Who dat writing again? I's is writing again, at least this enough to finish this story. Yeah Saints!!! Sorry I am from New Orleans and part of this was written over Super Bowl Sunday. In addition, sorry this has taken so long to update, I blame life and writers block. However, we should thank the snow for me getting this done. I am in the North East and I have been trapped in my apartment for the past six days, fun times. But here's the next chapter and forgive me if this feels different, but its hard getting back into fiction writing when I have been working on a dissertation for the past year, nope I am not dead, at least not yet. So, things amp up a little in this chapter and watch for the next chapter all will be revealed there, I promise my disjointedness in this story will make sense, it's a method of illusion. I meant for you to be a little confused, I just a tad evil. Oh happy belated Single Awareness Day aka Valentines Day, so here's a little love to celebrate and so let's carry on.

Chapter 7

Like You

England, London- After the Ball -The Present

Rolfe's hands moved of their own accord up the pale silky thighs bringing her to him. She was beautiful in the cover of darkness. With her back pressed to the cold wall, her hands worked swiftly on his clothing, searching for his pouch of gold or in a rush to bring him, which one he could not tell. They moved in a savage cadence that surprised him, his anger swelled as they moved. In the dark moonlight of the street, he tasted her and he hated her, hated that his wife led him to this, "she didn't love him enough." Her rough hands pushing him back broke his thoughts. The hands that had once caressed her thigh, had dug into her skin, had brought pools of blood to it surface, and now as she struggled his hands made their way to her throat. "Did she pray like his wife did that he would finish? The womanfought him, managed to detangle herself from him and ran; he stood in the dark ally seeking further redemption. Slowly Rolfe moved, crossing the wet cobblestone, heading in the direction of Christ Church.

In the glow of the church Rachel cried, "Cried like a baby" she thought. Truthfully, she had never loved but she had thought she had at one time. Rachel knew, well she could feel, that they had much in common; love, pain, and sorrow. Rachel held Pocahontas as she released her pain and gently told her, "I know you still love him," the younger women nodded. Rachel had been hurt by love. She had not always been a whore, by the time she had met John Smith she had just started in the trade, with his help she gained enough respectability in order to move from a lowly streetwalker to a highly paid courtesan, he was a good friend. Although she had been new to the streets, she had been familiar with the arts of pleasure; she had learned this from her first lover, a man she thought she loved.

Rachel had been wealthy, born the daughter of a merchant, yet she became the lover of a highwayman. Her relationship had been doomed to fail. She learned form him, the touch of a man, their thoughts, and their desires. Yet, she did not learn enough to protect herself from his rages, to ply his gripping hands from her arm, or to not become pregnant by a man who did not love her, no she learned those lessons in grief and pain. Her lover had turned her out to the streets, she could not turn to her family. Her body had been her means of escaped and passion, then it became her means of survival. She had lost her babe, her son, not to sickness or death but to the almshouse. Rachel had given up her child painfully, so that he would have a better life, if she had known his life would have lasted one season, she would have kept him with her. Rachel now held the other crying woman in her arms like she had held her child. They cried in sorrow and prayed together, each in their own way. When the door opened neither woman heard nor felt the chill of the night's wind alerting them to Rolfe's presence.

Rolfe saw them. "Did he think she would let go easily?," Rachel considered.

Rolfe's large hand landed heavily on Rachel's arm, she pulled the beaten women closer to her.

"Rebecca" he called. Pocahontas did not like the tone, it held to much anger.

"Let go of my wife," Rolfe demanded, "Even whores and red devils come to the church for refuge when in league with sin," he thought.

Rachel had never followed orders and she did not plan to anytime soon. She was about to curse Rolfe, but she remembered where she was. Instead, she stood and pulled Pocahontas with her breaking Rolfe's painful grip.

"How dare you, is this how you love your wife by beating her," Rachel exclaimed.

He moved toward them meaning to grab his wife, they would find redemption together, but Rachel was there and stopped him.

Rolfe's anger flared, "How dare you protect her you harlot." "His wife had never stood up to him before this night and now the whore was. Couldn't Rebecca see he loved her, that he was fighting for them, couldn't Smith's mistress see he loved his wife?"

Rolfe snapped, moving toward the whore, his hand made contact with her face. Rachel had not been hit in ten years and would be dammed, dammed, if Rolfe would do it again. As Rachel fell against the dark oak bench she let Pocahontas go and pulled her stiletto from her boot, it gleamed in the dim church light. The knife would have made contact with Rolfe had not Pocahontas intervened, she held the knife still in Rachel's hand.

"Don't," Pocahontas yelled. "She did not want him dead."

Rolfe stood stunned, "the whore had tried to kill him and his wife stopped her, perhaps she's not in love with Smith," Rolfe thought.

