AUTHOR'S NOTE: I promise that I will write them a romantic, fluffy honeymoon one day, with no allusion to the war, but it obviously could not be this one.

Please note that this chapter is rated M – both for the sex scenes (obviously) and for intense themes. As usual, I was trying to avoid being graphic, but the rating is there for a reason and some scenes may be considered disturbing.

Nonetheless, I hope you will enjoy this chapter, and I am very, very curious what you think of it.

Lorelei's Cottage, June 29th, 1917

Molly Featherington's 'cottage' could be only named so by an American millionaire.

In fact, it was a spacious two-story building, with gabled roof, bay windows, a wide terrace overlooking the sea, a tennis court and a swimming pool. What's more, the servants were housed in a separate building on the other side of the garden, with a system of electric bells to summon them to the main house if they were needed. There was a private path from the house to the beach, the closest village was two miles off and the views were gorgeous.

"We are not leaving this place for London," said Mary adamantly as she was taking all of that in and Matthew couldn't agree more.

They were welcomed by Anna, Bates and Mrs Taylor, a middle aged cook and housekeeper from the nearby village.

"With the weather as fine as it is, we were thinking your lordship and your ladyship would like to eat on the terrace," offered Bates. "The view of the sea is magnificent from it."

Mary and Matthew exchanged a quick look and immediately agreed.

Considering the informal setting, Mary picked one of her more comfortable evening gowns – the soft beige coloured one with black beading – but one which she expected to drive Matthew wild. She smiled to herself as she was applying her perfume, wondering giddily whether he was going to give her this slack jawed look of admiration when he saw her in it.

He did, which she found beyond flattering, considering the length of time they knew each other. It truly was nice to confirm that she still could have such a powerful effect on him.

Matthew changed out of his uniform into a black tie.

"I don't want any reminders of war on our honeymoon," he said, seeing her slight puzzlement that he wasn't in his mess kit. "At least any which can be avoided."

"I'm certainly not going to complain," she said lightly as she accepted his arm to walk out to the terrace. "Not when you look so handsome in this attire."

He smiled at her in response and she was glad to see that it was more flirty than sad.

"You look absolutely gorgeous, of course," he said, his eyes checking out all of her appreciatively. "But then, you know it."

She hummed in agreement, but looked up at him with playful sternness.

"Whether I know it or not, doesn't free you from the obligation to mention it to me," she said. "A good husband is supposed to compliment his wife."

"Then I will endeavour to be as good a husband as possible," he said, leading her to the table set on the marble terrace. "Especially since any compliments I can give you will be unavoidably sincere."

The table was round and small, set with white tablecloth, summer roses and candles, and with the sea in front of them, resplendent in the light of slowly setting sun, it could not be more romantic. Mary gasped slightly, despite herself, and felt Matthew's hand tighten on hers as he assisted her in taking her chair.

"We need to thank you and Anna, Bates," he said earnestly. "This is truly perfect."

"It was our pleasure, my lord," answered Bates with one of his small, gentle smiles, and poured them champagne.

"To us," said Matthew softly, raising his glass, his eyes locked with Mary's. "And to love despite all odds."

Her fingers trembled slightly when she raised hers as well.

"To love," she repeated the toast. "May it conquer all."

xxx

They lingered over their dinner for quite some time, neither in a hurry to separate and prepare for bed – for now it was just too wonderful to enjoy each other's presence in peace and privacy. Mrs Taylor went home to her village and Bates and Anna retreated to the servants' cottage, waiting to be summoned so, for the first time in a long time they were truly alone and for the first time ever nobody was going to interrupt them or censure them for it. Mary left briefly to the bathroom and Matthew heard her exclaim joyfully on her return.

"There is a gramophone in the drawing room," she said, looking out to the terrace. "Do you want to put on some music?"

Matthew got up eagerly and soon they were sorting together through a stack of records. He smiled when he found one of the waltzes.

"This is the one we danced together at Sybil's ball," he said, the memory of it vivid in his mind despite the passing years. "What about it?"

Mary smiled back at him, her eyes bright. He was sure she was remembering it as well.

"Put it on," she agreed. "We should hear the music on the terrace and there is plenty of space there."

They had danced plenty of dances together at the reception, but when Matthew took her into his arms and led her over the spacious terrace, with the dusk slowly falling and the sound of waves lapping against the shore below, he couldn't help feeling that it was entirely different. Here she was – his wife – and they were alone – and if he wanted to kiss her as he had wanted to so many times before, as he had yearned to do during Sybil's ball – well, he could now. She was his wife, they were alone and everything was permitted. So he did and the way she responded to that kiss made his head swim more than any champagne ever could.

They danced at least five songs in this manner, he holding her much closer than would ever be considered proper and with his lips touching hers every once in a while, before he dared to whisper the question growing more and more urgent in his mind.

"Shall we go upstairs?"

Mary looked up at him and the mix of love and nervousness and, dared he think so, desire in her expression was such an exact match for his own feelings that he couldn't resist kissing her again. When they parted, she only nodded in agreement, and allowed him to lead her to the bedroom where Anna was already waiting for her.

"I will see you soon," said Matthew, kissing her hand, and went to the nearby dressing room, feeling quite lightheaded indeed.

xxx

The bedroom was spacious and airy, filled with art nouveau furniture and paintings, most of them depicting one romantic poem or legend or another. Mary thought wryly that the name of the cottage was in no way accidental. She sat in front of a delicate, ornate vanity and allowed Anna to start working on preparing her for bed.

The thought that Matthew was undressing himself on the other side of the door was very much on her mind.

She told herself firmly that there was nothing to be nervous about – nothing at all. She knew what was going to happen and it was going to happen with Matthew, so she had nothing to fear. He loved her so much and she loved him, and if the way she was feeling when he was kissing or embracing her was any indication, the whole experience was going to be wonderful.

Still, it was a monumental step in a relationship. Maybe she had a right to feel slightly nervous about it all.

"It will be alright, milady," said Anna, as if reading her thoughts. "Lord Grantham is a kind, good man who loves you very much."

Mary looked up at her gratefully, a spectre of another man flowing between them in instant understanding.

"You may go, Anna," she said softly, looking at her reflection in the mirror. It showed a beautiful woman with long, dark, wavy hair, dressed in a lacy nightgown kept together with ribbons. She hoped very much that Matthew would appreciate this attire too. "I won't need you until morning. Wait for my ring, please."

