Once again, I send thanks to all of you incredible readers for your support of this story and patience with story updates as this busy mom/teacher is now in the midst of moving to a new house. I am keeping track of all of my stories and am trying to keep them on a rotation. I so appreciate you bearing with me. :) The next chapter of PD & PB is now in progress.
As always, thanks and hugs to my dear friends Cls2011, miscreantrose and KP. Your support, friendship, and feedback mean the world to me. I also want to thank my incredible husband for his ongoing support of my writing and his fabulous sense of humor. He is the best and constantly blesses my life.
Mary and Charles are unfortunately not owned by me, but I do appreciate them stopping by to play every once and a while. And with that, let's see what they're up to...
It's useless.
He gazes at his laptop, a practically blank screen glaring back at him. Words won't come, and a deadline is looming, taunting him, mocking him, frustrating him to the point of distraction.
Damn.
His thoughts aren't cooperating at all. No, they are fixating instead upon a certain woman sleeping just one room away, a woman who means more than she should, a rather infuriating woman who has invaded parts of him she doesn't even want.
A woman who could be lethal to his peace of mind.
Could be? Who is he trying to fool? She is lethal to his peace of mind, there is no question anymore, and he is just digging his own hole even deeper with every text, every conversation, every look into those eyes of hers.
Every moment he spends in her company.
He sets the laptop on the table, moving to the window, rubbing the back of his neck as if that will push her out of his thoughts. Nothing will do that, he realizes as her small corner of London stares back at him, reminding him that he is staying over tonight, to help her, to make certain that stubborn female doesn't aggravate an already painful injury.
An injury he brought about. He knows it, and it eats at him. She eats at him.
Everything about her draws him in, like a moth to a flame, like a fly into a carnivorous plant. Bottomless eyes so dark they appear charcoal, lips he finds too tempting, hair he wants to caress, a spirit that makes him feel more alive than he has in years. He should distance himself, not chomp on to her bait like a starving man begging her to reel him in.
What would his mother say about all of this, he wonders.
She warned him against Freda, predicted that his ex-wife would use him for her own purposes and walk away. God, he'd been so blinded by beauty, so overwhelmed by false charm, and he had focused on what he wanted to see rather than what was staring him in the face, overlooking glaring warning signs his entire family had heeded. If he hadn't been such a stubborn half-witted ass, if he had chucked his pride aside and paid attention to the advice of those who loved him, perhaps he wouldn't be in such a sorry state. Perhaps he would have met someone better, someone genuine…
Someone who would have stayed.
Then again, if he hadn't been trying to escape the pain of divorce, would he have strolled into that bar? Would he have seen that drunken moron trying to maul the woman in whose flat he now stood?
Would he have ever met Mary Crawley?
"Mary, Mary, quite contrary," he breathes onto the pane, laughing at himself, at their situation, at them, at his life. He gazes around her flat, noting its neat, orderly décor that is unmistakably feminine, smiling at a picture of her holding a pina colada on a beach beside two women he assumes must be her mother and sister. Her unguarded grin makes her appear almost girlish, and sun-kissed cheeks dotted with freckles make him want to kiss her soundly and toss her into the ocean at the same time.
What would it feel like to kiss her on the sand? His groin begins to ponder this much too seriously.
"Matthew."
He turns towards her room, her former lover's name trampling over his thoughts with the grace of a rabid rhinoceros. But muffled groans gnaw into him, drawing him to her door, and he halts just by the doorknob, trying to hear her over his pulse. She's still sleeping he assumes, or possibly disoriented from the pain medication he gave her two hours ago.
"Come back."
He cried those same words when Freda left. They still hurt.
A wordless moan breaks his resistance, and he slowly opens her door, finding her asleep but restless, her dark hair strewn recklessly across her pillow, her Mickey Mouse shirt drawn up above her waist. He wants to hold her until thoughts of Matthew can't hurt her anymore, until Freda's memory burns away and loses its sting. Beads of sweat crisscross her forehead and upper lip, yet he pulls her blanket up to cover her just the same.
He refuses to gape at her when she is powerless to stop him.
Another groan escapes her, cracking something inside himself he'd prefer not to examine. Damn. Is he destined to become attached to women who prefer someone else?
