Chapter 9: Trouble with Travel

June 1988

Olivia was but seven months old when she became a seasoned international traveler, besting her own mother by twenty-seven years.

She was absolutely the apple of both her parents' eyes. She'd grown into a chubby little baby, with blue eyes as bright as her father's and his dark, lush hair, that already needed to be pinned back off her face with a barrette. She'd mastered the art of sitting up by five and a half months, scooting by six, and at seven months she was crawling everywhere, giving her parents a veritable run for their money as they chased after her trying to keep her from toppling over this or falling down that, her delighted giggles lighting the way the entire time. She had her Mommy's temper… and lungs… letting anyone near or far know when she was unhappy or frustrated, which wasn't very often, by setting off an ear-piercing scream that Remington and Laura would swear had punctured their ear drums a time or two.

But oh, she had her Da wrapped around her little finger and she knew it. Nearly anywhere they went, Olivia would be held securely in one arm, her little legs wrapped around his sides, while her hands kept busy yanking on her father's hair, tugging on an earlobe or grabbing his tie so that she might teethe on it. Her mother would look on, bemused, as the fastidious Mr. Steele who'd once proclaimed…

"Remington Steele never shows up wrinkled."

…appeared to think nothing of showing up slobbered upon with one side of his hair sticking up every which way. The man who once thought waking before eight 'the height of folly' was now lured from his bed and the warmth of his wife's body shortly after dawn each morning, as his small daughter would immediately begin chortling "Da Da" the moment she woke knowing he would come for her with a smile lighting his face as he greeted her…

"Maidin mhaith, a thaisce. Cad iad na rudaí nua atá ag fanacht linn inniu, hmmm?" (Good morning, my treasure. What wonderful new things await us today?)

Much as it was when she was first born, she kept her Da company in the kitchen as he prepared the evening meal, although she no longer occupied the bouncy seat but a high chair parked near at hand. On Sunday morning, a new tradition had evolved: Remington, with the assistance of Olivia, of course, preparing breakfast in bed for Laura, but now father and daughter tumbled into bed with Mommy to enjoy breakfast with her. It was a treasured time for all three of them. And on Saturday mornings when Remington would return from an early polo match? His beloved little girl would chortle with glee, clap her hands, while calling to him…

"Da Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

He'd sweep her up in one arm, bussing her upon the cheek, before gathering her mother in his other arm and seeking her lips.

Laura might have felt left out by the obvious love affair between father and daughter, but, to the contrary, she relished it. She'd once dared to predict…

"Who knows? Remington Steele might prove a good father some day."

His relationship with their daughter bore that prediction true and she watched with great pride over the relationship between the two. But that's not to say she was left out in the cold, not by any means. There were times in which no one but Mommy would do. Bath time was their exclusive time, Olivia cooing and squealing as she splashed in the tub, soaking both her mother and the floor. At naptime, it was Mommy Olivia wanted to rock her, to sing to her until she was lulled to sleep while Da would do in a pinch at night.

Now, as they rode the ferry to Island Santorini, Olivia laughing into the breeze, Laura tucked underneath Remington's chin and his arms embracing them both, Laura simply couldn't stop smiling. As their second anniversary had approached, as well as Olivia's Baptism, they'd begun making plans for the two weeks the Agency would close: Two nights at Ashford to honor when they'd finally taken that step towards the future which was now their reality… and to check in on their investment, of course; four nights in London, to spend time with Thomas and Catherine; and then six full nights in Oia, where Olivia would not only be Baptized, but they'd celebrate their second wedding anniversary. In the week before they were to depart, Laura had often found herself snickering behind a hand or laughing outright, as her normally suave husband was reduced to a bowl of quivering gelatin, worrying, as he was, about all that might go wrong during their daughter's first travels.

"Perhaps we should consult with the pediatrician," he'd suggested one night, as he worried a thumb with his teeth. "Make certain the babe being at such high altitudes will bring no harm, eh?"

