A/N: Sorry it's been a few weeks. I do hope you're still with me. Been fighting some demons and finally starting to come out on the winning end, I think. To those who've been my support group, there are no words. Love and thanks don't begin to cover it, but I mean them most sincerely.

Many thanks to brenna-louise for beta.

This chapter. I wondered whether Chapter 2 was too soon for ... these types of activities, but this is, after all, a sequel and my defense is but to say, "Hey, they're married!" Apologies for the length ... brevity is not my strong suit.

***Rating jumps to M for reasons.***

Hope you enjoy. Do let me know your thoughts. Reviews are a treat.

xx,

~ejb~

Where the touch of the lover ends
And the soul of the friend begins
There's a need to be separate and a need to be one
And a struggle neither wins

-Jackson Browne, "Sky Blue and Black"

oOo

Touch. It's one of the sweet, simple pleasures of a life shared, and it's yet another thing he never knew his life had been lacking until he finally had it. His job was all about touching others - pressing a stethoscope to a patient's chest, palpating a limb to feel for broken bones, holding the delicate fingers of a child between his own to remove a splinter. He touched to examine, to diagnose. But he had not touched to appreciate or admire, nor had he known the pleasure of being touched that way by another, in many a long year.

Isobel had been a full-scale assault on his senses from their very first meeting. She had a quiet, gracefully understated beauty, but nothing else about her could in any way be considered subtle. Her voice had become so familiar that it rang in his ears even when he was away from her. When she went to France to work with the Red Cross, he, who had been a physician for thirty years by then, suddenly found it difficult to make decisions without her there to challenge him, her hands thrusting journal articles into his, tugging at the sleeve of his jacket to emphasize her point. She was always touching him, whether it was a brush of fingertips as they exchanged charts or a reassuring squeeze of his elbow during a difficult case. It hadn't been until then, when she was so far away, that he became aware of just how tactile she was and how much he missed it … and everything else about her.

He'll never forget the way touch changed forever the dynamic of their relationship. As her friend, and as the physician who had examined the broken, lifeless body of her son, Richard had taken it upon himself to deliver the tragic news of Matthew's death. She had literally fallen into his arms when he told her, whispering - and then screaming, "No. No, no … No, no, NO!" She had pounded on his chest with her fists, and he endured it wordlessly, holding her close, until she fell to her knees in exhaustion, and he along with her.

And there, on their knees on her sitting room floor, he had drawn her into his embrace, one arm around her waist as the other hand cradled her head. He rocked her as she wept, caring not that her tears were ruining his jacket or that his legs had fallen asleep. All the while he murmured to her, things that would have been inanities but for the fact that he loved her; had done for such a very long time.

"I'm here, Isobel … You're not alone … I won't leave you … He didn't suffer." And at last, when she was too weak to cry, she had spoken.

"I can't stay here, Richard." He'd understood instantly. Matthew may have moved up to the big house after marrying Lady Mary, but Crawley House had been his home, his and Isobel's together for nine years. The memories were everywhere. He could take her to the Abbey, but that wasn't what she needed. With the entire household in mourning, she'd have taken on the role of the mother hen, shoving her own grief to the side in order to take care of the others and, while that may be a healthy part of the healing process in time, at that particular juncture she was the brokenhearted mother in need of companionship and consolation.

He'd been ready to tell her he'd take her to his cottage. Hell, he was ready to do anything, anything at all, to assuage her pain. It was more than compassion, or sympathy for a friend. He had loved her for so long by then that he felt her pain as his own. In a show of strength that proved Isobel was Isobel, even in her darkest hour, she had asked him, as if reading his thoughts, "Do you love me?"

And how on earth could he answer, then, in that moment? He had felt the atmosphere between them changing of late, had even tried to discuss it with her the evening of the Thirsk fair. But if that moment hadn't been right, how ever could this one be?

Suddenly it was all clear. The only way to answer was with the truth. "Oh, Isobel, yes. Yes, I love you. Of course I love you."

"Then take me home," she'd pleaded, taking the decision out of his hands entirely.

She'd said it as if it were the most natural conclusion in all the world.