Her arm twitches restlessly as her head moves from side to side, her expression clearly distressed.
"Shhhh, Mary," he whispers, gently taking her hand. "It's alright. I'm here."
Her movement settles as she tugs him closer, her lips moving silently as a word finally forms.
"Hurts."
The break in her voice squeezes his heart, and he sits on the edge of her bed, stroking her hair, feeling her pain.
"Yes. I know it does," he murmurs. "But it will pass. I promise."
A small whimper hits him where it stings, and he sighs into the space, looking around her room for no particular reason. There are no pictures of Matthew, he notes, although she probably has one hidden away close by. A wedding photo resides in a drawer by his bedside, tucked away from sight but there, just the same.
He really should get rid of it, but he can't. Not yet, anyway.
"Shhhh," he repeats, his presence calming her as her face leans into his touch. "You will heal, Mary. We both will."
He melts as the lines of her face relax into his palm. She's so soft, so beautiful, so wounded and guarded, leery of letting anyone too close—just like him.
Just like him. Ice Queen, indeed.
His thumb traces her lips, a tumbling sensation tugging every piece of him into the depths of who she is. A small smile warms her features, and she clasps his wrist, keeping him bound to her as her breathing finally steadies.
God—he is falling, and he knows it. This isn't good. It could be hell, actually.
He gives into instinct and stretches out beside her, allowing her to meld into him and rest, even if she thinks he is someone else.
Someone she still loves. Someone who left her, just as Freda left him.
"Mmmm," she hums, relaxing instantly into the deep trenches of sleep, and he closes his eyes, attempting to block out emotions he swore to himself he would fight off with everything he had.
Too late, he thinks, cursing himself for what feels like the hundredth time this week.
"Mary, Mary," he whispers again to himself, knowing the struggle is useless, knowing he is an idiot, knowing he will probably have his heart shattered yet again by a woman whose lure he doesn't want to fight.
"Ogre," she murmurs just into his shoulder, making his breath catch as he wonders if his imagination has turned against him, too.
She's warm, too warm, and she struggles to open her eyes, to think, to comprehend. A fuzzy mist encircles her, trying to pull her back under, gently rocking her body with the lilt of lazy waves. Ah, this is better, she thinks, as she slides her hand leisurely across her pillow.
Wait—what's this?
She grasps on to something solid, something firm, something lying against her, something that feels strangely like a man.
Matthew.
Her eyes flutter slowly, fighting an unnatural heaviness as she notices an ache in her leg. No, her knee, she realizes, and it's more than an ache. It's a dull throb that will not leave her alone and probably what woke her up in the first place.
Her knee. The park. She hurt her knee in the park while running. Yes, when someone pushed her out of a horse's path. God, it hurts. And it can't be Matthew next to her. Matthew is married now…to Lavinia…he is on his honeymoon...with Lavinia. No, it's definitely not Matthew—it doesn't even smell like Matthew. This scent is deeper, muskier, hinting of spice and leather, and she allows it to wash over her, filling her lungs, making her toes tingle. It is familiar and comforting, and she struggles to piece it together, touching an arm, stroking a chest, caressing a face. Rough stubble brushes her fingers, cajoling and tickling as it tugs her unrelentingly towards the surface.
Wait. She knows this jaw line, remembers who it was who tackled her in the park, recognizes this scent from his flat…from his bed…from him.
Charles. Charles Blake.
Oh, God.
She turns her head and sees him beside her, in her bed, sleeping soundly with an arm draped over her chest. Over her chest. In her bed. Charles. Her pulse races ahead of her, her mind reeling to catch up. They hadn't…she couldn't have…could she? Did they?
Did they?
Panic seizes her, and she shoves him hard, pushing him off the edge and hearing him hit the floor with a thud.
"Ow."
She pulls the blanket up to her chin, narrowing her eyes at him as he stands, rubbing his back.
"What was that for?"
He looks truly baffled, making her want to punch him in the gut.
"What the hell were you doing in my bed?" she demands, feeling like a cornered rabbit gazing up at a disoriented fox.
"Sleeping," he returns, looking back at her like a wounded puppy. "What did it look like I was doing?"
"It looked like you were in my bed," she snaps back, too flustered to reason.
