A/N: Hi, again! Thanks to those who reviewed, especially The Arcticourt Spellwright. Your words gave me the courage I needed to churn this baby out. As I said before, this is un-beta'd, so if there are mistakes, ignore them. Or tell me, if you'd like. I can't promise I'll fix them, though.

Since I forgot to do this in chapter one...

DISCLAIMER: I own absolutely, positively nothing. Except for a little crush on Allen Leech :)

Tom Branson was an utter fool. He should have known that Sybil would likely leave a note for her family, should have known that taking the car would be a dead giveaway as to what they'd intended to do. Instead of being halfway to Gretna Green (and halfway to happily married) he was back in this God-forsaken garage, pacing all day amongst the dust and grease, awaiting Mr. Carson's arrival and his unavoidable dismissal from service. Worse, he had heard no word from Sybil, and had not so much as a glimpse of her throughout the entire day (although he had tried peeking in through the main doors when he'd dropped off the Dowager Countess for dinner).

He had packed, unpacked, and repacked his belongings several times in the course of the afternoon, even debated handing in his notice in order to escape the devastating clutches of heartbreak. You did this to yourself, Tom Branson, he thought. You've reached too high and now must be put back in line. The image of Sybil's downcast head, her eyes pleading with him to forgive her, would haunt him for the rest of his days. He knew that there was only a half-chance that she would even agree to leave with him, and yet despite his usual foresight, he had only dwelled on the unimaginable joy her decision had left him with. Never mind the consequences; never mind what should have been taken into account all along: their discovery.

When she had left the room at the inn with her sisters, he had clung desperately to her parting words, "Believe it or not, I will stay true to you." And yet, with the dawn came the seeds of doubt, plucking away at his brain like a vulture to its prey. The long drive back to Downton, alone, had left him far too much time to dwell on how easily she had left with them. Furthermore, it caused him to analyze her acceptance of his proposal in the first place. Although his memory of their kiss would be burned into his very soul forever, he did find a few aspects of their conversation and hurried decision lacking.

She never said she loved me, he thought. Fool that he was, Tom Branson had assumed that her decision to leave her family was based on their mutual affection for each other; now he couldn't help but be reminded that their relationship was always a tad one-sided. He had always been a passionate sort; when he was a boy his mother complained that he was too hot-headed for his own good, often brawling in the streets with older boys over some nonsense or another.

He remembered walking home from school one day behind Cathleen Donohue, his first crush, and tripping over a loose stone in the pavement (he'd been too preoccupied with her form than with the placement of his feet). He'd ended up sprawled on the ground like an idiot, his hands scraped and burning, but that was more bearable than the sourness of embarrassment in his gut. Her older brother, Ian, had doubled over and laughed for barely a few moments before Tom pummeled him to the ground. He'd come home bloodied, his jacket torn, his new hat missing, and had one of the worst tongue lashings of his life, "Thomas Branson, if I ever hear of you fighting over some silly girl again I'll box your ears until you're deaf." After her initial rant was over and his tears were dried, his mother brought him before the sink to clean him up. As she spoke again her tone softened, "You should never, ever let anyone make you feel less than what you are. Everyone makes mistakes, Tom. Everyone falls. But you must be able to pick yourself up again. And I don't mean by breaking poor Ian Donohue's nose."

It seemed as though this would just be one more dip in the road, another occurrence where he had let his emotions get the best of him. Just pick yourself up, Tom. One more rejection won't kill you, he thought. And yet, it seemed as though this time it would take far longer to rebound from her rebuff. He had been so blinded by his joy the night before that he hadn't given a thought to anything else.

She'd come to him, dressed in all her finery, her hair swept up off her neck and her earrings sparkling in the lamplight. She was so lovely it was painful for him to be in her presence sometimes; many of their encounters had ended abruptly with him stalking out of the garage, the closeness of the space and his desire for her overwhelming him. But this time, all of his fevered dreams of her had come to fruition; her full lips had been soft beneath his, the taste of her unbearably sweet. He'd groaned loudly into her mouth when she'd unexpectedly slid her tongue along the seam of his lips, unashamed of his pent up desire. They had ended up breathless against the side of the Renault, his left arm around her waist, clutching her to him while his right steadied them against the cab. He'd pulled away first, eager to see her reaction to their kiss, and felt his stomach clench at the dainty, disappointed whimper she'd uttered. Christ, what she did to him.

No sense dwelling on that now, he thought sadly. The thought that he would very likely never touch her again nearly brought him to his knees as he entered his cottage, having just arrived back at the house after dropping off Lady Violet. His few belongings were still strewn half-hazardly about the room, his neatly packed suitcase from the night before upended at the foot of his bed. It was after midnight, and the fact that he'd not slept a wink the night before had taken its toll. As he began undressing for bed, he made up his mind. Tomorrow I'll hand in my notice, and take the evening train. If she hasn't gotten word to me by now, then I'm as good as finished anyway and if she thinks for a moment I'm going to stay here and be her lap dog than she's a bigger fool than I am, he thought. The pain in his chest increased, flowing up his shoulders and continuing to his head, where a dull throbbing behind his eyes remained. He put the kettle on after removing his waistcoat, tie and shirt, leaving him in his trousers and undershirt. He had just begun writing a letter home to his family, describing his imminent return (yet leaving out most of the gruesome details) when there was a faint knock on the door to his cottage.

