She awoke with a dull throb pushing in her lower belly, stirring her from her uneasy sleep and back into the world of the living with a terrible start, a physical manifestation of the emotion pain that gripped her. She rolled gently onto her other side, his body, unsheathed and warm, so close to her own. Innocence swept the plains of his face, restful and calm in his ease. Mary wished her own contentment came as easily and fought the resentment that flitted through her. She knew that there was a strength in letting go, but she was praying for the moment when that strength would come.

With a certain assuredness she reached out and touched the curve of his nose, long and smooth beneath the pads of her fingers, tracing the soft lines of his lips, swollen from her kisses, his chin, his jaw, the roughness of the hair that grew along the strong lines. He stirred under her hand, throat contracting with a thick swallow, light eyes heavy with sleep flitting open to meet her dark.

Her face remained expressionless, dark and breathing in his proximity, revelling in the feel of his skin under her own but refusing to show him that he was her weakness.

"How is it possible for someone to look so beautiful this early?" His breath was sweet against her face.

She allowed the briefest of smiles to grace her lips and his reaction, a deep, cheeky grin, set off her own, a deliciously innocent giggle of someone much more light hearted than herself.

He pulled her body tight against his own, relishing the softness of her skin, and ached for the moments of their relationship when it had all come with so much more ease. When the undertones of his night with Lola weren't etched into her every touch, when he didn't have to worry if Mary was thinking about his time with Lola while he made love to her. He needed her to know that she was the only woman that would ever have his heart but it was so hard to prove to her while she doubted every inch of their marriage.

"I wish you would tell me where your head is," he whispered, his mouth flush against her ear.

Heartbeats quickened, noticed by both, pressed against one another's and separated only by a thin layer of bone and flesh. A hitch of breaths, halted in symmetrical moments, a parallel of one another.

"Please," he begged.

She pressed her nose into the flesh of his neck, breathing in the scent of him and feeling his pulse quicken with her proximity. "I can't."

Gently he pushed her away to better see her face, cupping each cheek in the palm of his hands. "You can. Mary, please. I need you to tell me how you feel."

She shook her head, prying his hands off her skin and pushing herself upright in bed, tightening the blankets around her vulnerable torso. "Francis."

He could hear the crack in her voice as she said his name that indicated her breakdown. It was in the simplicity of his name from her lips that Francis realized just how badly he had hurt his wife. He pushed himself upwards but refrained from touching her, exercising all his will to not reach out and comfort her.

"If I start to talk about this, about how badly you hurt me," she took a breath to steady her words, hating the weakness that seeped out, "Then I don't know how I will ever get over it. Right now, right now I just need to forget."

He bit back his words, wanting to repeat over and over how much he loved her. But Mary had never doubted his love for her. Just the actions he had taken despite that love. Francis knew anything else he could say to her in this moment would fall on deaf ears. That time alone would heal the betrayal he had placed so carelessly in her lap at his own selfishness.

Unable to resist, Francis reached out and stroked a finger down the length of her spine. His heart fell when, instead of flexing and reacting under his touch as she had always done before, the contact of his skin on hers had had no effect at all. Dread filled him. He pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of her shoulder and untangled himself from the blankets they shared.

"I'll leave you."

She didn't miss the heavy tone of guilt his words carried and as much as she wanted to call out for him, to tell him to come back to her, she didn't. Instead she let him walk out of the door and leave her to wallow in the misery they had created for themselves.

FM

Self loathing ripped him apart on a level he had never felt before. Not even killing his own father made him hate himself as much, though the comparison was close. Rage battled against intense depression, and while it was hard to resent the baby boy that was a result of his moment of weakness, Francis felt himself wishing that night with Lola had never happened. He wandered the halls aimlessly, having nowhere to go, wanting to be nowhere else than the place he was not wanted.

A familiar face rounded the corner, tight with worry that reflected his brothers.

"You look like hell."

Francis couldn't even muster a sarcastic smile.

"That bad?" Bash asked, concern flooding him.

"I've ruined things with Mary for good. She'll never forgive me for this."

Bash shook his head, his hand crossing the gap between them and finding a comforting place on his brothers arm. "Of course she will. Just give her some time. I'm sure it's not easy on any of you."

Francis shook his head, determined to stew in self pity and hatred. "I don't know, Bash. I really don't know."

"Mary loves you."

Francis knew that Bash's statement was true, but doubted the strength of that love to overcome his actions. He shook his head and let a sigh escape his lips.

"Don't give up on her, brother. Fight for her."

Francis nodded. "I'm not sure where to draw the line, Bash. She wants space."

"So give it to her," he stated matter of factly. "Just don't give her so much space that she'll forget how much you love her, and how equally she loves you in return."

Francis wished he had his brothers faith in his marriage.

"Thank you, Bash."

Bash smiled with a cheeky wink. "It's what brothers are for. However I do have to go back to my own wife now."

"Everything all right?" Francis asked, ashamed that he hadn't even asked about his Bash's troubles.

"Just trying to balance having a wife and having a job to do. Nothing to worry yourself about. Take care, brother."

"You too."

Francis turned and watched Bash walk away, back to his wife awaiting him in their bed, and pushed back the bite of jealousy that seized him. He admired Bash for making the most of his forced arrangement to Kenna, admired that he was a good enough man to fall in love with his wife, not out of obligation, but out of choice.

As he turned back around to walk to the great hall, Mary came into view. Francis could tell right away that something was wrong. Her face was pale, almost grey, a blueish tinge around her full lips. One hand braced herself against the cool stone of the castle wall, the other gripped her lower abdomen, face contorted in pain.

"Mary," he gasped, crossing the threshold between them.

"Francis." Her voice was hollow and scared.

"What happened?" He asked, one of his large, warm hands covering her own, the other supporting the weight of her thin body against his.

"Something's wrong."

"Are you hurt? Tell me, please. Mary what is it?"

She squeezed her eyes shut as another wave of pain rocked through her. Francis had never been more afraid in his life.

"The baby," she muttered, knees buckling under the weight of the pain. Francis wrapped her arm over his shoulder and held her tightly, breath hitching with the impact of her words.

"Baby?" Disbelief seized him. "Mary, are you with child?"

The nod of her head was almost missed as she buried her face into his chest.

"Francis, please. Please make it stop."

As the shock settled in, Francis realized he needed to get Mary to a physician as soon as possible if there was any chance of keeping the baby alive. Of keeping Mary alive. Mind still reeling, he propped her weight onto his shoulder, swept her knees into his other arm and carried her, trying to ignore the wetness of her blood against the sleeve of his shirt.