Chapter 17: Confronting Realities
"Thank goodness someone had the foresight to leave battery-operated lanterns in here," Laura commented, rubbing her arms while Remington sorted through a stockpile of blankets that had been left in a corner of the room. Tugging out the two least dusty from the bottom of the pile, with a wince he shook out one and lay it over the mattress on a nearby cot.
"If only they'd thought of heat," he groused, gingerly lowering himself to the mattress and leaning back against the chilled wall while Laura explored the room.
There were two doors on opposing walls, that stockpile of blankets, a pair of cots and, as far as she could tell, no source of ventilation. Struggling to pull a blanket over his shoulders, he gave up and let it fall to the bed. Drawing his legs up as far as he could to conserve body heat, he lay the back of his head against the wall and closed his eyes. Her keen eyes noted how stiffly he held himself and she took pity on him. Sitting down beside him, she drew the blanket around his shoulders. His eyes peeked open only long enough to cast a grateful look upon her, then he settled back in.
"I tried to warn you that you've been overdoing it." She couldn't help making the charge as she stood to pick up the backpack off the floor. Unzipping it, she removed the bottle of wine he'd swiped and the corkscrew. Eyes still closed he scowled, displeased.
"I could hardly predict us going on the lam," he grumbled. She efficiently removed the cork from the bottle – drawing him to open his eyes - and sat back down.
"This might help take the edge off," she suggested, handing him the bottle. "No glasses, so bottoms up."
"You're truly an angel of mercy, Laura," he praised, then tipped back the bottle. He took a sip, smacking his lips together after. "Mmmm. Good vintage," he praised, then indulged in another sample, "Excellent, actually." He offered her the bottle and she, too, took a drink. She hummed her appreciation.
"I agree," she concurred, handing him back the bottle.
"A little of this, a bit of a kip and I'll be good to go," he predicted. Her brows furrowed.
"A nap? How long are we going to be here?"
"As I said before," he replied with exaggerated patience, "I've no idea, although I imagine it will be after nightfall."
"Night—" she stopped short of repeating it, her frown deepening as her eyes raked the room. The scene was far too familiar for her liking, reminding her of the days they'd spent on the streets – penniless and hungry – not all that long ago.
She was suddenly a flurry of motion. She pulled the pillow off the second cot and moved it to the first, another pair of blankets from the bottom of the pile, one used as a makeshift pillowcase. She removed his shoes, sitting them neatly towards the head of the bed then plucked the bottle of wine from his hand.
"Get comfortable," she directed. Taking another sip of the wine, she set the bottle on the floor near his shoes.
His brows twitched upwards at the order, but he complied without a word, gingerly stretching out then shifting to try to find a comfortable position as his eyes followed her.
He recognized what was playing out before him for what it was: Her need to control the things she could. Opening the wooden box in which lanterns and batteries had been stored, she quickly counted up the number of batteries, then skimmed the label of one to determine each's longevity. With a sharp nod of her head, she assessed if used conservatively they had a solid twenty-four hours of light. To that end she switched off one of the lanterns and brought the second closer to the bed. Her purse and backpack joined the collection and finally her shoes.
Everything placed neatly together to make a quick exit, he noted with approval as she lay down on the cot next to him, adjusting the two blankets to assure he was fully covered. Easing an arm around her waist, he captured her hand and, as was his way, fell fast asleep. A hazard of his former trade, he'd say. There were times she might consider it a benefit. Never mind if people were hunting them and their 'perch' for the night was a culvert pipe or the trunk of a tree, he'd nod right off…
While she would spend most of the night on alert and going over their current situation again-and-again in her mind, until exhaustion finally took her.
This night was no different. She had no idea how long she lay there, staring into the hazy room before she gave up with a puff of frustration. Easing herself up carefully so not to wake the man beside her, she reached for her purse. Memo pad and pen in hand, she began recreating the careful notes left behind in their room when they'd fled.
Hours later, she dropped pen and pad to her lap and reached for her brow. Once her remembered notes had been transcribed into the notebook her mind had turned inevitably to Keyes.
The circumstantial case against her was strong, she'd realized with a heavy heart. There was no need for The Yard to even establish opportunity as she'd been there when the Bobbies had arrived. The means, also easily proven: A lamp in the room. As for motive? Keyes been behind Remington's deportation; he'd harassed Laura; he'd been arrested for battery upon her; he'd tried to frame her for robbery; and had even gone so far as to follow Remington to London. The alleged witness's claims to have heard a woman say she wanted to eliminate Keyes' interference in 'our' lives. Her best defense – the unending harassment at Keyes' hands – was also the perfect motive. Whoever had framed her had done an admiral job, maybe even comparable to Descoin's handiwork when he'd framed Remington.
Exhausted and thoughts swirling, she dropped pad and pen into her purse, then slipped downwards, beneath the arm Remington still had slung over her. He nuzzled closer to her in his sleep.
Daniel's illness. The target on Remington's back. The truth of his birth. Keyes'.
They needed help, a fact that had been difficult for her to comes to terms with given for the last three years they'd relied solely on one another. Yet, there it was.