"Of course, milady," Anna curtsied. "Good luck."

xxx

Matthew dismissed Bates as soon as he entered his dressing room. He needed solitude to prepare himself for what was going to happen next.

If he was to be honest with himself, he was developing quite a case of nerves about it all.

It was Mary. The most important woman of his life. His one and greatest love. His wife. He never wanted anything more in his life than to make this experience perfect for her in every way possible; to show her how very much he loved her, how precious she was to him.

He was terribly afraid he was not adequate to the task.

He knew he had to be careful, gentle – after what he now knew about the truth of her previous experience, he knew it was paramount. He knew that Mary loved him and it was clear that she welcomed his touch and his kisses – that she desired him too – but still, he reminded himself that it would be only natural if the act itself brought forth some bad memories. He was determined to be on the lookout for any sign of distress or hesitation on her part; he could not imagine hurting her due to being blinded by his eagerness and lust. This whole thing was about her and he would be damned if he forgot that for even a moment.

He took off his clothes and washed himself quickly in the adjacent bathroom, avoiding his reflection in multiple mirrors. The last thing he wanted to ponder right now were his scars, which of course meant he could hardly keep them off his mind. He resigned himself to the inevitability of Mary seeing them now; he could hardly keep them covered for the duration of their marriage. Still, he hated the thought of her reaction to them and everything they represented.

Pain. Violence. Death. Things he had never expected to fill his life and yet they were such a big part of it now he could not escape them even on his wedding night.

He put on his robe, not bothering with pyjamas and took a deep breath to brace himself. It was time to join his wife.

xxx

When he entered the bedroom, Mary was sitting at the vanity, but she stood up as soon as she saw him. He felt his mouth fall open, but he didn't mind a laughing look in her eyes at that. It was not the first time he was struck dumb by the sight of her, after all.

She was so exquisitely beautiful.

That was all he could think about at that moment. His hands trembled slightly when he reached to untie the ribbon holding her nightgown together, his eyes darting to hers for permission. She nodded slightly, her lips smiling delicately, even though he could perceive she was just as nervous as he was.

His breath hitched when the gown fell apart and he could see her fully for the first time.

She was perfect.

In that moment, he wished for nothing more than to be whole for her, free of the visible reminders of everything he had done and everything which had been done to him. He felt dirty, damaged, haunted like never before, here, confronted with her utter perfection. When she reached to remove his robe in turn it took all he had to prevent himself from stopping her.

She stopped herself, frowning at him in puzzlement, and he cursed himself for a fool. He must have failed at hiding his tension and spoiled everything, just when he wished so much to make it perfect for her.

"What is it?" she asked and he swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. He owed her honesty, at the very least, but it was also the very last thing he wanted to talk about.

"I have some... scars," he managed to say finally, even though the words seemed to get stuck in his throat on the way out of his mouth. "They're not... They're not very pleasant to look at."

Mary's eyes widened briefly than narrowed in determination.

"Show me," she asked, her voice more commanding than pleading, and Matthew's hands listened before his brain did, automatically reaching for the belt of his robe.

Mary's brain hitched when she saw him, the same way his did before, and he closed his eyes to avoid her penetrating gaze on him. His eyes flew open though when he felt her light, hesitant touch on his chest.

What he saw in her expression nearly made him gasp.

She was looking at him – at his changed, skinny, scarred body – in the same admiring way he was looking at her.

"You're beautiful," she sighed reverently, then moved her hand downwards until she reached the ugliest of his scars, just over his lower ribs, where a German's bayonet had slid over the bone and had harmlessly sliced off part of his flesh instead of stabbing him to death. The skin had grown back, eventually, but in the form of a gnarled patch of scar tissue, discoloured and providing stark contrast with the rest of his chest and belly. Matthew hated looking at it, hated touching it even more, and yet here she was, looking at it and touching it, and he felt so much he could hardly name what it was he was feeling.

"This scar," said Mary softly, but with a fierce look in her dark eyes, "means you didn't die. I could never be put off by a reminder that you could have been taken away from me, but you weren't."

Matthew swallowed again. His throat felt tight and dry like sandpaper.

"This is not what they remind me of," he admitted roughly. He couldn't say anything more, he just couldn't, but he saw that she comprehended him on some level, impossible as it was. She raised her hand to his cheek, caressing it slowly.

"I know," she said in the same soft voice. "I know, darling, but this is how I see them."

He closed his eyes briefly, leaning into her caress.

"Let's go to bed," he said finally when he opened them. "I need to touch you."

xxx

His touch was hesitant, but Mary could see it was for her benefit; he was clearly restraining himself, afraid to hurt or scare her in any way and it was so different from Kemal's selfish approach, so very different, that she felt her heart might burst from love for him. The way his mouth and hands touched her seemed to her as if he was worshipping her and all her nerve endings seemed on fire following it, every place on her body he looked upon and then proceeded to kiss or caress. She tried to remain dignified in the beginning, but soon gave it up as a hopeless task, gasping and groaning at the ever growing pleasant ache in places she had never felt anything like that before. She was not just lying there either, enjoying his attentions passively, no, not at all; her hands, practically of their own volition, were caressing and discovering his body in response, her mind greedily cataloguing every spot and touch which seemed to draw the biggest reaction from him. Another difference with Kemal, she thought idly, she wanted to touch Matthew, to make him feel as amazingly good as he was making her feel. She wanted to drive him as mad with desire as he was driving her.

When he got ready to enter her though, she tensed, she couldn't help it. She wanted it, she wanted him, so very much, but it was like her body, despite its arousal and all the wonderful feelings and sensations Matthew evoked in it, screamed in a remembered panic at the prospect.

Matthew noticed, of course he did, and stopped immediately, looking at her in concern.

"Mary?" he asked, and there was no impatience in his voice, despite the fact that he must have been impatient to proceed, Mary was sure of it, she could see the effort the restrain took him – but he was still over her, so still, not moving at all, and there was only worry for her in his voice. "Is it too much right now? We don't have to do anything if you don't want to."

"But I do want to!" she protested with frustration. "It's just…"

It's just that the last time it hurt horribly, she thought but could not imagine saying. It's just that the last time was awful and I am afraid, even though I should not be afraid, I don't want to be afraid, because it's you and I know you would never hurt me like that.

