Sorry Jane, and lovers of traditional F&A stories. This is a paranormal edging almost into sci-fi version of what might come after...

Written to to fill the boredom of a blizzard that would never end, it is my first attempt at a creative something. Tried to fit Emma in here, but only got in Catherine, Henry, Elinor and the Darcy's. A nod to the Harry Potter series and to all things zombies, a wink at some sci fi and hard bitten detective novels .

Too, mature themes explored and some serious adult attitude displayed.

Please let me know what you think!

Oh, I am not sure how this uploading system is working... so please bear with me. The story is finished but needs to be uploaded in stolen moments.

CHAPTER 1 THE MORNING AFTER

"Anne." Frederick leaned towards her, serious. He looked into her dark eyes, wise and calm. "Damn it. I made a hash of it… I should have written you. After the Asp."

Anne sat straighter on the park bench, the winter branches behind her framing her like a forest goddess, her face still, her eyes closed. Did he see the tiniest bit of a tear forming in an eye? He reached out, and instead, pulled her wrap closer around her shoulders, her neck.

He dropped his eyes. God, how he had made them both suffer in Lyme, in Uppercross. Again. He'd done it to himself, and this time Anne too, he'd been too damn pig-headed, too hurt to see there was a way out of his pain and his anger, a way around of his hurt pride.

Had it been cowardice? No, not that. It had been just plain old pig-headed pride mixed with that raging anger he could not let go of, maybe wouldn't let go of, but needed too.

But, suddenly, somehow, despite the years they were back on course, and thanks to Providence, headed in the right direction. The wind was in their sails. He just had to learn to let go of the anger. Well, maybe not that aimed at to Lady Russell. Or Elliott. Not just yet.

Frederick looked at Ann, turned her face with his fingers to make her look him in the eye. Her skin was so soft.

"I… I hurt you… with…Louisa." He paused, "I did that deliberately."

There, it was said, his crime against her. Would she accept it as the apology he meant it to be? Or would she slap him, leap up, walk away?

Anne sat, unmoving, closed her eyes, but her face betrayed a flick of raw pain.

Frederick slid closer. Damn what convention said about sitting near a woman, your fiancé even, on a park bench in Bath. He took both her hands. If this was anywhere else he'd have taken her in his arms now. Her engagement ring sparkled on her finger. Sophia had given him his mother's rings last night, after they had returned to their house. This morning, next to the little lake with swans in it, Frederick had slipped it on Anne's finger, with only a kiss to the finger tip.

"Frederick, no." She pulled her hands from his, her face infused suddenly with a bright smile at his touch, and a blush. She looked at his mother's ring happily.

Anne eyes rose, her face serious again. "No, Don't berate yourself… you did what was…"

Anne Elliott sat taller, searched for a word, "… you at the moment." She whispered that and heard her own voice break, and she hoped he could not hear in it the pain, so intense, so visceral, that still swirled in the depths of her belly when she thought of their long separation and his recent cruelty.

Why couldn't she just be honest with him about her feelings? She knew, from what her mother had told her, so long ago, honesty was the basis of a good marriage. Why was Anne always scrambling to be the peace-keeper in her family, scrambling to make everything right for everyone else? Why was she always sacrificing for others? Did that make things better for her?

Why couldn't she talk of the pain to him, how he had hurt her deeply, tortured her even, with the Musgrove girl? A girl she'd once called a friend, sister even?

Anne sighed, but suddenly caught by the concern and the love in his eyes her thoughts wondered to the warmth in her heart and the startling heat in her belly his gaze filled her with. Was he handsome? She couldn't tell. She had never been able too, all she saw a flame of a man that kept her warm, even in the damp greyness of Bath. Her heart beat hard as she looked at him, her mind blank.

Now, where had she been going with her words? Trying to step out of that silly daze she smiled, "Besides, we are together now. Now - all WILL be right. We'll just forgive each other, and set our marriage date…"

A shadow fell over them. "Oh ho! What have we got here? Damn Wentworth, I didn't know you were in Bath."

Frederick froze at the voice. He didn't need to look up to know that John Broyle stood there, and if the future Viscount Randall stood there, shit was about to happen. He looked at Anne, and poured into his eyes all the "Please forgive me's" he could before Broyle opened his effing big mouth.

Frederick leapt up keeping Anne's hand firmly in his.

"Broyle. Damn. Good to see you." He didn't shake Broyle's hand, his voice was flat and cold, and he realized he had sworn in front of Anne. With a sudden sinking feeling, he caught the scent of rum. The man had been at his cups all afternoon. This would not be good.

"Anne, may I introduce Captain John Broyle, master of the Amelie, Viscount Randells eldest." He felt Anne curtsy just the perfect amount.

"Broyle, my fiancé - Miss Anne Elliott." He squeezed her hand tight, keeping his grip firm. He'd not let her pull away, run away, as he had before.

"Oh ho ho. What Loverboy Wentworth, getting married? And to a baronet's daughter?!"

Frederick felt Ann's hand clench suddenly in his.

Boyle laughed his large laugh, loud and raucous, and Frederick closed his eyes, willing Boyle to just pass out here and now from too much drink, or a tree limb drop a stunning blow on his head.

"Haa. I courted the icy Miss E. Elliot a few years back in London. Thank god I was called away before I made a serious stupid match."

Anne, shocked, sucked in her breath. Frederick hissed "John! That is…."

Broyle laughed. "Yep, a damn close call - and no insult to you nor your fine sister, Miss Anne. Fine woman she is, quite the fine filly." He waggled an eyebrow.

A strangled gasp escaped Anne.

