A/N: My lovelies, this story is best read after "Do You Tango?" and "I Won't Dance, Don't Ask Me" from "We Are Scattered in Time in Space" # 64 and #66. Having read them, you'll get just a wee bit more out of this one, but as usual no pressure :)

Parts 2 and 3 have glossaries after them, please throw a glance at them. Again, just for a wee bit more fun in part 4 :)

I feel like I'm being a bit anal with this one, but I just like it so much myself, which is rare for me, I'm normally 47.5% satisfied with my writing, so forgive me? :D

WITH A BULLET AND A KISS

It's only forever, not long at all…

("Underground" by David Bowie)

1.

May 10th, 1756

A day before the Battle of Fontenoy, King George's War

Tournai, present day Belgium

Captain John Thorington was torn between two feelings, the ingrained into him sense of propriety, drilled into his character through the years of his privileged upbringing, and the temper he had inherited from all the knights and warriors in his ancestry. And jealousy, there was plenty of jealousy splashing in his mind. He could hear raised voices from the tent that belonged to Lieutenant Anderson, and all he could do is clench his fists and smoke angrily. Soon the tent moved, and he saw Anderson's wife, nee Leary rush outside. She was carrying a small modest suitcase, and she was more beautiful than Captain had ever seen. her. Other officers and even some of the soldiers would often prattle that they could not understand what such dashing, attractive and respected officer as Lieutenant August Anderson would find in this small, rather odd, freckled redhead. Thorington could. And he hated himself for it. For the jealousy that made him grind his teeth, for the lustful dreams, for the times she would catch him unable to tear his eyes of her. She was indeed generally considered unattractive, but for Captain she was a Venus. He adored and desired everything about her, from small strong hands to wilful, stubborn character, from the feminine little curls that escaped her do at her neck to her habit to give him a sarcastic look when she considered his orders unreasonable. Anderson married Wren Leary without asking his Colonel's permission, but everyone's adoration towards him and his father's money had gotten him out of this trouble. And that started Thorington's personal hell. She would have dinner with other officers' wives in the tent shared by the officers and their families, in an elegant grey dress, with a red carnation pinned to her hair, and Thorington would flee. She played piano rather decently, and he couldn't stop staring at her small fingers. But Anderson was his best officer and the honour of a British officer wouldn't let Captain to even consider any sort of improvement of his torturous situation.

He didn't get a chance to ask Anderson of what had transpired between them, as the battle started, and just two hours into the military action a French bullet pierced Anderson's heart. He died immediately, and Thorington had other matters to attend.

In the middle of the battle he was barking orders to soldiers moving heavily wounded to the abandoned house in the nearby village, when he saw a swoosh of bright copper curls, and he realized that he was looking at none other but the widow of Lieutenant Anderson. He rushed to her when a cannon exploded the ground just a few hundreds feet away. She fell, and he picked her up. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck, and she muttered, "Where is he? Where is August?"

He placed her on a safe spot behind a half ruined wall of some barn and yelled at her, "Are you mad, Wren?" He didn't know himself why he was addressing her by her name. "What are you doing here?"

"I came back, I need to see him, he needs to give me the papers!" He stared at her like at a madman. She was pale but didn't cry. She jerked her chin up. "He threw me out, but I need the marriage certificate. I need the proof that my child is not illegitimate!"

He looked at her minuscule waist and decided that even that didn't matter. "He is dead, Wren. Killed a few hours ago, a bullet right through the heart."

He knew that was the moment of truth. He was watching her face with intense, greedy attention. She frowned, and her eyes went glassy. "So it is over… My life is over… I am a fallen woman now… He threatened me… Said he would destroy the certificate, to make me a harlot that I am, and he did… He ruined me..."

"Wren, look at me! What are you talking about?"

"He accused me of an affair, although he himself hadn't been much of a loyal husband as you probably know..." Thorington did. And he had never understood. To have her and to seek other women, he simply could not conceive it. Her tone was sarcastic, which didn't match the dead hollow expression on her face. "He demanded me to go back to England to my family, and I asked if I could say I was a widow… And he laughed into my face… I came back to look for the certificate, and then I saw that all the tents are burnt, and he was my only hope... I was planning to demand him to ensure my child's right for his name..."

"Wren..." Cannons started a new wave, and he had no time for it. But for once in his life his heart made a decision over his mind. "Wren, I will go to the court with you. I know you are worried about the name for your child, but I will witness your claims." She looked at him in confusion. "When the war is over, I will find you and will help you."

