CHAPTER 21

Remington opened the door to the master bedroom quietly, unsure of what he might find within. He'd left for what was meant to be a short walk to clear his head. That 'short walk' had turned into a lengthy sojourn around the property – a couple of times. It was only when a misty rain began to come down that he was drawn from his troubled thoughts and he checked his watch, grimacing when he realized he'd left Laura hours before. The fury he'd been wrestling with retreated to be replaced with a hearty round of self-flogging as he walked at a steady clip back to the castle. He'd been anything but the gallant suitor and fiancé since she'd arrived in London. He might not bear responsibility for the fright his assault had given her, but he could be taken to task for any number of times he'd failed to mind his manners – or, worse in his eyes, to be the attentive lover she so richly deserved…

And walking away from her instead of letting her in only compounded those harms. They'd worked so hard these pasts months on not dancing around one another, turning to one another in troubled times instead of away. But today he'd done just that.

He couldn't blame her at all if she was waiting on his arrival so that she might deliver a screeching, ear-blistering diatribe on his shortcomings and faults. The odds were better than good that he'd be folding his lanky frame onto a very small sofa that evening already. That was a sobering thought, and the very reason for his cautious entry.

The room was cast in near darkness, the only illumination provided by a dying fire and a small, dimly burning lamp sitting upon the vanity at which Laura sat, drying damp, curling hair. Simultaneously, his heart skipped a beat at the sight of those twisting tendrils and he licked his lips nervously, as he stepped into the room fully, closing the door behind him.

She immediately turned on the stool, still toweling her hair.

"Well, thank God you're alright," Laura greeted, her eyes following him as he walked towards her. "I was beginning to wonder if I should call out the guard." She kept her tone light, but the admonishment was clear. With an apology in his eyes, he bent down and brushed his lips across her temple.

"I'm sorry," he offered sincerely as he stood to his full height again. "Lost track of the time, I'm afraid."

"There's no need to apologize," she dismissed. She'd come to a stunning realization as the hours had ticked by: She'd spent most of their association worrying if he'd return when he disappeared as he had this evening, but somewhere along the line that 'if' had become 'when'. The thought had merited a vocal 'huh' to pass her lips although she'd been quite alone when it had come to her. Forcing herself back to her notes – she wanted to be prepared for Murphy's arrival – she'd promised herself once things were less… chaotic… she'd pull that thought back out and exam it thoroughly. Shaking off the memory, she added, "However," she paused in drying her hair to point a finger skyward as he ambled towards the fireplace, "The time alone made me realize we have been entirely too lax with our personal safety since we've arrived." Toeing off his wet shoes, he mulled the suggestion, then shrugged.

"A wiser man wouldn't admit as much," he answered, staring down at those shoes, debating on bending over and setting them on the hearth then dismissing the idea for fear he might let on how sore he was after his little outing. "But had I been in someone's sites this evening, they may well have gotten the better me." Dropping her brush on the vanity, she snapped her fingers together and pointed at him while standing up.

"That!" she exclaimed, joining him in front of the fire. "We didn't hear Mickeline approach this afternoon—" Stoking the dying embers, she added another log to the fire then set his shoes closer to dry.

"To be fair, the man's step is so soft he'd have fared well in my former…" he gulped, and winced apologetically over his shoulder, then finished "…profession." Much to his surprise, Laura laughed.

"Somehow I can't picture Mickeline carabining across a museum," she mused. His warm chuckle joined her melodic mirth, and he grinned at her while she set the screen back in place

"That would be a site to see," he offered as he stood. They shared a smile before she sobered.

"The point is, Mr. Steele, this…" she swept an arm around the room "…may be a castle but it's not a fortress." Frowning as a thought came to her, she fingered the base of her throat, and contemplated aloud, "If anything the size of the castle works against us. We need to be more vigilant, that's all I'm saying." Reaching out, she lay a hand on his upper arm to soften the reprimand, then drew it back quickly, while taking in the damp hair she'd only now noticed. "You're soaked!"

"Mmm, yes," he confirmed. "I found myself caught in a light rain on the way back, I'm afraid." Taking in the wet hair she'd overlooked and the hang of his clothes, she wondered exactly how far he'd walked in that light rain.

