So I am finally on summer vacation but am caught up in the midst of a move and will be heading out to Disney (squeal!). Meaning updates for other stories may be few and further between for the next 2-3 weeks, but then I should be able to write more often. :) I have Things Hidden, Locked In and Perfectly Splendid up next for updates (the latter two having much shorter chapters meaning they might get updated first; in fact, LI has been officially started.) Then I'll be moving back to Play Dates and Park Benches and The Shadow of Death, and hopefully The Nightwatch.

At least that's the plan. Things often do change in this household of mine with a husband, two kids, two cats and a fish named Bubbles Pork Chop.

Many thanks and hugs to the might trio of miscreant rose, Cls2001 and KP. Thanks so much for the rereads and feedback, my three amazing friends! And many, many thanks and hugs to all of you who have taken the time to read and review this tale. Hopefully this summer I'll be able to answer more reviews personally as I so love to do! Know they are all read, digested and appreciated.

Downton Abbey is the property of Julian Fellowes, if you weren't aware of that fact. ;) And now, shall we see who is standing at the door?


Has he ever been this uncomfortable in the entirety of his life?

He had been mortified the time his trousers ripped in front of Lucy Ryan, had wanted to die when he lost his swimming trunks in a lake full of girls when he was thirteen, but this…this…

Damn.

"I'm Charles Blake," he manages, speaking as normally as one can when standing in front of a stranger wearing only a towel. He extends the hand not holding on to what covers him, jarred yet again when the unknown person begins to laugh.

"Mary!"

Her yell is followed by an unexpected hug that nearly knocks him over, then she kisses his cheek with a smile as big as he had ever seen.

"Sybil?" Mary's voice cries back from her bedroom. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm Mary's sister," the woman confides with a wink, looking him over yet again, making him feel like a prize steed on auction. "I have a long layover before my flight back to Dublin," she yells back to her sibling. "I thought I'd stop by for a visit."

"You couldn't have texted?" her sister calls back, making Sybil's grin stretch all the wider. "Given me some sort of warning?"

"And miss this marvelous welcome?" Sybil muses as his neck starts to burn. "I'm so glad I didn't."

Silence greets her assertion, and Charles knows that Mary has pieced together exactly what her sister has surmised by his lack of attire and her location in the bedroom.

"Um, Sybil," he begins, rubbing the back of his neck. "This isn't exactly—"

"Oh, God," she laughs, waving him off as she makes her way to the kitchen. "You don't owe me an explanation." Sybil helps herself to a glass of water, eyeing him with a curiosity that reminds Charles of a cat toying with its prey.

"I know," he continues. "But we were just, I mean I was just taking a shower, and…"

Her grin expands with every word he utters, and he knows that the hole in which he is standing has just grown exponentially.

"Thank God," she exclaims, setting her empty glass down with a clink. "Do you know how thrilled I am to see you here? Lord, I thought she never would get over Matthew."

His stomach drops to his knees, and he shakes his head in a stupor as Sybil makes her way to Mary's bedroom door.

"But you see, Sybil," he tries, hoisting his towel up a bit higher, thankful that at least his erection has subsided in wake of this untimely shock. "Mary and I are—"

"Don't worry," she assures him. "I won't interrupt your plans for the night. Just let me hug my sister, and I'll be on my merry way. And you can be on yours."

He swallows, not exactly sure what one should do when standing barely dressed in front of the sister of the woman who rules his thoughts and fantasies. Although, at the moment, throttling is the first action that comes to mind when he pictures Mary's slender neck.

"May I come in?' Sybil asks after knocking on Mary's door, blatantly eyeing Charles without blinking.

"I'm not dressed," Mary answers, instigating a flicker of Sybil's eyebrows aimed directly at him. Thank God his mother cannot see him now.

"Obviously," Sybil returns. "But there's no need to be so modest around me."

"I think I'll just get dressed," he mutters as he moves towards the bathroom, wanting to crawl under the flooring and never come back.

