Disclaimer: I own nothing...except Dara. She's all mine.

Chapter Ten

In her room, Dara lay atop the sheets with her good arm flung over her eyes, but she was not asleep.

The conversation in the kitchen ran continuously through her mind, aggravating her more and more with each repetition. She had seen a very different side of V during that conversation; a side that she didn't particularly like. Part of her wanted to strangle the man for his arrogance. Another part—the part that couldn't forget the sight of his hands—was torn between weeping for his pain and admiring his courage.

Unfortunately, strangulation was not an option at present—she was in no condition to mete out the punishment that he deserved. And while she did admire his courage, she wasn't about to cry over the man.

What she really wanted to do was go to sleep and forget about the whole insane situation for a few hours. God knew she needed it. But between the pounding in her head and the fullness of her thoughts, sleep was going to be a long time coming, if it came at all.

And so, she lay there in the dark. Thinking.

About V.

It was strange, but somehow it felt as if she had been worrying over the man for years, rather than days. He'd come barreling into her world like a hurricane; had wrapped himself within the very fabric of her life with an ease that should have frightened her. On the contrary though, she found herself enjoying every second spent in his company and eagerly awaiting the next moment she would share with him. On a certain level, even arguing with him was oddly satisfying.

She began to suspect that, given the time and the opportunity—of which the immediate future promised plenty of both—she might be in real danger of coming to care for the man more than she reasonably should. And she wasn't sure whether to be frightened of the possibility, or eager for it.

Dara was many things; romantic was not one of them. She had never had the time or the energy for a real relationship. There had been men in her life over the years, but none that she had ever considered more than mere temporary amusement. Thus, that she was so willingly admitting that the possibility for something more existed in regards to this particular man was more than a little unsettling.

And inconvenient. Oh yes, above all things inconvenient. This was no boy next door—no nice young man from two doors down who always held the lift for her when he saw her coming. This was a man made of secrets and complications. This was a man with more baggage than a luggage trolley at Heathrow. This was a man that any woman in her right mind would run away from as fast as she possibly could.

But it was undeniable and irresistible, the attraction she felt for him. It was also different from any similar feeling she had experienced previously. Unable to see his face, it was instead the personality behind the mask that drew her interest and set her nerves tingling with awareness. Of course, the figure he cut in his unrelieved black was an allurement all its own, bolstered even further by the memory of the corded steel she'd felt beneath all that dark fabric.

Even the vague knowledge of what the fabric concealed did nothing to diminish the strength of his appeal to her. Indeed, what she'd seen of his hands had done nothing more than rouse her sympathy; it had never even occurred to her to be disgusted by the sight of them.

Blowing out a long, slow breath, she squeezed her eyes shut harder.

"God help me," she muttered into the darkness. "I think I'm finally going right on round the bloody bend."

The sudden, unmistakable clash of steel upon steel sent her shooting upright. When it was followed almost immediately by another identical clang, this one punctuated by a shout from V, she was on her feet and out the door, fighter's instincts kicking in and the accompanying adrenaline surge making her forget all about the various aches and pains that dogged her.

Skidding around the corner of the hall into the main room, she stopped short.

It was another one of those moments. Her discovery of his flowered apron in the kitchen only a few hours earlier had been the first—a few seconds out of time that had allowed her a look behind the mask and the bravado. The glimpse of the man behind Fawkes' eternal grin had been tantalizing. The scene before her now was even more so.

She had not been mistaken—there was a battle being waged in the main chamber of the Gallery. But she had no fear that V's opponent would best him. The full suite of medieval armor was sturdy, but she doubted it would be any sort of match for the masked man who was currently circling it with the restrained violence of a tiger.

He had abandoned his jacket, and she was mildly surprised to see a gray shirt beneath his black vest. It was the most casual she had seen him dressed, and she thought that the look might be even more becoming than the full black that she was quickly coming to know as his uniform.

Slashing and jabbing, he moved lithely around the armor, and she could not help but note that his technique, while elaborate and likely effective against the majority of opponents he might face, nevertheless lacked proper training. She was in no hurry to correct him though. She was far too bemused by the picture he made to even think of interrupting the scene with criticism of his form and footwork.

To her utter delight, he grabbed a gauntleted arm, lifting it to his neck, struggling against his unmoving foe. A quick glance at the television revealed a similar scene being played out on the screen, and she could no longer hold back the smile that had been hovering over her lips since first stumbling into the room.

Throwing himself backward, V landed upon a Victorian chaise, a booted foot coming up to kick away his invisible adversary. He launched himself upright and swept the sword about dramatically, again perfectly imitating the actor on the screen before him.

"Ah…Mondego," he growled, thrusting at the armor, and then, with one last arcing swoop of his arm, he knocked the helm of the suit clear off, sending it tumbling across the floor. It rolled to a stop mere inches from Dara's socked feet.

"Oh…" he sucked in a sharp breath, his head dipping and the hand not holding the sword moving to straighten his vest, to brush stray strands of his wig back into place. "Forgive me," he murmured, clearly embarrassed. "I do hope that I did not wake you."

Smiling even wider and enjoying his obvious embarrassment far more than she should, Dara bent down to retrieve the helm from the floor. She winced a little as her head and shoulder gave simultaneous twinges of protest, but even that couldn't dim the wattage of her grin. "No," she assured, crossing the distance between them to come to a stop just before him. "I heard fighting," she continued, holding up the helm. "But I'm glad to see you've got the situation well in hand."

Clearing his throat and wanting nothing more than to sink into the carpet beneath his feet, V grabbed the helm from her. "Indeed…" He turned away, settling it back in its rightful place atop the neckpiece of his silent opponent. "I was merely…practicing."

Dara, not at all inclined to let him off the hook so easily—a remnant, perhaps, of their earlier disagreement—arched a brow at that. "Practicing?" She turned, eyeing the television briefly before returning her gaze to his. "Looked a lot more like playing from where I was standing."

Again, V cleared his throat, fidgety beneath her clear, candid gaze. "Yes…well…" he pointed toward the television. "The Count of Monte Cristo," he said almost defensively, turning to deposit his sword into the empty sheath strapped about the steel man's waist. "My favorite film."

That last had been said with something very close to pleading, and Dara decided that she had drawn out his discomfort enough. "Really?" She turned back to the television with interest, observing the film with a critical eye. "I love the story," she said, turning back to him, "but I don't think I've seen this version."

V relaxed then, recognizing the peace-offering for what it was. "It is, I believe, the finest adaptation of them all," he said, then paused. "Though, I have not been able to acquire a copy of the last version that was produced by Hollywood. I understand that it was quite well done."

"It was," Dara confirmed. "Wish I'd known—I've got the disc."

V shot her a look. "It is on the blacklist."

A one-shouldered shrug preceded the grin she gave him. "So're most of the films in my collection."

He chuckled. "For shame, my dear." A pause, and then, tentatively—"I could restart the film, if you'd like. Robert Donat makes an excellent Dantes."

"I could be persuaded," Dara replied, still watching the television. "But I've gotta know something first—does it follow the novel, or do Edmund and Mercedes get their happy ending?"

"It is the ending that Dumas denied us, presented as only celluloid can deliver."

"Well in that case," Dara slipped past him and settled herself down into a corner of the sofa, tipping her head back against the cushions to look him. "You gonna stand there all night, or you gonna restart the film?"

Her playfulness was infectious, as was the smile she wore. V's own lips bent in response behind the mask. "Your wish, my dear, is my command."