Okay, yes, I believe I said that this chapter would be up very quickly... but in my defense, it ended up being a bit longer than I anticipated AND I had a lot of stuff to get done for school. I'm a little unsure about this chapter, so please, please, PLEASE comment! Thank you tons to all of you who've left such nice reviews! You make my heart go all aflutter. However, there are many out there are who reading and NOT reviewing. To those people, I say: I know who you are and I know where you live! Just kidding. (Maybe.)

The day I've been dreading all week has finally arrived. Sunday – the day of our dinner with the Middletons. I began pretending a headache and stomach complaint early on Saturday evening, to keep Grandmama from being suspicious. Developing illnesses only moments before an unsavory event is something I was rather well-known for as a child and I've no doubt that Mother told Grandmama about that charming habit in her letters.

Grandmama stands at the edge of my bed, dressed in her finest dinner gown, wearing too much jewelry. "Gemma," she frowns, "Are you certain you can't manage sitting through dinner? There will be no dancing and if you don't eat much… well, it will only reflect well on your delicacy. Surely you can manage to sit quietly with us?"

I shake my head, then press my hands wearily to my temples. "Oh, Grandmama, I think I may be quite ill. Can you have a maid send up a bucket?"

Grandmama blanches at the mention of vomit, backing away a step. "If you insist. I'll have the cook send up broth and biscuits."

I smile weakly in thanks, watching as Grandmama bustles out of the room. Success! I listen quietly to the sounds of footsteps downstairs until finally the front door opens and slams shut. I thought they would never leave. With a self-satisfied sigh, I throw off my blankets and sit up, wondering what I'll do with the few hours I have to myself.

A few moments later, there is a knock at my bedroom door. Expecting the cook, I call, "Come in."

The door swings open slowly, issuing a loud creak. I watch, transfixed as the door finally silences, only to reveal Simon Middleton leaning smugly on the door frame. He wears a bemused smirk as he takes in my undress. I'm too surprised to even think of finding my dressing gown. I stand stupidly in my nightgown, staring at him. After a moment of silence, I croak, "What are you doing here?"

"Tsk, tsk, Miss Doyle. Where did you learn your manners?"

Gaining courage, I repeat, "What are you doing in my house?"

"I've just come to pay a visit to the invalid. Nothing too serious, I hope?" His show of propriety is infuriating in such a preposterous situation. I snatch my dressing gown from my wardrobe and throw it hastily around my shoulders.

"How did you know I'm… ill."

"Lying is a sin, Miss Doyle."

"So is breaking and entering, I believe," I retort archly.

"Somehow I suspected you'd worm out of our little rendezvous. I came to keep our appointment." He is smiling easily, but his eyes are hard and cold.

"All I have to do is scream and every servant in the house will be at my door."

"No," Simon tilted his head mockingly, "I don't think they will. You see, I've taken care of the servants."

My blood runs cold as I contemplate what he could have done. "What do you want from me?" I gasp.

"I want what the Rakshana want. I want you to take me to the realms." Simon moves forward, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me to him. "Now."

I wriggle in his grasp, trying to free myself, but he only grips me tighter, squeezing the bones of my wrist painfully. "Stop, Simon!"

Saying his name is like a magic incantation. He releases my hand and draws back from me. He looks haunted, the sharp planes of his face giving him a haggard look of defeat.

"Gemma, just do this. I don't want to hurt you – but I will if you don't cooperate. Make this easy."

"I can't," I answer resolutely, encouraged by Simon's sudden compassion.

It is a mistake. Simon's eyes harden and he steps forward, grabbing my arms and shoving me against the wall. Stars swim before my eyes as my head cracks sharply against the wall. "I said you would cooperate," he snarls, his jaw clenched angrily. "And we can do it the hard way, or the easy way. You choose." His hands are like vices around my arms, gripping me painfully. The back of my head pulses with a sharp pain where I was struck, sending trills of pain down my spine.

I swallow hard and shake my head. "No, Simon. I can't –"

The back of his hand strikes my cheek, hard and sharp, turning my head and making me gasp. I taste blood in my mouth, swallowing dizzily.

"That was a small taste of my seriousness, Gemma. Now be sensible and take me to the Realms."