"Don't bother on my account," Sybil teases, making his face singe as he begins to concoct a variety of torments he will inflict upon Mary for making him answer the door practically naked. "That towel suits you."

"I'm glad to hear it," he tosses over his shoulder, telling himself that he should extricate himself from a certain woman and her mess of a family as soon as possible. "I do try to select my towels with care."

"Choose a smaller one next time," Sybil quips, making him wonder what kind of mother raised the Crawley sisters. "I'm certain Mary will approve."

Her sister. Mary's sister meets him in nothing more than a glorified loin cloth. God, this doesn't bode well for any kind of future they might have. Of course, they don't have any future to speak of in the first place.

Perhaps he should have stayed in bed today.

Mary gasps, grabbing her towel for covering as Sybil enters uninvited.

"I told you to wait," Mary insists with a sigh.

"God, Mary," Sybil tosses back with a roll of her eyes. "We are sisters, and you don't have anything that I haven't got."

"Then why are you so keen to look at mine?" she queries, shaking her head at her sister's snicker.

"I'm not," Sybil answers. "But I wouldn't have minded if your new boyfriend had dropped his towel."

Truth be told, Mary wouldn't have minded had he dropped it before they were interrupted by the very woman now standing in her bedroom.

"Listen, Sybil," Mary begins, drawing a deep breath. "Charles isn't my boyfriend. We've only known each other a short time, and…"

"Way to go, sis," Sybil exclaims. "God, I'm so proud of you, seizing the moment and all that. He's gorgeous, and I'll bet he's amazing in bed."

"We weren't in bed," Mary attempted. "He—"

"Even better. Where all have you been doing it?" Sybil questions eagerly. "Have you been on the patio yet? Lord, wait until I tell Tom!"

"He's helping me with my knee," Mary states in exasperation. "And I would never have sex on the patio. God, Sybil, I hope you haven't been doing that in Dublin."

"Of course not," Sybil grins. "Tom and I are actually horribly tame and predictable, but that doesn't mean I haven't thought about it. And what's wrong with your knee?"

"I've injured it somehow," Mary explains, watching her sister's eyes widen at its swollen, purplish state.

"What happened?" Sybil asks, staring back slack-jawed.

"Charles tackled me," Mary sighs, stifling her sister's mounting excitement. "Knocking me out of a horse's path at the park, not by engaging in rough sex, for God's sake. Stop looking at me like that."

"Well, at least he's a hero," Sybil smiles. "Definitely hold on to this one, Mary. Lord, I'll even buy you a leash for him so he can't get away."

She gives her younger sister a hard look.

"Why don't you start by handing me those clothes and helping me get them on?" she quips, wincing as her knee throbs yet again. "And I'd never want a man I'd have to leash to keep around, anyway."

"So put it to other uses," Sybil teases, rubbing her shoulder just after her sister smacks it.

"Reel yourself in," Mary instructs, adjusting her towel. "Besides, my sex life is none of your business."

"If you're that secretive about it, you might want to refrain from allowing your boyfriend to answer your front door wearing nothing but a towel."

"I've already told you," Mary breaks in. "He's not my boyfriend."

"Lover, friend with benefits, man-slave," Sybil muses. "Whatever you want to call him."

"I call him Charles," Mary states, attempting to sound unfrazzled, even though her seams are coming undone one by one.

"Well, that's a start, at least," Sybil quips with a shrug. "So how did you meet Charles?"

"At a bar," Mary answers, remaining as nonchalant as possible.

"And…" Sybil presses, leaning in closer.

"And what? We met at a bar. End of story."

Her younger sister's grin makes her exceedingly nervous.

"There has to be more to it than that," Sybil insists. "I'll have to ask Charles about it once he's dressed."

"He'll tell you the same thing," Mary states, quelling down nerves that disagree with her assertion.

"Then you won't mind me asking," Sybil reasons, setting Mary's teeth on edge.

"Why do you care how we met?"

The question flies out of her mouth before she can think it through.

"Because I like him," Sybil replies. "And he's good for you."

"How can you tell when you've only just met him?" Mary questions, her back beginning to chill.

