A/N: First, a special shout out to foojules who stepped in as my (first) beta reader – you're awesome for taking the time to review! (You also helped me avoid an embarrassing historical faux pas with the billiards game...so, many thanks for that.)

After Chapter 5, when I had Sybil and Tom remain behind at Downton from the summer trip to the Highlands, I thought it would be fun to write a sketch of them going the following year. I planned to have this completed more than a month ago, but had a biblical bout of writer's block (the muse apparently hurled itself off the train between Downton and Duneagle). Once it came back, the story kept rambling along, so at least I'll get two chapters out of it. I also didn't intend for this one to have much of a plot, but it happened anyway, at least in small drips and drabs. Mostly, this is just supposed to be fluff and fun interspersed with an appropriate amount Branson sexytimes (so if that's not your thing, shoo).

Since this is (happily) AU, I tinkered with the Flintshire plotline. Duneagle's not on the chopping block (yet) and Shrimpie's not bound to some foreign post, but he and Susan are still indifferent to one another. Here, I also refer to them as the "Flintshires" for simplicity's sake, rather than juxtaposing between that and McClare.

Finally, thanks to everyone who's offered feedback through reviews/comments/PMs. I'm glad you've enjoyed these stories, and I hope you enjoy this one as well.

HEARTS LIKE THEIRS ARE BEATING YET, PART I

Duneagle Near Inverness, Scotland

Late Summer, 1922

When she was a true lady of Downton Abbey, Sybil rarely woke before dawn. Her sleeping patterns were dictated by the lethargic and, she had grown to believe, stagnant daily routine of the nobility. Housemaids drew the drapes at nine, breakfast at nine thirty (unless of course you were a married woman and could enjoy breakfast in bed), luncheon at one, tea in the late afternoon, and dinner at nine in the evening. The strict mealtime hours were broken by social visits, dress-fittings and charity events. But during the war, she had enthusiastically shed the restrictive lifestyle when her nursing position jolted her out of bed and to the hospital before the sun peeked over the Yorkshire horizon. Strangely enough, it had set her free. Now, returned to her childhood home for the foreseeable future and delicately balancing the old life and the new(along with her husband and child), she still maintained an early schedule to make her daily shift at the hospital.

Thus, even on this day's particularly early hour, she had already begun to stir when Agnes, the latest in a series of seemingly doomed-from-the-start housemaids, slipped into the room. Tucking the sheet beneath her arms, Sybil glanced over at her snoring husband with an indulgent smile as the curtains snapped open, casting a gentle glow across the bare skin of his back. The maid moved about, switching on lamps, and then collected the waiting laundry.

Sybil yawned and scratched the remaining sleep from her eyes. "Good morning, Agnes."

"Good morning, Mrs. Branson," the young maid greeted quietly, in deference to the sleeping agent. The other staff had warned her he could be terribly grumpy in the mornings. "You wanted me to wake you at six-thirty, but I see you're already up."

Both women startled a bit as Tom snorted himself awake. He squinted against the lamplight and groaned, then snatched the covers over his head.

"Well, at least one of us is," Sybil noted.

The maid smiled politely and moved toward the door. "Mr. Carson has breakfast ready. You best not keep him waiting, Mr. Branson," she called over her shoulder.

"Hurmph," came a muffled reply from somewhere under the covers.

As much as his wife relished rising before the household, Tom detested it. Because his life as a chauffeur had depended on catering to the schedules of his aristocratic masters, he had for the most part enjoyed late mornings and late evenings. His brief stint as a journalist in Dublin required the opposite, per his meticulous editor. If he appreciated anything about being back under his in-laws' roof, it was the opportunity to resume his body's preferred routine.

Sybil laughed as her husband burrowed himself in a cocoon of darkness. She snuggled under the blankets, wound a bare arm across his back and whispered behind his ear. "No lying about this morning, sleepyhead. We've got a train to catch."

Slowly, he turned his face just enough to peer up at her with one sleepy blue eye. "God," he groaned, stifling a yawn.

"You should probably give God a rest today, darling. You spoke to Him quite a bit last night." She pecked a kiss on his cheek, red and creased from where it had pressed into the sheets.

"As did you, but I doubt you'd admit it." He grinned roguishly then and flipped her over, pinning her beneath him. "And to be honest, I'm a little disappointed I got so little of the credit." His mouth seized a sensitive spot on her shoulder and he began grinding against her, demonstrating he had indeed had a significant role in last night's activities.

Now he decides to be a morning person. She dropped an arm over her eyes, considering her options before glancing over at the clock. "For Heaven's sake, Tom, we don't have... ohhh," she breathed, as his hand slithered between them. Maybe we can just catch a later train. She drew him down for a kiss, just as an obnoxious set of knuckles rapped at the door.

"Sybil? Are you there?"

Gasping for air, both stilled their movements, hoping Mary would simply go away. But they knew better.

"Sybil?" The doorknob squeaked.

"I'm here!" she called, and by the grace of God the door stopped moving. "What do you need? Tom's... not dressed." Her husband's mouth resumed a trail down her throat and lower. She swatted at him, feebly, and closed her eyes as his tongue lapped across one breast.

