A/N: Thank you so much for everyone who reviewed or alerted this story. I know Mary/Richard can be a hard sell so if you're enjoying it I am very very pleased! Comments as always gratefully received. Hugest thanks go once more to my wonderful beta, who is a darling and I love her!

All my soul within me burning.

Mary drifted in and out of the warm comfort of sleep, a heavy haze settling in front of her eyes as she allowed her head to rest back in the seat. The shimmer of a day destined to be hot span by outside the window, she could not recall if she had seen the dawn, one moment they had been cloaked in the dark interior of the Bentley and the next it was a new day. Every so often a sharp pain in her chest reminded her of reality and the full power of her recollections came rushing with a crushing force so that she was forced to open her eyes. The motorway faded out of focus in front of her again and she felt as if she were being battered against rocks, thrown about on a tumultuous ocean to be plunged into the suffocating weight of a wave and cast against an unforgiving shore. Then warmth would come again and she would forget and it would be gone, she would be drowned, an ocean of relief pressing down on her, rendering coherent thought impossible. This cycle seemed to continue to repeat itself with a tireless ferocity and she begged for exhaustion to take over, for that great empty heaviness to persist.

When sleep came it was not empty. She dreamt, dreams that seemed tentatively in her control, in her power to direct. She thought of Richard and for a moment the memory was there with her inhabiting it with all the acuity of the actual event. Her hand in his at the altar as he slides the wedding band over her finger, every feeling she felt at that moment present and yet slightly removed. A dream, this is a dream but let it continue. He kisses her and she feels the rough tremble of his lips, the slight shake in his hands as he places them around her waist. Richard is nervous and he is happy, very happy as he draws back and she sees the full light of his smile fill every line in his face. She is complete and they are indomitable. Mary feels that every hole in her heart is full and she knows – she knows for certain – that together they are unconquerable.

They dance and she relaxes absolutely for the first time that day, his hand entwines in hers, her wedding and engagement rings catching the light. The band plays but it is distant and her heart surges as his lips rest close to her ear, his hand at her back pulls her in closer and she does not resist, she will never resist.

"Will these people ever leave?" He whispers and she can see that lilting smile on his lips without looking.

"I rather think they came for the party, darling."

"Let them stay by all means, the reception I have in mind is for two guests only."

She smiles and her fingers inch from his shoulder to smooth the skin of his neck, just above his collar, where she feels his pulse fluttering relentlessly.

"Well technically we are three." Mary replies, allowing her eyes to meet his as they continue to dance without missing a step.

"I will make an exception there," he replies and moves his hand away from her back to rest on her still flat stomach. "I love you."

Mary's neck jerked and she grasped the side of the seat. The windscreen seemed very close and the cold air from the air conditioning had made her throat dry and sore. The driver eyed her for a moment, started to speak but thought better of it and narrowed his eyes at the boot of the motionless car in front. They had hit the morning rush hour traffic, the world was continuing, the world cared not for what they had been through. She swallowed painfully and looked into the rear view mirror and saw that the children were still asleep; Felix slumped to one side so that his face was pressed to the pillow leant against the window, his mouth hanging open. Imogen was bowed completely forward, her arms hanging down in front of her in an attitude of surrender. Mary undid her seatbelt and leant into the back seat, easing the little girl up so that she was resting on the headrest of the booster chair.

She could not think about it, she could not relive it, not in this confined space, where the very thought of the horror they had just experienced would press in. She wanted to lower the window but the prospect of exhaust fumes adding to her existing nausea put her off. The traffic inched forwards and Mary was possessed by the mad urge to wrench the steering wheel away and drive up the hard shoulder, away from this, away from everything, away from Richard. Richard. Tears stung her eyes and she clasped her hands together in her lap to stop them from shaking.

She was both desperate to be out of the car and horrified at the prospect of the journey's end, of arriving at Downton, of her father's still face, her mother's anguished flurries of emotion. She hardly dared imagine what Granny would say. What did it matter? What did any of it matter? When Mary looked down she realized she'd been digging the point of her nail into the back of the hand and the red indent there seemed a very pathetic representation of the churning emotion gripping her.