"Go take a shower and warm up," she advised, then followed behind him as he walked toward the small bathroom. "The last thing we need is you coming down with something." She pursed her lips in thought as she reached into the shower and turned on a warm spray. "And, I suppose I should warn you, Townsend's already less than happy with your disappearing act tonight."

"Forgive me, Laura, but I don't give a bloody damn if the good doctor is put out with me or not," he informed her, tugging his sweater over his head with a grunt and placing it in her waiting hand. "I'll be releasing him from his duties first thing in the morning," he announced definitively. Laura's brows pinched together in confusion and concern.

"Do you really think that's wise?" she questioned. "You're barely back on your feet—"

"I won't have anyone reporting back about me…" he insisted, adamantly. The stubborn set of his jaw when he pulled the turtleneck over his head, after two attempts to do so, said he was preparing to plant his feet. "…Or you…" he added with a pointed lift of his brows "…to His Lordship and Daniel." She slowly shook her head in dissent.

"As much as I understand the impulse, I think it would be foolish not to use his presence to our advantage," she insisted with an apology in her voice. He scowled.

"Oh? How's that?" Unbuckling his belt then shoving his pants down over his hips, she leaned over and picked them up when he stepped free of them, repeating the action when his briefs followed.

"Well, to begin with, there's your health—"

"I'm fine," he snapped. Laura merely lifted a brow at him.

"Is that so? Then, let's see you bend over and take those socks off, huh?" His eyes narrowed on her at the taunt. As much as he liked to refer to her as foolishly stubborn, he could be just as determined. Refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him grimace as he looked down at his feet and anticipated the pain such a feat would entail, clenched his teeth then bent over…

A sharp inhale was followed by an attempt to muffle a groan as he snapped back upwards. With a roll of her eyes, she kneeled down and peeled his socks off one at a time then unwrapped the compression bandage still supporting healing ribs.

"As I was saying, first, there's your health. It's not even been two weeks since you were laying in a hospital bed with an uncertain outcome." He grimaced as she peeled off the bandages covering his wounds, without fanfare. "To boot, you've overdone it again tonight on the heels of being jostled across the countryside in the trunk of a car, flown to Ireland, then driven for hours to the castle. If we stand a chance in hell of getting out from under all of this, we need you on your toes and I don't just mean mentally. Townsend's continued care is the best insurance we have for that happening." She lifted the load of clothing in her arms. "I'm going to hang these up to dry while you shower. We'll continue this conversation when you're through." His disgruntled hum before he turned towards the shower conveyed his lack of enthusiasm for that upcoming tete-a-tete.

In the bedroom, Laura looked around for something that would suit her purposes, finding it when her eyes fell on a coat tree in the sitting area. Dropping the clothing over the back of a chair, she dragged the heavy wooden piece across the room then settled it in front of the fireplace.

It was an impossible predicament they were in, she acknowledged to herself, through no fault of their own. They needed time: Time for Remington to work through all that had been revealed that afternoon; time for her to convince him what their next move had to be; time for him to heal more. But time was a luxury they had little of. Scotland Yard wouldn't have given up its hunt of her so easily and although there had been no further incidents since the hospital, she didn't believe for a nano-second that Remington's would be assassin had thrown in the towel after two failed attempts. No, her instincts were telling her exactly the opposite: They'd be coming for him…

With gusto.

Their situation dictated the need for them to get on the move – very, very soon. A few days, maybe a week to allow him more time to heal, was the most they had to spare. Too many people knew where they were, at least in her opinion, from His Lordship to his pilot, attorney and staff and from Daniel to Felicia if he shared the details during pillow talk. It was one thing for Remington to be distracted at home. LA, after all, was her home turf. But here she was quite literally a foreigner in a strange land, whereas Europe had once been his playground. Hell, she couldn't tell you how to get to the local market let alone give directions to Belfast wherever that might be or the best places to lay low when you had too much heat on your trail.

With a sigh, she walked to the dresser where she'd stored his clothing and gathered together his nightwear before grabbing his robe from the modest closet. In the bathroom, she hung the robe on the door, left the nightwear on the bathroom counter, then returned to the bedroom shaking her head.

An impossible position.