She gave him a long studying look and then suddenly shook her head. "No, I'm not accepting your help, Captain. I cannot drag a future baronet through this dirt." He clenched his jaw. He didn't care much for his ancestry.

"Don't be foolish, Wren..."

"No!" She suddenly tried to get up, and he jerked her down.

"Stay down, you mad woman!" When he jerked her, she fell on his lap, and suddenly he realized that he hardly had any chance to survive this day, or at least could use that as an excuse, and he pulled her into a passionate kiss. She squeaked and then immediately rushed into it herself. Her hands were pulling the hair at the back of his head, and she bit into his bottom lip painfully.

"My Lord, John..." This time it was her who addressed him by his name, and he lost whatever self-control he had left. He was pressing her into him, crushing her small body, and greedily kissing her he let the words to pour out.

"Wren, my darling... My love… My star… Goodness, I love you… I will find you! When the war is over, I will find you, and I will marry you. And I will take you with his child or not… And damn it all, you are mine now..."

She responded with no less fervour, her mouth opened letting him in, and she moaned loudly, "He accused me of loving you… Of preferring you to him… Oh, Lord, he was right..."

He half growled, half wailed from her words and bit into her neck. It was the wrong time, and the wrong place, but he never felt more exhilaratingly happy in his life. Another cannon boomed, and he pushed her away from him.

"Get out of here, you mad woman!" She was staring at him, completely dazed from his caresses, and he guffawed and pulled her into one more short kiss. "And give me your damn address!"

She was sitting in a cart carrying her away from the battlefield and from the man she loved, and her heart was calm. Men like him didn't lie. Men like him didn't die at war either, they led their soldiers bravely into combat and then returned home to keep their promises.

2.

December 17th, 1844

London, Britain

Two mug-hunters were standing in a dark alley, one of them twirling a short knife in his hand. "How do we know that's where he is going sartain to pass?"

"That's his usual route, you mug. Right from the club and home. Don't forget the plan, Archie." The first crook snarled through his yellow teeth.

"Shut your tatur-trap! Why don't you yell my name so that the whole street can hear you? It's like we carolling here instead of putting someone's lights out!" They stood bickering in hissing tone for another half an hour, when the exquisite black carriage they were expecting showed up around the corner. The woman who was with them and had remained silent all through their row punched one of them.

"It's time, you mouths, that's the mark!"

As agreed she stepped out at the road and started flailing her arms, attracting the attention of the coachman. The giant, bear like man holding the reigns of the carriage of Mr. Thorington, Esq., was well known around London, especially in its lower classes. An excellent boxer, wild temperament, shaved head, massive fists of the size of sledgehammers, Graham Dwalinson was as they say a flummut, and had to be snuffed first. The girl rushed under the wheels of the carriage, Dwalinson jerked the reins, and the crook jumped out of the alley, quickly stabbing the blade under Dwalinson's ribs, while choking him with the second hand.

When the second badger jerked the door of the carriage open, he found it emoty, as the owner of it had lunged out of it on the other side. He was fast, his muscled well-trained body clad in a black dinner jacket flashed like a shadow through the alley, and with a hiss a hidden blade slid out of a tall cane.

He rushed towards his coachman, quickly blocking the attack of the second crook, while the first one was still struggling with quickly weakening Dwalinson on the ground. At that moment Mr. Thorington received a heavy blow to his right shoulder by the woman. He was two heads higher, while she was still tall for a woman, and thusly she only reached as high, but she was broad and strong and had an indubitable advantage. The gentleman couldn't return a blow. She was a woman. He fell on the ground and rolled away from her. She quickly stepped on his wrist, and he let the blade out of his fingers.

And that's when the first shot was fired. The woman standing over him swirled, as if under hypnosis he saw blood gushing out of her shoulder, and she started keeling on the ground, dropping a slop baton she had in her hand.

In the dim light of the gas streetlamp Thorington saw the most remarkable spectacle. A tiny feminine figure, in a demure dark burgundy dress, was standing aiming a barrel of each of her pistols precisely at the forehead of each of the crooks. A third gun was smoking at her feet. She obviously wouldn't have had time to reload it after shooting the woman, now weakly thrashing and raspily breathing on the pavement stone.

"Gentlemen, something tells me you should probably find yourself another place for your beer and skittles," her voice was confident and sarcastic, with a strong Irish accent. The crook holding Dwalinson down, who had lost consciousness by then, swore dirtily, and the girl tut-tutted reproachfully. "What a language in a presence of a lady!"