Somehow, he got her meaning anyway, even though she wasn't able to say the words.

"You're afraid…" he whispered and his eyes looked stricken, pained by what it meant for her, what it was the result and proof of. "Darling, are you sure you want me to continue? We really don't need to, we can wait until you feel ready to try again."

Mary nodded emphatically.

"I don't want to be afraid," she managed to say, even though her body was still tense and wounded so tightly she could barely move. "Not with you. I don't want to let him ruin that."

He looked at her searchingly and obviously judged her sincere, because she saw his jaw tighten with determination.

"Then kiss me, darling," he said gently, lowering his face to her. "Don't think, just kiss me."

That was the easiest thing to do in the world. Matthew's kisses were safe, familiar, wonderful. Mary focused on that, on every little detail – the shape of his face under the palms of her hands, the slight roughness of the evening stubble on his cheeks, the delightful feel of his lips moving against hers, so deliberate and gentle, but growing in intensity. It worked. By the time she felt him deepening the kiss the tension started to leave her body and her hands, which she was able to move again, slid from Matthew's face to the back of his head, her fingers carding through his soft hair and pulling him closer to her. She felt him shudder in response and press his body to hers and it was not scary, not now – in fact it felt marvellous. It made her crave him to be even closer, as close as possible. All those sensations which she felt before her body betrayed her in its fear started to build up in her again. It was also tension, but of a very different kind, one which made her want, want so very much that she hardly knew what to do with it.

Then she felt him inside her and there was no pain at all.

"Darling?" asked Matthew, breaking their kiss to look into her eyes with such love and concern for her that she could hardly breathe. "Is that alright?"

She felt herself smiling brilliantly and blinked against the tears of happiness threatening to show in her eyes. The last thing she wanted was for Matthew to get alarmed by her silly emotionality.

"It's perfect, darling," she whispered. "I knew it would be with you."

And she pulled him closer to herself as they got lost in each other.

xxx

They were lying entangled together, so very closely, her head on Matthew's chest, his hand stroking her hair from the top of her head to the small of her back and it was so peaceful, so loving, so very wonderful.

"I must warn you," said Matthew heavily. "I have nightmares. Sometimes... They get really bad."

Mary grasped his hand.

"Me too."

He looked at her, startled, then his eyes softened with compassion.

"Of the bombing?"

She nodded.

"But not only. I dream of papa's death too. And of... other things I don't want to talk about."

Kemal dead on her, his dark eyes staring accusingly. Matthew, dying as well, in so many different ways. Sometimes she felt as if she was drowning in death as soon as she closed her eyes.

Matthew laughed ruefully.

"What a pair we make! I suppose we'll just have to help each other through it."

At least while you're still here, she thought bitterly, but did not say it out loud. She pushed that thought forcefully out of her mind.

xxx

Blessedly, none of them had nightmares that first night.

In fact, when Matthew opened his eyes in the morning, he felt he hadn't been so well-rested in years. The last two weeks, spent agonising over his fight with Mary and the overwhelming dread of losing her, had been the worst he had gone through since his return from France in April. But now, on the first morning of his marriage to Mary, feeling her warm body in his arms and with his brain full of wondrous memories from last night, he was simply so very happy.

She kept on sleeping for some time, her breath even and warm on his skin, and he didn't dare to move for fear of waking her. He could hardly believe it was real, that it was not just one of his dreams which he had been used to having for years – waking up with Mary, as his wife, to face the day together. And yet it was real, so marvellously, amazingly real and he was glad he woke up first and could savour it and commit every precious detail to his memory.

Finally, Mary woke up as well, with the cutest little yawn he had ever seen and her brown eyes peering up at him through her dishevelled hair.

"Good morning, my darling," he said and just saying so made him practically giddy with joy. "Have you slept well?"

She smiled lazily, her slender hand reaching for his face.

"Very well," she said throatily. "Best sleep I can remember."

They kissed then and it didn't take very long for that kiss to turn into more. They were naked and in each other arms already, there was nothing more natural than to take it further.

Somehow, they both shed their vulnerability and worries; left them behind in the darkness of last night and the security of the other's love and acceptance. There was no fear now, in either of them, just joy and loveliness and Mary nearly laughed out loud from the wonder of it. She kissed Matthew again, instead, and felt him grinning against her lips; he must be feeling it too. The way they were moving together, in such perfect rhythm, the delightful sensations his every touch evoked in her – and, she was pretty sure, hers in him – his blue eyes looking down at her with so much love and desire – it was all exquisite and fun and so absolutely wonderful.

When they were lying entangled together afterwards, their hands caressing each other lazily as they tried to regain their breath, Mary could only feel exhilarating joy.

"I think I'm going to like being married to you," she said matter-of-factly, but couldn't restrain a smile from showing on her lips.

Matthew turned his head to look at her with a wide grin of his own.

"Oh, me too, my darling," he said feelingly. "Me too."

xxx

They played several vigorous rounds of tennis after breakfast, both of them a little rusty at first and laughing heartily at each other's mistakes, but quickly getting back into the game. Matthew's tennis whites were hanging a bit loosely over his thinner frame, but it was such a relief to wear something so normal, so associated with the time before the war, that he didn't mind at all. The tennis court overlooked the sea as well, the water shimmering in the summer sun, and he didn't remember the last time he felt so utterly relaxed and at peace. He looked at Mary, laughing and carefree, her hair getting slightly loose from its careful arrangement from the exercise and the sea breeze, and he could barely remember the war at all.

"You're still good!" she exclaimed appreciatively, with a brilliant smile which made his heart stutter. "Nearly as good as when you trounced Larry Grey that one time. I don't think he's ever forgiven you for making him look like a fool in front of Sybil."

Matthew shrugged smugly. He couldn't help but feel satisfied at the memory of Grey's furious face.

"He was annoying her anyway," he pointed out, "and he was rude about my city."

Mary sent him a look.

"I was rude to you about your city," she observed dryly. "On multiple occasions."

Matthew grinned at her.

"Ah, but I find you much more charming than Larry Grey."

He swallowed slightly when she approached him slowly, her tennis racquet swinging loosely in her hand, with that devilish glint in her eyes which never failed to excite him, even when he seriously doubted her good intentions towards him.