His eyes roved over the thin plastic mattress on the narrow bench and he wanted nothing more than to rip it apart, tear to shreds the only thing in this room that he could gain purchase on. The bare white cell seemed to close in, press against the sides of his head and intensify the pounding ache that made his scalp feel too tight over his skull. They would think him mad; he had already behaved like a wild animal. Perhaps he was an animal. Fight, you always fight. And yet that was not who he was, he was verbally aggressive yes, forceful and unrelenting in his business but he was not that wiry hot eyed boy ripping his way through the streets of Edinburgh anymore, clawing his way from the brink, upwards from the mire to something unimaginable. Or was he? Perhaps that boy had never gone. He seemed to smile back at Richard now, bloodied knuckles and eyes that held no mercy.

What was the first thought that had come to his mind after he had realized he was being cautioned by the police? They know, they know about Edinburgh, the past is upon me. And Richard felt relieved, he could not hide it, he had been relieved when he realized what the charges were. They could not make any of it stick. He almost laughed. It seemed less funny now, six hours since the first interrogation and still in this windowless prison. Graves reassured him but he was nervous, as he always was around Richard, as if he could smell a loose moral a mile off. He was a good solicitor, the very best money could buy and he would be sweating on behalf of his high profile client. Richard wanted to see Graves now, intimidate him with a menacing calm, anything to extinguish this powerless weight on his chest. They could keep him here for ninety-six hours without charge, just let them dare, he thought and he realized his teeth were bared. Control yourself, Richard, you're not in Muirhouse now.

He was not in Muirhouse. He wasn't eighteen stories up, hanging over the balcony, casting cigarette ash into a hungry wind. And he hadn't been there for a very long time, the damp sheets on the washing line flapping like frantic wings in his face as his soul seemed to stretch in an attempt to fill the empty space. It was green there and in every way the city of Edinburgh was beautiful for being full, this outpost was bleak for being surrounded by a society that was bowing and crumbling on a desolate prairie.

Richard thought of his life now, their London home, and how if he looked to his left he could see the brutalist tower blocks of the nearby council estate. The estate, like his own house, overlooked the wildest of the Royal Parks, that beautiful expanse of untamed greenery and those people, hanging over the balconies smoking, saw the same views he did. Did it make them feel more alone? The way it made him feel when he looked from his vantage point in another city, another council estate, so many years ago? How much circumstances change our perspective, Richard thought. He could never see the park at the bottom of his garden as bleak. He was not alone anymore.

His children loved that park, they loved the hollowed out tree that they could stand inside, a burrow with no roof, Imogen pretending to be an owl and hooting with a rather alarming degree of accuracy. Felix would be the mouse, allowing his sister to jump from the tree with her father's help and grab hold of his back whilst he writhed around. The children understood nature. They understood when the park was closed at night and they could hear shots, the sounds of the weakest deer being felled for the yearly cull. At their age Richard had known much the same thing, that the weak must be sacrificed, that the strong will triumph but he did not have the savage beauty of the natural world to thank for that revelation.

He had walked through the neighboring council estate one evening when Mary and the children were in Yorkshire. He did not know why and it did not cross his mind that it would be foolish, that he should be concerned or even afraid for his safety. God knows he told the nanny to never, never take the children through the estate. The flats loomed ahead of him above the darkened expanse of trees and he felt a taste of Muirhouse on his lips, a stale taste.

It was a summer evening and gathered in a crescent on a rotting bench were a group of weathered, yellow-eyed men, younger or older than him he could not tell. They did not acknowledge him and the sweet distinctive smell of marijuana smoke tingled inside Richard's nostrils, he smiled a little at this, it had been a long time since he had experienced that aroma and it was comforting for being a forgotten familiarity. He crossed the road, leaving their garbled conversations behind and walked past the bus stop. He came to a stop beside a bench on the edge of the path that curved up the hill to the next swath of tower blocks. Richard looked back at the long foreboding buildings that ran at parallel angles across the green; they were beautiful in their way, lights illuminating architecture that was nothing if not distinctive.