I nod weakly. "Alright," I say feebly. "But please let me sit for a moment."

Simon releases me and steps away, looking chagrined. I touch my cheek gingerly, feeling the swelling that is already well on its way to being a hideous bruise. How will I explain this one away?

I sit on my bed softly. Simon sits on the rocking chair in the corner, watching me. "You needn't have been so rough," I chastise, trying to stall. Simon ducks his head, looking even more embarrassed. "How will I explain the bruise to my family?"

"I warned you that I would be rough, and you didn't listen. This is your fault entirely." His words are weak, and he continues to stare determinedly at his hands.

"I didn't think that a supposed gentleman would slap a defenseless woman," I say sharply, trying to keep him distracted by well-bred shame while I ease off my slippers. They are difficult to run in.

"I told you," Simon repeats wearily, looking up to gauge my reaction. But I am not sitting on the bed anymore. Simons leaps to his feet as I rush from my bedroom and into the hallway. I have the hem of my nightgown in my hands, hitched to my knees, as I leap down the stairs in two bounds. My ankle twists painfully as I land at the bottom of the stairs, but I ignore the pain and rush through the hall, into the servants quarters. With no corset, I feel as if I could run for miles, faster than lightning, but Simon is still much faster. He catches up in seconds, delayed by having taken the stairs safely.

My heart pounds as I rush into the servants' quarters, slamming the door on Simon. There is no time to bother with the lock. I push through the swinging door into the kitchen, kicking it back roughly, and hopefully catching Simon in the face. His amused laughter follows me, echoing frighteningly in my ears. I dash out the back entrance and sprint for the carriage house. Surely he can't have dispatched the stable workers as well?

"Keep running, Gemma. You've lost the advantage you had of knowing your house's layout."

I curse as the truth of his jeer hits me. That's why he didn't catch me right away – out in the open yard there are no obstacles to trip him up with, and he is much faster.

I make it to the carriage-house doors just as Simon bounds up behind me, slamming the door shut just as I had gotten it open. I jump with fright, whirling around to face him, my back pressed against the rough wooden door. Simon grips me by my hair, yanking my head back until tears of pain prickle my eyes.

"Stop!" I cry feebly. Simon only laughs.

"To think I pitied you, you little witch! Now I know better, I suppose." He jerks on my hair, yanking a cry from me. "Now do as I told you. Take me to the bloody Realms!"

I struggle past the pain, trying to form words. "No!"

"I can make this much worse." Simon takes my hand, and bends my pinkie finger back. The pain is blinding as the small finger dislocates with a sickening pop. I cry out sharply, staggering against him. "Shall I do the others, now?" He grips my ring finger.

"No!" I sob. I try to wrench my hand away.

"Alright then, are we going to the realms, then?"

"Yes," I whisper, ashamed of my own weakly cowardice. My only condolence is that I might be able to leave him there and perhaps Pippa will eat him.

Thinking of Pippa makes my blood run cold. "If you are sure you want to go," I warn him darkly.

Simon laughs, a sharp bark. "You don't scare me, Gemma Doyle."

"Please let go of my hair. I can't concentrate."

"I won't be fooled twice," Simon snaps, wrenching on my hair again. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out.

"Who's there?" Kartik's voice, strong and familiar, has me sighing with relief.

"Kartik!" I cry, ignoring the burning pain in my scalp as I turn towards him.

Simon snorts contemptuously. "Ah, so you'd be the traitor I succeeded, I presume," he greets Kartik.

"And you would be my replacement," Kartik replies. He looks him over with a raised brow. "Hardly promising." Kartik comes closer, sashaying up with his hands in his pockets, easy as you please. This isn't the time for theatrics! I want to scream at him, but my finger and scalp burn with pain, keeping me from forming coherent sentences.

Kartik draws up level with Simon, looking him in the eye. "Let her go," he orders, his voice low.

"You think that I –"

Kartik pulls his hand from his pocket and presses the barrel of a small dueling pistol against Simon's chest. "I said, let her go."

I can feel as Simon goes rigid, his grip tightening on my hair. "You wouldn't dare. The neighbors would hear and come running. The police would have your head."