"Are you suggesting that you find me charming enough for me to get away with anything?"

His voice lowered when he answered her, his eyes flickering towards her smirking mouth.

"Not anything," he answered honestly, "but I'm afraid a lot."

He gasped when her hand sneaked into the hair on the back of his head as she pulled his face towards hers for a searing kiss.

"I will try not to abuse your leniency too much," she promised against his lips and he couldn't help it, he snickered in between kisses.

"I don't believe you at all," he said and kissed her again.

xxx

Anna smiled at the sound of joyous laughter floating from the direction of the tennis court.

"It's so nice to witness them both so happy," she said to Mr Bates, sitting by her on a bench in a rose garden overlooking the sea.

In all truth, she felt as if she herself was on vacation. Lady Mary scarcely needed her services most of the day, and Mrs Taylor did all the washing up, so besides light cleaning and assisting Lady Mary with her clothes and hair, Anna found herself in an unfamiliar position of having whole hours of leisure. She was at the seaside, the weather was brilliant and the man she dearly loved was there with her, similarly unencumbered by duties. She couldn't be more grateful for the eight days they were going to spend here like that and she could see in his crinkled eyes that he enjoyed every minute too.

"It is," Mr Bates agreed with a light smile of his own. "Although I really don't know why he took me with him at all."

Anna looked at him slyly.

"Because Lady Mary asked him to, of course," she said cheerfully and nearly laughed at his puzzled frown.

"Why would she care?" he asked, clearly confused. "It's not like they are visiting some grand house when she would like to keep appearances."

Anna laughed softly.

"As a favour to me, silly," she explained, her eyes twinkling. "So I have someone to talk to when they are busy together and not needing me at all."

Mr Bates' brows went up.

"But they obviously know I am not a free man…" he pointed out hesitantly and Anna rolled her eyes.

"They trust us not to abuse the situation," she said. "Obviously."

Her mood fell when Mr Bates' frown only deepened.

"I'm putting you in an unfair position," he said unhappily. "You deserve so much better."

Anna pursed her mouth with determination.

"And so do you!" she said with conviction. "I believe that one day you will manage to free yourself from Vera and we will be able to get married. We simply need to be patient and enjoy our company as we can until it happens."

He looked at her grimly.

"I'm still worried what else she can do before it happens though," he said heavily. "Or after."

Anna shrugged lightly.

"What can she do?"

Mr Bates looked towards the sea, visibly troubled.

"I don't know. But I never would have expected her to blackmail Lady Mary or stalk and accost Lord Grantham, so I don't trust myself to make an accurate prediction. She is unpredictable."

"I'm not afraid of her," said Anna staunchly. "We will worry when she does something, there is no use in borrowing trouble now. Right now I'm going to enjoy the view of the sea, the sun on my face and your company, although I'd enjoy it more if you smiled at me."

He did, couldn't resist in face of her optimism.

"As you wish," he said warmly. "We'll enjoy what we can."

xxx

They were strolling on the beach, hand in hand. Mary focused on the unfamiliar sensation of hot sand on her bare feet; Matthew had managed to talk her into following his example and removing her shoes and stockings.

"Have you never done it before?" he asked with clear surprise as he was removing his own.

"Of course not," answered Mary, equally surprised that he could think otherwise. "It was not proper behaviour for a young lady."

"Was climbing trees considered proper then?" asked Matthew teasingly and Mary couldn't help smiling.

"No," she answered dryly, "but unlike on any beach I was on, I was not accompanied by Mama, Granny or one of my numerous governesses when I sneaked out to climb them."

She looked at Matthew with sudden interest.

"Have you ever done something you were not supposed to do? Your mother makes you sound like the perfect son."

Matthew's eyes twinkled mischievously.

"Mother most definitely does not tell me anything like that," he observed dryly. "That's her version for the rest of the world."

"So what have you done?" insisted Mary, her curiosity increasing.

Matthew smiled sheepishly.

"Nothing so very egregious, I suppose," he admitted. "Mostly being stubborn and opinionated, which I'm sure shocks you very much," he waited for her affirmative laughter to pass, then continued. "Some boyhood escapades of running off exploring the city with my friends instead of sitting over my lessons, but never so very often; I treated my studies seriously. Similarly at university, there were some antics better left untold, especially to Mother, but nothing which would really make me blush nowadays."

"I knew it," commented Mary with pretended disappointment. "You were just as perfect and good as your mother describes you. I shudder to think what you'd think of some of mine. It's probably best than you haven't learnt of any before we got married."

Now it was Matthew's turn to look at her with avid interest.

"Like what?"

"I switched Edith's teddy bear for a dead rat once," she admitted smugly. "She stole my lucky charm, you see, and I wanted to teach her a lesson. Which I failed utterly, by the way, she never stopped going through my things, the little spy."

"Where did you even get this rat?" asked Matthew incredulously but, Mary liked to think, with a bit of awe as well.

"From a stable boy," she explained blithely. "I paid him a sixpence for one."

Matthew shook his head ruefully.

"Alright," he said, "if we're admitting to this level of crimes, I have one of my own to confess."

"What was it?"

"There was a boy at Radley I simply couldn't stand," started Matthew. "Quite a bully to anyone he deemed weaker or less worthy than him. Not me, personally – I never was one of the most popular boys, but I was well-liked enough not to deal with troubles like that – but one of his victims was my friend. I defended him when I could, but I wasn't always around to do so and after one mean prank too many, I snapped."

"What did you do?" asked Mary, thinking at the same time that of course he was a white knight and defender of the downtrodden even in school.

"I stole the headmaster's priced cigars," confessed Matthew serenely. "The whole box of them from his office. And then I hid them under Tomlinson's bed, where they were of course duly found. He was in hell of a lot of trouble for that theft, nearly ended up expelled."

Mary stared at him for a moment. She was so stunned she missed a step and needed to support herself on his arm for a moment when she stumbled.

"That was truly devious!" she said. "Did he suspect it was you?"

Matthew shook his head, his smile turning slightly predatory.

"Not initially. But I did point it out to him that with the way he was making enemies left and right, he was bound to be an object of revenge eventually. He quite mended his ways after that, although he never grew likeable."

He looked at the dark clouds gathering over the sea.

