A/N: This began as a drabble then it became a one-shot and now it's morphed into something else and will be on-going. One of those things I had to write, whether anybody reads it or not.

Perhaps it was easier to be despised for the pretext rather than the truth.

Anne turned over in her bed, attempting to get comfortable. It was unlikely indeed – comfort had been lacking since her arrival in this country. If it were not for the heat she would not sleep; it was the exhaustion seeping into her muscles that finally encouraged her eyes to close each night. In dreams she was free; in dreams they all were. It was her dreams that drew her mind to the truth. What had begun partly as a deliberate ploy to engineer a return to England had transformed into so much more, and dreams had allowed her to accept that Mary Johnson was far more than merely an unhappy woman whom it could be in her interests to befriend.

Today had been horrific, in so many ways. The revelation of her ability to read and write had wrought its damage on Mary. Seeing her sink to the floor in despair had struck Anne like an axe to the chest, then Reverend Johnson's refusal to comfort his wife following what he called her descent into 'paganism' lit a fuse she found it difficult to dampen. If she had been in the room with a bayonet she might have used it, noose or no. A shot to the heart was too quick for a man who hid behind his holy book while his wife grieved over their lost children.

Finding Mary alone at the unfinished church, Anne had tried in vain to plead her case. Ultimately, however, she ached to ease Mary's pain and if that were to be achieved by leaving her alone then so be it. In truth, perhaps that pain now, the need to distance herself from the woman she perceived to have deceived her, was only saving them both pain later. Anne knew that the manner of her affection for Mary was beyond the comprehension of everyone else in the settlement, not least the Reverend Johnson himself. If he was willing to have her flogged for deceiving his wife, what would he do if learned of her desires? Self-preservation was, naturally, a consideration. She had seen Elizabeth being flogged; her screams had ripped through them all. Anne was afraid of the pain, yes, but she was also afraid of causing Mary the pain she surely would if the truth came to light.

With a sigh, she turned onto her back and stared into the ripples of the canvas fluttering above her. The urge to move, to be free if only for a few moments in the open air, struck her sharply and she yielded to it. Slipping from her narrow bed, she ignored the looks of her fellow convicts and stepped into the humid night. The sentries stationed around the camp ignored her. Sometimes it felt as though it would be all too easy to walk about from this sorry excuse for a life. Although, of course, there was nothing to walk to beyond the dangers of the bush. Certain death awaited anyone who attempted escape, though Anne fantasised about it almost as often as she fantasised about the prospect of returning home. In recent weeks those fantasies had taken her to unexpected places, giving rise to blushes when she should have been concentrating on her work. No one knew her well enough to question her, of course. That was the way she had engineered it. That is, until Mary Johnson had infiltrated her heart.

Her feet took her to the shore. It was dangerous here at night, the only light coming from the camp. Anne could walk this settlement in her sleep, pace across it with her eyes closed. She would gladly accept the risk of death now for the prize of solitude. She groped her way onto a rock, feeling the angles slice into her legs. That would be how the flogging would feel, surely, were Mary unable to dissuade her husband from pursuing the matter. A hundred lashes, a hundred chasms wrought into her skin. Shivering, Anne brought her knees to her chin at the same time as the creak of a lantern told her she was no longer alone out here.

She stayed perfectly still. There was no reason, after all, why anybody should know of her presence. She was shrouded in darkness, the way she preferred to be. Whoever was behind the lantern progressing slowly to the waterline could only see her if they turned sharply and approached the rock she nestled on. Barely interested, her eyes followed the light then, as it dipped to the sand, her breath caught in her chest.

If something had impelled her out here on this dreadful night, then it had surely been a sign from another world. For here was Mary too, her face tilted up against the light breeze sweeping from the ocean.

Anne knew not what she should do. She had agreed earlier to retreat, maintain distance. Although she had no doubt that Mary would indeed bear a child and come to trust her again ultimately, that time was in the distant future, impossible to conceive in these monotonous, burning days of little rest and even less food. She certainly had no notion of imposing her company on Mary in the next days or weeks. One of the concerns plaguing her during this long day was how she should manage the distance required of her. She had dreaded seeing Mary from afar, just as she had this afternoon during the hanging, and being unable to neither comfort her nor love her openly. How they were to survive in the same settlement had been beyond Anne's comprehension, and yet here they were in the darkness, mere feet between them.

The waves crashed against the shore, guzzling up the sand then hurrying away like the thieves livng nearby. Mary placed the lantern down, briefly shrouding her face in shadow again until she sat down beside it and drew her knees to her chin. It was a mirror image and Anne found herself attracted like a moth to a flame. There were only so many signs she could ignore, even if her will to do so remained. It had disintegrated the moment she allowed her eyes to roam over Mary's figure.

Sliding noiselessly from the rock, Anne let sand bristle over her ankles as she moved across to stand beside the woman who believed she had betrayed her. Towering over her, she wondered for a moment if she seemed threatening – a random convict promising harm – until she realised that Mary was entirely aware of who was sharing the night with her. Tilting her head to the side, Mary gazed at the square of sand directly to the left of her lantern. It was the nearest to an invitation Anne could hope for and so she sat down, capturing sand in her fingers and allowing it to trickle away.

'Are you following me, Anne?' asked Mary.

'I promised that I would not,' she answered. After a moment, she explained, 'I felt constricted. I needed to feel the breeze in my hair.'

'The breath in your body,' Mary murmured.