"Oh... sorry," came her sister's reply. "Mama wanted me to remind you about the time. We have to be at the station at 8:30 and we need to leave no later than eight. Don't delay for breakfast, darling. You know how Papa gets when we travel as a pack... Sybil, do you hear me?"

"Yes. Tell him we'll be down straightaway." She offered her husband a rueful smile as the door clicked shut. "We have ten days to do all this. And more," she assured him, planting a quick kiss on his mouth. "I promise it will be worth the wait." She gave his backside a playful squeeze, wriggled out from beneath his warm weight, and slipped off the bed.

Tom propped up on his elbows briefly before flopping back down again. "I've changed my mind," he declared, his voice muffled by the mattress. "I don't want to go to Scotland."

He remembered the family's annual jaunts to the highlands from when he was the chauffeur, although his part was limited to driving them to the station and back. And, even though he and Sybil had been married now for three years, this was his first trip as a bona fide family member. The first year, of course, they were still living in Dublin as newlyweds. The second year, Sybil was not far removed from Bobby's birth and, as the rest of the family vacillated on whether or not to go at all, Lord Flintshire was called to London on business and the invitation was cancelled. And, last year, the two of them stayed behind, coping with the distress of Sybil's miscarriage. But, finally, the Flintshires would be exposed to the entire Crawley clan, Irish working-class relations and all.

She pulled on her dressing gown and tossed his onto his listless body. "Well, then you can just stay here with Carson and Mrs. Hughes. I'm sure they would be delighted to have you underfoot while the staff catches up on house affairs. But your wife and son are leaving in precisely an hour and a half."

In dramatic fashion, he rolled off the bed, ignoring the dressing gown altogether. "But I've never even met these cousins."

Situated at her vanity by the window, Sybil brushed her hair and wantonly perused her husband's naked form in the mirror as he sauntered over to the wardrobe. "Yes, you have. At Mary and Matthew's wedding."

"Right. Sorry if I can't keep all the posh relatives straight," he scoffed, selecting an appropriate set of travel clothes. "I just don't understand what all the fuss is about. And I don't see how it qualifies as a holiday when it's just another lavish estate with the same preposterous food, clothes, and schedule."

She strolled into the adjoining bathroom, casting him a warning glance as she flipped on the light. "If nothing else, it's a holiday for us because we've both been working non-stop lately. Try to enjoy it."

Rolling his eyes, he slipped into his clothes, his mind wandering down a mental list of items he needed to collect from his office. Holiday or not, the harvest was upon them and he and Matthew still had business to discuss.

"Are you certain you packed everything you'll need?" she called from the bathroom, her voice resonating from the tiled walls.

"I don't need someone to pack for me, you know," he retorted, snapping his braces in place.

"That's not what I asked..."

He sighed, opening their shared suitcases to sift through the hastily assembled garments. "I think so..."

"It's cold up there, so you'll want your heavy socks and your warmest under-drawers..."

When did she turn into my mother? he wondered, sneaking back to the wardrobe to collect each item she ticked off her list.

"...and don't forget an extra suit or two if you and Matthew plan to fish or hunt... for whatever reason, men like to lie on the ground when they shoot things..."

He muttered to himself as he stuffed in two extra suits with accompanying shirts and braces. He wondered if it would just be easier to fetch a trunk from the attic. As he tried to rearrange her clothes in the bottom of the suitcase to make room for his own, his hand brushed against something hard. He recognized the book immediately: Wise Parenthood.

"What about your tails? You'll need them for the Ghillie Ball...Tom?" She slipped back into their bedroom, somehow already dressed and gorgeous as usual.

"Light reading for the trip?" he quizzed, brows knitted together. "I thought we were trying to have another baby?"

"We are," she smiled, dropping a dainty kiss on his lips before tucking the book back in the suitcase. She sorted through to ensure he had, indeed, remembered his set of tails. She could easily imagine him "forgetting" his formal wear, effectively uninviting himself from the ball. "I bought this copy last month when Cousin Isobel and I went to hear Mrs. Stopes speak in London. I thought it might be useful to Rose."

"Better not let her parents find out," he said, dropping a set of cufflinks into her hand and offering a shirt sleeve. "By the way, where's your copy?"

She chuckled mischievously, fastening one link, then the other. "In the library, next to Burke's Peerage. I can only imagine Papa's face the day he finds it."

The train chuffed north out of Downton, through York, Durham, Newcastle and finally snaked its way up into Scotland along the east coast. Swapping trains at Edinburgh, the Crawleys (and Bransons) embarked on the final long leg of the journey across the Firth of Forth, up through Perth and northward into the Highlands. The trip took most of the day, accounting for the slower speeds in the North Country, and it was somewhere around Dalwhinnie that an excited but exhausted Bobby Branson finally collapsed against his father's side. Having turned a precocious two years old that summer, Bobby's fascination with anything mechanical rivaled his father's. The child had worn Nanny out, begging to see every corner of the train. Tom and Sybil finally relieved the poor woman, whose hands were full with Mary and Matthew's one-year-old son, David.