"Of course I'll take you home with me," he'd agreed, and while he hadn't spoken it, his mind had added, forever. He'd helped her gather her most urgent belongings and had driven her - paralyzed with fear at having to ride in a motorcar when the life of her son had just been snuffed out by one - to his cottage. How he hated inflicting more pain upon her, but it was a necessary evil in getting her away from that house. Shaken as she was, she had needed his help maneuvering from the car to the cottage, and when they made it inside she was trembling so much that they only got as far as the sitting room sofa before her knees gave out and he took her in his arms once again. If he'd wondered for a moment about the propriety of his actions, the way she clung to him as if he were the last tether holding her to this life told him it was the right thing to do. For hours he held her, only getting up because the fire was burning out. When he suggested she try to get some sleep, that he'd stay on the sofa and she should take his bed, she'd begged him not to leave her alone.

He wavered for mere seconds. What was it he had decided? Propriety be damned. He agreed to stay with her, the two of them in his bed. After he'd made it clear that he would not do anything that would tarnish her reputation, he'd seen the broken, empty look in her eyes, gathered her in his arms, and kissed her ever-so-gently. And then she had kissed back, hungrily, holding onto him as though her very life depended upon it. The course of their relationship was forever altered in that moment, when she'd said, breathlessly, "Our timing could not be worse, but I love you, too."

His touch had been her lifeline in the days, weeks, and months following Matthew's death. He was there constantly, silently, steadily. He held her, kissed her, reached for her in the night when she cried out in terror. And he was there when the tears began to dry, the smiles to return to her beautiful face. He wanted nothing so much as the right to stand by her, his friend, his love, for eternity.

Touch had been at the center of his proposal. It was the very first time he'd held her in his lap and she'd buried her face in the crook of his neck. It had marked the eve of their wedding, when he'd left her to sleep at the Abbey with a breathtaking kiss in the snow, her palms flat against his chest beneath his waistcoat, his heart beating beneath her fingertips. It was the symbol of their union as husband and wife, as he placed the ring on her finger and their hands remained joined until they were pronounced Dr. and Mrs. Richard Clarkson. It was the substance of their transition from friends in love to lovers, as they'd spent their wedding night reveling in the feel of one another, of skin on skin at long last.

There is so much joy to be found in the fact that he can touch her now, that he has such a right. Such a privilege. Sweeter still is the knowledge that she craves his touch, flourishes with it. That he can wind her flaxen curls around his fingers as she lies with her head pillowed on his chest, wrapped in his dressing gown. He can curl his body around hers in the night and awaken to find the sweet weight of her atop him. He can kiss her - her cheeks, her temples, her beautiful mouth - anytime he wants.

This is another of the happy surprises life has bestowed upon him. If it had never occurred to him that he could fall in love in the autumn of his existence, then the fact that it could be like this was a wonder of the highest order. There is passion between them. They burn for one another. He wants her and she wants him, and they make no apologies for it. How had he lived for six decades without experiencing moments like this?

oOo

He arrives home from the repair shop where he and Tom have been tuning the engine of a Rolls Royce. Isobel is in the garden as she so often is when the heat of the day finally relents in the cool of early evening. She wears an old blouse with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, her feet are bare, and as she prunes back the hollyhocks she hums a tune as familiar to him as the air he breathes. He watches her for a long moment. Rarely has he seen her so unguarded and carefree, and she's mesmerizing to him.

At last he can't bear it another second, the lilt of her voice or the sway of her hips or the sun-kissed warmth of her skin. Warmth? How is it that he knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that her skin is warm just by the look of her? He's right, of course, as he steps up behind her and fastens his lips to the silken skin behind her ear.

"Hello, love," he murmurs as his arms wrap around her waist, and he is rewarded with a delighted gasp.

"Darling! Was it a good day at the shop? How's Tom?" She turns in his arms and hers go around his neck, toying with the short hairs at his nape. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of sensation; his arms full of the delightful warmth of his wife, her hands on him, this life that could so easily have passed him by, that he believed for so long had passed him by.

She watches him with a smile. She knows what he's thinking, for she feels it too. Her arms, her heart, her bed - they'd all been empty for so very long and she'd carried on as if none of it mattered. But she was wrong - blessedly, gloriously wrong, and now that she has him she treasures every look, every word and, most especially, every touch.

"Tom is well," he answers after some time, "and the car is coming along nicely. And you, what did you get up to today?" Before she can reply he ducks his head, brushing his lips against hers and smoothing his hands over her waist and hips.

She smiles against his mouth, deepening the kiss. There was a time she'd have thought it madness - that she, at sixty-two years old, should be standing in the garden kissing her husband in full view of anyone who might pass by! But now that she finds herself living in that very reality, she embraces it - and him - with all of her being.