He was less than a mile from his own front door and yet it was another world, a cold dystopia that sought to wrap a warm fist around his heart and remind him. You do not hate it here, you even feel a little at home. Mary would be horrified to think of him there and the thought of her snapped Richard from his reverie. This cell, Muirhouse, the person he had been; it was all disgusting when pressed close to her. Beautiful, Mary, exquisite and wonderfully privileged, raised and nurtured by a life Richard was barely able to pretend to understand. She had felt alone, trapped by rolling hills and a lush cultivated landscape, imprisoned in the walls of a palace. He leant forwards against the cinderblock wall of the cell and thought of dancing in the Great Hall at Downton during their wedding reception, of her relaxing in his hold and of the way it all seemed a dream. Richard Carlisle, who had used his mother's dustpan and brush to remove needles from the lift before escorting his sister to school, dancing with the daughter of an Earl in a place more beautiful and strange than any fantasy.

"Would it be trite to say this is the happiest day of my life?" He asks and she smiles and strokes his cheek.

Richard feels as if she is wiping away every tear that ever fell.

"Not if you mean it."

"I have never spoken a truer word," he replies and as he looks into her eyes he wants her to know and understand everything about him.

"The only thing that would make this moment more perfect is if it were taking place upstairs. Alone." A glint shines in her eyes but at that moment he does not want to joke, to tease, to allow the more base human desires to take over.

"I mean it, Mary," his voice drops and his face is very close to hers. "I am not an aristocrat but there is no-one who will cherish you more and the truth is all you will ever hear from me."

Her eyes shine a little then and she traces a line at the corner of his jaw, her face set but not unkind.

"Richard, don't make promises you may not be able to keep."

Richard pressed his forehead against the wall, laying his palms flat against the cool surface. She would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself.

Felix lay looking up at the underside of the canopy above the bed. He regretted shouting and throwing his rucksack against the wall. In hindsight these actions had been both unnecessary and upsetting for his mother and he bitterly regretted anything he did to upset her. They had not needed to say anything, the way they had looked at them, the small shakes of their heads and the sadness in their eyes had spoken volumes and Felix had not liked it. Don't you say anything about my Dad, don't you dare! He cringed inwardly now and felt a wave of heat color his cheeks. He had been rude to his grandparents and Daddy would not like that. He rolled over onto his front and buried his face in the freshly laundered pillowcase, allowing his body to go limp so it almost felt he was sinking into the mattress. He wanted to go back in time, far back, to be a baby who knew nothing of life but being carried and coddled.

He could have warned Daddy. If he'd been quicker then they could have escaped, run away into the night, through the park into the woods and hidden, the bright eyes of the deer flashing in the dark. He had been too slow and they had taken his father away, shouting and protesting. He had shivered so hard his teeth chattered inside his head but he was not cold and when they sat in the back of the police car, Felix had taken his mother's hand in his and the shake had vanished. Imogen had been sick, a sulphurous odor quickly fermenting around them as the windows were lowered and a cool rush of air caressed his face as the car accelerated. Tissues were hastily passed back through the grill that separated them from the driver and Felix took them from Mary's hands as she began to tremble too much to do anything other than hold Imogen in her lap. He wiped the vomit and saliva from his sister's mouth and neck, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear.

He would have to go and apologize to all of them but not now, now he wanted to be alone. Felix tried to empty his mind, to exclude every intrusive and unpleasant thought. He wished he had his bag. He turned his face as it became increasingly difficult to breath whilst having his nose and mouth pressed against the pillow. He tried to think of things he could draw when he had his sketchpad and pencils. He could draw this bed, the columns that looked as if they were twisted as easily as a piece of candy, smooth and polished to a shiny luster. Or the dressing table, he did not feel like drawing people, catching their living, moving imperfections, highlighting his own inability to snare their essence onto paper.