"We better walk back," he said, pointing them out to Mary. "It may rain soon."

They got back to the cottage in good time, retrieving their abandoned shoes and stockings on the way, and soon sat down to a wonderful dinner, their appetites whetted by the walk.

The thunder of a building up summer storm rumbled softly over the sea.

Master bedroom, Lorelei's Cottage, July 1917

He was back there and the shells were falling all around him, the noise so deafening that his ears were ringing with it. He was crouched alone in a dugout – not an officers' dugout either, just a small hole dug in the side of a trench – and could feel sand and small stones raining down on him after every blast. He covered his head with hands, praying that the whole thing would last and he wouldn't end up buried alive.

He knew, with ever increasing dread, that they were coming for him.

Another shell exploded seemingly right next to him and he gasped, his eyes squeezing shut in sheer terror. He didn't want to die, he so desperately didn't want to die, not now, not when he could finally be Mary's husband, not when he was finally allowed to show her how terribly much he loved her, how…

Yet another explosion made him gasp again and open his eyes and there she was, her hand on his face, her expressive eyes looking down at him with such concern and love that his whole being flooded with love and gratitude for her. She was here and she would help him forget, if only for a fleeting moment, how terribly scared he was, just as the thoughts of her had done so many times before.

"Mary," he rasped desperately and pulled her down for a kiss.

xxx

Mary was not sure what woke her up, the storm raging over them or Matthew's terrified whimpering by her side. A thunder crashed over their heads and he cried out, folding himself into a tightly wound ball, with his arms covering his head protectively. He was trembling all over.

The storm must have brought on one of his nightmares.

She sat up and cautiously reached for his face. She whispered his name, her heart breaking at yet another whimper. She hated seeing him so afraid, she truly did.

"Matthew," she called out louder over the noise of the storm. "Darling, wake up!"

His eyes shot open, wide and terrified and for all they were staring at her she was not sure if he saw her at all. There was something uncanny about his face and those eyes, something which she had never seen before.

"Mary," he rasped, sounding desperate and so very frightened, and then pulled her down for a kiss.

It was not like any kiss she had ever had with him before. Rough, demanding, passionate, yes, but Mary wasn't sure if the passion behind it was necessarily love or desire. She was half of a mind to push him away when yet another thunder rolled loudly over them and Matthew immediately jumped away, his arms going over his head.

Well, if making love was the only way to pull his mind back from wherever it was trapped, then so be it. Mary bent down and kissed him deeply herself.

He responded immediately, his hands seeking her body, his eyes, still strangely unseeing, focused on her in this uncanny way, as if he wasn't sure if she was really here.

"I'm real," she found herself saying as she helped him to make a quick work of undressing them both. "And you're in England with me, safe. This is just a storm, darling. It's all perfectly alright."

He gasped her name desperately, but she wasn't sure if he registered a word she was saying.

It was very different from anything which happened between them in the last few days. Matthew was acting with a single-minded focus, his mouth voracious on her, his hands holding her down as he feasted upon her neck and breasts, his teeth grazing her slightly – so very unlike his usual careful, tender approach to love making – and yet she wasn't scared at all. It was Matthew. Even while it was obvious that he was not fully here, she felt absolutely sure that he wouldn't hurt her. He called her name in between his hungry kisses, he looked at her with desperation and fear, yes, but also with the same love he always had in his eyes for her, so she knew he was aware that he was doing it to her – and even if she couldn't be sure if he realised it was real and not part of his dream, she felt secure in conviction that he would never hurt her, even in a dream. It was Matthew and she had always felt safe with him.

If he needed her – and she could see that he desperately did – then she could give him that.

She gasped when he pushed inside her. It was different too – more urgent, more rough – and she held onto him for dear life as he moved with the same desperate urgency which was driving him from the moment he opened his eyes. He placed a bruising kiss on her lips at the sound and she kissed him back just as hard, biting his lower lip and exulting in the groan he made in response. It was different, it was wild, it was the most inappropriate thing she had ever done, she was sure, but at the same time she felt an overwhelming, intense need growing within her to match his. She welcomed every movement of his body against hers, she dug her nails into his back just as roughly as he was handling her and she somehow loved every second of this wild ride as she never suspected she might. She felt an ever increasing crescendo of heat building in her belly and when the next thunder came, it crashed and flooded her with ecstasy like a wave in tandem with the storm raging outside.

xxx

He hardly knew whether it was real or one of his fantasies at the front. The constant barrage of noise suggested the second, but it had never felt so real there, so painfully real, however hard he had tried to escape his reality there, which made him think it was real and if it was, he was doing it wrong, terribly wrong. Mary was fragile, vulnerable, scarred in her own way; he had to be gentle with her, careful, not like this, not using her to drive his fear away, not if that was real.

The thunder erupted straight over them – or was it a shell, God, what if it was a shell?! – and he couldn't help it, he whimpered, his body curling over her in an instinctive need to protect them both.

"Shhhh," she said, her hands caressing his head and back as he clinged to her desperately. "You're safe, Matthew. You're in England, with me, and this is just a storm. You may relax, my darling, you're not there. Focus on me – I'm real, can you tell?"

He could, mostly at least. She certainly seemed more real than anything else. He could feel her warm body against him, around him, he could smell her perfume, vanilla and irises, he could hear her soft voice as she kept whispering reassurances that it was alright, he was safe, he was loved, it was perfectly alright to focus on that, to make love to her instead of thinking about all those terrible things he could not face, not yet, oh God, not yet. She told him it was alright to love her like that, so he did, he allowed himself to lose himself in her, to focus on her and only on her, until he wasn't aware of anything else but the clash of their bodies and her mouth against his.

It was afterwards, when he collapsed utterly spent next to her and felt her slender hand caressing his sweaty back soothingly, when he woke up properly and realised quite what he had done.

"Mary?" he asked with trepidation, terrified to lift his eyes and see the expression on her face. "Have I hurt you?"

If he did, he was never going to forgive himself.

"No," she answered calmly, her hand caressing his hair now as his head was resting against her chest in the reversal of their usual position. "You never could do that."

He lifted his eyes after all, he needed to check if she was telling the truth, needed to be sure.

"Truly?" he asked. "I know I was… rough… and forceful… and…"

He felt bile when he completed that thought – that he was afraid he reminded her of how he had been with her.