"What if she finds she can't sleep in a strange crib?" he'd worried another, as they lay in bed. "I suppose we could always ship her crib to Ashford, then make arrangements for it to be stowed on the ship and train to London, hmmm?"

"Even at this time of the year, Ireland can hold quite a nip in the air," he'd fretted over dinner one evening. "What if she should fall ill? I'll just make certain Mickeline, Father and Elaina have a pediatrician's phone number at hand."

But it was what had happened on the morning of their departure for Ireland that had left her in fits of helpless giggles. Their baggage stowed in the trunk of the limo, Olivia sat perched on Laura's lap on the couch as her mother played with and sing-songed to her. For the half-dozenth time in the last ten minutes, she heard Remington's footfalls on the stairs on his way back downstairs. Standing in the doorway to the living room, he rubbed at his face with his hand, clearly frustrated, before dropping to hands and knees, crawling across the floor and looking under chairs, tables, loveseats and sofas.

"What are you doing?!" she'd asked. He shoved up into a kneeling position when he answered.

"Have you any idea where her blanket has gotten off to?" he inquired. "The pink one with the satin on the edges?" He twirled his finger as though indicating the outside of the blanket. "As you well know, she can't sleep without the blasted thing, and I can't find it anywhere!" She'd tried not to laugh, she really had, but by the time he'd finished, she was powerless to stop it. Bewitched by her Mommy's laughter, Olivia's own had joined in as well.

"You mean the one," Laura pointed in the general direction of his person, "Hanging off your shoulder?" He glanced in the direction she pointed, then did a double take. A flush spread over his skin, mortified as he was at the oversight, as he took to his feet and brushed a hand at the knees of his slacks. Crossing the room, he plucked Olivia off her lap, then held out a hand to her.

"Really, Laura, mustn't dawdle or we'll miss our flight," he admonished. Her laughter had followed them out of the house, and had periodically erupted again throughout the morning as she recalled the incident.

Their stay at Ashmore had been simultaneously overwhelming and amusing. Mickeline and staff were beside themselves with the return of the Earl and Countess of Claridge, but it was over Little Lady Steele that they'd fawned. Mickeline had made certain the room closest to the master quarters was completely renovated to befit both a little girl and the royalty that the wee one was. Laura had wandered the room, drawing her fingers along the glossy white wainscoting, the pink damask wall paper, had fingered the delicate hand knit blankets, the drapes of Irish lace, truly humbled by the efforts made on behalf of their little girl. Remington had made all the appropriate oooh's and ahhh's, and warmly thanked Mickeline and staff for their efforts but as soon as the door to the room had closed, had once again begun to ruminate.

"I was thinking, Laura." The way he spoke had her turning to look at him. "Perhaps it would be best if we simply installed the babe's crib on the other side of our room." The comment earned the flash of a dimple.

"Oh?" She said nothing more.

"The walls in these castles are so thick, there's every chance we wouldn't hear if Olivia needed us," he suggested.

"I suppose it's a good thing you had the foresight to pack the baby monitor, then," she grinned.

"But suppose it doesn't do the job?" She poked the tip of her tongue into a cheek, trying not to laugh. "She could be in her wailing, quite alone, and we'd have no idea.

"I understand," she appeared to agree, then added. "And Mr. Steele?" In hindsight, he should have realized that particular name to address him had meant he'd by no means walk away a victor in this little decision.

"Yes, Mrs. Steele?" He walked over to her, smiling, and bending his head to touch his lips to hers before gathering her closer, relieved she had been so readily accepting of his concerns.

"I can honestly say I never thought I'd see the day you'd choose to forgo our…" she tiptoed her fingers up his chest "…physical relationship for days, maybe even weeks in order to see to the comfort of our child. I'm impressed. A little disappointed, as I'd looked forwards to our nights here… alone… but impressed." His back straightened and he peered down at her, wondering what she was blathering on about.

"Uh, Laura, precisely when did I say I was willing to 'forgo' our physical relationship?"