Neither she nor Remington had ever been what one might call vociferous about their pasts. Most of what she knew of his, she'd only learned when he was throwing himself on her mercy for his latest attempt to slip one by her only to find himself square in her sites. He'd regaled her with a story or two across the years to comfort her in times of strife, but for the most part when he spoke of his past is was either intentionally misleading…

"Well, this should be engaging. A few days amidst the groves of academe. Ahh, it's already beginning to evoke painfully sweet memories of Cambridge."

"Cambridge? You went to Cambridge?""The ivied halls, robed faculty, punting on the Thames.""Cambridge is on the River Cam. Oxford is on the Thames."

…or intended to provoke her natural curiosity, which of course it would. He was certainly intelligent enough to have attended Cambridge. Had he said too much and was purposefully misleading her with the quip about 'punting on the Thames' or was he, yet again, just having a 'bit of fun' with her? Who knew?

"Now, about your helicopter training in Monte Carlo…"

"Oh, nothing terribly interesting… Several million in gold bullion, a beautiful but treacherous Contessa, a frantic flight across the Mediterranean."

…Or he'd provide only the broadest of brush strokes, the stiffness of his shoulders and cock of his jaw telling her wordlessly that he was too much of a gentleman not to answer her question, but further questioning would be unwelcome. In those cases, she'd respect his boundaries, left with no choice but to bite back a half dozen questions beginning with: Was this Contessa another woman from his past that one day would appear on their doorstep, chaos as her companion?

But she could hardly fault him. She wasn't exactly an open book where her own past was concerned either and it wasn't as though he wasn't interested. To the contrary, anytime someone or something arrived from a time before he was… well, him… His bright eyes and craned neck shouted just how curious he was. Yet, he wouldn't ask… Didn't ask, unless invited. He understood all too well how painful memories could be.

He was a better person than her in this, she concluded, as she stooped before the fire. Adding one more log, she stood and crossing the room to the bed, sat down on the bed and reached for the notes she'd been reconstructing while he was gone.

And found herself unable to concentrate… again.

With a sigh, she drew a hand through her loose,, wavy locks then rested her chin on her knees.

If only it were that easy, she reminded herself, dolefully.

She couldn't shake the feeling the attempts on his life were somehow tied to the Earl of Claridge. But why? It seemed excessive to have Haven House's project manager murdered in order to prove to the community of Brixton that the shelter would only bring more trouble to the violence plagued area. And what about the 'construction accidents' that had preceded the outright attempt on his life? Certainly, Remington dying in a construction accident wouldn't send the same message to the community. An attempt to have the building declared unsafe, maybe? It could be, but it seemed awfully extreme.

But… If her suspicions were correct… Who would benefit by killing the Earl of Claridge's son? The next named descendant she would assume. Of course, they had no idea who that would be.

With a sigh she climbed out of bed having realized Remington had missed dinner that evening and he was never comfortable going to bed on an empty stomach, the experience far too reminiscent of his childhood days on the streets. She might not be able to make an edible bowl of pasta, but she could make a sandwich with the best of them. With the idea of foraging through the kitchen below, she stepped out of their room and descended the stairs.

She was somehow unsurprised when Mickeline appeared seemingly from thin air, carrying a tray laden with a teapot, cups and a bowl of something.

"Me thought a bit o' chamomile tea 'n a bit o' stew might be in order afta 'is Lordship's outin' 'n I 'ave informed the doctor o' 'is Lordship's return, as ye'd asked." Laura reached for the tray, relieving him of it.

"I'll take this up. Were you able to speak with Molly?" She'd approached Mickeline when he'd brought dinner up to the room to ask if he'd be willing to speak with Molly about meeting with the detectives the following day.

"Aye, Yer Ladyship. Molly said wheneva was best fer ye 'n she'll be 'aving the papers ye asked about." The elderly man shuffled on his feet, clearly uncomfortable.

"Is something wrong, Mickeline?"

"Not wrong so much as worrisome, Yer Ladyship. Molly, ye see, is a strong one but 'as neva got over the loss o' Eilis 'n the babe. She blames 'erself, ye see. Iffin' she 'and't let Eilis run free o' the summer, iffin' she'd gone wit' Eilis 'n the babe…" He let her finish the thought." Every year she goes ta visit Eilis on 'er birthday 'n the day she passed 'n every year it takes a little more from 'er. I don't… It's just—"

"I give you my word, if I see any sign we're upsetting her, we'll wrap things up. We have no desire to cause her additional hurt. In fact, it's my hope we can give her some peace."

