A/N: "Retarded" is what I meant in the previous chapter, as in being impeded, being held up. But I changed it anyway, since it's obtrusive.

Also, I would be grateful if anyone could point me to a clear guideline of what's permissible in R rating, as opposed to NC-17. Thanks in advance.

Note that I've made Aoshi older than Kenshin for the purpose of this story.

Animelover: What's up with the faces? I don't think Megumi ever called Kaoru "my lady" when Kenshin could overhear, but if you find such a scene, please notice it to me.

Kenshin rode hard, his lids screwed up against the ferocious wind. His gaze stayed steadily on the road ahead, not paying attention to the dreary landscape parading past him, nor to the pounding of heavy hooves against the damp path. A raven croaked, somewhere overhead. He glanced up briefly. The sun was still young in the east. Good. He would make it in time.

"Samurai-san! Samurai-san! Slow down, or you are going to kill off our mounts."

Why was Soujiro intent on following him? The boy was peculiar, to say the least. Kenshin mistrusted his motives, and so he couldn't leave him with the ladies. But the point was a good one. Kenshin slowed down. It would pity to cripple the poor beasts. He kept a good pace nevertheless. It would be more pity still, if his father crippled him for being too late.

Or maybe not. His father would understand. A samurai worthy of the name couldn't leave a lady when she was struggling against illness, and possibly death. Especially if the lady in question happened to be your future bride. He only departed her when he was certain that she wasn't in danger anymore. It would be against the code of honor to do otherwise, and honor was everything for a warrior. His father knew this as well as he. Even the old egomaniacal man couldn't blame him for that.

In fact, he shouldn't have left her at all. But there were certain things that came before personal honor, when one was the son of a noble house. The family went first and foremost, and one didn't dishonor one's family by not presenting oneself before the emperor.

But that wasn't the exact truth either, he had to admit. He wouldn't lie to himself; that was the worst sort of deception. He was his father's second son. His brother was heir to their family's domain. He, on the other hand, was but a noble cadet like so many others in this country. His absence wouldn't have been much of an affront. Urgencies happened all the time; even the sacred emperor was powerless against them. No. The truth was, part of him had been eager to leave. Or, if he was perfectly honest with himself, eager to flee her presence.

Murderer, she'd called him.

His vision swayed. It had been some time since he last slept, he recalled. He was more tired than what he thought. He felt oddly disconnected with his senses. He was awake, and yet he moved as if in a dream. It was, he mused, very much like being drunk.

She'd called him a murderer.

Curses. Damn the woman. She carried a real blade with her, and appeared ready to use it. How could she not be aware that the art of the sword was the art of murder? He used his sword to protect. And in order to protect, he had to kill. There was nothing else to say, really. People died everyday, from hunger, from senseless violence, fallen to disease, or to war. Men, women. Children. The world was cruel, it was nothing new. And still each morning the sun rose in the east.

A murderer, him? Yes, he'd killed countless men. It was the way of the warrior, to take others' lives. It was what he did best. His father had taught him to do so since as long as he could remember. Hiko the thirteenth was a hard taskmaster, a slave driver. He made Kenshin fight his brother, almost every day. Kenshin always lost. Aoshi was older, and stronger. Kenshin'd grown up harboring a deep grudge against his brother. So he trained, and trained harder still. It was a harsh childhood, and there was no excess of sentimentalism in it. His father wanted his offspring to be tough and prepared for the outside world.

And then one day he won. He remembered well the shocked look on Aoshi's features. He'd felt an empty joy then, an almost sadistic pleasure. That day changed him. He never lost again since then. His self-confidence grew sharply, while at the same time a piece of him died. His brother had been his aim, the goal he longed to reach. He'd reached it, found the taste of victory bitter.

Since then he'd been to war with his lord father. Seen people die for futile causes, soldiers or innocent townsfolk. He'd lost too many of companions-in-arms, young men he'd been well acquainted with, some of them friends. They died, while he went on. Skill was what separated him from them. The skilled survived, while the less skilled didn't.

People whispered behind his back, he knew. Said that he was a cold-hearted bastard, a killer without emotions. He shrugged it off. They feared him, and were jealous of him. That he could deal with, disregard even. He fought for his family's ancestral lands, and for the weak. Wasn't that the ideal of the samurai?