"You were," she agreed with a small smile on her lips, her fingers still stroking his hair in the most soothing manner possible. "But I didn't mind in the slightest. It was… different, yes… but surprisingly good."

He swallowed, a flicker of hope that it really was alright, that he didn't hurt her, growing in his chest.

"You would tell me, wouldn't you?" he asked urgently. "You would tell me if I was hurting you? You would tell me to stop?"

She scoffed lightly.

"Of course I would," she said scornfully. "Not that you would ever do that."

"But if I did?" insisted Matthew. He needed to be sure. "You don't know… When the dreams come, it's not always easy for me to… to tell what is real," he inhaled deeply, gathering his courage. This was too important, she was too important. "I would never hurt you deliberately, you're right about that, but when it happens… I could hurt you without knowing it is you or that you're real and not some figment of my imagination."

"I wouldn't let you," she said confidently. "And you would stop if I told you to, I know you would, even if you weren't sure I was real."

He nodded, calming down a bit and allowing himself to rest against her chest and focus on the steady beat of her heart and the soothing caress of her fingers.

xxx

They were lying in silence for so long, Matthew's breath slowly calming down and growing steady, that she thought he was falling asleep until he asked her quietly:

"Mary... Aren't you afraid of me sometimes?"

Mary's eyebrows shot up in shock.

"Why on Earth would I be?"

"Because... Because I've killed people. Lots of people"

Mary bit her lip and remained silent for a long while.

"I know you must have," she said finally. "That's what soldiers do, after all. But no, it never has even occurred to me to be afraid of you. If anything, it's still hard for me to imagine you as a real soldier, however often I see you in uniform."

Matthew laughed mirthlessly.

"And yet I am one. And I've really killed lots of people. Sometimes... Sometimes in truly awful ways. I didn't want to... But on the battlefield, or when you fight in the enemy's trench, or when they are attacking yours... You do anything to stay alive, however much you will despise yourself for it afterwards. Or you die."

Mary hugged him fiercely.

"And that's exactly what you're supposed to do," she said, her eyes flashing. "You're supposed to stay alive and come back to me. I told you once before, I don't care what you have to do to achieve it. I will still love you, whatever you were forced to do to survive. Do you hear me, Matthew Crawley?"

Matthew's arms tightened around her with desperation.

"Thank God for you, Mary," he said hoarsely. "Thank God."

They remained silent for a long while, clinging to each other.

"But Mary, I do wonder... what kind of man I will be if I am lucky enough to come back. If the war leaves anything in me that I or you will be able to recognise."

"Of course it will," said Mary with nonchalance she didn't at all feel. "So far nearly 3 years of it haven't managed to make you stop loving me, have they?"

"No, they haven't. I don't think anything can."

"There you have it," pointed out Mary calmly. "You will recognise at least this one thing."

Matthew swallowed hard.

"And will you be able to love me back? A murderer?"

"You're not a murderer," parried Mary immediately. "Even the church says that war is different. You're fighting to keep us all safe. You're doing it so they won't keep sending their planes to drop bombs on our country. You're fighting because otherwise they would kill you. How could I stop loving you for any of that?"

Matthew lowered his eyes.

"And yet I often feel like one," he whispered brokenly and Mary's own heart nearly broke hearing it. "Whatever the reasons... I did some truly monstrous things. I don't think I will ever be able to talk to you about it... To anyone, really... But I cannot help thinking about it or dreaming about it and sometimes it haunts me so. I know now what I am capable of and it's despicable."

Mary had never felt so helpless as she did in that moment – and never had wished more to find the right words. She knew she was not a person good at offering comfort and yet she so desperately wanted to give some to Matthew.

"You told me you never could despise me, even before you knew what there was to despise me for," she said finally, looking into his blue eyes and willing him with all her heart to believe her. She never liked or was comfortable with speaking about her feelings – it was so much easier to do that in letters than out loud! – but she would try, for Matthew. "I was utterly convinced that you must when you learn, whatever your assurances, but you didn't. I know my indiscretion – even if you look at it like the world does, without any mitigating circumstances – is hardly comparable to whatever you are going through. But can you believe me that I could never despise you either? That I will love you, whatever you have done or will do, because I am simply not capable of anything else?"

He mulled it over for a long while before he reached up with his hand to place it gently on Mary's cheek.

"I'll try," he said roughly but she thought she could see his eyes losing some of their wildness and felt so incredibly glad that she managed to say something right. "I'm sorry for bringing it all up and disturbing you, I promise I won't do it again – or at least I will try not to – I'm just not fully myself when the dreams come."

She leaned into his hand and caressed his soft hair again.

"I don't mind," she said honestly. She hated seeing him so vulnerable and broken, so convinced that he was a monster when she knew he was so good, she truly hated it, but she would hate for him to suffer it all in silence more. "If it helps to talk – about anything – I'm ready to listen. Even if I don't always know what to say."

His eyes were full of wonder as he looked at her.

"I don't deserve you," he said feelingly. "But I fall more in love with you with every day that passes."

She bent down to kiss him gently on the forehead.

"You have it the other way around," she murmured.

xxx

For the first time in five days, Matthew woke up alone.

The memories from last night plunged into his consciousness like bullets. The nightmare, the storm, the terrifying uncertainty of where he was, whether here or there, of what of that was real.

Mary.

He clenched his fists, both in memory of his actions and subsequent conversation with her. The things he had done, the atrocities he had confessed… Was there any wonder that she needed to get away from him?

The slight sloshing sounds coming through the open door to the en-suite bathroom pulled him out of his thoughts before he could fall into proper despair over it all. He got up slowly and went to investigate.

He felt breathless both from sudden desire and overwhelming relief when he found Mary there, looking perfectly serene, submerged in an enormous bathtub filled with bubbles. Her eager, welcoming smile and a hand gesturing for him to come closer were enough to soothe his fear and make him approach her.

His throat went dry at the sight of light, finger shaped bruises on her milky, freckled skin.

"Look at your arms and back before you start prostrating yourself," said Mary playfully, pointing to the mirror. "You weren't the only one to leave marks."

He did and blinked at the sight. There were long shallow scratches there, in addition to little half-moons where Mary's fingernails must have dug into his skin with a force he hadn't suspected her capable of.