With Bobby sound asleep burrowed between his parents on the plush velvet bench, Tom sat across from the Dowager Countess in one of two first class compartments reserved for the family. Wisely, he hid his face behind a newspaper and chuckled as Sybil and Edith began an animated conversation about the latter's latest article in The Sketch. The discussion, centered on the conditions of female factory workers, morphed into a minefield of delicate subject matters, much to the Dowager's dismay. She tsked and gasped as Edith described the poorly maintained communal toilets at one particular factory. In an effort to mute the conversation from her mind, she promptly turned her attention to her grandson-in-law, offering subtle suggestions on appropriate decorum at the Marquis of Flintshire's estate.

"They do things differently there," she hinted.

"How do you mean?"

"They haven't adapted to the modern world was well as we have."

He snorted at that and then returned his attention to his newspaper.

The Dowager pursed her lips and tapped the tip of her walking stick on the toe of his shoe. Bending the top of the paper over his fingers, he raised a curious brow.

"I don't want this holiday to deteriorate into an ill-timed political statement. My niece is... how shall I put this? Intrigued by your marriage."

"I couldn't care less whether she approves."

"Susan's always been slow to adapt. And diplomacy has never been her strong suit."

Tom glanced down at his son and pulled the small blanket snug around him. "You want me to keep my mouth shut?"

"Sadly, I lack the magical ability to ensure that," she admitted. "But I don't deny you've a flair for eloquence. I suggest that you put it into practice. If you can negotiate civility among your in-laws, you can handle most any situation."

From the station at Inverness, a pair of motors and a lorry collected the family and drove south between Loch Ness and the Monadhliath Mountains toward the Flintshire estate. Though it represented everything that he opposed politically, Tom couldn't deny the landscaped magnificence of Duneagle Castle as they crunched along the gravel drive. The rounded towers, castellated parapets, and lush lawn leapt forth as if escaping a watercolor, the mountains and valley framing it from behind.

The Flintshires greeted them warmly at the front door, the Marquis clad in kilt and sporran. Cousin Rose darted down the steps to greet her extended family, earning a censorious scowl from Lady Flintshire. Tom remembered the girl, not yet twenty, from her visit at Downton two years prior. He'd heard of her escapades in London via the Dowager Countess, who had solicited an account of them from Aunt Rosamund; those exploits had ultimately sent Rose back north to the relative safety of Scotland. Tom considered her to be somewhat of a ninny, and even Sybil, as sympathetic as she might be to caged youth, thought Rose's actions dangerously untamed.

As McCree, the butler, ushered them into the library for tea, Tom absently listened to his brother-in-law's litany of questions about the innumerable weapons clinging to the walls, an archaic reminder of domination over another conquered people.

Safely out of his host's earshot, Tom leaned over to Matthew and muttered, "I wonder how many Scots died at the business end of these guns?"

Matthew hacked a warning cough to the Irishman as they followed the ladies into the library, just in time to hear Edith's announcement of Michael Gregson's concurrent visit to the highlands.

Mary's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Well, isn't that convenient," she sneered.

"Edith, you must invite him here!" Lady Flintshire suggested.

"You say he's your editor?" Lord Flintshire asked. "Why, I had no idea you were a journalist. Which paper?"

"The Sketch. It's a magazine, actually," Edith explained. "I write primarily on current social topics. Some might even call them controversial. Mr. Gregson's been very supportive."

"I'll bet he has," Mary muttered, earning a frown from her husband. Highly suspicious of this editor herself, Mary thought Matthew's support bordered on mutiny.

"Her articles have been quite fascinating and informative," Sybil said, casting her eldest sister a warning glance. "Perhaps I'm biased, Edith, but I encourage you to write something about medical care."

"Actually, I was thinking about tagging along with you to the hospital once we get back home. That is, if Dr. Clarkson approves."

"The hospital?" Lady Flintshire inquired. "Sybil, I think it's lovely that you volunteer your time to the unfortunate."

"Oh, I don't volunteer. I work there. As a nurse," she explained.

"Work?" She then turned to her cousin, her face a mask of disapproval. "Robert, you never told me Lady Sybil worked."

"I prefer Sybil, Lady Flintshire, or Mrs. Branson if you wish to be more formal. And, yes, I do work. Usually four or five days a week on eight hour shifts. More if I'm needed." Sybil then turned to her father. "What else haven't you told them, Papa?"

Robert shared a stiff chuckle with his mother. "We don't feel compelled to tell all, do we, Mama?"

"We're well aware of the remainder of your situation, Sybil," Lady Flintshire declaimed, "along with your husband's former occupation both at Downton and in Ireland."

Lord Flintshire scowled at his wife. "And I'm very much looking forward to getting to know Mr. Branson." He then offered the Irishman a disarming smile. "I understand you are absent a valet and lady's maid for your stay?"

"That's right," Tom replied. "Both of us are comfortable seeing to ourselves."

"But you're here on holiday. Surely you could use some personal attention. Help you locate what you need and so forth?"

"I thank you, Lord Flintshire, but..."

"That's very kind, Shrimpie," Lord Grantham interjected, glaring at his son-in-law. "We all make allowances on occasion and I'm sure they would be delighted to receive your staff's attention."

Tom's face fell. His suspicions quickly hardened into the certainty that he was about to spend ten days in his own personal hell.

Ultimately, Tom found the Marquis to be a perfectly cordial host, unlike his wife, who seemed to find fault with everyone and everything, including her own daughter. During the first week of their trip, Tom often found himself in the company of Lord Flintshire, who asked after the management of Downton, how the changes were progressing, and if modernization had had an appreciable effect on the ledger book. The interrogation struck Tom as peculiar until Matthew intimated privately that Duneagle was in a financial fight for survival.