And here he is, Mr. Carson come to sack me, he thought spitefully, standing and striding to the door and opening it roughly. As the door flew open, it was most certainly not Mr. Carson standing before him, but rather Lady Sybil, clad in only her nightclothes, shivering beneath her silk dressing gown.

"May I come in?" She asked politely, gazing at him through her long lashes.

He nodded dumbly, worried that this was all a dream, one where he would wake up and the pain in his heart would be too great to bear. As he turned from the door (which he locked, lest someone come looking for them) he couldn't help but notice how she sashayed into his room, his home, as if she owned the place. (Despite the fact that technically she did, or her father did, it still made his blood boil). What right does she have to come to me now, as if nothing's changed? He thought. It was his worst fear realized.

His defenses were up as soon as she turned to him, the carefully crafted wall he'd built around his heart in the years since her rejection of his proposal in York erecting itself again quite easily.

"What can I do for you, milady?" His tone was harsh, and he meant it to be. If she could not fathom how deeply she'd wounded him, he'd be damn sure she left knowing the hard truth of it.

Her eyes widened at his tone and his use of her title, before narrowing in confusion.

"Tom, I've come to explain. I've spoken to Mary and Edith and – "

"Please," He uttered. "I'd rather be spared the humiliation of your explanation. If you can't grant me that, then I must ask you to leave." He did not want to know what her sisters had convinced her to believe, did not want to be the object of their scorn.

She started toward him, reaching out to lay a hand on his bare arm. He pulled away from her as though burned.

"You needn't explain, milady. I understand perfectly well," his eyes were so blue, fathomless with anguish.

"Tom, please…" She began again.

"Lady Sybil, I'm very tired. I'd think it'd be best if you went back up to the house." His throat was burning, as though the anguish in his gut had risen slowly up his chest until it was near to spilling out of his mouth.

"Why are you being like this? What's happened?" She begged, her eyes pleading with him to explain his behavior. He could bear it no longer.

"I'll be turning in my notice first thing in the morning, mila-"

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" she exclaimed. Her face was flushed, her emotions torn between heartbreak and pure frustration.

"We must have a plan, Tom. If you resign there'll be no way for us to leave together, and they – "

"Who said anything about leaving together?" he raged. He was caught fast in the line between fury and utter desolation, his blood rushing fast and thick through his veins.

"Pardon me, milady," he sneered. "But I'd rather not be only the means of your escape. Last night I was put under the wrong impression. I thought –" He stopped short, unable to say the words. He started again, his voice hoarse with pain, "But it seems as though you thought to come here and relieve me of that burden."

Sybil stared at him for a few long moments, her expression unreadable, before bursting into a fit of giggles. He remained standing by the door, completely flummoxed by her response.

"Oh, Tom Branson, you are such a fool," she laughed prettily, her smile stretching her lovely mouth wide. "I don't know if I should throttle you or kiss you," she giggled again, until her expression became somber once more.

"Let me make myself perfectly clear; my intentions of running away with you had little or nothing to do with using you as a means for escape," she uttered, her eyes intent upon his. He staggered forward, sliding into a chair at his writing table, his brain working hard to process her words.

She moved toward him, kneeling before him on the floor and taking his hand in hers.

"I'm sorry if I left that impression," she began again sadly, her eyes clear and blue and remorseful. "It's just that… well, I thought that you were so sure of my feelings all along. You were always so open, with your affection for me, and at times presumptuous about how I felt about you." Here she grinned, gazing down at his rough palm, her fingers trailing designs from his wrist to his fingertips – mesmerizing.

"I assumed that once I said yes, it would be obvious to you what my intentions were. But it seems as though I was mistaken." His heart was beating so rapidly in his chest he was sure she must be able to feel how strong his pulse was beneath his skin. The feel of her fingers against his arm was indescribable.

She brought his hand up to cup her cheek, leaning into his callused palm. Her eyes, warm and open, gazed into his as she murmured, "I love you, Tom."

He was sliding out of his chair to kneel before her on the floor in an instant, his other hand coming up to cup her face. She was smiling, her cheeks full and soft and warm in his hands.

"Say it again," he uttered, his lips so close to hers, their breath mingling.

She leaned in slowly, brushing her lips with his; a fleeting caress. Her eyes twinkled merrily.

"I love you."

He could hold back no longer. With a groan he crushed his mouth to hers, slanting his lips against hers erotically. She gasped into his mouth, tangling her hands into his hair, reveling in the baby fine strands of dark blond hair at the nape of his neck. Pulling her flush against his body, he coaxed her lips open with his tongue before sliding inside her mouth to tangle with hers as she whimpered. He was painfully aroused; her earlier ministrations on his wrist and hand had left him nearly panting with want, and now that she was so warm and lovely in his arms he could practically hear his blood rushing south.