Their lips part and she steps back to look at him. She's never seen him quite like this … in his shirtsleeves and old slacks, streaks of grease here, spots there. She thinks back to the days of the Great War and Major Clarkson in full dress uniform, to dinners at the big house and him in tie and tails, and decides that as dashing as he was, this is the look she prefers on him. This is the look that only she sees, the man that only she knows.

She remembers that he asked her a question, and she doesn't miss the twinkle in his eyes. He's caught her staring, and she tries to cover it by smoothing the front of her blouse, pretending to tuck back errant strands of hair. She clears her throat. "Oh, you know, tea with Cousin Violet, and her prattling on about the incompetence of her maid and her displeasure with Cora's choice of dinner guests. Come, sit with me and have a drink. I know I could do with one." She trails a hand behind herself as she moves to go inside and he takes hold of it.

They sit at the kitchen table sipping water flavored with lemon and lavender and she listens as he tells her about Tom, how he's pleased to see that the younger man seems to have found a sense of purpose, between running the repair shop and managing the estate. He expresses concern over the fact that Tom still doesn't seem willing to move on after Lady Sybil's death, now over four years ago. In this instance she has experience as both worried mother and widowed wife so she speaks to both, agreeing with Richard that it pains her to see Tom deny himself the opportunity of finding love again, but that she was not ready to entertain the notion herself until she'd met him, some ten years after Reginald's death.

"I understand your argument, but he pines for her, Isobel, as if in so doing he can bring her back."

"Richard, you can't assume because he's still mourning the loss of his wife that he's doing it wrong. We're as good as mother and father to him and while nothing would make me happier than to see him fall in love with someone who appreciates him like Sybil did, he doesn't need a woman in his life."

He hears what she doesn't say - Any more than I needed a man - as well as what she does. But she doesn't say it, because while she did not, in fact, need a man, she did need him. Does need him.

She continues on. "You and I came together because of a number of factors - time, healing, respect - but most importantly, friendship. As much as we challenge each other, I've always known you want what's best for me, and I hope you know that I want the same for you. It's why I was able to let myself love you, Richard. That is what I want for Tom, and nothing less."

She touches a nerve with him. Yes, he does want Tom to move on from Sybil, because he hates to see anyone in needless pain. But she's right. She knows the heart of the grieving spouse, and he does not. And her analysis of their own relationship is spot-on. He wants her because he loves her, and he loves her because he knows her. Because before they were anything else, they were friends.

She watches him processing his thoughts. She loves the way his mind works, his analytical, linear manner of thinking so very different to her own. She brushes her foot along his calf and he catches her eyes, the way they dance with a mix of admiration and mischief.

"What are you thinking?" she asks.

He draws both her feet into his lap and sighs. "That I suppose you've won this round. I find I can't argue with the points you've made. You're right about Tom. And you're right about us."

And then she shares the details of her visit with Violet. He listens, of course he does. He always listens. She watches his wheels turning as she speaks. He waits until she's well and truly finished before he says a word.

"Why do you let her get to you?" he asks simply. Sure, he's baiting her a little. He knows he's not going to get a nonchalant response and if he's honest he does love seeing her with her ire up. In fact he teases her about it at times, claiming he's "checking to see you've still got Scots blood in ye." But his true aim is to make her think.

"Beg pardon?" Two can play at this game, Richard Clarkson, say her eyes as she pretends not to know what he's talking about.

"Violet," he explains. It still feels funny to refer to the Dowager Countess of Grantham by her Christian name, but the grande dame had finally taken to calling him Richard about a year into his marriage to Isobel, and if she could adapt then so can he. "You let her words ruffle you so much, and to what end? Do you ever think that perhaps she's simply old and lonely and looking for someone to listen to her?"

His words cut to the heart, but Isobel's not ready to give in. Not just yet. "Well isn't that what she's got you for? Heaven knows the two of you are thick as thieves!" And she's right; Violet and Richard have become dear friends in the years since the wedding. Both proudly hold fast to tradition, even as it crumbles before their very eyes, and both came to the friendship fully equipped with a quick wit. Richard does enjoy listening to Violet talk, for she tells fascinating stories about the family's history and coming of age in Victorian London. And he's far enough removed from the inner workings of the Crawley clan so as not to be offended by some of her more cutting commentary.