As the men gathered in the billiard room late that first week, Lord Flintshire smiled when the Irishman skillfully clipped the cue ball, sending another ball spinning sideways into a corner net. He had begun to look forward to these after-dinner matches. His own son, who rarely visited anyway, expressed little interest in billiards, and with Duneagle relegated to a distant corner of the country, he had few opportunities to play the game. On this particular evening, he and Mr. Branson partnered against the Earl and his heir, and so far, they had ten pounds to show for it. Lady Sybil's husband may have pulled himself up by his bootstraps, but he had damn good hand-eye coordination when it came to billiards.

"Splendid shot!"

Tom shrugged demurely and assisted the Marquis in strategizing his next play.

"I've always loved this game," Lord Flintshire groused when he missed. "It's a shame I've never been much good at it."

"It just takes practice and a little imagination." Tom nodded appreciatively at an offered drink. "Just because no one's here to play against, doesn't mean you have to forgo practicing. Better yet, you should have Rose play."

"That's an original idea," Matthew concurred. "I think she would enjoy it."

Lord Grantham glowered at both sons-in-law, but his annoyed eyes fell directly on the younger of the two. "Tom, please," he grumbled. "I know you're trying to drag society kicking and screaming into the modern world, but this isn't a lady's game."

The Irishman glared over the rim of his glass. He wondered what his father-in-law would say if he discovered what his youngest daughter liked to do on his precious billiard table at Downton Abbey.

"Well, Rose certainly hasn't conformed much to society's expectations," Lord Flintshire conceded. "Perhaps it would be a nice way for her to expend a little excess energy."

Lord Grantham huffed, watching impatiently as Matthew scanned the table for a shot as if stalking prey in the heather. "Sometime before the earldom passes to you would be nice, Matthew."

The future earl glared at his father-in-law, cleared his throat, and surveyed the table once more. Pinpointing an easy shot in the side pocket, he lined up and sank the ball.

"My gamekeeper tells me you haven't partaken in our hunting, Mr. Branson," Lord Flintshire said.

"That's right. Both Lord Grantham and Mr. Crawley have tamed me for most sports on the estate, but I'm afraid I'm not much of a hunter."

Lord Grantham chalked his cue stick. "It seems Tom's political views extend to nature as well. Equality among all creatures, great and small." The cue stick squeaked off the ball; the shot missed widely.

"I just don't see how it can be called a sport. Give the deer a gun and let it shoot back. Now that would be a fair sport," Tom quipped.

Lord Flintshire couldn't help but laugh. "You have a unique opinion of the world, Mr. Branson."

Tom easily sank a ball in the corner pocket, and smirked at his father-in-law. "That's one-hundred fifty," he said, reminding him of their score limit.

"Well," Lord Grantham conceded, placing his glass on a side table housing a particularly garish lamp. "We should probably join the ladies."

Lord Flintshire re-filled his own drink. "Mr. Branson, I wonder if I might have a word with you?"

Duneagle's master waited for Matthew and Robert to exit, then re-filled Tom's glass."Your father-in-law and I have spent a great deal of time over the past year or so corresponding on estate management. I must say I'm rather impressed with the efforts at Downton."

Tom nodded. "I'm not sure there was much choice in the matter, Lord Flintshire. Downton had to modernize or become an anachronism."

"Still, necessary or not, it's no small thing to turn a ship in shallow waters," he acknowledged, leaning against the billiard table. "Mr. Crawley suggests you played a significant part in its rescue."

"Matthew and I spent a great deal of time, together, drafting up plans. And Lord Grantham has been instrumental as well. None of us could have done it alone."

"I admire your humility, Mr. Branson, but I'll get straight to the point. This estate is teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. I'm in the midst of trying to acquire new sources of capital, but it won't do any good unless I have a solid man with a modern vision to lead Duneagle. I'm asking you to be that man."

"Lord Flintshire, I'm honored you think me capable..."

He waved a dismissive hand. "I understand it's a difficult decision. You would have to uproot your wife and child and come up here to an isolated country. But, do give it some thought before you say 'no.'" Patting Tom on the shoulder, he deposited his glass on the sideboard and left the Irishman alone in the dim light of the billiard room.

Thus far during their trip, the Bransons had borne the ancient rites of aristocracy as best they could. Although she had abandoned such luxuries back at Downton, Sybil accepted her temporary lady's maid, a young red-headed housemaid named Maggie, with grace and magnanimity. To Tom's horror, though, his valet, otherwise known as First Footman Angus Craig, not only assisted him in readying for bed, but did so in an assigned dressing room down the hall. When he and Sybil had fled Ireland for the relative safety of Downton, destined to remain there for an undetermined period, Tom had balked outright at participating in the archaic formalities. His refusal caused quite a stir both upstairs and down. But here at Duneagle, family politics required compromise.

Propped against the headboard, engrossed in a fat book, Sybil tried her best not to laugh when Tom stepped quietly through the threshold, his face red. The valet closed the door behind him, loud as a gavel in an empty courtroom.

