Laura shivered slightly in the morning chill, despite the numerous layers of bedding: luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets, the softest lambswool blankets, a goose down comforter and the most elaborate and expensive silk brocade bedspread she had ever seen. She pulled the bedclothes higher up her naked body, trying to sink deeper into the massive bed. Laura shook her head bemusedly – if this was an Irish spring morning, she dreaded to think what it would be like in winter. As a Los Angeles girl born and raised, she wasn't used to chilly weather.

The weight of the bedding triggered a memory – the sense-memory of Mr Steele's body against hers, as they had made love the previous night. Laura closed her eyes and she could feel him again, pressed against her – now touching her in this place, and now stroking her in that place. Involuntarily, as if reliving the night before, Laura felt herself tense again, as she had when they had come together, clinging to each other with the desire and need born of four years of waiting. When they had finished, Laura had been emotionally spent; ecstatic and fulfilled, but also uncertain, she had drifted off to sleep wrapped in Mr Steele's arms.

Suddenly, Laura opened her eyes, as the joyful memory of their lovemaking gave way to the same disturbing feelings she had had before she had fallen asleep: the confusion about where she – no, where they both – stood. After so long, they had finally crossed that line, but having sex with each other merely opened the door to Laura's same old fears.

She felt as if she were betraying Mr Steele and herself; why did she feel rather down, on this morning of all mornings? What was wrong with her? She should be happy, shouldn't she?

When she still couldn't get warm enough, Laura slipped out of bed, put on her heavy woolen robe and a pair of very unflattering, long socks, and walked over to the enormous fireplace. As quietly as possible, so as not to wake Mr Steele, she placed three logs on the flames, encouraging them back into life. She thought about returning to bed, but realized that she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep, even though, glancing at an antique clock that stood on the mantelpiece, she saw that it was very early – still a few minutes before six.

She fetched a leather-bound, lined notebook from her suitcase and then walked to one of the row of windows, close to the fireplace. With the walls of the castle being several feet thick, the windowsill was very deep; Laura sat down sideways on it, her left side against the glass with her knees raised and her feet propped up on the sill.

Laura, who had not been one of the most gregarious of children growing up, had kept a diary religiously as a girl. She'd left her childhood diaries with her mother when she had left home, and then had had them sent to her later, after her house had been blown up and she had suddenly felt more sentimental about the past than she had ever felt before. It had been one of these childhood diaries that Major Descoine had stolen when he had tried to kill Mr Steele and her a couple of years previously. Writing in a diary was still something that she did, but much less assiduously than in her youth. Recent events had, however, drawn her to pick up her pen again. She found a comfortable position, and then wrote the date at the top of a new page.

She stared at the blank paper, her mind empty. What could she write? Could she find the words to lay out her turbulent, incoherent feelings? Or should she simply state – baldly – that she and Mr Steele had finally made love the previous night for the first time in their relationship?