"Sybil," he groaned, hauling her up and into his arms before seating himself firmly on the chair at the table and pulling her down onto his lap, her legs astride him. She let out a breathy moan as she felt his response to her, squirming against him and shivering as he cried out against her lips. His hands planted firmly on her hips, he bucked into her, trailing his lips from her mouth to her neck, sucking hungrily at her pulse before moving to her collar bone. He swirled his tongue in the hollow at the base of her throat, her skin sweet and floral from her perfume.

His lips at her neck were driving her to distraction, but she could not fight the need to feel more of him under her hands; deftly, she lifted his undershirt, sliding her hands against the warm skin of his stomach. His muscles tensed as his breath caught in his throat, the feel of her hot little hands against him maddening. Trailing her fingers up, she stroked his back, feeling the strength of him there, before bringing her fingers back to his front to feel the fine line of hair trailing down his stomach. He claimed her mouth again with a grunt, his teeth nipping at her lovely mouth before his tongue laved her lower lip sensuously. Never in her life had she felt so wanton, her body tingling and tightening in mysterious places. She rocked against him again, the peculiar pleasure between her legs intensifying, need lancing through her. She could feel the hard ridge of him against her; despite her inexperience in all things romantic, she was not uneducated (for any squeamishness she might have had prior to the war was thoroughly abolished by her nursing training).

Sighing against his lips she ground against him again, desperate to sate the dizzying pleasure between her thighs and dying for it to continue. He ran his hand against her hip, dragging her against him, too far gone to care that he was bucking wantonly against the third daughter of the Earl of Grantham, and in his chauffer's cottage, no less. It was only when he brought his hand up to caress her breast through her nightgown that the spell broke; the delicate lace beneath his hands was warm, white and pristine, all innocence. He pulled his lips from hers with a groan, stilling her hips against his throbbing erection.

"Sybil, stop," he rasped, his accent thick. She opened her eyes slowly, her eyes a dark, lusty blue.

"Why?" she asked innocently, leaning forward and kissing him again, running her tongue along his top lip.

He grunted, pulling away from her again and smiling gently. "Because, if I don't stop now, I am unsure I'll be able to. And it has never been my intention to seduce you before we were married," he joked lamely.

She pouted prettily at him, and his resolve wavered. Before he could allow himself to be weakened by her again, he helped her off his lap slowly, and pulled up her own chair to she could sit across from him. Unable to keep from touching her, he pulled her hands into his, resting their entwined fingers atop the hardwood table. The sat gazing at each other for a few moments, silent save for the sound of their uneven breathing becoming regular again.

"I'm sorry," he began, his eyes betraying his shame for not trusting her. "I should have had more faith in you, in us. It was wrong of me to act as I did."

"What happens now?" he asked, unsure of her response.

She eyed their clasped hands before murmuring, "I want us to be together, Tom. There is no life for me here. Not anymore," she added sadly.

"Where shall we go? When do you wish to tell your family?" he asked earnestly, his every happiness wrapped up in her answers.

"I want to wait a little while," she said quickly, seeing the distress in his eyes. "If only to ensure that you and I will have a proper future together. It won't do much good to explain to my parents that I plan to marry you, only to have no course of action at hand."

"Alright," he sighed. "I'll write to my mother first, explain everything. She won't be happy about it, make no mistake. But she won't throw us out if we need a place to stay."

"I'll need a reference from Major Clarkson, if I'm to apply for a nursing position. We also need to think about what you'd like to do. I'd hate it if you went back to Ireland, only to be a chauffer again. I want you to be involved in the rebellion," she said earnestly, and he was reminded again of all the reasons he loved her.

"You mean you wouldn't have me if I remained a chauffer?" he teased, caressing her palm.

"Of course not," she stated haughtily, her eyes twinkling. "I fully intend you to become a revolutionary. It sounds far better than 'chauffer', anyway."

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, then I'd better start looking for a more dignified occupation, milady."

"That you should. And I don't see why we can't do it together. I helped Gwen find a secretary position, why can't I help you find new employment?" She was still giggling when she stood from the chair, having noted that the time was well past one.

"I should be getting back," she stated, her voice low. "I don't want to leave you, now that everything's…settled." She struggled for a proper word, her cheeks flushing as she thought back to their heated encounter.

He stood and walked her to the door, enjoying how the color in her face enhanced her features.

"Will you visit tomorrow?" he asked, eager to know when he would see her next. Gone were the days of hopelessly waiting for unannounced arrivals in the garage; he would see to it that they saw far more of each other now that everything was, 'settled'.

"Yes. I'll look through the circulars in the paper tomorrow at breakfast and see if anything catches my eye. I'll bring it out to you tomorrow night, after dinner. Say, eleven?" she asked.

"I'll be waiting, milady," his eyes gleamed as he answered her, bending down to claim her lips in a kiss.

"Until tomorrow," she said, smiling.

"Until tomorrow," he replied, watching her make her way through the darkness back into the safety of the house.

Confession: First make-out scene I've written. Ever. Tell me what you think? Please?