Kartik answers by pulling back the hammer. The small click echoes like a bolt of thunder. Simon blanches and releases me immediately, raising his hands and stepping away.

"There. She's all yours."

Kartik holds the gun level, aimed surely for Simon's treacherous heart. "If I hear tell that you've bothered Miss Doyle in any way, even so much as to mention her name ungraciously, I will find you, and you will be reckoned with. Now leave."

Simon backs away slowly, lowering his hands. "Don't think that I will leave this be. I am Rakshana, and we fear no man."

"Then perhaps I should kill you now," Kartik replies evenly.

Simon turns and runs, disappearing down the narrow allow between the carriage house and the hedge. The sound of his footsteps fades into the street. We listen in silence until we can no longer hear him.

I turn to Kartik with a shaky breath. He catches me easily as my knees sag. "Thank you," I gasp, clutching at my heart. Supporting me by the waist, Kartik leads me into the carriage house and back to his little corner. A lone candle is burning, next to my copy of Pride and Prejudice.

"Are you alright?" Kartik asks, helping me to sit on the dilapidated carriage's running board. I eye the gun still in his hand, the hammer cocked back.

"Can you put that away?"

Kartik chuckles. "It isn't loaded."

A stab of irritation furrows my brow. "How were you going to dispatch Mr. Middleton with a non-operational pistol?" My tone borders on hysteria, but I am impressed that I've managed to string a sentence together. My knees and hands shake, my head aches both from being slammed against my bedroom wall and from having my hair wrenched on, my throat is dry, and my whole body is numb and clammy.

"I was hoping it wouldn't come to that – and I was right." Kartik takes in my rattled expression and nervous shaking. He touches my cheek softly where Simon slapped me. "He hit you," he growls.

"Yes," I agree faintly, trying to keep my vision from fuzzing. "It hurts," I whine.

"You're in shock," Kartik says quietly. "Just relax. Stay here." He returns with a beaten canteen. "Drink." I take a long draught of sweet, cool water. Kartik gasps when he sees my hand.

"Christ, Gemma! Look at this!"

"Simon did that, too," I answer tepidly, eyeing my twisted pinkie. "Don't worry, Tom will fix it. I don't know what I'll tell him though," I muse aloud. "Perhaps that I fell down the stairs? Yes that's a good one… it'll explain my cheek as well."

"I can fix it," Kartik says, cutting off my rambling. He takes the canteen away, despite my protests, and pulls a small flask from his jacket. "Take this. If you think it hurt being pulled out… well… this won't be pleasant."

I sip nervously from the flask, and am rewarded with the fiery burn of cheap whiskey. I swallow bravely, gasping as it burns down my throat. Kartik doesn't even grin. He takes my injured hand gently, his expression grave. "Ready?"

"No," I answer, but he snaps my little finger back in without waiting for my reply. I let out a strangled yelp, as the throbbing pain intensifies into a sharp stab. Kartik rips a strip of linen from an old rag, tying my little finger to my ring finger.

"There. All better," he murmurs, releasing my hand.

"Thank you." I tuck my hands delicately in my lap. Kartik looks at me, but I stare at the ground. This is just where we were last time, and I can't help the heavy blush that floods my cheeks at the memory. The silence is deafening, roaring in my ears. I feel far too warm, my flesh prickles nervously.

"You should go back to the house," Kartik says gently. "I'll take you, to make sure you get there safely." Taking my uninjured hand, Kartik leads me to the house and up the back steps to the kitchen entrance. We stand at the door a moment, the sound of the night filling my ears.

"Gemma," Kartik says softly. "When you said not to apologize… did you mean it?"

I blush hard, feeling as if I'm boiling alive in my light linen gown. "Yes," I answer in a croak. "I did."

Kartik is silent a moment. I use the moment to berate myself mentally for being such an obvious fool. Kartik looks up, his movement drawing my gaze to his face. "Good," he says, his voice low. He leans forward and kisses me softly on the mouth. "Good night, Gemma. Try not to be attacked before dawn, will you?" And with that, he descends the stairs, and returns to the carriage house.

BWA HAHAHA! Didn't see the GUN coming, did you?! Or the broken pinkie!? Ha! I'm just getting started!

Please review!