The second crook who had his blade pressed to Thorington's throat when his woman stepped on the gentleman's hand snarled, "I don't see no lady here! Just a mot from Kensington. You are that red, Leary, aren't you? Why don't you keep on walking, bobtail? Do you want us to visit you tomorrow at your counter?"

She grinned wider and stepped into the light. Thorington noticed the indeed flaming hair, freckled nose and a wide red mouth without any pomade. One red carnation was pinned to her chest.

"Darling, who says you'll be walking anywhere tomorrow? I'm an excellent shot and the funny thing about this torturous dress, there is plenty of room under these skirts. Who says I'm not hiding any more irons there? So why don't you let this nice gentleman go and I'll forget your frontispiece when a harness asks?" The crooks exchanged dark looks. "And isn't it your convenient bleeding on the stone? Shame for such bit o'jam to die in this filthy alley."

One of the crooks rose and picked up his woman. The second one let go of Thorington, who immediately rushed to his coachman, and in a matter of seconds a gentleman, his coachman and a barmaid were left alone.

She pushed the pistols in the harnesses hidden below her bloomers, from the corner of his eye he noticed the movement when she lifted her skirts and immediately looked away, and she fell on her knees near Dwalinson as well. They untangled a dirty rope from his neck, and Thorington jerked his servant's coat and vest open. He pressed his silk handkerchief into the wound, and finally looked at his saviour. She looked modest and put together, as if she hadn't been holding two men under the aim of two elegant pistols just a moment ago.

"I thank you for your intervention, my lady." She smiled to him from a corner of her mouth. "What is your name, miss? Leary? Did I understand it right you are a barmaid at the Kensington Station?"

"Yes, sir, Wren Leary," she pulled a white clean handkerchief out of her purse and pushed it under his palms. "I will run for help, sir. Do you live nearby? Any servants that can come out and send for the doctor?"

"The big red house, on the Melbury Road."

"Dash my wig! You are quite an oak, aren't you?" Her voice was jolly, though she frowned worrying about the man unconscious on the road. She jumped on her feet and suddenly started bunching up her skirts. He hastily looked away. "Here, I'm leaving one of the irons with you. They might still come back. Why did they even decide to heave you?"

"They didn't. I'm afraid my cousin is after my title of a baronet!" She whistled, and he suddenly found it endearing.

"Goodness, you are more of a tulip of a goes, aren't you?" She chuckled, and picked up her skirts to run. He stopped fighting with himself and allowed himself to appreciate the delicate ankles. "Oh, since we only live once," she muttered and suddenly leaned in and caught his mouth. The kiss was very short, chaste, her lips pressed together tightly, but his head swam. "That's my last chance to kiss a baronet after all!" She giggled and rushed towards Melbury Road.

If John Thorington, Esq. knew anything about himself, and he had always prided himself on his sharp self perception, that wasn't the last time she kissed a baronet. He was also certain his mother's emeralds would look exceptionally well on her long elegant neck.

Glossary:

mug-hunter - a robber, criminal

sartain - certainly

mug - an idiot

Shut your tatur-trap! - Shut up!

out someone's lights out - to kill

mark - a victim

flummut - dangerous

snuff - to kill

badger - a criminal

slop - a policeman

beer and skittles - fun

mot - a prostitute

bobtail - a prostitute again, gee…

iron - a gun

frontispiece - a face

harness - a policeman

convenient - a mistress

bit o'jam - an attractive woman

Dash my wig! - an exclamation of surprise

oak - a rich, possibly aristocratic person

heave - to rob

a tulip of a goes - the highest class

3.

April 23rd, 1922

Chicago, Illinois, USA

The Coonan brothers, Ronnie and Jimmy, were holding a tommy gun in each of their massive hands, yelling at a bank clerk. All the customers of the bank were lying face down on the floor, and a puddle was growing under the feet of the terrified employee. Recently having arrived from Ireland, the Coonan brothers took Chicago by storm. Some said they brought an arsenal with them. But their fame of blood thirsty murderers wasn't the only thing that had followed them over the pool.