"I feel like I'm being presented to the queen so that I can go forth and procreate," he grumbled, hands stuffed in the pockets of his dressing gown.

She set her book aside and opened the covers for him. "Is that so bad?"

Casting her a mischievous grin, he shrugged out of the robe and landed at her feet with a playful flop. "No, but we've avoided most of this nonsense at Downton. I can dress myself for bed. Besides, it seems rather pointless..." His fingers walked up her leg, toying with the hem of her gown.

"We can't expect the Flintshires to change just for us, darling. Remember, we pick the important battles and fight those."

Uttering a disapproving growl, he lifted her foot, pecking soft kisses on her dainty toes. She watched in anticipatory glee as his lips moved up her calf towards her knee, teasing her skin with light nips. Burrowing back into the mattress, she closed her eyes as he alternated from one leg to the other, favoring each patch of exposed flesh. He continued upward, the hem of her gown giving way to his hands until it was finally tossed aside, granting his mouth an unimpeded path back down.

He stopped at her hips, recognizing the gentle scrape of her nails on his scalp as an invitation. Her fingers, at one point eagerly gripping his skin, fell to the mattress, twisting into the sheets. Her body at once relaxed then stiffened as he slipped one hand upward, teasing a breast, his thumb brushing a nipple, then glided gently across her heart to find the other. Her lips turned up in an appreciative smile as his tongue and fingers worked in concert, knowing it would drive her mad. "Oh God, darling, how do you do that?" Her inquiry came out in a breathless, near unintelligible, whimper as her hips arched against him.

He laughed, the vibrations sending another shot of pleasure into her core. "Just... pure... unadulterated... talent..." he replied, accentuating each word with a nip or kiss against random patches of sensitive skin.

"You're frightfully full of yourself, Mr. Branson." She opened her eyes then, smiling, as he left the warm valley of her thighs, hovering to grant himself a view, his eyes twinkling somewhere between lust and mischief.

"Well, it's a poor dog that won't wag its own tail."

She threw her head back, laughing, indifferent to other guests housed along the corridor. As he settled comfortably against her, her legs wandered up to pull him closer.

"Hello there," he whispered, a soft smile curling his mouth as he kissed her.

She hummed an approval, having long since abandoned her early hesitation to taste herself on his lips. It was a shared intimacy, a secret, empowering even, known only to them in the privacy of their room. Swiftly, his shirt found its way to the floor, before her fingers pushed at the waistband of his pajamas.

"Jesus Christ, it is fecking cold in here," he hissed as a draft of air hit his backside.

She bit back a smile, her hands massaging the chilled skin. "Better?"

"Honestly? Not much." Kicking off his bottoms, he drew the covers over them. "Do you think Bobby's alright? I hope the nursery doesn't get this cold..."

"He's fine, darling," she answered with a kiss. "I insisted the staff keep the fire going in that room if nothing else. Besides, Nanny will be the first one in Mr. McCree's office if the nursery turns into an icebox."

"Hmm." His arms snuck beneath her shoulders as he resumed an assault against her breasts. One hand slid between them, teasing her core with deft fingers.

Her breath transformed into a sigh of exultation as he stroked her near a peak. He stopped, eliciting a frustrated whimper. "Warming up some?" she whispered, her arms and legs now locked around him.

"Very much so," he murmured, as her hand reached down to guide him. He slipped inside, softly, easily, until he was buried deep, his body locked in a glorious vise both inside and out. "Much better."

She groaned into his mouth, tongues exploring, teasing, until his hips began to grind instinctively. Her head flopped back to the pillow as he pulled out slowly, retracing his path with a gentle thrust, and then another. His breath melted against the crook of her shoulder as she matched his rhythm, her hips colliding gently with his. He nipped at her skin, navigating a path toward a sensitive spot behind her ear.

They were unhurried this evening, languid and methodical. Savoring each anticipated jolt of pleasure, he stretched her from within, stroking, searching for that magical spot that, coupled with a practiced thrust, would send her over the edge. He found it, as he always did, rolling his hips again and again as a euphoric smile crept onto her lips. She came before him, his preference really, as it allowed him to watch the rapture on her face, flushed in concentration and unrestrained. Hearing his name escape her lips, a husky sound that echoed against the patterned walls, shamelessly boosted his masculine pride. Feeling the sensation build deep in his back, he raised up, and a coil tightened with every thrust as if every nerve ending in his body had traveled to one place, now buried deep within her. She reached up a hand, cupping his cheek, telling him to let go. He stilled and released into her, crying out against her palm with each wave.

He finally collapsed in a boneless heap, his leaden arms struggling to relieve her of some of the weight. She wouldn't allow it. Rather her limbs conspired to ensnare him, aching to have him close, skin melting together, relishing his warmth both inside and out. Relenting, he nestled his head into her neck and painted a flurry of lazy kisses on her shoulder. His hand reached out for hers. Their fingers interlaced, an unconscious act. He yawned, the sound tickling her skin.

She stared at the canopy above them, listening to his breathing, the beating of his heart a soft flutter against her breasts. With their lives uprooted for an undetermined time, their lovemaking had become a balm to her in their time at Downton. It was special, a gift from God or whatever being put them on earth, something no man could take away. They took advantage of every opportunity to isolate themselves from the world long enough to come together. But as their lives had resumed a semblance of normality, with jobs, a daily routine, an active child, and that wonderful sensation of fatigue after a hard day's work, time conspired against them. This week had granted them a renewal of sorts, a chance to reenact the early days of their marriage: exploratory, playful, and new, when time wasn't the enemy.