"True enough," he replies, "I'll not deny I'm a great admirer of the tales she tells. But have you ever considered this: you never had a sister, and she lost hers a very long time ago. And I believe that is how she sees you. She's not looking for agreement, Isobel. She knows you were born in a different era and into a different life. She doesn't expect to change your mind; anyone who knows you at all knows that's an exercise in futility." He winks as he says this. She slaps his hand playfully and he tickles the arch of her foot in response.

He continues. "She's looking for acceptance; someone who will hear her when she speaks, who'll know that she's narrow-minded and in some cases outright wrong, and stand by her just the same. You know it's a waste of breath to try to convince her to your way of seeing things, so what if you were to stop trying? Let her have her say, and try to see the amusement in it."

And now it's Isobel who can't argue. Richard is, to her, exactly what he's suggesting Violet needs her to be. And where would she be without him?! When everyone else around her rushes to judgment about her, he hears her case. At times there is little at all upon which she and he agree, but he has never made her feel that her opinions are not valid or her ideas without merit. On the contrary, he is forever praising her for what he calls her "beautiful mind," telling her he appreciates the way she challenges him. No matter how vehemently they might clash on an issue, she always feels loved. It has never occurred to her before that Violet looks at her like a sister, or that she could be seeking the same sort of acceptance and respect from Isobel that Isobel receives from Richard.

"When you put it that way, it does make sense," she says, lowering her feet to the floor so that she can stand. She closes the distance between them and drops into his lap. "I suppose I would enjoy her company far more if I just let her be Violet. There is no one quite like her."

She kisses the tip of his nose, then wipes away a smudge of grease with her thumb. "We really are filthy, the both of us," she giggles, "but I find I rather like the nearness of you."

"Quite fond of it myself," he replies, and his hands move to her hair. He begins removing the pins one by one. "And we can't sit down to supper like this, can we? Only one thing to do about it."

She smiles, unbuttoning his collar. She loves him like this, the way he comes on to her and the fact that he's so sure of himself. "Only one thing indeed," she whispers into his ear, knowing how he'll respond and still finding gooseflesh rising on her skin in anticipation of it.

oOo

And he does not disappoint, as his hands cradle her face and he traces the shape of her lips with his tongue. She moans into his mouth as his lips meet hers and he kisses her thoroughly. Laughing, they stumble up the stairs, removing one another's clothing as they go. He locates the towels while she runs the bath. As she turns off the taps she can sense his presence behind her and just the thought of him touching her causes her to shiver in the most pleasant of ways. She laughs at herself, and as he hears the sound he draws her against his body.

"What is it, beauty?" he whispers. His palm is warm as it flattens over the small of her back, pressing her midriff to his.

"Oh, just thinking how decadent this is, bathing with my lover in the afternoon."

He steps into the bathtub, holding his hand out to her and helping her in. He settles against the backrest, parting his thighs, and she situates herself between them, lying back against his chest.

"It is rather, isn't it?" His brogue is thick, the quality of his voice raspy.

"My lover, my friend. Each quality makes the other more intense. Who has this, Richard? I always wonder who has this at our ages, but it's truly a question of who has it at all?" She reaches up to press her palm to his cheek as his fingers trail over her arms and shoulders, her breasts and ribs. Touching to behold, touching to excite. She is boneless in his arms, breathless.

It is both arousing and arresting to Richard, the fact that she is so forthright with him. There's an innocent sensuality inherent in her being and it both drives him wild and fills him with a need to protect her.

"This is ours, Bel. Ours alone." It's all he can say. He wishes he had words to put to it all - the fact that he never in all his years knew that love of this intensity existed, let alone that he should want it. That it has laid bare the truth about both of them, both glorious and ugly, has made her learn to listen and to read his body language like a favorite book. It's made him understand that she needs to hear from him, not presume on his thoughts. He wishes he were eloquent of speech like she is, but he loves with all that he has.

And it's exactly what she needs. His touch is gentle as he washes her hair, taking extra time to run his fingers through the wet, caramel-colored strands. He talks to her of the grandchildren as he rubs the soap over warm, wet skin eager for his caress. He marvels at her as she rises over him, straddling his lap to scrub at his face with the damp flannel (he teases her for going maternal on him, for which he receives a playful slap to the chest, feigns injury, and is driven to distraction by the feel of her lips kissing it better).

He gathers her against him and she rests her head on his shoulder. Skin to skin, silently embracing, listening to their breath sounds they remain until the water goes cold.