Her last thought as she drifted off was how Remington would handle the news when she broke it to him.
Remington watched as Laura's brows twitched and then furrowed into a soft frown, having finally recognized in her dreams that she was being watched. Being the cautious sort, unlike most she didn't bound from the bed and spin around the room looking for a foe. No, not Laura, he mused. Her eyes opened only as far as needed to assess potential dangers. Finding the area in front of her empty and no shadows being cast, he could see when she recognized where she was… and precisely who's eyes were upon her. She wriggled over onto her back and smiled up at him.
"What time is it?" He glanced at his watch.
"A bit after one." She examined his face and body language for telltale signs that he was in pain.
"How do you feel?"
"Nearly good as new," he fibbed. He was still sore, but the rest had restored him enough that burning aches were reduced to merely annoying ones.
"Uh-huh," she replied dubiously, while pushing herself up into a sitting position, tucking her pillow between her back and the wall. He mimicked her position as she continued, "You need to rest until we get out of here. We have no idea what's ahead of us." He pursed his lips and wagged his head from side-to-side, playfully.
"I imagine I could be convinced to stay in bed…" he waggled his brows "…with the right persuasion." She pressed an open-eyed kiss to his lips, then deadpanned…
"A rousing round of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall?" He shriveled his nose in distaste.
"I'd rather eat a plate of your spaghetti." A laugh broke past her lips, she was so surprised by the off-handed insult.
"If I recall correctly, you said it was 'yummy'," she replied with mirth.
"I lied." They shared a laugh, then he sobered. He tucked that stray strand of hair behind her ear and, laying a hand against her neck, leveled her with a piercing gaze. "I was thinking more along the lines of a good conversation with a lovely young woman."
Her eyes flicked back-and-forth across his face and suspecting the specific conversation he had in mind, her stomach sank to the vicinity her toes. Yet, she recognized, he'd be distracted until they had it, and she needed his mind in the game.
"Why do I suspect you have something specific you'd like to discuss?" she brazenly asked. Amused by her addressing the matter head on instead of avoiding, a smile flitted across his face, before he grew serious again.
"We are planning to live together when I return to LA, aren't we?" He caressed her cheek with his thumb. She promptly averted her eyes. So, he'd been correct when he'd sensed her reticence after he'd mentioned living together that morning… and had seen the relief on her face when that conversation had been interrupted. With a pair of fingers, he drew her eyes back to his. "Don't you want that, Laura? Hmmm?" Her eyes held his and her chin ticked up a notch. So, she'd been correct about the topic he'd had in mind.
"That's a complicated question," she replied.
"It seems fairly simple to me," he retorted, with a smile meant to charm.
"Frankly, that's what worries me," she told him bluntly. "When Wilson first brought up living together, I envisioned romantic evenings with wine and flowers and lounging around in bed together on weekend mornings." He hummed his appreciation.
"Sounds good to me."
"It's a fantasy, Mr. Steele," she rebutted, her voice rising an octave as she stood, taking a blanket with her, then sat down on the opposite side of the bed, facing him, "And one on which reality quickly intrudes in the form of everyday life." Swiping the pillow, she'd left behind, he stuffed it behind his back, then leaned over the side of the bed and plucked up the bottle of wine. Taking a sip, he made himself comfortable, then offered the bottle to her. He'd suspected her time with Jeffries was behind her hesitancy – as it was with so many other aspects of their personal relationship
"How so?" he prodded. She took the offered bottle and tipped it up. Wise or not, she was parched.
"To begin with, where will we live? You hate the stairs and lack of privacy at the loft and there's no room for my piano in your condo."
"Then it seems finding a place suitable to our needs is in order, eh?" he proposed with a logic that surprised her.
"You'd be willing to move?"
"I don't care where I lay my head down at night, as long as it's next to you," he answered, with a charming little smile. Her eyes skittered away and her skin pinkened. There were still times when statements such as this left her flustered. She recovered admirably and forged ahead.
"Then there are the finances. There are any number of expenses we'd be sharing from rent and utilities to food and household supplies. We'll need to set up a household account to which we each contribute—"
"Household account?" he interrupted.
"A checking account to which we each contribute to cover the monthly expenses," she expounded. He scratched at his chin, perplexed.
"Seems overly complicated should you ask me. I suppose I'd assumed we'd just combine our finances given we'll be doing so anyway soon enough." He leaned forward as he said the last and took her hand in his, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her engagement ring, pointedly. One side of his mouth ticked upwards in a half smile, when she blinked a pair of times and her mouth opened and closed without a word uttered. He did so enjoy setting her off-balance.
"Combining our assets would mean a great deal of transparency," she noted carefully. He pondered the thought briefly and found he rather fancied the intimacy of their finances mingling.
"I've nothing to hide," he shrugged carelessly. For no other reason than to irritate her, he smiled smugly at her. "Do you?" Her brows snapped together, affronted.
"Of course not," she shot back. Pressing a hand over her heart she proclaimed her innocence, "I'm not the one in the habit of trying to slip purchases of racehorses and boats past you. I'm not the one who likes to book surprise vacations or creates cases out of thin air in an effort to sweep you away."