"Well," she drew out the word, and looked up at him with wide-eyed innocence, "You know I couldn't possibly make love with you when our very alert and curious child is in the same room as us." His back stiffened and he stared down at her to see if she was serious. His heart sunk to his toes when he realized she was. Abstinent? Here, off all places? With his wife's lovely, lithe body pressed against his throughout the evenings as they slept? Well, that thought was untenable.

"Perhaps we should test those monitors, eh?" he offered. "No need to hastily move the crib should we be able to hear her." He chose to ignore her laughter, covering her lips with his and kissing her senseless until she forgot what she'd found so amusing.

They'd put that alone time in the evenings to good use. How could they not, with the memories that swirled about them in that master suite? Their first open admissions of how they felt about one another, their efforts to find their way past the difficulties in the wake of Remington's attempt to marry the hooker… the first time, well times, making love. It was here, in this place, more so than anywhere else, that their marriage had become quite real to them both, and had served as the impetus of the wedding in Greece. A heady night of lovemaking ended near dawn as their bodies shuddered in unison, and Remington collapsed partially atop Laura, his head laying on her breast, an arm and a leg wrapped around her.

"That was…" Laura panted, as she fingered his sweat dampened hair back off his forehead.

"Indescribable," he finished the thought for her, seeking out her hand and twining their fingers together then brushing his lips across her fingers. He shifted off at her to lay on his side and waited as she turned to face him. Tucking one of her legs between his and resting her head on his upper arm, she closed her eyes as his fingers journeyed, whisper soft, over her eyes, cheeks, neck, while his other hand played in her hair. "There are still days, Laura, where I'm afraid to wake for fear this life that has somehow become mine is nothing more than a dream." Her eyes blinked open at his words, and she considered him at length.

"But it's not," she reminded him, simply, resting a palm against his cheek. He nodded slowly, his eyes resting upon her as he continued to caress her face, neck, shoulders. She allowed the silence to linger as he worked through whatever it was on his mind, her hand stroking his back, side, fingers stopping to toy with the thick hair of his chest before returning to his back again.

"My God, Laura," he breathed, "Nearly two years later, and I still ache for you as much as I did all those years when you kept me at bay." Her only answer was a waggle of her brows and a touch of her lips against his. He cupped her cheek with his hand, his thumb caressing it. "Have you any idea how very much I love you?" he asked, gruffly.

"Yeah, I do," she answered with a quiet confidence that soothed his heart. "It's still nice to hear the words every once in a while, though," she added, softly. She fingered back a few wild strands of hair behind his ear. "I love you, too, you know." He closed his eyes, savoring the words, then cupped the back of her head and pressed two hard kisses to her lips. He turned a mischievous eye on her.

"Enough so that you might finally refer to me as 'My Lord'?" Her lyrical laughter filled his ears.

"Not and mean it," she refused… or so it seemed, until a tip of a flirtatious finger trekked along his jaw then down his chest. "But, I might be willing to fulfill a fantasy tomorrow night, should you appropriate the correct clothing." He swallowed hard then smiled wide, gathering her close then bussing the top of her head once she tucked it beneath his chin to sleep.

No, not a dream, he mused, as he closed his eye, letting the rhythm of the hand that whispered absently over his back, lure him towards sleep. Never in a million years could I dream up anyone quite like her.

That fantasy had, indeed come true, when Remington had managed to rent a gentleman's suit and a wench's dress in Galway. She'd driven him mad with her missish comments, her doe-eyed looks, and deep curtsies, each time intoning a subservient "My Lord." Her antics had enflamed him so, that both had a bit of trouble ignoring their various aches and pains the following morning as they'd begun their journey to London.

A journey which would be taken one suitcase heavier than when they'd arrived, as the staff at Ashford had buried their 'Little Lady' in gifts and trinkets: delicate lace dresses, hand knit sweaters, crocheted blankets, hand crafted cloth books and a rag doll, humming tops and jumping jacks… the list went on. It was reminiscent of two years prior when everywhere Remington had traversed he'd been handed an outstanding bill for castle upkeep, except now he or Laura were handed a gift for the babe. They both said a silent prayer of thanks, when they'd boarded the boat for England, that at least they'd not be laden down with further gifts in London, as Thomas was nothing if not practical.