"Sybil?" His voice was scarred with exhaustion against her ear.

Her body heavy, she hummed a response.

"Your Cousin Shrimpie offered me a job."

"What?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" he chuckled.

"No... of course not," she answered quickly. "Are you considering it?"

He nodded, slipping out of her, and sighed deeply as he lay back, an arm tucked under his head. "I think I have to."

Curling against him, she lay quiet, her arm sliding across his chest. Their combined sweat glistened in the lamplight as her fingers sifted through the patch of hair over his heart, soft between her fingers.

"I once promised that when your family came round, I would welcome them with open arms..."

"And they have."

"Reluctantly," he corrected. "I get on fine with Matthew of course, and Mary and Edith have certainly adjusted..."

"Mama thinks the world of you, Tom..."

"...But when your father looks across the table, he sees a chauffeur, not a son-in-law. And sometimes I wonder if the best thing for us would be to move on to a place where people are less likely to know."

She propped up on her elbow, eyes suddenly dark. "Tom Branson, that sounds dangerously close to you feeling ashamed of who you are, and I simply won't allow it," she said. "Darling, if you feel strongly about leaving Downton, you know I'll support your decision. But I want you to make it for the right reasons."

He took her hand, caressing it with his thumb, squeezing gently. "My family is the most important reason I have. You and our son, and any other children we may have."

She settled back, nestled in the crook of his arm, and pressed her mouth against his shoulder. She recalled those years spent denying her feelings for him. That had been borne from a fear of being caged again, of love preventing her from carving an independent path. But Tom wasn't that kind of man. He encouraged her and relished watching her pursue each of her life's ambitions. At the first sounds of his soft snoring, she smiled, grateful for his stubborn and lovelorn determination to remain behind at Downton until they could begin their lives together. God help me, she thought as she closed her eyes, I would follow him anywhere.

Shaking his head dejectedly, Tom lofted what appeared to be nothing more than an oversized minnow dangling from his hook. "This is pointless," he declared, and then swung the end of his rod towards their attendant, Mr. Baird, wanting someone else to unhook the embarrassing catch.

"Well done, Mr. Branson! This is the precise size we need for bait when we go fishing up at the loch."

Tom's eyes rolled as Matthew swallowed a laugh. Flicking the rod with his wrist, the line landed with a mocking splish just a short distance in front of him. "Shit," he muttered.

Matthew glanced over his shoulder. "You're not casting right. Ten and two, remember? And no wrist."

Tom glared at his brother-in-law as he reeled back in. He hated fishing. No, actually, he loathed it. For the life of him, he couldn't understand lurking knee-deep in cold water for hours, waiting on a fickle-minded fish to swim by and decide it wanted a snack. "Why didn't you bring the spin reels?"

"Because trout respond better to fly lines," Matthew explained while casting a perfectly straight line across the calm pool of the brook. "Fly casting is a real art, you know? It requires patience and coordination."

The Irishman grumbled as he cast again, this time with better trajectory, but atrocious aim.

Matthew sighed and waited for Tom to untangle their lines. "Mary and I have an announcement for the rest of the family when we return to Downton, but I suppose there's no reason for you and I to keep secrets."

"Another one?"

"Given our troubles before David, we certainly didn't expect it so soon," he admitted with a guilty smile. "But, I suppose these things happen."

"I suppose so," Tom replied, before compressing his lips into a preoccupied smile. "Congratulations." He dropped his brother-in-law's line and sloshed across the rocky stream bottom toward the far shore. He sighed heavily, twisting the fly at the end of his line, his mind wandering back to Sybil's miscarriage just a year before. She desperately wanted another baby. They both did. And both expected nothing less from their mutual passion, but as the months passed, disappointment had crept in. He wondered how she would react to the latest news, watching her sister grow with another child.

Matthew cast his line, pondering on his friend's sudden reserve. "Is everything alright?"

"Of course," he answered quickly, flicking his rod with much better results.

"Tom..."

"So, how did you find Mr. Gregson?" he interjected.

Matthew studied his brother-in-law's stubborn expression for a moment, and then dropped his inquisition. "Amiable chap, I suppose. There's just one problem."

"What?"

"He's married."

Tom's brows wove together. "You're joking."

"I'm afraid not."

"Does Edith know?"

"Apparently she's well aware of it."

"I can't believe Edith would involve herself with a married man."

"Well," Matthew intimated. "It's a little more complicated than that. His wife was institutionalized several years ago. She's in an asylum and will likely die there."

"So he can't get a divorce."

"That's about the size of it," Matthew sighed, casting again. "He's got a wife that doesn't know him from a floor peg and he's fallen in love with another woman. It's unfortunate, really."

"But he does love Edith?"

"Says so. It's a shame it doesn't matter."

Tom squinted in the sunlight and shrugged. "If she feels the same way about him, what's the harm?"

Matthew nearly dropped his pole, and gawked at the Irishman. "You can't be serious."