"Just trying for a bit of romance," he grinned, without a morsel of remorse. She couldn't help the small, short laugh that bubbled past her lips. The man was incorrigible. Nevertheless, she pointed a stern finger in the direction of his nose. He leaned back into the pillows again to avoid getting jabbed.
"Which will be difficult to do if we combine our finances," she pointed out. A light gleamed in his eyes.
"A challenge, Miss Holt?" Taking another sip the wine, he offered it to her again.
"Or maybe a warning, Mr. Steele," she grinned back at him before lifting the bottle to her mouth.
"What else?" he prodded. She caught him off-guard when she averted her head and stroked the base of her throat. He held his silence as she sorted out whatever it was troubling her. Finally, after several seconds had passed, she huffed aloud, as though disgusted with herself, then turned to look him in the eye.
"I'm not a housewife or the little woman and never will be," she announced, her chin tipping up a notch. "You won't come home to find a hot meal on the table unless it's takeout…" He couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his throat.
"Thank God." Her brows snapped together in a scowl.
"This is not a joking matter." Instantly, his face was a mask of contrition – although humor still sparkled in his eyes. He held up a hand in apology.
"Sorry, sorry. Go on."
"I'll put away your clothes when I wish but it is not my job to do so. I don't iron my own clothes, so don't expect me to iron yours: That's what the drycleaner is for and is one of the few indulgences I've always allowed myself." The laughter left his eyes and he watched her intently, as the realization dawned that she was describing her life with that Jeffries chap. He slowly sat up, moving in a bit closer to her in the process. "I like a clean house, so I'll do my share, but I won't spend my days cleaning while you're off playing golf because it is my job to do so. I love my job and won't put it on the backburner because I have 'responsibilities at home'. I won't turn myself inside out to be someone I'm not again and I won't be held responsible for my actions should you ever tell me to bring you your slippers. If you're expecting otherwise, we may as well—"
"I'm not Jeffries, Laura," he interrupted quietly, easing closer. "All of what you just described aren't shortcomings in my eyes, but part of your allure." He sealed his vow with a brief, supple kiss. She nodded her head as she drew in a deep breath then let it out slowly.
"We'll argue," she forewarned.
"With vigor, no doubt," he murmured, closing in for another kiss. Their heads snapped towards the rear door of the shelter in tandem when a knock sounded. Springing from the bed, ignoring the aches that accompanied the movement, he pressed a finger to his lips then approached the door cautiously.
"Remington, it's Thomas," the Earl of Claridge called from beyond the door. With a look back over his shoulders at Laura who shrugged as though saying 'What else can we do but open it?', Remington pried the thick piece of timber that acted as a bolt from its braces and sat it down. With a trio of solid shoves, the hinges gave way and the door swung open with a groan.
"Dr. Townsend!" Remington exclaimed, shocked by his physician's appearance.
"We haven't much time, I'm to understand," Townsend announced without preamble. "Have a seat on the cot, if you will. His Lordship has requested I make you as comfortable as possible for the trip. We can address whatever ailments you may have after we arrive."
"After we arrive?" Remington inquired, perplexed, sitting down as asked while Laura gathered together their few belongings.
"His Lordship has asked that I accompany you. Once you're settled and are given a clean bill of health, I'll return to England." Laura's head snapped up.
"We're leaving London? We can't do that," she insisted adamantly. "I can't clear my name from another city, let alone another country!"
"Your shirt, if you don't mind," Townsend instructed, as he dug through a bag he'd brought with him, removing two packages of wide Ace bandages from it. Remington's fingers moved down the row of buttons on his shirt, his keen eyes watching Laura.
"It can't be avoided, at the moment, I'm afraid," Thomas stepped in. "Cecil has taken your escape personally. Not only is every Bobbie in London looking for you but every news outlet has broadcast your pictures accompanied by the promise of a fair-sized reward for information leading to your apprehension."
"Lift your arms if you will." This from Townsend. Without thought, Remington raised his arms, his eyes remaining on Laura.
"Well, isn't this just peachy," she groused, tossing her arms up, then flopping down on side of the bed near her partner as Townsend set about wrapping his ribs.
"This really isn't necessary," Remington insisted.
"Better safe than sorry as they say," Townsend rebutted. "The first part of the trip, I'm to understand, will be rather… unpleasant." Remington and Laura exchanged looks.
"Where exactly are we going?" she asked, addressing Thomas.
"Ireland," he provided.
"Ireland?" Remington asked with disbelief, his fingers automatically rebuttoning his shirt once Townsend clipped the wrap.
"Yes, Ireland," Thomas confirmed. "I'll explain more once we're on board my plane. For now, we must hurry…"
A/N: Alright, friends, we'll pick up here with a pair of chapters on Saturday when we'll really start getting into the meat of this story as old faces arrive and secrets from the past are revealed.
Thank you for inquiring after my health. I am doing 90% better than a few months ago, but still encounter bouts of unrelenting exhaustion. It can take up to two years for that particular symptom to abate, so it's just the new normal... for now. ~RSteele82