He gets out first and she watches openly as he dries himself, does not mask her appreciation of his form or the desire she feels for him. He holds her towel out for her, wrapping it and his arms around her. Warm, she thinks. He's so warm. They wrap up in dressing gowns and together work to dry her hair.

The question then arises: supper now, or later? Because they both know what's going to happen. But there's time, and they can take it. It's one of the joys of marrying at this stage of life. They know the beauty of the slow burn. It's been too hot for a heavy meal, so Isobel fixes cucumber sandwiches and they dine on the patio while the dog enjoys the yard. Glances are stolen, fingertips brush. She looks up at him deliberately from beneath long, dark lashes over the rim of her wine glass. He rubs his knuckles down the length of her spine and she draws an exclamatory breath. They move inside, to the sofa, and she melts into the cushions as he kneels over her, as his weight rests upon her, as his hungry mouth opens hers. They don't so much battle for control as share it, by turns playing aggressor and pursued, their kisses punctuated with laughter at the secret they share; this joy that is theirs.

He talks her into another glass of wine - not that she's hard to convince - because he is addicted to the taste of it on her lips, the way it slows time and prolongs each moment, the provocative words it makes her say. She curls herself into his lap and her hands slip beneath the fabric of his dressing gown, resting against his rib cage. Their hearts beat in synchrony, the air thick with what exists unspoken between them.

A thought comes to mind; she giggles at the absurdity of it. He watches as she tips her head back, capturing forever in his mind the radiance of her smile and the musicality of her laughter. She tells him what it was - that the only thing missing was a fire in the fireplace - and he shares in her gaiety. It's July, for pity's sake, and all day they've been complaining of the heat, wishing they could open more windows for the breeze. He nuzzles her nose with his, kisses her playfully, and then it all shifts, lighthearted nips becoming heated. His hands loosen the tie of her robe and he catches her eyes. He does not need her permission, but he craves her invitation.

She blinks at him with eyes dark and heavy-lidded; sultry. "Come on … I want you," she murmurs. That sweet, seductive innocence against which he is powerless.

"Upstairs?" he inquires.

She shakes her head. "Here."

He raises an eyebrow and grins. "Well, aren't you full of surprises?"

Her answer is to kiss him deeply, moving her hands to the lapels of his dressing gown. She pushes it off his shoulders and reaches for him. "Lie with me."

He is at once grateful they bought such a deep sofa. He doesn't care to sit on it, preferring his leather armchair, but when they are together like this there is just enough room that they can lie side-by-side. She reaches up to run her hand through his hair, closing her eyes and savoring the softness of the strands between her fingers. He kisses each closed eyelid, the tip of her nose, her lips. She draws him closer, her hands smoothing over his flanks. He is lithe and sinewy, finely muscled and she revels in the feel of him, of his bottom filling her palms as she grinds softly against him.

"I love you, Richard." It's too simplistic a phrase for all she feels. It's one part companionship, several parts desire, a full measure of 'Thank you for saving my life,' but that's still nowhere close. She's usually quite adept at putting words to emotions, but the proper ones for this man, for all the love and longing she has for him, for all that he has given her and all he's saved her from, those words don't exist.

But he knows. She feels it in the way he brushes the backs of his fingers across her cheek, in his hungry kiss. The way he cradles her head, and then the way he sucks at the hollows of her collarbones. He's marking her and she loves it. She is her own woman, but she is wholly his.

He moves off her to kneel on the floor and she holds his head to her as he kisses her solar plexus, the heart of her vulnerability. He bathes her breasts with lips and tongue and lingers as she writhes. Sometimes it's enough, tonight it's enough, to bring her release, and it comes upon her forcefully, unexpectedly. He continues to kiss her breasts and her belly as she recovers, and she pulls him to her, taking his lips roughly.

"What do you want tonight, beauty?" he whispers as he takes her earlobe between his teeth. There are times she needs him to take her and times she needs long, slow caresses, and sometimes she needs both.

"I need to touch you, to see those beautiful eyes." She smiles, cradling his face in her hands.

He moves over her and lets her hands roam. She watches his face when she takes him in hand, the concentration, the struggle between wanting to savor her touch and trying to hold on. She strokes him until his hands ball into fists, until beads of perspiration appear on his brow.

"Easy, love," she whispers. "Come inside."

He grasps her bottom, holds her hips as she guides him to her heat. Their soft exclamations are words neither of them would repeat in the presence of anyone else. He opens his eyes upon her dark ones when he is with her.

"Isobel, I love you."