"I don't know how Edith has carried on with other suitors, and I don't particularly care. But I'd rather she have relationship with a man she loves than flit about like your cousin Rose."

"Cousin-in-law," he corrected quickly. "And she's yours as well."

"Look, Edith's twenty-eight years old. She's a woman, and women have needs, same as us."

Matthew's face puckered.

"All I'm saying is that I find society's assumptions about the preferred purity of women rather hypocritical."

"But men typically do not suffer the consequences," he countered. "The scandal would likely be hers to endure alone."

"Times are changing, Matthew." Besides, if Edith gets involved with a married man, it will make marrying the chauffeur seem downright respectable."

Amused at his brother-in-law's logic, Matthew cast his line again. "So, this is part of a grand scheme to ingratiate yourself with Cousin Robert."

"Fat chance of that and we both know it." Yanking his line from the water, he attempted to re-cast with his cold and shivering hands, but felt the hook snag something above water. "Oh for fuck's sake..."

Matthew glanced over, just as Mr. Baird plopped down into the stream pointing to a branch by the streamside. "Mr. Branson, you've caught your fly, sir!"

Instinctively, Tom reached down for his trousers, prepared for the worst, but lost his footing on the rocky stream bottom and went down with a splash. Cold water gushed into his waders as Matthew and Mr. Baird rushed to hoist him up. Drenched to the skin, he clutched his back.

Planting his sodden brother-in-law on the grassy bank, Matthew scowled and yanked the line, still firmly attached to something on the far shore. "You caught a tree."

Tom gasped for air, scanned the crotch of his trousers for reassurance, and exhaled a relieved sigh. "Oh, thank God."

"What do you mean, 'he's married'?" Sybil almost fumbled her teacup into the floor.

Seated in a quiet corner of the Flintshires' drawing room after dinner, Edith shushed her sister, anxiously peering around for eavesdroppers.

"Sorry," Sybil whispered with an apologetic smile. "But, Edith, I don't understand. This certainly isn't like you..."

"Well, I didn't think it was like you to run off with the chauffeur either, but we can't always chose who we fall in love with."

Sybil leaned forward in her chair, barely breathing the words. "You love him?"

Edith's brows knit together in almost baffled acknowledgement. "I think I do. He's such an agreeable man, and I truly enjoy his company and our conversations. Michael appreciates what I have to say as well as what I write. I want to spend all my spare time with him, just talking, if nothing else. This isn't some girlish fancy, Sybil. I just don't know what to do." Her breath escaped in a forlorn sigh. "Why must love be so complicated? One would think I could find a single man of marrying age with all of his limbs intact."

"Well, if we sisters had any sense whatsoever, Mary wouldn't have gone through that disastrous episode with Richard Carlisle and I would have married Tom ages ago," Sybil laughed, squeezing her sister's hand.

"At least the two of you are married, while Michael and I are left to… I'm not even sure what we would be. The word mistress sounds horribly unglamorous."

Sybil opened her mouth to respond, but was cut short by the men arriving.

"Tom?" Cora inquired, her face full of concern. "Are you alright? You look as if you're in sheer agony."

"I'm afraid he had a bit of an accident this afternoon..." Matthew said, swallowing a smile.

Seated uncomfortably in a plush chair by the fireplace, Tom glared at his brother-in-law, grimacing as he twisted against the cushions.

"Accident?" Robert wondered aloud behind them. "I thought you two went fishing."

"We did," Tom groaned, finally abandoning the torturous chair in favor of standing on his own two feet.

Sybil hurried to her husband's side. "Tom, why didn't you tell me?" Her hand poked and prodded against various points on his back until he flinched. His feet nearly levitated off the floor.

"Love, have a little mercy," he croaked through gritted teeth.

"Sorry." Her hand snaked beneath the tail of his tuxedo, massaging the area just above his waist. "You've probably pulled something."

The Dowager pursed her lips. "Should we leave so that the medical examination can continue?"

Sybil cut her grandmother a harsh look before turning back to her husband. "Can you make it upstairs?"

He nodded, retrieved his glass of whisky from a nearby table, and motioned for a refill.

"I have aspirin in the vanity. Take a couple of those and draw a hot bath," she said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I'll be up in a moment."

"Sybil?" Tom's voice rang from the adjoining bathroom as the two sisters slipped inside the Bransons' door.

"It's me, darling. And Edith's here, so stay where you are." Digging through a drawer, she presented the book to her sister. "I meant it for Cousin Rose, but I think she requires an entirely different conversation. This edition just came out. I bought it when I saw Mrs. Stopes give a luncheon speech in London."

"Do you practice any of this?"

"Well, not at the moment since Tom and I want to have another baby, but I would otherwise. It contains rather useful information."

Edith's eyes bulged as she scanned a few pages.

Hands clasped behind her, Sybil raised her brows. "Are you at least acquainted with the basics?"

Her sister's pale features pinked considerably as she nodded. "As far as the… mechanics, yes. One learns certain things on the fly in a convalescent hospital," she hinted, sharing a knowing smirk with her sister. "And of course I had a rather delicate conversation with our mother before I was jilted at the altar." She listened intently as her younger sister detailed certain birth control methods advocated by the book's author, including rubber caps and how they worked.