"We were both a little carried away," she observed complacently, resting her head on the back of the bathtub. "I assure you, I didn't find it unpleasant in the slightest while it was happening."

He swallowed, his shoulders relaxing slightly, but he was not yet fully convinced that he should believe her.

"And now?" he asked anxiously. "In the light of day?"

She sent him a look which made him swallow for a completely different reason.

"Now," she purred, he could not describe her voice otherwise, "I'm enjoying my memories of it."

He wasn't able to say the same – the whole experience had been filled with haze of unreality for him, the fear mixed with desire, his mind flashing constantly between his wife and France – but what he did remember of her, of how it was to be with her in that way, made his blood sing. Maybe… Maybe, since Mary honestly didn't seem to mind, they could try to repeat the experience at some point with him firmly in the present.

He had to swallow again against the wave of lust that thought brought to the surface.

He noted Mary's heavy-lidded gaze on him, as she lazily, sensuously played with dripping soap bubbles on her glistening chest.

"It's a really spacious bathtub," she observed lightly. "I rather think you would be able to fit here with me, if you wanted to."

Matthew's response was to reach for the belt of his robe. He felt light and free and so incredibly in love with her that he could hardly comprehend it. He didn't deserve her – he was nowhere close to deserving her love and forgiveness after everything he had done – but she gave him both anyway. The water was wonderfully warm on his skin, the sunlight from the tall window shimmered on the bubbles and Mary was there, in his arms, looking at him with that slight smirk which was always driving him mad in the best possible way.

Right this moment, the terrors of last night seemed very far away.

xxx

The storm brought with it the heavy clouds and it was still pouring outside by the time they were done with breakfast, eaten for the first time in the dining room instead of the terrace. By mutual agreement, they went to the cosy library, offering not only shelves of books, a comfortable chesterfield leather set and a roaring fire, but also beautiful views of the stormy sea through three tall French windows.

"Will you read to me?" asked Mary eagerly. She didn't want to admit it out loud, but she loved Matthew's low voice something fierce. A day spent listening to it while she was lying in his embrace didn't sound at all bad to her.

Thankfully, he agreed with a smile.

"Do you have a book in mind?" he asked.

"Not really," answered Mary, scanning the bookshelves. "But I'm sure we will find something."

In the end, they settled on "Room with a View" and soon were laughing together at Forster's biting portrayal of English tourists in Italy.

"Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes partly because Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken her Baedeker," read Matthew with gusto. "How could she find her way home? How could she find her way about in Santa Croce? Her first morning in Florence was ruined, and she might never be in Florence again. A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits, talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading herself that she was full of originality. Now she entered the church depressed and humiliated, not even able to remember whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderful building! But how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date."

"I assume that whenever we manage to get to Italy, my fate will be to trail after you as you appreciate all frescoes and statues with proper feeling," noted Mary dryly, making Matthew raise his eyes from the book and grin at her in response.

"I solemnly promise to guard my Baedeker with my life," he said. "So at least I can be enthusiastic only over monuments of proper authorship."

"I wonder if Santa Croce really looks like a barn," said Mary musingly.

"I would love to see for myself. Have you ever been to Italy?" asked Matthew and Mary shook her head.

"We've been to the French Riviera several times, and to Paris, of course," she explained. "But we never went to Italy. Mama took us for an extended stay in America though, while Papa was fighting in the Boer War and Granny got too unbearable for her."

"And how did you like the colonies?" asked Matthew with interest, his disdainful inflection of the word 'colonies' a perfect imitation of the Dowager Countess of Grantham.

Mary laughed softly against his shoulder, both at his mimicry of Granny and at his question.

"I hated it terribly," she answered with a wry smile. "I missed home and everything and everyone were as un-English as humanly possible. I was sulking and miserable and rude and I made Mama tear her hair out."

"Ah," said Matthew with another grin at the image of a sulking child Mary in his mind and what an unholy terror she had probably been. "Poor Cousin Cora. Do you think you would be willing to set your foot there again, at some point? I've always wanted to see New York."

"I might," agreed Mary magnanimously, thrilled beyond measure that he was talking about the future – something which he had been studiously avoiding since he had gone to war. "I've grown slightly more tolerant of places and people from outside of Downton since then."

"Very slightly, probably," said Matthew dryly, with a wry look at her. "But at least you've broadened your horizons enough to tolerate solicitors from Manchester, even if you still refuse to visit the place."

"You have a better chance to talk me into visiting New York than Manchester," agreed Mary with a toss of her head. "I do have standards to maintain now. The Countess of Grantham does not hang around in places like Manchester."

"Oh, she doesn't?" asked Matthew dangerously, leaning over her. The book, forgotten, slipped out of his hand and fell slowly to the floor, without any of them paying it any mind. "What if your husband orders you to? Haven't you vowed to obey me?"

"Oh, have I?" answered Mary, feeling a pleasant shiver at his increased proximity. "It was such a hectic day, I can't remember."

"Then I have no choice but to convince you by other means," said Matthew and kissed her.

"You have quite a lot of faith in your powers of persuasion, Lord Grantham," Mary managed to say in between kisses.

"Is it baseless?" asked Matthew, his lips travelling slowly downwards over Mary's neck.

"Maybe not entirely," conceded Mary breathlessly. "But I will come to my senses later."

"Then I will just have to do it again," answered Matthew smoothly against her skin and Mary could not concentrate on refuting his argument at all.

xxx

The weather fortunately improved the next day. They breakfasted on the terrace again and afterwards took Jack's car on a drive alongside the coast, stopping on a charming meadow overlooking the sea for a picnic. They spent the evening dancing again and retired early, having dismissed Anna and Bates straight after supper – Matthew was perfectly able to get Mary out of her clothes and hairpins when given the opportunity to do so.

It was after ten in the evening when Matthew got up from the bed and reached for his clothes.

"Come outside," he said with a smile. "I want to show you something."

"Now?" asked Mary, looking at the pitch black darkness outside the window, barely broken by the rising moon.

"Yes, now," he eyed her naked body with sudden doubt. "That's it, if you can get dressed without Anna. I don't think it would be nice to summon her now when she probably went to bed already."

Mary frowned at him suspiciously.

"Depends on who is going to see me."

"Only me, I promise."

Mary shrugged.

"Then I should be able to manage."