Meanwhile, Wren Leary, a modest teacher from the Middletown School, suddenly felt very angry. She was sure to die now, and what would she have to remember in the last few seconds of her miserable life of a bluenose? A boring dusty classroom, lonely evenings in her small rented room, ugly clothes, and the three kisses that she had ever had in her life. By the contract most teachers if they were unmarried women were not allowed to keep a company of men, to use any cosmetics, were supposed to wear at least two petticoats and couldn't attend ice cream parlours. The last one was most rhatz, she loved ice cream. At least she found it hotsy-totsy those few times she tried it. And all for what? For a miserable salary and no chance to meet a good husband, that's for sure, not with her looks, but had she become a flapper she'd at least have had some fun before she'd go. And look at her now, stretched on the floor, in a boring grey skirt suit, no shorter than two inches above the ankle, just according to the contract, and a robbery roaring above her red head.

To her right she saw a man lying on the floor, and something made her look for the second time. And not just his bee's knees looks, though she'd have to use a flapper word here and say, cat's meow! Icy blue eyes, long nose, and the most sensual line of lips she'd seen in her life. She'd always been embarrassingly fond of Jane Eyre, and he easily could be another Rochester. Although no, too keen, but the cantankerous cold expression in his eyes would be on the spot. But it wasn't all this that made her look again. It was that he was calm. While she was more scared than ever in her life, he looked as if he was just reposing waiting for his bus. And then his hand slipped under his jacket, and she understood that shooting was about to start.

She squeezed her eyes shut and decided to pray to St. Brigit, she was Irish after all. The blue-eyed baby grand jumped on his feet, she guessed by the rustle and the thump of his heels, and yelling and the tra-ta-ta-ta of the machine gun started. People screamed, someone was yelling orders with a British accent, and suddenly a strong arm wrapped around her, and she was dragged to stand up. She was so short that, since the man was holding her tightly to his wide chest, her feet dangled in the air. A gun barrel pressed to her head, and her eyes flew open.

"Hey, Thorington," Jimmy Coonan yelled, and she realized that the bank became a battlefield, with the Coonan gang on one of its ends, hiding behind desks and in the offices, and the man from the floor and several more, who were probably bulls, on the other. "How about some spaghetti sauce? Look at this birdie, so fresh, so tender," he pressed his lips to her temple, and her body jerked, "And smells so nice. I know how much you hate unnecessary slaughter! How about I start with this red bird?"

She saw the upper half of the face of the one called Thorington show above one of the desks, and their eyes met.

"Let the girl go, Jimmy! I don't negotiate!" His voice was low and confident, with an obvious British accent. "I crossed the ocean to get you, I don't give rat's arse about one girl!"

"Aren't you feeling guilty, Thorington? Young, naive, pure... Look at this red barnet! Makes me home sick!" He pressed her tighter to him, and she felt nauseated. She quickly regretted her thought from a few minutes ago that she was going to die without knowing what it was like to be in a man's arms. She definitely didn't like this feeling. Perhaps, St. Brigid had a bad sense of humour. And then she realized that the solid thing poking her back wasn't what she tried not to think about but a handle of a gun.

Wren Leary had never in her life had any adventures, hadn't been anyhow brave or daring, but something snapped inside her. If she was to die, she'd die fighting. And at the moment she had only one weapon. Her round perky bum. She pressed it back and rubbed to the gangster's crotch. He jerked and looked at her aghast. She kept her eyes low, hoping he couldn't see her terrified eyes, and slid her hand back and between them. Driven by some sudden inspiration she ran her fingers on his stomach, and he made a low snorty sound in his throat.

And then two things happened at the same time. Detective Thorington from Scotland Yard stood up in all his impressive height, his wide shoulders squared, the bank gasped, and he lifted his chin. "Let the girl go, Jimmy."

And Wren pulled the trigger of Jimmy Coonan's pocket gun, a bullet stitching through his foot. The gangster wailed, everybody moved at the same time, deafening rattle of tommy gun swayed in the air, and Wren dropped on the floor covered by Detective Thorington's heavy body. All air was knocked out of her, and she whimpered. He rolled her under the nearest counter, she quickly remembered how they handle rolled up carpets in Hudson's, and leaped into action. She stopped watching, curled in a tight ball, plugged her ears and prayed to all possible saints this time. Brigid seemed to be rather useless last time. When the bank finally quieted, someone touched her shoulder, and she squealed.

"Now you decided to behave like a proper girl?" Thorington's sarcastic tone sounded relieved underneath. "Anything hurt?" All she could do was to shake her head, and he pulled her from under the counter and into his arms. She pressed into him, manners be damned. The guy was a walking nookie and smelled so nice! She was entitled. He chuckled and cupped the back of her head.

"What's your name, miss?"

"Wren Leary," she hiccuped and nuzzled his chest.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Leary. Detective John Thorington, Scotland Yard." She screwed her eyes and saw that he was still holding a gun in his other hand.