Of course, they hadn't anticipated Catherine. Thomas and Catherine had stayed in LA for just shy of ten weeks after Olivia's birth, both thoroughly enamored with the little one. For days on end, Catherine had appeared to have something on her mind, and finally, on the last day of their stay in the States, she'd summoned the courage to demurely request…

"I was hoping, perhaps, Olivia might refer to me as Grandmum." At the look of surprise found on both Remington and Laura's face, she hastened to add, "I know I'm nothing more than your stepmother, Remington. If I've overstepped my bounds, please, accept my apology." Thomas had reached for his wife's hand and given it a supportive squeeze.

"You've done no such thing," Remington assured. "I suppose Laura and I were both caught a bit off-guard as we'd assumed you'd naturally take on an appellation in that vein." Laura nodded at Catherine.

"He's right," she agreed aloud.

At the front door that evening, as Remington and Laura had bid the couple farewell and safe travels, Thomas had hugged his son, then shaken his hand.

"Thank you, son." Said son gave him a perplexed look.

"Whatever for?"

"For the kindness you and Laura extended Catherine," he elaborated. "We'll never have children of own, so Olivia may be the closest she ever comes to having a grandchild."

"There was nothing 'kind' about it at all," Remington corrected. "It's a simple matter of fact: By way of being married to my father, she is, quite simply, Olivia's grandmother. We'd never consider denying Olivia the connection to someone who so clearly loves her."

And Catherine had apparently taken that role to heart, for she'd showered Olivia not only with time, but, Laura would swear, every piece of well-tailored, smocked and embroidered children's clothing in London. Dresses, longalls, and nightgowns, in every pastel shade one might imagine. Mary Janes in red, white, pink, and black. Tights and frilly socks to match those dresses, which would be complemented by those shoes. Barrettes and ribbons for her hair. She'd been avalanched in enough clothing, shoes and accessories that Laura and Remington wouldn't have to consider buying a single piece of clothing until the following winter.

"I may have gotten a bit carried away," Catherine apologized, as she looked at the clothing which cluttered nearly every surface of Remington and Laura's bedroom at their townhouse. "I simply couldn't help myself. I've dreamt for a lifetime of how I'd dress a little girl of my own, so once I began, I was unable to stop!"

"No!" Laura protested, feeling awful Catherine had caught on to her restraint. "They're all so lovely! I can't thank you enough. Really, I can't. I'm just… overwhelmed… by your thoughtfulness."

Catherine had readily accepted her explanation but that night, after they'd prepared for bed, Laura had flopped onto her back, then huffed a none-too-eloquent breath out. Chuckling, Remington had stretched out on his side next to her, laying a hand on her stomach and rubbing.

"Does it really distress you that my family has showered Olivia with gifts?" he wondered aloud. She turned her head and gave him a rueful look.

"That's not it at all," she denied. "I'm simply beginning to realize we're going to need a home the size of Ashford if this keeps up," she added ruefully. She turned on her side to face him. "In truth, I'm terrified just thinking about what might await us at her Baptism." He grinned down at her, as he lifted her hair over her shoulder.

"Well, let me put your mind at ease. The Androkus family has a long-standing tradition where Baptisms are concerned, as they do for most anything else," he informed her. "All guests are to present only cash or savings bonds to the child in question, although they are not obligated to do anything at all. The only gift to be bestowed upon the child is by the godparents – a token to represent the events of the day, that the child may keep with them always." She sighed deeply, in relief.

"It's no wonder I adore your family," she commented, with a quiet smile.

"Mmmmm, and it's a feeling returned by them for you," he noted, then leaned in to touch his lips to her cheek then brow. A smile lifted her lips.

"Is something on your mind, Mr. Steele?" she inquired, teasingly, as he continued to pepper her face with tiny kisses.

"Most assuredly, Mrs. Steele," he hummed.

With a laugh then a sigh, all concerns regarding Olivia's recent acquisitions faded away.

