*Sorry if my set-up confused anyone. We are alternating between Richard and Camille's individual dreams, they are not sharing a dream.*

Part 7 of 8

… she's in the garden, surrounded by lengthening shadows and the heady perfume of roses. She glances about. Well! I really DO have roses back here! But these aren't the roses that I intend to show him. Not at all. She grins slyly, pulls her neckline down to near disaster, plumps up her décolletage, and listens very carefully.

She hears near-silent footsteps, the soft rasp of metal on metal then the swing of freshly oiled hinges. A shapely shadow ripples onto the lush pathway before her and she sighs low. The shadow stills then wavers as it changes course and Lord F steps into view wearing a most richly hued green jacket. He sees her there in the semi-gloom and his eyes light up. She holds out her hands and he rushes to her.

"My dear," he mutters, "I wasn't sure you would be here but I'm so glad you are. I'd almost forgotten how exciting a secret assignation can be, especially with someone as mysterious and exotic as thee." He kisses her hands feather-soft, feather-light, as only a Lord F could.

She leans down to brush lips against his coiffure. She longs to run her fingers through it, let the silky strands delight her skin, but he flinches and pulls away.

"Careful, my lovely, you mustn't tousle me," he says with a frown, running a hand over his hair to check that everything is still in place.

She frowns, "I mustn't? Why mustn't I? I want to. Why can't I? You're going to be more than tousled by the time I get done with you!" She lifts a hand again but he catches it abruptly.

"It takes my man half an hour to groom me properly in the morning. If you disturb me then everyone will see… everyone will know…" He tugs her hands down and away, looking annoyed.

She narrows her eyes, "Oh, I see. Can I at least stroke your hair? It's so lovely, so…"

"No," he snorts, "you may not, the very idea is unseemly." He takes a deep breath as if to collect himself. "Now then, let's get down to business, shall we?" He reaches down to the front of his breeches and smirks as he begins to unbutton.

She steps back, "What are you doing?"

He pauses as if translating her words from some foreign language, "Um, I'm releasing the hound, as we used to say back in my Navy days. Come, my pet, skirts up!"

She steps back another pace, "What? Just like that?! No sweet talk, no kissing, no 'how was your day', no shy banter?" Her eyes begin to heat up… and not in a good way.

He frowns, looking nonplussed, "Why would I care? You invited me here for a bit of rumpy-pumpy and I am more than happy to participate. Now, skirts up, if you please!" He resumes unbuttoning.

Camille growls and hauls her neckline up to previously unheard of heights, "No!"

He looks up, green eyes so familiar and yet so strange, "I beg your pardon?"

She stamps a foot, "I said 'NO'! I'm not some street corner floozy you can just order around! I'm not here for your pleasure; you are here for MY pleasure! And I'm beginning to think maybe it isn't such a pleasure after all!"

He goggles at her for a moment than grins, "Ah, I see, so that's your game, is it? Well, fine, I don't mind a bit of the rough stuff. Adds spice to the sugar." He steps towards her, arms reaching, her stillness fooling him into thinking she's compliant.

But Lady Sainte-Marie is ANY thing but compliant at this point in time. She waits until he is right up in front of her and then…

… Camille Bordey grunts in her sleep as a knee jerks up to tent the sheet atop her. Her breathing is a bit fast and she seems to be doing something with her hands, ruffling something up rather roughly perhaps but then she quiets and resumes a slow steady slumber once more, a very satisfied smile on her face.

END – part 7