"Are we safe now?" She was pointedly looking at the grey fabric of his suit. She remembered the gangster's words about the "spaghetti sauce," and decided the nice black buttons were a much safer subject to look at it. Thorington seemed to understand.

"Hey, agent, I'll step out to the fresh air. Our little hero here looks a bit greenish." A few warm-hearted chuckles from officers and Prohibition Bureau agents were an answer to him, and he led her through the back door. She stepped into the back alley and lifted her face to the blue sky.

"It's alright to feel sick. Since I doubt you have ever shot a gun before." She shook her head keeping her eyes on the sky. She felt he was studying her, but she just wanted to enjoy life since it honestly had just acquired a new meaning to her.

"I think I'm going to quit teaching," she addressed the sky, "I can't even have ice cream in peace with all their bloody rules," her accent was thicker now, and she felt him step closer to her. She finally looked at him. He was standing close, but not looming over her, and suddenly he radiantly smiled to her. Her heart stuttered. Cat's meow indeed!

"I know this lovely ice cream place in East London, you'll love it." She gave him a confused look, and he guffawed. "Alright, Miss Wren Leary, knowing that you are quite a shot I'll be earnest. I really want to kiss you now. Cash or check, Leary?" She gave it a thought and quickly imagined licking ice cream from that soft bottom lip.

"Posilutely cash, detective."

Glossary:

bluenose - a prude person

rhatz - disappointing

hotsy-totsy - pleasing

bee's knees - extremely good, exquisite

cat's meow - something splendid or stylish

keen - attractive

baby grand - a large, heavily built man

bull - a policeman

barnet - (British slang) hair

Cash or check? - Do you want to kiss now or later?

4.

November, 12th, 2013

London, UK

"Leary, common, Leary, stay with me!" Everything swam before Wren's eyes, "Common, Leary, you have to hold on! Don't do this to me, Wren..." His large hands were pressed to the bullet hole in her chest, and she frantically blinked. "Common, you owe me a dance, remember? You said, you'd dance with me again." He apparently turned his head, since his blue eyes, the only thing previously sharp in her vision, disappeared. "Where's the bloody medic?! We have an officer down!"

"Detective..." Her voice was weak, but she really needed him to look at her. She hated the wanker, but she liked when he was looking at her. What's it all about, she wondered. Usually she hid from men's eyes, but not from his. He made her feel warm, and odd goosebumps would run down her back. "Thorington..."

"I'm here, love, I'm here, you just hold on, would you?" She didn't know he could sound so frightened.

"You are groping my tits..." He chuckled.

"Well, that might be my only chance, Leary. Doubt, I'm getting any from you once you are at your full capacity. You don't fancy me much, no idea why." He was taking a piss out of her, but his voice was shaking.

She thought she could hear approaching sirens. Everything went fuzzy, her eyes rolled back, and she heard his panicked voice.

"No, no, Leary, stay with me, common, Wrennie, please..." She didn't know he could sound so pleading either.

Everything was dark, and then for a second sparks exploded behind her lids. The medics were loading her into the ambulance, and the thump of her body woke up the pain in her chest. She opened her eyes above the oxygen mask. The first thing she noticed was Throington's hands grasping the fingers of her right one. She knew it was him, no one else was that hot. His remarkable eyes were roaming her face.

"Leary," his voice was soft, and she gulped weakly. "We are almost at the hospital, you just hold on there, OK?" His thumbs brushed her knuckles. "You did well there, but honestly taking a bullet for me was a bit excessive. Seriously, you could have just bought me a drink..." His voice was mocking but his eyes weren't laughing. The pain in the chest suddenly grew excruciating, and the world went blank.

In the darkness of her unconsciousness there swam some barmy images, the red tricycle from her childhood, the flapper dress from Aunt Muriel's birthday costume party, a tommy gun, some Regency era military red coats, which didn't make any sense, pretty much as the images of Thorington in a Victorian high collared black coat, and then sharply and clearly the sensation of his lips on hers, which was mental, since she had never kissed him in her life, or had she?

She opened her eyes and stared at the white hospital wall. There were flowers and balloons in her room. Thorington came three days later, thankfully after they let her take a somewhat resemblance of a shower for the first time. She had bandages across her tits, but she was lucky apparently. She suspected it was something they told everyone. Either you were lucky, or you were dead.