Imogen was the best likeness he'd captured, the profile of her cherubic face, the dimple in her cheek and the slight purse of her lips. He could not draw his father at all and the paper ended up being covered in the grey strands of the eraser that had scrubbed each pencil mark away. Whenever Felix tried his father looked scary, lined and strangely vacant. It was not what he saw, it was not what he felt when they were together, he felt like his father existed completely in those times he played with him. On paper a part of him seemed to fall away, he did not translate. It is practice, his mother smiled but Felix felt that however hard he practiced, however accomplished he became; he would not be able to recreate his father on paper.

Felix was told that he looked just like his father and he took this as a ringing compliment, a resounding endorsement of his own chances of succeeding at whatever he attempted. He walked a little taller holding his hand and he felt special, that was the most important thing Felix supposed, that his parents made him feel special. Whether he was being allowed to join his mother on a hack in the park or helping his father feed old documents into the shredder in his office, he felt that they were so inherently a part of each other that any activity was meaningful.

He could go riding, someone would have to come with him but he would feel calmer holding the reins, his knees bumping against the horse's middle. Of course he would not be able to go before the apology and the thought of this deflated the brief feeling of lightheartedness that the prospect of riding with his mother had promised. It wasn't that he was not sorry, he was, he was sorry for being rude, for hurting their feelings but he was mostly just sorry that Daddy was not here.

With a deep intake of breath Felix sat up and slid from the bed, leaning down and slipping his feet back into his trainers. You must always apologise when you're in the wrong.

"I'm sorry for being rude, Grandpapa, Grandmamma."

"Oh darling, apology accepted!" Cora said, taking his face between her cool hands and kissing his cheek.

"Where's my mum?"

"Your mother is lying down with Imogen," Robert said, resting his hand on his grandson's shoulder. "Perhaps you would like something to eat now?"

"I'm not hungry. I better go and see if they're okay," Felix replied.

"Let us take Isis for a walk, you can see them when we get back."

The boy nodded and accepted his grandfather's outstretched hand.

Mary let the water pour in stinging droplets onto her face as she stood in the shower. It was comforting, the unrelenting stream and it seemed to promise some release. She had spoken to Graves, who could tell her nothing and she hung up on him in a fit of pique. She would have to go back to London, as much as she wished to pull the sheets over her head and remain hidden from the world. She must hold her head high, whatever Richard had done. What had he done? She could not pretend she thought him a model of virtue, she knew there was something very dark in his heart and yet she embraced it without understanding. He had not climbed to his position without a driving force that was fearsome. She trusted implicitly that there was nothing more important to Richard than her and the children, nothing he would not do to protect them. She thought of his earnest expression that day of their wedding, of his promise to always tell her the truth and even as he meant it then she knew it was a promise he could not keep. For better, for worse.

Richard shuts the door of the bedroom that used to be hers and turns to smile at her. His cravat is loose around his neck and she smiles back. She smiles because they are alone and the day in all it's delirium and splendor has ended. They need not hear another sly remark, see another raised eyebrow as Richard says or does something that is considered unbecoming. Her family loves her and wants the best for her and she knows they believe Richard is not it, they do not know him and they don't know her. It hurts a little, the undertone of disapproval but not so much as to dampen her thirst and determination for them to succeed. Her husband reaches out and takes her hand, smoothing his thumb over her knuckles.

"And finally we are alone," he says.

"I can't wait to get out of this dress," she sighs, before adding quickly, "That isn't to say I haven't enjoyed wearing it."

"I don't think I will object to you removing it."

"It is going to need to be a joint effort," she says turning around so he is looking at the porcelain skin at the back of her neck.