Frederick sighed. If she were to become his wife, she'd have to learn to deal with the coarseness of sailors. John excelled at coarse, rude, loud and drunk despite his rarefied family and excellent education. Compared to Broyle, Admiral William Croft, once only a butcher's son, pulled off hoity-toity when need demanded, as well as proper, and tactful. Croft though, had been incredibly well trained and brought to heel by his sister, Sophia.

Frederick smiled, would Anne need to train him?

A sharp realization, his sister Sophia had done it already. Else wise Lady Dalyrimple and old Elliott would have had him thrown him out last night. He'd carried off last night's foray and attack fine, his proposal had scuttled young Elliott's plans, and Anne had been very clear to all that this marriage would happen, come hell or high water, with her father's blessing or without.

Boyle reached out, grabbed Anne's arm. "Well Miss Anne, have I got some stories for you."

Frederick smiled as she slipped from the future viscounts hand somehow firmly and politely, with complete elegant grace. She gave a cool but kind smile, looked up at the man's big red face, and said "I am sure you can, sir. Captain Broyle, why don't you sit down right besides us and tell me all."

It somehow came out as a command.

She turned and winked at Frederick. Frederick gasped, felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. He realized it was Anne now who held his hand, firmly, as if she would not allow him to slip away, to escape. Her smile at him was a command too, and somehow a little wicked. She wanted him to face this reckoning. He hoped afterwards she would not want to escape him either, despite all. Hoped she would not loosen her grip.

"Agh, Broyle we need to be…" Frederick tried to say "getting on our way", when Anne said, "..we need to sit down."

Anne gracefully pulled both sailors down next to her, and somehow, managed to sit shockingly close to Frederick and properly distant from Boyle. Frederick's skin tingled where her body pressed against his.

"Oh them was the days Miss Anne- back when we were old mid-shipmen and young lieutenants out on the old Namur, eh Wentworth? Breathin' fire we was. What was we? Seventeen? Eighteen, I think? Gar, you and the station master's wife. Haa. Thought we was so grow up. I remembers this time we ended up in Gib, and remember that fight with…with …them boys… "

Frederick sighed, belly sick. "The Royale…".

He was sunk. Best Anne learn of it now. She could leave him, and be done with it, before they got too deep, too entangled again. A blackness rose in his heart, that gaped wide, wider than the death he was sure of, back in 1811 in the Adriatic.

"Oh yeah, there we were out in the Gib, and we jumps those Royale boys. Ha! Fists a flying… Remember Harville pounding at that _mate? Thought he'd kill the man! Ha - they thinking we, from a third rate, not as tough as first raters. Haa. We proved them. Then you'se there bleeding -laughing though- drags us all into that whorehouse…"

As Anne jerked back, shocked. Frederick hissed "Boyle, there is a lady here!"

Boyle snorted a wet drunken snort.

"Remember, it was the one we always went to?" He laughed, winked at Anne. "Anyways… remember them two fine fillies? Now that was a night." Broyle started to wipe away tears. "Didn't you put one of their dresses on and you was dancing on the table, castanets in hand? Haa!"

"John," he hissed, feeling Anne stiff and rigid next to him. "To wives and girlfriends…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the rest. May they never meet." Broyle laughed.

He winked conspiratorial at Anne. "Now Miss Anne, there was this one time out on a beach in the West Indies…"

He looked at Frederick, slyly. "Remember your girl - skin like night?"

Frederick's blood ran cold, his finally healed heart started to break again as he saw Anne's face. He supposed he could go back to sea when Anne got up and slapped him, and walked away this one last final last time. And it would be the final time. She did deserve a better man. He'd… go find a ship to attack. Maybe this time it would kill him.

Surprisingly, instead, she squeezed his fingers.

"Captain Boyle, really, I'd rather hear about the battles." Anne said gently and firmly. "The fights."

"Battles, humpf. They're no fun." Silence. Grief and horror rose in Boyles eyes, the man shivered.

Frederick's belly rolled, remembering one particularly bad battle with John as young Lieutenants, just before Boyle was made commander. The remains of the Thurlow boy covered John's hands, who was trying to stuff the boys guts back into his body. Tears streaming down both their faces, John moaning, "Peter, Peter, Peter… you're ok, right? Right?" Frederick trying to pull him away from the boy, tripping over another body, landing hard on what had been a man. They sat silent.

Suddenly, recalling himself, Boyle said, "The nights were fun."

Then he pulled a face. "At least until '06."

He glared at Frederick. "After '06 - Damn, the man got damn boring if you ask me. Became a friggin' pissy monk. Give a man a ship, and he changes."

"Oh, did he?" She turned, looked at Frederick archly, back straight, face unreadable, but her dark eyes sparkling.

"Sailed away in that rust bucket in 1806 - No one else would take her - We thought he'd be dead before they'd make 100 miles. Said he was going to fight Napoleon in it."

Broyle laughed, then looked at Anne. "But he proved us wrong. Anyways, word's out he has a death wish. That makes him lucky - very lucky - that. Never told no one why that wish."

A bell tolled in the distance.

"You sure you wants to go an' marry him? The man's a monk. Blah. No fun." Boyle hiccuped.

The bell tolled again.

"You're a pretty girl. Marry me's instead. I'd make yous a lady." A snorted laugh, and he reached around and gently punched Frederick in the arm with a smile.

"Lucky dog. Damn! I'm late. Th'ole'man will kill me… or at least cut me off. Can't let that happen. Money buys us drinks."

Drunkenly he rose, kissed Anne wetly on the cheek and stumbled into the darkening evening.

Frederick watched Ann sit there with a shocked looked, taken aback by the Broyle's forwardness and the things she'd just heard. Things were playing across her face he couldn't read.

He sat, his soul cold, waiting judgement.