"Where I was sleeping," he retorts, his voice belligerent.
"If you needed a nap, I do have a sofa," she insists, clasping the blanket even tighter.
"You were crying out," he huffs back, taking a step towards the bed. "I came in here to calm you down."
"By hopping into bed with me?"
"By holding your hand," he spits, turning away, ravaging his hair. "Remind me to ignore you the next time you're in pain."
"I never invited you to stay in the first place," she argues, the situation spinning dreadfully out of control. "This was all your bloody idea!"
He freezes where he stands, turning to face her slowly with a look that hurts.
"Would you like me to leave?"
Eyes spar and clash, the current between them too charged for either to back down. It is then she comprehends that he is fully dressed except for his shoes, that he has been lying on top of the blankets rather than under them, and that all her clothes are intact.
On top of the blankets. Sleeping. Fully clothed. Both of them.
"Mary?"
He awaits her answer, and she knows he will do whatever she asks. God, she's an idiot…a willful, prideful idiot.
"Do you want me to—"
"No," she interrupts, looking at her covers, the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but at him. "No. I don't want you to leave."
The fight abandons her, and she wants to hide from him now, to curl up into a ball under the bedclothes and pretend that none of this ever happened.
"Are you sure?"
She swallows with effort, tugging at a string sticking up from her sheet.
"Yes," she whispers. "I'm sure."
She hears his feet shuffle, and she watches them pace back and forth restlessly. She still can't face him, not yet. Not yet.
"Good," he mutters, still pouting from the sound of his voice. "Because you'd be foolish to try weather this alone, and you know it."
"Just shut up," she fires back, rubbing her temples, wishing she could erase the past five minutes. "Please."
She is foolish…and hot-headed, cold-hearted, stubborn and self-centered. The list extends even further, but she is too tired to examine it now. God knows she has been continually reminded of her short-comings by the men from her past. She doesn't need them reinforced by the one person who actually puts up with her.
"I'm sorry," she manages, her ego more bruised than her knee.
He looks at her in silence.
"It's alright," he finally offers with a shrug. "You've had a rough day."
She wants to laugh at the accuracy of his statement, but bites it back instead. Why does he put up with her? Why the hell doesn't he just storm out of her flat and out of her life while he has the chance? It would be better for both of them if he did, she is certain, to get it over with before she becomes more attached. But she doesn't want him to go. It would hurt more than it should if he did, and she is tired of hurting.
"That still doesn't give me the right to take it out on you."
She dares a look up at him and then cannot look away. He's caught her—at what, she's not certain, but it can't be good.
"Will you let me look at you knee?"
She nods, and he sits warily on the edge of her bed, watching her closely in case she changes her mind and decides to attack him again. Her covering is gently pulled back, and he grimaces.
"It's not good, Mary," he states flatly, looking back at her. "Will you please let me take you to see a doctor?"
She nods reluctantly, watching him sigh in relief.
"What shall I fetch you to wear?"
"I need to shower first," she insists, watching his brows draw together.
"You need to see a doctor."
"I smell, for God's sake."
He stares back at her silently.
"I got ill all over myself, if you remember," she continues. "I can't go anywhere smelling like vomit."
"It's a hospital, Mary," he reasons. "Not a 5 star restaurant. I'm sure they've seen and smelled much worse."
Her fists ball up instinctively.
"Please don't make me, not like this."
She clasps what little pride she has left, holding it with all she's got, feeling utterly naked in front of him. His sigh is one of resignation, and a knot in her chest releases, allowing her to breathe.
"And just how do you think this shower is going to work?"
God, it hits her then, the reality of her dependence, the impossibility of such a simple task.
What the hell is she supposed to do?
She stares at him wordlessly, shame hitting her squarely in the gut as she finally breaks apart, humiliation pouring out of her in an unstoppable flood. He guides her face to his shoulder, granting her permission to cry, holding her gently as she tugs at his shirt.
"Shhh," he soothes, stroking her hair like her mother used to do. "We'll figure it out."
She tries to catch her breath, to stop blubbering like an infernal idiot.
"It's not worth all this," he continues. "We'll get you clean somehow."
"What?" she mumbles, pushing back from him. "Are you planning on hosing me down?"