Richard leans down and kisses the nape of her neck and Mary feels a flutter of pleasure. His masculine fingers struggle to find the small zip concealed beneath a delicate fold of lace running down the bodice of the gown. She watches him in the mirror so she can see the furrow of his brow; the fair hair smoothed back, his lips clenched together in concentration. Finally he manages it and Mary lets out a small sigh as his hands reach up to slip the lace from her shoulders, his lips resting against the hollow at the side of her neck. She takes his hand and draws it up around her to kiss his fingers.

"Have I embarrassed you today?" He asks as she releases him and he slides his hands down her arms, guiding the lace sleeves away so the top of the gown falls around her waist to reveal an ivory basque.

"No more than usual," she replies, catching his hand and putting the tip of his finger in her mouth. "I'm teasing you," she adds when he doesn't reply.

"Perhaps I'm feeling a little sensitive," he says, resting his chin over her shoulder for a moment before moving to undo the buttons on the front of his shirt, shrugging it from his shoulders.

"You must not let them get to you. Stick with me and you'll soon be able to play the part of hereditary peer with an ease that will aggravate Granny to the point of apoplexy."

"I will certainly stick with you," Richard allows his hands to wander over her hips to guide the rest of the dress to the floor, the tips of his fingers caressing the sides of her thighs and lingering over the tops of her stockings.

He plants a kiss on her shoulder and she leans back into his chest as he reaches round to rest his hands on her stomach.

"When shall we tell them?" he asks and she hears the apprehension behind his slightly gruff tone.

He is pleased, he has told her so, surprised but happy and Mary feels the prospect of telling her family is hanging over him. She is nervous too but stubborn and strong willed; she has defied them enough times in the past. Richard is not used to being openly disapproved of and it hurts him more than he is willing to let show.

"Not yet. Lets enjoy our honeymoon."

She places her delicate hands over his large rough ones and finds her breathing become shallow as Richard plants light kisses from her neck across her bare shoulder blade. She can teach him about cutlery, about titles, even how to ride a horse but he has taught her something much more. He has taught her there is freedom to be had, there is freedom to be ones self, to be raw and vulnerable, to hurt and to love. He tells her there is no trap that cannot be escaped if you are strong enough, and she is strong. He is such a powerful presence and yet he does not diminish her, he does not drown her out or dominate. She cares what her family thinks, of course she does, but she believes she can prove them wrong. They will never understand Richard; they have no concept of who he is. They see someone on the make, a social climber with a vulgar amount of material wealth, crowbarring his way into their lives. He has not forced his way into Mary's heart; it is as if he's always been there.

She turns around and she feels slightly breathless as she rests her hands on his warm chest, tilting her chin so their lips meet and he grips her tightly around the waist to pull her hard against him. She traces her hands down the soft hair of his chest and stomach and feels his skin tremble beneath her touch. She grabs the front of his trousers and tugs them down as the heat of his tongue fills her mouth. Mary pulls away from him and he catches her lip between his teeth so she gives a little gasp of excitement.

"Are you going to tease me all night?" Richard asks, stepping out of his trousers and pulling off his socks.

"Of course I am, darling," she confirms, giving him a gentle push in the chest so he falls back onto the bed.

Mary straddles him and a loose wave of hair falls into her face. She takes hold of him around both wrists either side of his head and leans down to kiss him once more. She is intoxicated and there is nothing more than every living, breathing pulse of desire that surges between them.

Mary gave an involuntary shudder as the memory closed its door to her and she wrapped the towel around herself. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, inhaling the thick steam that seemed to coat her skin. She thought of the first time she met Richard, of his smooth appraising gaze, of the expression in his eyes that seemed to suggest a challenge. Mary was so very rarely challenged and she smiled at her reflection now as she thought of the way he had quickly disarmed her that evening during a glamorous if tedious charity ball. It was almost ten years since their first meeting and with each day she passed at his side she felt freer, more herself. She evolved within his capacious hold and there was nothing she could not show him of her character. The wedding night spent here in this bedroom, their future unfolding out of sight ahead of them, had found her unafraid. What she felt now was more than fear, what was to come too much to begin to unravel and what happened to cause it too dangerous to consider.