He looked good, in a red cashmere sweater over a white tee, and she tried to remember why she had hated him so much before. She was hoping he would say something in his old, posh wanker tone, and stopped looking at her so tenderly. She hated toff Thorington, she honestly didn't know what to do with this one. He had a bouquet of her favourite red carnations in his hand, and her eyebrows jumped up.

"You talk in your sleep, Leary." Bugger, she did. She couldn't find her voice. A nurse rushed in, she brought a vase for his flowers, he thanked her, she swooned. Bint. Thorington stopped noticing her right away and moved a chair to sit near Wren's bed. The nurse awkwardly shifted between her feet and left.

"So what is it about ice cream in East London and licking it off my bottom lip, Leary?" His eyes were sparkly, and she stared at him her jaw slacked.

"What?"

"After the surgery, you were arsed up and kept on talking about leaving Chicago for London, and flapper dresses, so I assumed that's after Muriel's costume party, but then you started blabbering about kissing a baronet and called me Captain Thorington, 7th Dragoons Regiment. I got a bit worried about you, Leary."

She stared at him frowning. "Sounds like a complete poppycock. Don't know what that's… Honestly I was pumped with drugs and..." He picked up her hand from the sheet, and she choked on her words. His palms were scorching, fingers long and strong and it felt very, very nice. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the very center of her palm. "I would have done it for any other officer!" She blurted out, and if not for the severe blood loss, she'd be red as a beetroot now. He hummed into her palm nonchalantly, and his lips slipped on the inner side of her wrist, "That didn't mean anything..." That sounded very convincing, especially the squeak at the end of the sentence.

He chuckled and lifted his eyes at her. Bollocks, she honestly didn't understand what had happened. It was still him, the puffed up toff wanker, who treated her like dirt and a piece of meat. Chauvinistic, narcissistic, egoistic…

She jumped, she pushed him away, she got his bullet by accident. Any officer would have done the same for a colleague. No biggie. Bollocks. He put her hand back on the bed and pressed his cheek over it. She had never in her life wanted anything as much as to touch his hair at that moment. She could almost imagine how lush, heavy, silky these dark strands were. They were quiet for a few seconds, she apparently lost all will power, and then he shifted again and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

"Cash or check, Leary?" Why did this just do magical things to her fanny? And what's with some mental deja vu?

"What?!"

"I'm going down to the cafeteria. Do they take cash or check? And do you want anything?" She felt blotto. Something was happening, and she seemed to have no control over it. Like a whirlpool. Her and Thorington were a whirlpool. Was he saying he was going to get some food and sit in front of her and continue making her bloody jittery by his sudden caring disposition? He seemed to clearly see her frantic mental squawking and smirked to her, but again, there was no venom in it anymore. She knew he'd asked her a question but for the life of her she couldn't remember what it was.

He got up and gave her a look over. And then he leaned in and kissed her. She had never been kissed like that. It wasn't his experience, not his amazing taste, not the soft warm lips. It was just him. All of him. Magical, overwhelming, familiar... He started moving away, he had obviously been aiming for a quick peck on the lips, but then he paused and dove in back. It was quickly becoming way too serious for a snog when she was on a hospital bed and he was just grateful for her back up. She wrapped her arm, unattached to some manky tubes and monitors, around his neck, and he made a low noise in his throat.

He tore his mouth from hers, one of his arms on the sheet, on the other side of her body, all his massive body looming over her. He dropped his head, a long dark strand brushed her neck, she had apparently messed up his ponytail at some point, and he was breathing heavily.

"Damn it, Leary… Damn it..." He shook his head like a pony, apparently incapable of more eloquent statements, "I knew I should have waited till you are better… Really shouldn't have kissed you..."

"Why?" She squeaked again.

"Because now that's all I'll be thinking about until we finally shag."

She should have told him to sod off with his narcissism and his assurance that every bird would eventually end up between his sheets, but Wren Leary was brave enough to admit that wasn't what it was all about. And they both knew it.

He lifted his head and looked at her, his face almost irritated. She gave him an haughty look. It was his fault, he kissed a girl who was shot less than a week ago, now he had to wait.

"Damn it, Leary," he repeated and straightened up, "Get better faster, would you?" He left the room, and she pressed her hand to her lips. They were tingling, and she could still taste him on them.

"And for the record," she jumped up from his teasing voice. He stuck his head and shoulders back into the room and smiled, "I don't have a harem of wifelets, whatever your friend Thea claimed, and I do believe my great aunt's emeralds will look lovely on your neck. Although my nan's pearls will look better with the wedding dress."