There is no sensation in all the world like the initial penetration. It is both invasion and homecoming, and there is no room for pretense, no shadow of façade. He sees stars before his eyes; she hears the blood pounding in her ears. Both would stop the flow of time at this moment if it were possible.

She locks her ankles around his waist. He is deep, so impossibly deep, but she would draw him deeper still if at all she could, would meld with him completely. She cries out to him in desperation to feel more, closer.

"Richard, God, I—!" How does one find words for this? It's 'I love you, I want you.' It's 'Move with me' and 'I never want this moment to end.'

He lowers himself onto his elbows, kissing her brow. "I know," he soothes. "I know." He takes her hand in his, kisses it, and brings it to the place where his body meets hers.

They touch her together, they touch each other as he pulls back and thrusts into her forcefully. He sets up a rhythm: a deep thrust, then shallow, then deep again and her hips rise to draw him further in. The way she strokes the base of him each time he pulls back makes him cry out, biting at the soft flesh beneath her jawbone as he breathes Gaelic curse words against her ear and she laughs, overwhelmed with sensation, with love and joy. They reduce each other to this, and yet this strengthens their bond.

His fingers slip against her folds, slick with her wetness and sweat-dampened with their exertion and she thinks she's going to die, like this, because surely no one can experience these heights of ecstasy and survive. The feel of him moving within her blurs the line between pleasure and pain and she can't take it any longer and she can't bear for it to end.

"Richard," she keens, "I'm going to— … And I don't want it to end yet … I don't want you to stop!"

He smoothes back her hair, kisses her cheeks and lips, her brow. "It's all right, Bel. It's all right, let it come."

She breaks. Her eyes, unfocused, lock on his. She clutches at his shoulders as her walls contract around him. She laughs and sobs and cannot breathe.

He drops his head into the crook of her neck. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are when you come to me?" He breathes with her as she returns to herself, meets her smile when she reaches up and draws him down to kiss her with a hand at the nape of his neck.

She thinks, at times, that she doesn't give him enough back for all the satisfaction he brings her. She pushes at his shoulders until he turns them and she rises over him. "I want to love you like you love me," she breathes.

He catches her hands, entwining their fingers. "Isobel … Beautiful girl, you love me so well. Move for me, darling." His words are freeing, and she takes him within her again, swearing softly at the intensity of the joining. It's his turn to laugh; so very uncharacteristic is it to hear such base talk from her beautiful mouth and the contradiction thrills him.

He caresses her hips, her belly, her breasts as she rises and falls on him. "God, Bel … like that … just like that." He thrusts up to meet her and she answers his cries of "Faster … More …" until he pulls her down hard, calling her name as he pulsates within her.

This time he has the pleasure of feeling the gentle weight of her upon him as they recover, her breath soft against his ear.

"Richard, my love … thank you." She moves off him to lie beside him and makes to pull a blanket over them but he stops her.

"Let me see you," he rasps, drawing her against him. He kisses her neck, strokes her breasts, rolls a nipple between his fingers.

"Mmmm," she sighs, tracing her fingertips over his chest.

"The things you do to me," he murmurs in wonder.

The lives they'd lived before, all of the moments of love and loss, of joy and sorrow … every experience was to bring them to this one. The companionship and passion, the ability to argue one moment and embrace the next, the way they can weather any trial so long as they end the day in one another's arms has been a lifetime in coming. This intensity, born of waiting, manifests in bodies drawn toward each other with a pull like that of gravity itself and hearts that seek the other's best at any cost.

This is my beloved, and this is my friend.

-Song of Solomon 5:16

A/N 2: Lots of little details that perhaps only mean something to me, but I should give credit where it is due.

*The song Isobel is humming as she works in the garden is "Be Thou My Vision." Beautiful, old old old hymn (8th century) with Celtic roots, hence the reason it'd be so familiar to Richard.

*I have established, based upon the distinctively Scottish spelling of Isobel's name, that she has Scots heritage through her mother, so there is an actual basis for Richard teasing her about her Scots blood.

*I have a notsmall love for Penelope Wilton. I have been watching as much of her body of work as I can get my hands upon here in the States. I have a particular fascination with the made-for-ITV film Falling, in which she costars with Michael Kitchen. It's dark, but she's brilliant. The lines "... there's time and they can take it" and "Come on ... I want you" are borrowed from her character, Daisy Langrish. I may or may not have watched the scene with the latter 850 times, imagining her saying those words to Richard. ;)