"...Oh, don't look at me like that. I am a nurse after all," Sybil said, catching her sister's mortified expression. "Not to mention a mother and a wife who, believe it or not, makes love to her husband on a regular basis and has a jolly time doing so."

Edith burst into laughter at the blunt admission. "Honestly, I try not to think about that…"

"It's a basic fact of life, Edith. The whole concept of leaving women in the dark to keep them 'pure' is an archaic notion that only imprisons our sex, both physically and intellectually. Ignorance does not equal chastity any more than knowledge results in promiscuity."

"I hope you don't intend to inflict such wisdom on Papa."

"I'm not advocating any particular behavior, Edith, and there is nothing wrong with women being informed. I encourage you to read Mrs. Stopes' other books as well. Her advice is something every woman should hear. Besides," she contended, a haughty tilt to her chin, "there's no reason men should have all the fun."

Mrs. Stopes might have represented society's newest advocate for equality in marriage, but she was still too old-fashioned for Sybil when it came to sharing certain domestic activities with one's husband. Leaning against the doorframe, she smiled indulgently as her husband sprawled in the porcelain tub, his arms draped over the sides and his toes twisting idly above the water's surface. Back at Downton, after a hard day's work on the estate, she often teased him about his proclivity for a warm bath. It was one of the few luxuries he ever admitted to enjoying.

"Can I join you?"

"Of course," he responded lazily, not even looking over his shoulder. "And, for the record, you needn't ever ask." Downing the remnants of his drink, he closed his eyes as snaps and hooks unfastened somewhere in the room. A soft hand nudged him forward, sliding down his spine as a pair of slender legs imprisoned his hips. Bending toward his toes, he groaned contentedly as her hands kneaded into his lower back.

"Did you take the aspirin?"

He nodded, flinching as she massaged a particularly sensitive spot.

"Sorry. Mr. McCree found some liniment oil. We can try that later as well," she said, her hands continuing their medical magic. "By the way, since we've only a few more days here, I made arrangements with the chauffeur for us to borrow one of the motors for a little excursion. But only if you feel up to it."

"I'm sure I can manage." Tom wavered momentarily about whether to divulge his latest intelligence. "Matthew had some interesting information about Mr. Gregson."

"Edith told me about his... marital situation."

"And what do you think of it?"

"I think it's time for Edith to be happy, and if she loves him, isn't that all that really matters in the end?"

"I agree. Although Matthew doesn't. Nor would Mary, if she knew."

"Then Edith's lucky to have us fighting her corner," she declared, smacking a kiss on his warm shoulder. "The Bransons rescue the downtrodden again!" She leaned back against the tub and snaked her arms around his chest, pulling him with her. Buoyant in the water, they soaked up to their necks. "I still don't understand how you hurt your back fishing."

"Self-preservation." By the time he finished confessing the mishap, Sybil's mouth was pressed against the nape of his neck, muffling her laughter.

He glared over his shoulder. "It's not funny, love. I imagined the worst! Of course, I was only thinking of you," he finished with a smirk.

"So this is my fault?"

"I knew how upset you'd be if something... you know... happened to me."

"Hmm," she mused, her hand roaming, briefly pausing to tease the patch of hair over his heart before tracing a familiar path beneath the water's surface. "You do have a lot of... admirable qualities."

"And it's all for you." Nuzzling his head into her neck, he planted a quick kiss beneath her jaw. Mouths colliding, her fingers traced the contours of his skin, slowly at first, urging him awake until he grew hard. He broke their kiss, breath erratic, as his head dropped back to her shoulder. Her low chuckle reverberated in his ear as her soft hand constricted around him in the warm water, pulling rhythmically, slowly, her thumb brushing across the tip. She cupped him, teasing with light fingers, as she nipped his shoulder and then squeezed the base of his shaft, rubbing small circles with practiced motions. His hand, at first clutching the porcelain edge of the tub, splashed down to grasp hers when he felt his release start to build; he couldn't decide whether to whisk her to their bed or just selfishly accept what she offered. "Sybil, love, I'm going to-"

She took his earlobe between her lips and tugged gently. "I know," she whispered. "I want you to."

His head collapsed against her shoulder as he stiffened and released, her name a reverent whisper on his lips. Persistent, she urged him through each tremor, unyielding but mindful of his skin's heightened sensitivity in post-orgasmic bliss, his nerve endings on fire. Massaging him gently, she felt him soften, his body gradually relaxing as he came down. He forced his eyes open to catch a glimpse of her self-satisfied smile. She sloshed cleansing water across his chest.

"How's your back?"

"What back?" He inhaled deeply, languidly, his brain adrift. "Jesus, love."

Her mouth grazed his shoulder. He has the most adorable and infectious afterglow.

Weakly, his hand brushed the inside of her thigh as far as he could reach. "Give me a few minutes and..."

"Not tonight, darling. We have to get your back fighting fit again. Besides, I know you'll make it worth the wait."

He made a mental note of ways to repay the debt, but at the moment, his body seemed a lead weight, tingling and sated under the influence of warm water and whisky. He barely found the strength to reach down and pull her skilled hand to his mouth. Kissing the palm, once and then again, he planted it over his pounding heart and closed his eyes, wondering what he had could have possibly done right to deserve a life with this woman.

Part II to come – the Bransons at Culloden, Tom's decision, and the Ghillie Ball.