'Yes,' she said with a soft smile. Her gaze caught on Mary's face, the contours of her cheekbones and lips glimmering in the dull light. Then, in her chest, her heart prickled. Their similarities, the way they understood each other innately, may very well be her undoing. A connection which Mary now doubted the existence of shone in Anne's heart as a beacon. It tore into her breast as fiercely as seeing Mary crumple to the floor had earlier.

'You do not try and defend yourself,' observed Mary abruptly, her eyes still fixed on the ocean. She had not looked at her once. Perhaps she could not.

'No,' said Anne.

'You have me alone,' Mary muttered. 'My husband is not here to condemn you, I am too worn even to argue, yet you do not attempt to defend yourself.'

'No,' she repeated.

'Because you admit your sins?'

Swallowing, Anne slid her hand into the sand, feeling the grains catch on her fingernails. 'No.'

Finally, Mary turned towards her, eyes glistening. 'You must say more than that,' she insisted.

The intensity of her gaze disarmed Anne. She mustered all of her strength to prevent her reaching out with a trembling palm to comfort Mary as she had wanted to this afternoon. That way lay heartache for them both; ruin perhaps for this – this woman staring at her and the noose, perhaps, for Anne herself. And, yet, she could not to admit to deceit she had not practiced. That would be, in itself, deceit against Mary. She could not countenance that, not now.

So, instead, she said, 'I am not guilty of the sin you believe me to have practiced upon you. That is the only defence I have and I shall not repeat it again.'

Mary's brow contracted. 'You admit other sins?'

'I am a convict,' she returned, lowering her chin.

'That is no answer,' Mary said. 'Look at me. Anne – look at me.'

With reluctance, she raised her eyes. The determination on Mary's face was nothing short of beautiful. It illuminated her features, brightened them in the darkness. For a moment Anne felt unable to speak, unable to do anything but stare at this stunning woman. Perhaps, though, the expression on her own face gained a wolfish tinge. Mary recoiled a little, physically leaning away from her.

'It is another ploy,' she murmured. 'You must think I am very foolish.'

'No,' she said again. It was the only word her mind brought forth and she knew it to be weak. She could not explain, not in a manner that would satisfy Mary without drawing forth more questions. Yet she could not completely disengage. She suspected she would never be able to do that now. With Mary's attention fixed on her, she had to fathom a real answer of some sort. At length, she added, 'The last thing I believe you are is foolish, Mrs Johnson.'

'Then why do you look at me so?' Mary questioned in a whisper.

'Because . . . because . . .' The words died in her throat, suffocated by the reality of their situation. Admitting the truth would gain her nothing and cost her what little she had left. 'Because,' she went on in a firmer voice, 'I feel guilt for causing you pain.'

After searching her face, Mary said, 'I have believed much you have said, Anne. I wish to believe that too.'

'I could not ask for more,' she replied. Then, before she thought much about it, she hurried on, 'May I be permitted to speak a moment longer?'

Mary inclined her head. 'The desire to defend yourself is too strong after all.'

'No,' Anne said, the repetition of the word raising Mary's eyes to her once more. 'I do not seek to justify anything. I only wish you to know I regret telling you that I could not read.'

'Is that all?' asked Mary.

'That was deceit,' Anne answered.

The flickering flame of the lantern rippled across Mary's face. She looked exhausted, aged by the day beyond all comprehension. 'And you have deceived me in no other way?' she queried.

Although a lie hovered over her tongue, Anne could not bring herself to utter it. Instead, she said, 'I have not deceived you in the ways of which I am accused.'

'I do not understand,' Mary murmured.

For a few glorious seconds Anne gazed into her eyes, drinking in all she could before they were forced to part. This night was an amnesty, she could not fool herself otherwise. In the harsh light of day Reverend Johnson would reassert his anger. He would keep them apart. This could very well be the last conversation they had for months or longer.

Finally, she exhaled, ashamed of the tremble in her sigh. 'You may in time,' she said. Then she continued, 'You should return to your tent, Mrs Johnson. It is late.'

A small smile played across Mary's lips as she reached for the lantern. 'You still act as though you care, Anne.'

'The time for pretence has passed,' she returned, watching the progress of the slender fingers until her heart ached. 'Remember,' she added, lifting her chin with effort, 'I have nothing to gain. Any benefit I may have derived as your – your friend is gone. Your husband would ensure that, even if you did not. If I act as though I care then, surely, there is only one explanation for that.'

Mary was half-enthralled, though she attempted to mask it. Anne, by now, knew every strand of this woman's personality and the expression on her face kindled hope in her chest. Not hope for that, there could be none in that quarter. And, yet, perhaps there was more in their future than distance.

To save Mary the difficulty of responding when she clearly could not, Anne rose abruptly. Then she turned. The desire to offer a hand to Mary was as potent as the desire to raise her from the floor had been during their earlier confrontation. Without Reverend Johnson glaring at her this time, Anne yielded to it. She stretched out her hand and, miraculously, Mary took it. Although it lasted for mere moments, Anne knew it was more than she had the right to expect and treasured it all the more for that.

With the lantern hanging low, they were both blind in the darkness. They stood facing each other in silence until a gust of wind swept over the sand. It seemed to bring Mary back to life and she stepped away.

'Goodnight, Anne,' she said softly.

'Goodnight,' she murmured in return.

She stood fixed to the spot until the lantern became a speck and then a memory. Only when she could be sure that no one was likely to stumble upon her did she kneel upon the ground and rest her hand over the sand where Mary had sat beside her. It soothed her, if only a little.