Now, here they stood at the bow of the ferry, watching as Island Santorini approached.

"I don't think I'll ever grow tired of this particular view," she breathed. He tilted his head to look down at Laura and Olivia.

"I know I won't," he murmured, smiling when she slanted her eyes towards him. "Uh, Laura… I think you need to be prepared for the number of people that will be likely awaiting our arrival at Marcos and Elena's," he forewarned.

"Oh, I remember what it was like two years ago," she assured him, then caught him tugging at his ear out of the corner of her eye. "Remington—" she drew out his name warningly.

"Then, I'd merely brought home a wife… as shocking as that was," he began. "But now, not only do I bring home that same wife on the occasion of our second anniversary, but our first child, as well." He mulled for a long second then added, "Announced, at that." She drew in a deep breath and released it slowly.

"How many people?"

"A rough estimate? Two hundred or so, throughout the evening." That called for another deep, cleansing breath.

"Alright," she elongated the word. She'd expected thirty, maybe forty people, given Marcos, Elena, their three children and their children's families already equated to twenty or so people. Then there were the family members who were always at the house: Alex, Stavros, Mikos and, Oh, God, Ioseph. "I imagine Ioseph is still… irritated, after… events… last year?"

The year prior, when Laura and Remington had spent their anniversary on the islands, they'd been shooed off to confession by Elena – nothing surprising there. However, try as they might, the couple was unable to come up with a thing between them, which would require reconciliation. Ioseph, Remington's 'cousin' and Priest, believing they were being deceptive therefore not only violating the sanctity of the sacrament, but disrespecting his authority with the Church, had sought out proof of their deceit. Believing he'd found it, he'd Ioseph had attempted to enlist his Aunt Elena's aid in redressing the situation, but instead had turned a pleasant dinner on its head, thanks to his fervent intent to indict them. His efforts with Elena had failed, but had enraged Marcos. As such, Ioseph was 'sentenced', so to speak, to hard labor upon his Uncle's ship, so that he might have the time to consider his own transgressions. Ioseph had been thoroughly put out, and kept that feeling secret from no one.

"I dunno," he admitted. "However, I imagine it will go one of two ways."

"And those are?" She hoisted Olivia higher on her side. Seamlessly, Remington plucked the baby from her arms, plunked the baby on his hip, and wrapped his arm back around her.

"Well," he drew out the word, while dropping a shoulder then raising it again, "Given how much Ioseph detests physical labor, we can hope he won't wish to press his luck with Marcos again so soon, and will hold the peace until the mood to do otherwise strikes him…" Her brows knit together.

"Or?" Unseen behind her, he pursed his lips, giving a sway to is head, before a single corner of his lips, lifted into a smile.

"Or," he answered, drawing out the word, "When we go to confession, which you know we must before the Baptism, he'll nail us to the wall with a very large stake for whatever transgressions we confess to, no matter how small. Then we'll have to decide if we'll, forgive the expression, take it like a man and do every last bloody one of whatever we are assigned—"

"And why would we do that?!" she barked a laugh.

"Because if we don't, he'll plead out of officiating over Olivia's Baptism by telling Elena he is uncomfortable doing so given our refusal to respect his authority in the Church—" Her back stiffened.

"He wouldn't dare!" she proclaimed, flabbergasted a Priest could be so petty. He raised and dropped that shoulder again.

"Laura, you've met the man…"

"He would," she groaned. "So, he'd punish an infant for our so called sins, while breaking Elena's heart in the process! He'd never get away with it. Marcos would-"

"Assign him to further labor on the ship. Yes, yes." He took a breath and let it out, then finished ruefully. "But even that assignment to hard labor would have its own point: He'll do the time, but in the end, it is he that can do the most damage and all in the name of God." She could only shake her head.

"The sword it is, then," she concluded the only way she could.

"The sword it is," he concurred.

A/N: I will not be posting for a while – two weeks, maybe three at the outside due to a bit of a crisis that needs my undivided attention. When I return we'll have only two chapters or so, before we begin moving into the meat of this story. ~ RSteele82