"Because he's bringing you back to life," Sybil responds, touching her sister's arm. "Look at you. You've got color in your cheeks, you're feisty again. I've been really worried about you, Mary, and so has Mama. You've not been yourself for a long time, and it's hurt us both to see you like that."

"I've not been that pathetic," Mary protests, knowing she sounds thoroughly unconvincing.

"No," Sybil returns. "You've been worse."

She shakes off unwanted sentiments, not allowing them to seep into her pores and convince her of their veracity.

"You're reading too much into this, as usual," Mary retorts with an eye roll.

"I don't think so," Sybil argues. "I've been here more than fifteen minutes, and you haven't mentioned Matthew once."

Mary's breath hitches in her throat.

"That's over, and it has been for some time," she states with as much dignity as she can muster.

"But you've finally accepted it and moved on," Sybil adds with an affirming squeeze of her arm. "That's something, Mary. Something to celebrate."

"Don't celebrate prematurely," Mary instructs, taking a shaky breath. "Charles will figure me out sooner or later, and that will be the end of it, whatever the hell this actually is."

"God, would you stop with that," Sybil protests. "Getting to know Mary Crawley is not a bad thing, it's a good one. The problem is you keep pushing people away who want to take the time and effort to get close to you. People get tired after being shoved back too often and too hard."

"And when did you receive your counselling certification?" Mary quips, narrowing her eyes in defense.

"My point is proven," Sybil fires back, flicking her brows in time with her sister's. "I mean it, Mary. There's more to you worth sharing with a man besides your wit and your body. It's glorious when you can be completely yourself with someone and not worry that they'll leave you. That's love, you know, and it's worth everything."

"Just because you've found that with Tom doesn't mean that the rest of us are that lucky," Mary states. "Most people don't get what the two of you have."

"Then that's their own fault," Sybil insists. "You have to work for it, Mary. A good relationship doesn't just fall out of the sky. You have to be honest and vulnerable with each other in order to make it work."

Mary swallows audibly.

"I did that once," she whispers. "And it nearly killed me."'

A pained hush is broken by a thud and muted curse from the bathroom, making both women giggle as Mary shakes her head.

"I mean it, Mary," Sybil asserts. "Don't allow your break-up with Matthew to keep you from finding something even better with someone else."

Her sister's gaze targets the door to the bathroom, making Mary's cheeks flush instantly.

"I don't know that I'm capable of anything better."

The admission stings, and she drops her head, feeling incredibly vulnerable and exposed.

"I know you are," Sybil states with confidence, squeezing her hand. "Now, let's get you dressed. Or would you rather Charles come assist you?"

She remembers the feel of his hands on bare skin, the heat of his arousal pressing up against her, the nearness of his mouth before they pulled back from the ledge.

"Do shut up, Sybil" Mary commands. "And hand me my bra."


"Is it safe to come in?"

His question follows his knock, and Sybil shakes her head as she opens the door for him.

"As if you haven't seen it all already," she quips, missing the manner in which her sister drops her eyes.

"With Mary, every time feels like the first time," Charles shoots back, making Mary's head shoot up as her eyes widen in his direction.

"How sweet," Sybil muses, tossing Mary sappy grin.

"Yes, he is," Mary hums. "Can you believe he is cooking for me until my knee completely recovers? His idea, not mine."

His brows shoot up as hers flicker a silent touché.

"How lovely! So what's your specialty?" Sybil queries.

"Boiled tongue," he tosses back. "Perfecting such a prickly dish requires just the right touch."

"Tongue," Sybil flinches. "I didn't know you liked tongue, Mary."

"She loves it," he answers, watching Mary's neck turn three shades of pink. "Can't get enough of it, actually."

He dares.

"Only if it's done right," Mary responds. "Otherwise it leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

"Believe me," Charles returns smoothly. "I always do it right."

Their eyes refuse to budge, and Sybil looks back and forth between them.

"How like you to tout your tongue skills," Mary challenges.

"I never make a claim I cannot admirably fill," he retorts. "The proof is in the pudding, so to speak."