"Thank ye, Yer Ladyship," Mickeline replied with the slightest of bows. "If ye leave the tray outside yer quarters I'll take it down ta the kitchen before I retire fer the evenin'."

"I will. Thank you, Mickeline."

In the room, she set the tray on her bedside table then crawled back into bed, returning to her thoughts.

Remington was struggling, both physically and emotionally, she knew. He was a man who could concoct the most elaborate of plans when it came to lifting a piece of art or making entry into a home in search of evidence. A body tumbling out of a closet to lay at his feet, no problem. Parasail into an armed compound, sounds invigorating. Ride a steed into a torch carrying mob, a scene out of one of his movies. The professional, no matter how convoluted or dangerous, he could handle with aplomb.

The same could not be said when he was being assailed on a personal level. Most of his life, he'd cut and run when trouble arrived. He'd spent a lifetime avoiding ties of any form to others – man or woman – with very few exceptions and even in those few relationships that had sustained for anytime, when things grew uncomfortable he'd disappear in search of calmer waters until things blew over. The INS, deportation – voluntary or not, his separation from his life in Los Angeles, the attempts on his life, Daniel and Thomas colluding, his parentage… the blows just kept coming. How much more could he take before his will to stand and fight eroded and the old instinct to slink off into the inky night kicked in?

She dragged both hands through her hair then, embracing herself, rubbed her arms briskly as goosebumps skittered across her skin.

If only she could be so cavalier about Remington's health as he was… But it wasn't possible. Every time he stepped from the shower or changed his clothes, every time Townsend came to visit, she was reminded how close she'd come to losing him. His body was still mottled with bruises, ranging from sickly yellows and greens to stomach turning reds and blacks; the black sutures stood out against his fair skin and the red, angry, puckered skin through which those sutures were sewn, provided a stark reminder that not all that long ago, a surgeon's hands and instruments had been at work inside his body, repairing the damage done and inserting tubes that would help keep him alive. Even now taped fingers when they brushed against her skin had the power to inflame her imagination, as images of a boot clad foot stomping on his hand came unbidden to mind. She wasn't handling the events of past weeks well and on more than one occasion had felt the stirrings of a panic attack at the edge of her mind.

She wished, desperately and not for the first time, they could board the next plane to LA then lock themselves behind the door of his flat, keeping him safe while his body fully healed. But, since that wasn't possible, all that was left was convincing him-

"Shall I make up the couch?"

She looked up at Remington, startled by his appearance before her. There were days she'd given serious consideration to hanging a bell from his neck as she had Nero's when he'd taken to bringing her home 'gifts' of the warm-blooded variety. She tipped her head, puzzled at first by the question then resisted the urge to roll her eyes when understanding dawned.

"Have you done something I'm unaware of that would require you to do so?" she ventured. Slowly, he sank down to sit beside her, unceremoniously shoving stacks of papers aside to do so. With a mental shake of her head, she gathered up the papers and shoved them in her bedside table drawer.

"Not that I'm aware of," he answered truthfully.

"We all need time alone with our thoughts, Remington," she shared her thoughts from earlier. "I can't tell you how many problems I've worked out on one of my runs or a long bike ride. I can hardly fault you for what I myself do, now can I?" A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth and he relaxed visibly.

"Well, no," he conceded, "But that's never prevented you from harping in my ear before." She snorted a laugh and he tapped the foot nearest him. "Let's have it, shall we?" As tempting as the idea was, she shook her head.

"You need to eat something. Mickeline brought you up a tray." His appreciation of the man's keen instincts of what was needed moved up another notch. Once he settled in beside her, resting his back against pillows and headboard, she handed him the bowl of stew.

"You know, Laura, I was thinking, when we find a place of our own, we might want to consider hiring—"

"Try to remember that while you may be 'His Lordship' in the UK, in the United States you are a mere 'mister.'"

"But, Laura—"

"It's not happening, Mr. Steele, so move on."

"I found something on my walk that may be of help to us should we need to make a quick escape," he shared, as she shifted to lay on her back and he adjusted his position to take her foot in his lap. Her brows rose at the news.