She did, with slight help from him and soon afterwards they went to the beach. Mary took note how comfortable and sure of himself he seemed while walking the uneven path in the darkness, with only moonlight and his torch for illumination. It struck her how used he must have gotten to finding his way like this, in all kinds of terrain probably. It was like a small glimpse into the life he had been living for the last three years.

"It should be somewhere here," he muttered when they reached the beach. "I told him to prepare it somewhere close to the path… Ah ha!"

He let go of Mary's hand and crouched next to a small stack of wood, reaching into his pocket for a lighter. It didn't take him long to start a small fire, with flames tinted with an unusual blue and green colouring which Mary had never seen before.

"Driftwood," explained Matthew with a smile. "I asked Bates to collect some for us since I hardly needed his help with dressing. Come, sit by me."

He spread the blanket by the bonfire and sat facing it and the sea. When Mary sat by his side, he wrapped his arm around her, encouraging her to rest her head on his shoulder.

For a long while they were sitting in mutual silence, observing the flames and the play of moonlight over the water, with the gentle lapping of the waves and sizzle of the fire the only sounds they could hear. It was a warm July night and Mary was not at all cold, especially with the fire in front of her and Matthew's body against hers. It was simply nice.

"How have you learnt to make a fire?" asked Mary and immediately wanted to take it back, afraid that the answer was the war.

Thankfully, it wasn't the case, because Matthew smiled at the question.

"From my father," he answered fondly. "He used to take me for all those adventures whenever he could spare the time – usually on the weekends – fishing, mostly, but also hiking or horse riding. Sometimes we even camped somewhere for the night, in a little tent. We made a fire and baked the fish we caught earlier and he was telling me stories of different constellations until my eyes started to droop. Those are some of the best memories I have of him."

"He sounds lovely," observed Mary sincerely. She could hardly imagine Papa spending time with her like that, but she could easily envision a younger version of Matthew being absolutely delighted by it all.

"I would like to do this with my own child one day," said Matthew wistfully and Mary, still thinking of Papa, nearly said that it's not something an earl is supposed to do before luckily she managed to bite her tongue at the very last moment.

"I can't see why not," she said instead, "you're the Earl of Grantham, you can do whatever you want and the worst thing people will say about you is that you're slightly eccentric."

Matthew laughed softly.

"Won't you mind? I suspect you find the whole idea terribly undignified."

She gave him a haughty look.

"I'm sitting here with you with my hair down, am I not?"

"Indeed you are," he said warmly and lowered his head for a quick kiss. "Thank you for indulging me."

They lapsed into silence, but it was a comfortable one.

"Matthew," asked Mary slowly. "Do you think we made a baby?"

Matthew startled at her question.

"Possibly," he answered with a light smile, but then frowned at her. "But remember, I told you that you have no reason to worry about it."

Mary shrugged in his embrace.

"It doesn't mean I won't think about it," she said, adding with difficulty. "I am grateful that you made it less necessary for me to give you a son – I truly am – but it doesn't mean I don't want to give you one anyway."

Matthew exhaled shakily and added more driftwood to the flames with his free hand, his eyes following the resulting burst of sparkles.

"I want it too," he admitted. "So terribly much. Not a son necessarily – you can't think I worry much about passing the title, you know I don't really care about that – but to have a family with you… It's been my cherished dream for so long."

"Mine too," confessed Mary quietly, then smiled at him teasingly. "Except I do care about the title."

He looked at her with chiding fondness.

"I can hardly not to," she said more seriously. "Not with how it was always drilled into my head what a bad luck it was that I wasn't born a boy or what a failure on Mama's part to not give Papa an heir. The whole reason I was supposed to marry Patrick was because he was destined to be the Earl of Grantham and then of course it was the same with you. I am beyond grateful that you don't care and thus don't put additional pressure on me, but I can't simply stop considering it important. Not when it ruled over most of my life in one way or the other."

Matthew's arm tightened around her shoulders.

"I understand that," he said, thinking with regret how much he hadn't understood in 1914, how badly he had misread the situation and Mary's feelings. His pain then had been very real and maybe Mary hadn't been blameless in their mutual misunderstandings, but he felt terribly guilty for his own mistakes. "Even though I wish you didn't. I don't want you to worry about that too."

She placed a light kiss on his cheek in thanks.

"You're a darling."

For a long while, they sat in a companionable silence, looking at the bonfire and the moonlit sea.

"You know I love you so terribly much?" asked Matthew quietly and now Mary's heart clenched with guilt for making him doubt it.

"I do know," she vowed, grasping his hand. She avoided his eyes, thinking how desperately she loved him in return and how terribly afraid she was that they were never going to experience the future they dreamed of. She once again pushed away the thoughts of his inevitable return to the front in mere three days. She could think of it later. "Darling, you do know that I love you too? Even if I don't say it very often?"

"I know," Matthew assured her warmly. "It sometimes amazes me still, but I do know it."

She kissed him then, she could hardly not to. His lips felt hot on hers, and so soft; she thought she could spend her life just kissing him.

She barely realised that she was leaning backwards, with Matthew following her, their mouths still busy with kissing each other, until she was lying down on the blanket with Matthew over her. Matthew was deepening their kiss though, his tongue dancing with hers, and she couldn't really remember why she should mind any of it. She was warm and comfortable and there was something magical about being kissed like that and kissing him in return with the stars over their heads and the sea just a few steps away.

She came to her senses briefly when she felt his hand moving under her skirt.

"Here?" she asked in disbelief.

"We're alone," said Matthew in a voice which had no right to sound so wooing, like an audible caress. "Nobody is going to disturb us."

"That's not the point," she said, but then he touched her in a way he had learnt over the past week and she gasped, her scruples quickly losing their importance.

"Do you truly mind?" asked Matthew, raising his mouth from her neck to attempt to look at her properly in the light of the fire. "Because if you do, we can of course go inside."

Paradoxically, as soon as he offered it – as soon as he stopped what he was clearly enjoying and desiring to check whether she was alright with it – she wanted it too. There was something absolutely exhilarating and forbidden in the idea of making love here, in the open, like in one of the more ridiculous romantic poems or a Greek myth. One more amazing memory to keep greedily when he would be away.

She didn't say anything – it seemed terribly brazen to even think it – but when she reached for him and kissed him fiercely he understood her alright.