But he'd wondered, when she cried in his arms. He saw her grief, so intense it made his chest tighten painfully. He ached to be at her side forever, to protect her, shelter her from hurting ever again. And he'd felt inadequate to do so. Insufficient. Filthy, his hands soiled. She deserved better, of that he was sure.

He'd wondered, too, if someone would weep for him if he died, like she wept for her mother. Would his father? His brother? Servants? Soldiers? Tomoe? Yes, at least Tomoe would grieve for him, he was fairly certain. He wanted to be certain.

Murderer. The memory lingered in his mind. For the first time in many years, he'd wished he could be otherwise. But he wasn't. Ironic, that he wasn't the culprit for once.

"See, samurai-san," Soujiro called, "We'll arrive soon."

He blinked. He'd become dangerously unfocused, his mind slipping away. He was far too tired for his own good, and was perilously vulnerable at the moment. He sneaked a glance at Soujiro. He couldn't read anything on the boy's face.

The imperial city loomed larger by the moment below them. Kyoto beckoned, shining its full glory in the morning's light rays. Kenshin remained insensitive to its beauty. He'd seen it far too often, and he cared not for the decadent pomp. He found it mildly repulsive, even. To think that farmers struggled to enrich their rice bowl with a piece of chicken of beef.

It was Hiko of Ise, lady Kaoru's maid said. He allowed himself a private laugh. He wasn't going to contradict them if that's what they believed. The lord Kamiya still held a grudge, it seemed, against his father. And his father had accepted the responsibility. As good as admitting the deed, Kenshin thought. His father was a fool to do so, to acknowledge a murder not his own. To let hatred grow so insidious, all those years. And why? For the sake of a lone woman? Just in the name of sentiment? The old man was growing senile.

But he could almost understand him, in a way. He'd experienced first hand what a woman could do to you, last night. Women, it was often said, were the downfall of the brave samurai. He had no doubt it was true. The way her finger titillated his skin…. He'd stood on a steep cliff then, his arms raised, reaching for the forbidden fruit. It had been so close. Too close. When she'd caressed his nipple, he'd felt aroused as never before in his life, his mind in turmoil. All his muscles had tensed by instinctive reflex. He hadn't dared to move, lest he made a fatal mistake. She was his future wife, he'd thought. He was going to have her in any case. Why not now, and virtue be damned? He'd been tempted, oh so tempted. And when she'd brushed against him, her lips tasting of peach against his, he'd felt inch-close to lose his control, to dive head first into the precipice, to take her, willing or unwilling.

He was no stranger to women. His father made sure of that. He'd known the company of geishas since his puberty. Part of his education. One fell easily to women's wiles if one didn't have prior experience of them, his father said. And so Kenshin experienced them in abundance. Many a hardened warrior, after all, have fallen prey to seemingly feeble women's snares. A lusty glance here, a childish pout there, and men who wouldn't hesitate to slaughter children became weak as babies. Fools.

Fools? He remembered his own weakness all too well. He was a fool too, for being so easily charmed by the lady Kaoru. And she had only been under the influence of some mushroom. He didn't want to think about what she could do if she gave it a deliberate try at seducing a clueless man. She would melt marble stone that way, he was sure. She was altogether too dangerous. What would people say, if they knew that the cruel Battousai would flee a frail woman? They would have some laugh, that was for sure. For a moment he considered letting her to her own fate. That would avoid him troubles to come, he was certain. Maybe she would find some stratagems to postpone or even break the proposed marriage. He would be glad for that.

Or a part of him would be glad. Another part of him wanted nothing more than rip the cursed kimono off her shoulders, and savor her skin. He wondered idly how she would taste. Of peach, like her lips? Of cherry? Or, like her scent, would she taste of jasmine? He wanted to know. He wanted to break through the ice of her cool regality, and find the fire he was sure of discovering beneath. He wanted his hands all over her, caressing her soft curves, driving her mad with soft torture. As a repayment of what she did to him, of course. He wanted to see her wild, calling his name in the throes of—

He shook himself. It was his imagination that was running wild. He didn't care for where the train of his thoughts were headed. He looked around for a distraction.

"Soujiro," he called. He slowed his pace, pulled his horse closer to Soujiro's.

"Yes, samurai-san?"

"Tell me more about this Houji."