"And what if I refuse to let you near my pudding?"

They are grinning now, leaving Sybil speechless.

"Well, that's your prerogative, of course," he shrugs. "But sharing the pudding has its own set of rewards."

Her breasts tingle in his direction.

"I think I'm in the mood for boiled sausages tonight," Mary states, enjoying the way he bites his bottom lip. "And please cook the hell out of them."

He rubs fingers over his scalp, trying not to let his nether regions steer his ship yet again.

"Up for some bangers and mash, are we?" Charles asks. "Your wish is my command."

"That's a good ogre," she purrs, warming all over as he shakes his head and smirks.

"Shouldn't we be getting Mary to the hospital?"

Sybil's question pulls them out of their sparring match, and he moves forward purposely, planting a lingering kiss on Mary's cheek, careful to breathe into her ear.

"Come along, dearest," he croons, sliding his arm under her and around her waist in one deft motion. "Remember to put your weight on me."

Damn. He's too close now, making her feel things too strongly for her own good.

"You heard him, Sybil," Mary voices. "He just gave me permission to take full advantage of him tonight."

"Don't you always?" he quips as he guides her to the front door, Sybil clutching the crutches and trying to keep up.

"You're only brushing the tip of the iceberg," she breathes into his neck, making him clear his throat rather loudly.

"Somehow I think that should be my line," he murmurs, Sybil now all but forgotten as they exit the flat.

"And just when I was craving toad in the hole," she murmurs, watching his face flush hot pink as he steadies his breathing. "What a shame."

"Your cravings could be my undoing," he confesses, shaking his head soundly. "In more ways than one. Hold on tight, my lady."

She is hoisted into his arms just as she had been in route to the shower, the memories of him warm and wet now hitting her squarely between the thighs.

"Gahhh," she cries out as he takes his first step downward, the jolting motion slicing up her leg.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, all jesting now gone from his tone. "I'll try to do better."

His expression of guilt makes her ache.

"Just don't drop me, and I'll be alright."

He stops and looks straight at her, eye to eye, nose to nose. Something thick begins to bubble beneath her ribs, wanting to break free of the self-imposed confines binding her rigidly together.

"I told you earlier," he assures her with the heated delicacy of a lover. "I won't drop you again. Trust me, Mary."

Her tongue feels too thick to answer, her brain too befuddled to throw a barb. She simply nods and swallows as he holds her closer to his chest, seeming to understand what this wordless assent has cost her.

"I do," she whispers, the words uncoiling something tight as they spill from her lips. And as he gives her a lopsided smile she can't quite decipher, she realizes with a start that she truly does.


"How is this?" he asks, watching her expression intently. "Alright?"

"As good as it can be," she answers, following him with her eyes as he fluffs the pillow delicately yet again. "This brace is restrictive."

"It's supposed to be restrictive," he tosses back. "That's how that sprain is going to heal. Now be a good girl and sit tight while I get you an ice pack."

"Yes, sir," she quips with an eye roll. "Sybil really likes you, you know."

He shakes his head as an odd chuckle escapes him.

"God, I'm glad," he muses. "I can honestly say I've never had such a personal and embarrassing introduction."

Her laughter hits him squarely, the grin she shoots him much too adorable.

"I'll bet," she teases, and he notes the effects of pain killers clouding her eyes. "Lord, who knows what she'll tell Tom about us."

"I shudder to think."

"Don't tell me you're squeamish," she teases, eyeing him dangerously.

"If I were, I wouldn't be here with you, now would I?" he grins, eliciting a deep laugh.

"How clever of you, Lord Ogre," she breathes as he adjusts her pillow yet again.

"Here," he states, laying the ice pack on her swollen knee. "Now let me fix you something to eat before you pass out here on the sofa."

"More eggs and bacon?" she questions, snaking her arm around his neck. "Like you did in your flat?"

Thoughts of her in his bed overcrowd his imagination.

"If that's what you like," he offers. "Eggs will probably settle well on your stomach."

