They awoke with fresh eyes the next day. Even the fact that they'd passed out in their clothes with an empty bottle of Champagne between them, did nothing to quieten their over-arching feeling of hope for the day and their future. Revelations had been made last night with oblique references to proposals of marriage. There was every reason to be beaming from ear to ear, which they were, all the way down to Breakfast.

It was then that it happened.

Peter, a few steps ahead of Assumpta saw it first – the other guests at Meadow's Retreat. Among the other mini-breaking couples was a coven of men dressed in black, occupying prime position in the Breakfast Room's Bay window.

The Bishop and two Parish Priests, all together eating muesli over the Sunday Papers. A three known well by Peter – and all three knew him all too well.

"Assumpta – I"

The panic was all over Peter's face. Without another word, Assumpta ascended back up the stairs but for the curate it was too late –

"Mr Clifford, good morning." Norma apprehended him from the foot of the stairs and led him into the breakfast room. "I have a table for your right here. Will your fiancée be joining us?"

"Sick," Peter managed to splutter, thinking a thousand miles an hour about how best to excuse himself before the Diocese noticed him there.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Should I send for the doctor?"

Peter tried his best to keep his voice low, watching his peers from a distance "It's fine, thank you. In fact – " he added hastily, "I think I should go back and check on her."

"You sit down, duck." Norma poured him a large cup of coffee and arranged some toast on his plate. Peter got the impression that she'd been a mother to boys – now men that, no doubt, were still being waited on somewhere in the vicinity. "Now, you'll be wanting the full Irish no doubt. Coming up."

Peter wasn't really sure what to do. He was sat at the furthest table away from the Bishop's party with their backs to him. Should he just stay there? Would standing up now draw undue attention to him? He decided to risk it.

"Father Peter!"

Peter flinched back into his chair. The game was up. "Bishop," he said back by way of greeting. "Father Michael, John – how are you all?"

"Grand, just grand there." Father John spoke back. "Funny little world finding you here. Are you in town for the Cardinal's visit too?"

Oh great, there was now a Cardinal in the mix also.

"No, just taking some time. Sightseeing, you know."

"Sightseeing?" The Bishop eyed him suspiciously. "I think you mean something else, perhaps?"

The colour drained completely from Peter's face. Being caught in a lie wasn't great at the best of times – when your Holy Superior did it, it was something else altogether.

"A pub-seeing weekend – am I right?"

The Bishop and his comrades exploded into laughter. It seemed that Peter's reputation as a bar fly had preceded him – little did they know that it was just one pub in particular.

"We'd love to join you Peter, but we're house-bound all day – this exact spot, in fact."

"Strategizing." Father Mike said, tapping his index finger to his nose. "For his Holy Excellency's huddle."

Peter eyed him with incredulity. Cardinal's now had huddles? Catholicism was being dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century. "So, you'll be down here all day – until bedtime?"

"Your man here runs a tight ship – everything has to be perfect." Ever the suck up, Father John grinned nauseatingly over to the Bishop.

"…and Norma here will keep us rich in Barry's Tea, won't you then?"

Norma appeared from nowhere to deliver Peter his breakfast and to replenish each of their drinks. "You'll not be rich in anything else," she said with a wink.

Peter ate in silence as the other men returned to their Sunday papers and machinations, counting the minutes before he could leave without rousing suspicion.

This was going to be a long morning.

…

Back in the room, Assumpta filled her time by, well, filling the bath with hot water and every complimentary bottle of smellies she could lay her hands on. If she was to be stuck in this room, she'd make damn sure she'd be stuck in it in style.

She had changed into the hotel's complimentary bathrobe – available to purchase, naturally – and sat idly on the bath's edge, trailing patterns into the running water, inwardly seething at this morning's events.

Another interruption. Yet another interruption. They were damned if they did, and damned if they didn't it would seem.

Assumpta peeled off her robe and sank into the huge, copper-plate tub. The water immersed her small frame completely, it's warmth a blanket for her ill-temper.

She tried to decide why she was angry – poor luck aside, it was really no one's fault that they'd run into yet more clergy. This was Ireland, for goodness sake! You couldn't spit without hitting one – believe her, she'd tried.

She was principally angry because she was hungry – and hungry, because she was unlucky – unlucky enough to pick the only hotel in Dublin which housed three members of the clergy.

Well, four counting Peter, she conceded to herself.

Clergy.

By all accounts he was still a Catholic Priest. So far, they had yet to do anything which would ruin his vocation entirely – no more than, if rumour were to be believed, any other Wicklow Priest has already done.

It was her principal reason for detesting the Catholic church as she had – the hypocrisy. In fact, every Priest she'd ever met had been a charlatan in some way, shape or form – every Priest had disappointed her, every Priest bar one.

Peter.

Assumpta dunked her head under water as if to wash away her sin. All it did was make her hair wet.

He was the best Priest her village had ever had. Honest, kind, open and well, modern – his departure from the cloth wouldn't be taken lightly by his congregation. Their relationship wouldn't be taken lightly either, she also realised. Assumpta had images of pitchforks and torches – of an organised boycott of her pub and livelihood. She anticipated much more than name-calling and abuse. She half expected to have an 'A' stitched onto her person.