Damn. That grin of his.
"Well, I hadn't thought of that, but I'm willing to give it a go if you are."
A small huff of laughter puffs out her nostrils.
"Once an ogre, always an ogre," she mumbles, his smile lightening her spirit.
"There's my girl," he returns. "But in all seriousness, do you have a chair or a stool that is waterproof? One you can sit on it the shower?"
She takes mental inventory, thinking through ever piece of furniture in her flat.
"No," she sighs in defeat. "Unfortunately."
His stare makes her nervous as he leans in close.
"Well," he begins. "I suppose I could get in there with you."
Her eyes expand until they can't grow any larger.
"You can't shower with me," she insists, shaking her head.
"Do you have a better idea?"
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
"You can wear a bathing suit," he adds, somehow managing to sound reasonable. "I'll just stand behind you to hold you up. You can do the, ah, actual, um…washing."
Is that a flush on his neck?
"And you'll just hold me?" she questions, not quite believing she is actually considering this. "That's all?"
"I'll just hold you," he repeats softly. "I won't let you fall again."
Her breasts tighten, the thoughts of his hands on bare flesh making breathing difficult.
"They're in the bottom drawer," she says, shaking herself mentally, feeling her cheeks overheat. "My bathing suits, that is."
"Right," he breathes, his cheeks puffing out a breath as he pushes himself from her bed. He makes his way to her dresser, kneeling down and opening the drawer.
"Any particular one?" he asks, looking back at her. How she wishes she had thought to purchase a one piece.
"It doesn't matter," she sighs, blushing even brighter as he holds up a red bikini and tosses it in her direction.
"Yell when you're ready," he instructs, sliding out the door with a cough, leaving her sitting on her bead staring at her swimsuit. What the hell are they getting themselves into?
It takes longer than it should for her to swing to the side of the bed, her t-shirt and bra coming off with little effort, her bikini top going on without a hitch. But getting out of her pants and panties, standing on her good leg and sitting back down, it's tiring and awkward. Then she stares at the red bottoms, biting back tears as she tries to maneuver her knee close enough so she can slide them on.
"Augh!" she cries out, a blinding pain hitting her out of nowhere and making her close her eyes tightly.
"Mary!" he yells, pounding on her door. "Are you alright?"
She groans a response through gritted teeth.
"I'm coming in," he warns, hesitating a moment. "I won't look at anything I shouldn't."
She pulls the blanket around her thighs just as he eases back in, her entire body overheating as her bikini bottoms falling haphazardly to the floor. He quickly takes stock of the situation, gazing back at her in embarrassment.
"Do you need some help?" he mutters, clearing his throat. "Um, dressing, I mean?"
She stares back at him slack jawed.
"Could you," she tries, rolling her eyes. "Could you hand me…that?"
She motions to the garment, watching in mortification as he picks it up and dangles it from his finger.
"Can you get it on?" he mumbles, trying not to stare at her bare legs or her bikini-clad breasts now almost at eye-level. "Over your legs?"
The words barely croak out of his parched mouth.
"If you could just slide it over my feet," she manages, pink cheeks making her even more attractive to him. "I think I can get it from there."
"Right," he exhales, trying to looking unaffected, knowing he is failing miserably. She is hurting, he reminds himself, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his hands steady.
Red toes gleam up at him, and he gently slides the openings over her feet, trying his best not to caress her calves as he eases the garment up to her knees. Her shiver makes him hot all over, and he wonders what in God's name he was thinking when he volunteered to hop into the shower with her.
How will he manage this without being completely obvious?
"That's fine," she mutters, her breathing heavier than normal. "I can take it from here."
His ears are burning up.
"Do you need to hold on to me while you pull them up?" he asks, watching her eyes round exponentially. "I'll turn my back of course," he amends hastily. "And close my eyes."
She knows how helpful it will be to have him here, but the thought of him…while she…without anything covering…
God, what did it matter now? He had carried her when she passed out, had held her in her own bed, would be with her in the shower.
"Ok," she whispers, feeling a bit light-headed. "Just don't peek."
"Scout's honor," he states before closing his eyes. He extends a hand she can hold to stand, and the blanket falls from her lower body. But he remains immobile, eyes fastened securely shut, his expression steady.