She stops talking and stares at him, her eyes a bit dazed, her presence overwhelming his reason. God he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss the hell out of her.

"Why did you offer to stay over, Charles?"

Her breath tickles his lips as a finger strokes his cheek.

"Because you need me," he answers, tingling in places that respond to her much too rapidly. "And I'm available."

"Available for what?" she croons, clearly descending into a mental fog. "Any and all of my needs?"

He fights down the tightening in his grown, ignoring the drug-induced seduction on her lips as he gently removes her arm.

"Of course," he smiles. "And right now, you need to eat and then rest."

"Coward," she throws back, leaning into the pillows. "Are you afraid of kissing me?"

He turns back to face her directly.

"Yes," he answers honestly, wondering if she'll remember this conversation tomorrow. "I am, actually."

"Why, in God's name?" she questions, her pouty expression reminding him too much of one of his sisters.

He moves back to sit beside her, staring into eyes that always get to him.

"Because once I start, I'm not sure I'll be able to stop."

A low hum resonates from her ribs as her fingers lace themselves in his hair.

"And that would be a bad thing because?"

"Because you're not in your right mind at the moment," he answers frankly. "And when and if I ever kiss you, I want you to remember every damn second of it."

They hover nose to nose for an extended breath.

"Cocky, aren't we?" she muses, the words nearly slurring as her hand moves deftly between his legs.

"Horribly," he agrees, standing quickly and moving out of her range of motion. "And right now, this cocky ogre is going to make you something to eat. End of discussion."

"Spoiled sport," she calls after him, biting her lower lip.

"God knows I've been called worse," he fires back, enjoying her throaty laugh more than he should. "Especially by you."

"Why don't you cook in the towel?"

He freezes where he stands, turning away from the refrigerator and eyeing her incredulously.

"I prefer not to risk getting burned," he responds.

"Protecting your bacon, I take it," she grins, and he laughs in spite of himself.

"Someone has to," he shrugs, putting said meat in the skillet before proceeding to crack the eggs. "Every pig for himself, you know."

"Do I look like the big bad wolf?" she teases, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Like I'm going to huff and puff and blow your pants down?"

"You look like a delirious wolf," he returns as he whisks his concoction. "And I've never heard that version of the story. Just what kind of fairy tales did your mummy read to you as a child?"

"Let's play charades and I'll show you," she grins, and he bites back his arousal as best he can.

"When your knee has recovered, I may just take you up on that," he offers. "But only if I get it in writing that no pots of boiling water will be employed as props."

"My knee is in fine form for charades," she insists with a yawn.

"I'm sure it is," he smirks. "Would some coffee help or hurt, do you think?"

"I'd prefer a glass of wine," she states, languidly stretching her arms. "Why don't you open a bottle?"

"No wine," he insists. "Sorry. Not allowed with the drugs you're now taking."

"How about a beer?" she tries. "I'll share the foam."

"Stop tempting me," he insists, putting on some water to boil. "I think tea might be the best thing for you, honestly."

"You sound like my mother," she bites back with a frown.

"The mother who read you naught fairy tales?" he returns, making her cackle outright. "Heaven forbid."

"What's your mother like?"

He pauses just before pouring eggs into the pan.

"She's a lot like you, actually. Bossy and very sure of herself."

The admission makes her smile.

"Hmmm, I like her already."

"She'd like you, as well," he states, feeling an odd sensation at the thought of them meeting. "Especially your taste in chefs."

"But I've never tasted the chef," she observes, flashing him the naughtiest grin he has ever seen as the bacon sizzles noisily under his nose.

"Patience," he quips, pulling his gaze back to the meat, trying not to let it burn. "The chef is not on tonight's menu."

"Pity," she pouts as a yawn hits her again.

He finishes preparing the meal in silence, watching as her head begins to droop and her eyes begin to flutter.

"Eat," he instructs, moving towards her with a tray and handing her a fork. "Every last bite of it."

"Too tired," she protests, shoving his hand away.