They would have to leave town, that much was certain. Manchester, perhaps? Or somewhere exotic – Rome or Monte Carlo? Australia. She could make a good living pulling pints Down Under. Assumpta considered her options thoughtfully as the door to the room creaked open.

Peter was carrying a napkin parcel of food and a copy of The Irish Times. He might as well have been bringing her What Priest! magazine for the good it would do her.

He stopped behind the antique room divider, nervous to come in. "You okay in there? I brought breakfast."

"Peter, won't you just come in? You've seen me naked before."

Hesitantly, the curate shuffled to the other side of the screen and sat on the closed lavatory. The pair studied one another for a moment, basking in this new and unfamiliar domesticity.

"Better not be thinking of using that toilet…"

And of course she had to spoil it.

Peter smirked and stared down at his feet. One by one he removed his shoes, socks and shirt.

"Getting naked for me now, are you?" Assumpta laid back into the high crest of the bathtub. "Bubbles and a show."

Tentatively, he unbuttoned his fly, doing so slowly as if he'd forgotten how to do this. It became immediately apparent that he was planning on joining her in the bath, which made Assumpta feel all kinds of funny. Aroused, almost certainly, but also bashful and shy. Her nudity became very apparent to her, all of a sudden.

And, upon the removal of his trousers, so did his.

Assumpta scooted up to give him access as Peter squeezed all 6ft 3inches of his frame into the now tepid water. With the absence of any other reasonable place to stow them, she wrapped her legs around his hips as he leaned into her embrace.

"So, are we stuck in here forever?"

"For the time being, at least."

Assumpta ran the heel of her foot along his inner thigh idly. "Shame," she whispered into his temple.

"I don't know how we'll wile away the hours."

"Got a crossword puzzle, perhaps?"

Peter felt as the arch of her foot gently massage his cock. Ohhhh… is that what she really had in mind?

"Is this what you Catholics call Purgatory?" she asked him carefully. "Being stuck somewhere without any hope to leave?"

"Nothing Purgatory about this…" he gasped as she replaced her foot with her hand, tugging him gently beneath the water.

"What if I kept you here indefinitely? Vacillating between two worlds – one where you're a Priest and I'm your publican…"

"That one didn't work for me," he interjected quickly.

"Then the other – where you go downstairs and tell those esteemed colleagues of yours that you're here on holiday with your girlfriend."

The malice in her voice and the sudden absence of her hand jarred the curate from his reverie. "You know that I can't do that" he told her seriously, pining for his happy place from just moments ago.

Assumpta moved him to the end of the bath to give her room enough to exit. He could tell by the way her body tensed that he was about to be the target of that infamous Fitzgerald rages.

He gave her a moment to calm down but when it seemed obvious that wouldn't materialise, he tried to reason with her. "You know that I need to leave on my own terms, Assumpta. There's protocol to follow – a code of departure."

"But telling Ambrose and Niamh was okay? You were all for making this public knowledge to prevent me from going out with anyone else – " By now she was back in her clothes and shoes, pacing on the Turkish rug behind him.

"They're our friends, Assumpta – it's hardly a direct line to the Vatican!"

Begrudgingly Peter exited the bath, pulling a towel around his waist. He'd hoped this morning would go better – or at the very least, differently. He sat down on the foot of the bed, hoping that she'd calm down enough to at least join him.

Instead she continued with her pacing. "What's your exit strategy, Peter? I need to know – do you even have one?"

He felt he had to answer her plainly. "Not as of yet – but Assumpta, you can't take that to mean that there won't be one. I'm committed to this – to you."

"So you keep saying –"

" – which is more, I might add, than you've ever said." Peter felt his temper rising. This was so completely unlike him but from nowhere he found the words which he felt needed to be said. "How do I know that you're committed to me, hmmm? How do I know that you're not just here for notch on your bedpost – hey, you defrocked a Priest! There's a story you can take to the bank. Have that boyfriend of yours, Leo, to write a sordid tell-all about your experi – "

It was then that Peter realised that he had gone too far.

Assumpta was no longer pacing. She was no longer angry. The only look on her face was that of unequivocal pain. That was what he truly thought of her? That was what he believed?

"I – I have to go."

"Assumpta, wait." Peter stood up to follow her but by the time that he reached the door, he remembered he was dressed in only a towel. He cursed, uncharacteristically, and attempted to gather up his clothes and dress at speed. He'd all but forgotten about the coven of Priests downstairs. His only concern was getting to Assumpta – his only concern was to take back his words.

By the time he reached the front of the hotel, she was already gone. The Javelin remained parked in its usual spot and there were no transport links to speak of – where the hell was she?

This commotion of course, hadn't gone unnoticed by the Bishop. A voice spoke solemnly from behind, "Something troubling you there, Peter?"

He waited a beat and turned to face his superior. No further questions were required – Peter wore his pain like a death mask.

"I think we'd better go in, don't you?"

...

A/N - Thanks again for your lovely reviews. Just a few more chapters left of this one i'm afraid - and perhaps an M-rated epilogue if there's any demand!