Rachel struggle against her, but Pocahontas moved with Rachel.

"I love my husband," Pocahontas yelled.

Rachel gasped in thought, "She loved him? What about Smith, didn't she love and share her body with him?" Rachel could not stop the words from coming out of her mouth.

"Like hell."

Rolfe's anger rose again, shifting toward the women. Rachel was ready for him, he would not hurt them, be dammed.

"No…" Pocahontas stuttered and exclaimed, "I love him."

Rachel could protest no longer, only Pocahontas could save herself. Slowly the wounded woman moved toward her husband. Rachel called, "Come with me, we will protect you, you don't have to punish yourself." The younger women moved with her husband toward the door, yet she stilled long enough to shake her head to the redhead. They left and Rachel stood in the gold glow of the church, she stayed, she had a lot to pray and ask forgiveness for.

They lay in bed, Rolfe's mouth inched up her body, along with his hands. Pocahontas's breath hitched in her throat. It was not from pleasure. He had asked for forgiveness, had even gotten on his keens, had even kissed her feet. Rolfe had saved. Had saved her when she was in her darkest despair and fresh with her own sin, she forgave him. Rolfe tasted of another, he smelled of sex, and his touch irritated her burses, but he was her husband and she dared not deny him outright. His anger had evaporated; it was because she claimed to love him, now he wanted her to prove it. "Would she?" Rolfe kissed her and she shuttered. She loved Smith, the memory of his body filling hers and his warm calloused hands on her thighs helped her break free of Rolfe. Pocahontas forced herself to kiss her husband back, but spoke in fear, " I can't…I am hurt." He did not anger, but touched the purple handprint on her face, she winched. He turned his back to her and she was free, for now. "Could she take anymore?"

John Smith also lay in bed, in his flat, restless. He remembered the feel of her center, their hands moving around the plains of each other's bodies, the marks that they made in ardor, the explosion of colors at their peek; the memory of their union would not leave him. His hands traced across her nail marks on his shoulders, other men would call them a badge of conquest, but he held them as a sign of their love, no one would see them. He wanted her, he loved her, he could not live without her; now that he had known her again, he had to get her back. A thought came to him in the silent darkness, but would he do it, "Would I risk it?" he the darkness, he made his decision; he had to have her back and he would pay any cost.

Here is a lil bit of Chapter 8 for bearing with me so long and yes it might confuse you, but hold out, this story's more complicated than you think. Oh don't forget to tell me what you think, hit that box and review. A line was barrowed from Evanescence's "Like you" have fun finding it.

Chapter 8

All That I'm Living For

England, London- The Future

He heard the metal door slam but did not move, he was too lost in despair. The foot steeps drew closer and clinked swiftly, a woman. The sky was gray and it matched his mood. The woman drew nearer, her gown rustled as she moved. "How did it come to this, how did it all go so wrong, he had loved her." He remembered the rain, her falling in his arms, blood, the knife in his hands, her face, her closing eyes. He closed his. The sound came closer and he smelled Oleander. Her hands her hands hit the bars.

"How could you," she said. "How could he?" he thought.

Rachel Palmer stood, her accusing gray eye weighed heavily on his soul, it forced his winter sky's to glance in her direction. He would not move to her, he could not, he would not face it the fact that his life was out of his hands now. Rachel called to him, he saw silver tears crawl down her face, it broke his heart. She had been a good friend to her and to him. John Smith saw Rachel grasp the bars harder; she really wanted to touch him. "Tell me why at least?" she had asked. He could not answer, he had no answer.

Rachel's dress was unbelievably bright in the darkness of cell bock, a radiant green. He would make this his last memory of her. John Smith would have told Rachel she looked beautiful, but he could not speak, she would not hear the truth in it anyhow. She would not hear his truth anymore, she no longer trusted him, she feared him. She called to him again, her silver tears flowed freely, he nodded in her direction signaling that he heard her, his golden hair followed the movement.

"Why?" She deserved the truth, but John Smith trusted she would discover it soon enough.

He trusted Rachel to finish his business, she promised I to him and they kept their promises to each other, she could never say no to him. Through her tears of anger and desolation she spoke, "take care of what you ask of, me because I could never say no."

He knew then she would do what he had asked, he was grateful. She turned to leave, her skirts moved with her. His voice stopped her movement. The redhead listened as he spoke the most burning sentence of his life, "Rachel I loved her, what else could I do?... Please just do as I ask, I am grateful to you my friend." He moved to her then and grasped the one had still laying on the door's opening, he squeeze it and she pressed back, her red curls shined in the dim light. "What else could he do?" Rachel contemplated and then she moved away. As she headed for the gray outside world, she knew their strength would carry her through.