"You can turn around now," she instructs, watching him do so before bending over to pull the bottoms up securely. She knows he can't see her, but her cheeks feel half-baked just the same.
"Alright," she sighs in relief, rendered nearly unsteady as he turns back around. "You can open your eyes. It's safe now."
It is anything but safe, and they both know it. They stand a breath away from each other, her hands on his shoulders, his arms securing her waist. Her lips are just there, his hair begs to be stroked, she looks nearly lost, his eyes make her ache in places that have nothing to do with her knee.
"Ahh," she mutters, her knee throbbing yet again as she clutches his upper arms, her nails digging in inadvertently.
"Hold on," he instructs, barely getting the words out of his mouth before swooping her up to his chest. She wraps her arms tightly around his neck, letting her head fall back to his shoulder, the warmth of him seeping into her chilled limbs.
"If you drop me, I'll have your head," she mutters into his neck, that scent of his getting to her yet again.
"Is that a threat or an invitation?" he grins, wincing as she smacks his shoulder. "Do that again and I'll reconsider that hose."
"Touch that hose and I'll jerk a knot in yours," she retorts, feeling his chuckle vibrate all over.
They stand in her bathroom, and he eases her down slowly, steadying her before he tugs off his shirt. He then begins to take down his pants, and she grabs his hand reflexively.
"What are you doing?" she demands, feeling a surge of panic at the thought of him standing naked behind her.
"Stripping down to my skivvies," he answers matter-of-factly. "Don't worry, I'm wearing boxers. You won't see a thing…unless you want to, that is."
Her eyes narrow in his direction.
"I'd prefer not to shower fully clothed," he expounds, his trousers hitting the floor, leaving him bare-chested and too tempting for her own piece of mind. "Can you blame me?"
It isn't blame she is feeling at the moment, and she knows it. If her knee wasn't in such bad shape…
If her knee wasn't in such bad shape, they wouldn't be standing partially-clad in her bathroom in the first place.
"I'm just relieved you didn't wear a thong," she throws back, feeling the wicked grin he tosses her right between her legs.
"I think there's one in my bag if you'd like me to change into it."
"There is such a thing as ogre-overload," she muses as he turns on the water, trying to reel in her pulse.
"Ogre-overload is a contact sport, you know," he goads, sliding under her arm and hoisting her off of her injury. "Quite stimulating, so I'm told. Shall we?"
"Wait," she commands, laying a hand on his chest. "Can you hand me a hair tie? Over there on the sink?"
Her touch lights him on fire, and they haven't even made it into the shower. He releases her slowly, turning around and handing her the first black band he sees, praying he's not embarrassing himself just yet. He most assuredly will at some point.
"Thank you," she returns, swooping her hair up into a makeshift knot, revealing more of her neck. "I'm ready."
"Are you sure?" he asks, giving her a look that makes her good knee feel unsteady.
"On the double, Lord Ogre," she retorts, doing her best to sound unaffected, her lips twitching and tightening.
He maneuvers underneath her again, guiding them towards the streaming water, having her check the temperature before moving them inside. She winces, and he holds her tighter.
"Put your weight on me, Mary," he instructs. "Not your bad knee. That's why I'm here."
The water slides over her skin, making her shiver, washing her clean. She revels in the sensation, trying to focus on the stimulation of soap gliding across wet body rather than the feel of his hands on her waist, the chill of his breath near her ear.
It isn't easy. It's impossible, actually, and if it weren't for her knee…
If it weren't for her knee…
Her neck is just there, just in front of him, hovering close, begging for his mouth. He physically restrains himself from kissing her, from nibbling the junction of neck and shoulder, from drinking in freshly rinsed flesh, from sampling that smattering of freckles so close he can almost taste them.
Keep it steady, he reminds himself. She's leaning back against him, which allows her to feel too much, way too much, and there's no relief in sight.
Her breasts pucker as his arousal grows against her, and she's not certain if she's more relieved or frustrated by the fact their attraction is mutual. Of course, men can get aroused so easily, and it probably means nothing, or at least nothing more than a natural response to their circumstances. They are, after all, practically naked in the shower together. It's no more than that—it can't be. It can't be.