"Too bad," he overrules, stabbing some eggs and holding them up to her lips. "You'll start vomiting again if you don't get some food in your stomach, and I don't want you waking me up at some ungodly hour."

She opens her mouth to protest, only to have it silenced by a fork full of eggs.

"Bully," she huffs as he hands her a strip of bacon. She bites of a piece and stares at him hard while she chews.

"Whatever it takes," he states, offering her a sip of tea. "I do value my beauty sleep."

"It's not doing you any good," she returns, biting off some more bacon.

"Now is that any way to speak to your personal chef?" he questions, practically shoving another bite of eggs into her as she frowns back at him.

She eats the rest in silence, finally halting his hand as he offers her the last bite.

"No more," she insists, imbibing in a final sip of tea. Her eyes are at half-mast, and she clutches his shirt to keep herself steady. "Please."

Her raw vulnerability twists his heart painfully.

"Alright," he agrees, indulging himself with a gentle stroke of her hair, enchanted by its texture, lured by the promise of its scent. "Let's get you to bed now. You're past ready."

He sweeps her up to his chest, carrying her to the now familiar walls of her bedroom, depositing her softly on to her bed.

"Hold on, now," he protests as he watches pull her top off unceremoniously. "Let me get you something to put on."

She shrugs, her eyes hazed over.

"You've already seen me in a bikini," she argues drowsily. "What's the difference?"

He rummages through her draw, finding an over-sized t-shirt that will easily reach her thighs. It probably belonged to Matthew, but he's not in a position to care at the moment.

"Here," he breaks in, sliding it over her head just before she manages to unfasten her bra. He breathes out in relief, knowing what the sight of her breasts would do to him. She pushes her arms through the sleeves after tossing the undergarment to the floor, gesturing to her pants as she looks up at him in placid expectation.

This woman is going to kill him. Pure and simple.

He slides her pants down with a sigh, using every measure of self-discipline he owns not to caress her thighs or stare where he shouldn't.

"Better?" he asks as liquid eyes stare back at him heavily.

"Hmmm," she hums with a nod, looping her arms about his neck as he moves her head on to her pillow and adjusts the one under her knee. "Stay with me, Charles. Please."

Damn it.

"Not a good idea, Mary," he whispers gently, finding her grip to be surprisingly strong. "You'll be madder than hell at both of us in the morning if you find me in your bed. I've got a nice bruise on my hip to offer up as evidence."

"What's wrong with me? Don't you want me?"

His throat swells uncomfortably.

"There's not a damn thing wrong with you," he assures her, stroking her cheek. "And I want you so badly it hurts."

He feels the confession all over.

"Then what's stopping you? I'm right here."

He attempts to swallow, finding it nearly impossible.

"It's wrong, Mary," he asserts, losing his fingers in her hair. "I won't make love to you when you're like this. And I refuse to be a substitute for someone else."

"You're an idiot, Charles Blake," she grins, pulling his mouth down to hers and nibbling his upper lip with her teeth. Molten heat shoots down all his nerve endings at once, and his mouth responds on its own, opening, tasting, caressing hers in a dangerous tango she intensifies on cue. Her tongue seeks his, stroking him rhythmically until he breaks out in a sweat.

"I'm a complete idiot, Mary Crawley," he manages, trying to catch both his breath and his reason as he pushes back from her reluctantly. "But you need to sleep, not to wake up to actions you'll regret."

Her eyes register something, an expression he can't quite read that knocks him squarely in the gut.

"Just don't leave me. Alright?"

He feathers a kiss to her forehead, stroking her hair away from her face.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promises. "After all, I am your ogre. Remember?"

A languid smile beams up at him, and she sleepily nods her head. He remains on the edge of her bed, stroking her hair until her eyes finally fall shut and her breathing falls into a steady rhythm.

"Stop making me fall in love with you," he whispers, feeling her shift into his hand as a sound of contentment rolls out of her chest. Then he shakes his head and stands, gazing back at her before leaving her bedroom, knowing he has lost any semblance of control when it comes to her and wondering just how badly he will come to regret it.


Thoughts?