Her knee is the size of a grapefruit, she reminds herself. It's not as if she can act on these foolish impulses even if she wanted to, and that's probably a good thing. Charles Blake is dangerous, too tempting for a one-night stand, too decent for a long-term relationship.
He would leave her. Men always leave her, especially the good ones.
She's hurt, she's injured, and this is neither the time nor the place to dwell on how much he would like to slip that blasted bikini off of her shoulders and kiss her everywhere at once. Mary Crawley is worth more than that, he tells himself, too much a lady for simple sexual relief, too important to pull her into his mess of a life.
Too likely to leave him when she finds someone better. And women like her always find someone better.
She turns off the water, and they move out together, he carrying her weight, she allowing him to do so. He grabs the closest towel, drying her arms, then her chest, making her shiver, making her want.
His hands nearly falter as he makes his way to her naval, and he doesn't dwell on her thighs, knowing they will be his undoing as he tenderly moves over her bad knee. She is too much, too perfect, too irritating, too stubborn, too glorious…too everything.
He then slings another towel around his waist, swallowing audibly as his boxers hit the floor. Her throat constricts as images she doesn't need fill her brain, and she wants to touch him, to feel him against her again, to be wrapped up in this man she shouldn't need.
"I don't want to drip on the hardwood," he explains as he moves back to her side.
"How very thoughtful of you," she quips, clearing a tickle in her throat. "But exactly whose hardwood are you protecting? Yours or mine?"
He turns one shade shy of scarlet.
"I'm a thoughtful guy," he manages, mesmerized by her hooded expression as he deftly changes the subject. "Shall we take this to your bedroom?"
"What?"
Her eyes widen along with her ache.
"So you can get dressed," he clarifies, looking complete flustered. "I think I know where you keep all of your clothes now."
"That sounds rather incriminating," she breathes, every nerve humming his tune as he moves to help her again.
"If the bikini fits," he tosses back, catching her smirk just before he moves under her arm.
He leads her forward, feeling her in places she doesn't touch, hot desire warring with responsibility, her scent making him dizzy. He leans her just against her bed, making certain she is stable, wanting to kiss her hard before pulling himself away.
"Here are the crutches," he states, leaning them against the foot of her bed as he sets comfortable clothes on top of the blankets. "Yell if you need me. I'll come in an instant."
"I'll bet you will," she whispers daringly, appreciating his chest too much, wanting to touch him again.
Wanting him to touch her.
"God, Mary, I'm sorry," he returns as color splotches his neck. "I didn't mean, I didn't want to..."
He cuts himself off, staring at his feet.
"You didn't," she states, touching his cheek. "It's alright. It's just…."
She doesn't know how to finish her sentence, and he doesn't seem to care. He's watching her, studying her, and she feels his gaze on her skin, the heat of his need pulsing hot and fast between them, the scent of her own wrapping them up. Her nipples stand at attention as he stares hard at her mouth and everything stops. There is nothing but him, but her, but this.
He is just there...just in front of her. She is so close, close enough to kiss, close enough to caress. His mouth opens slightly at the mere thought of tasting her. Her lips swell, an answer to his unspoken question. If he moves in closer, if she leans in like so…
Bang, bang, bang.
They jump at the sound, startled and embarrassed, the moment clattering to the floor.
"Are you expecting anyone?" he asks, shaking himself soundly.
"No," she answers, covering her chest instinctively. "Can you answer it?"
"In a towel?" he questions, gazing down at himself.
Her face flushes again.
"It's probably just a package," she reasons, unable to look away from him just yet. "The delivery man won't care how you're dressed."
"Or not dressed, rather," he clarifies, wondering why in God's name he let her talk him into this nonsense. He crosses her front room quickly, moving to the door, exhaling before he cracks it open.
Not a package. Not the delivery man.
Bloody hell.
Rounded eyes gawk at him, a gaping jaw fixed in his direction. They stare at each other mutually, and he tries to muster up a shred of dignity.
"May I help you?" he questions, tightening his grip on the towel.
Blue eyes widen even further—a feat Charles had believed to be physically impossible.
"I'm not sure," the stranger answers incredulously, pushing past him into the flat before rounding on him. "That might depend on just who the hell you are."
Thoughts?