"Oh?"

"Mmm. A 1940 Indian Four with sidecar, in remarkably pristine condition," he shared.

"A motorcycle?" she asked, dubiously.

"We've made our escapes on much worse," he pointed out.

"Yes, we have." Silence fell between them for a short stretch of time, then she blurted out in a most unlike Laura manner, "Do you ever wonder why we put up with this? Why it never seems to get any easier?" His hands stilled and he felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him.

"You mean why don't we just give up and go our separate ways?" he questioned, forcing the words past suddenly parched lips. She cocked a brow at him, suggesting he'd lost his mind.

"I was thinking more along the lines of packing it all up and moving to a deserted island where the past – yours, mine and ours can't find us." Feet on terra firma once more, he grinned at her.

"You'd go mad within a week," he predicted, with laughter, "Without a mystery to solve, clues to ponder or suspects to suspect." Flashing dimples acknowledged she'd understood his reference.

"Still, it holds a certain appeal," she mulled, then bright eyes flashed his way, "But it's not very practical," she noted with finality.

"Ah, welcome back, Miss Holt," he smiled, the amusement in his eyes quickly turning to wariness when she sobered and her fingers fluttered upwards to stroke her throat.

"I spent some time going over my notes this evening," she informed him. "I know that we agreed to bring Murph on to help clear my name…" He lifted a brow, finding the 'we agreed' a generous representation of that decision "…but I was thinking, maybe we want to bring him in on-"

"No."

"Let me explain—"

"No matter the explanation, I won't be changing my mind," he dismissed the request, the quick flash of a smile failing to disguise his tone, making it clear further discussion on the matter would not be brooked. As he spooned another helping of stew into his mouth, a quick glance at her from the corner of his eye showed her slack jawed… and offended. With an audible sigh, he dropped the spoon into the bowl and set the meal aside, appetite lost. "Tell me, Laura, if I were to suggest we tell Daniel about your father abandoning you, how would you react? Hmmm?"

"So far as I know, Daniel doesn't have the skills necessary to locate my father," she sniped, her eyes snapping fire at him. He leveled her with a disapproving look.

"You know that's not what I mean," he reproached. "There are matters of our past that are not only private, between just you and I, but that could be easily be exploited or used against us should they be known. Were Daniel to know about your father, you'd be constantly on guard, waiting for the day to arrive when he'd either try to use that knowledge to drive a wedge between us or to distract you in hopes of luring me into one of his gambits." She averted her face, but he was having none of it, a single finger against her chin drawing her eyes back to him. "Can you deny it?" Her sagging shoulders were all the answer he needed.

"Murph would never do that."

"Perhaps not in the same manner as Daniel," he qualified, "But you can't deny from the very start he's made it a point to put a wedge between us, much as Daniel has. Should the Earl of Claridge not be my father, in Michael's eyes I will forever remain the man with no name; the man with the shady past that can't be trusted and will one day betray you. And should the Earl of Claridge be my father, he'll do his best to convince you I'll tire of the life I've built with you and soon will abandon you for the wealth and prestige of being the Earl's progeny. Then there's one other matter…" He left the statement hanging, knowing she wouldn't be able to help questioning the ending.

"What's that?"

"I may not be able to conceal my relationship to the Earl of Claridge if I am his son, but I can damn well assure the only person that knows the whole of my past is you."

Well, what could she say to that, other than…

"I understand." With a quiet smile lifting his lips, he claimed her hand in his and pressed his lips against the palm in thanks. Appetite restored, he returned to eating his stew. "I'd like to continue our earlier discussion, but I want you to hear me out before you start with your objections." With a sigh, he set the bowl back on the bedside table. She'd heard him out so…

"You have the floor, Miss Holt." In a bit of tit-for-tat it might have been impolite to not allow her to have her say, but he didn't have to feign enthusiasm.

"Not long after Murphy leaves, I imagine we'll depart and start following some undoubtedly… creative… route you've devised to take us back to London. Am I correct?" One corner of his mouth ticked upwards and he shrugged a careless shoulder, acknowledging she was right, then reached for his dinner again. "No matter how healthy you think you are, the trip alone is going to be hard on you physically and once we…" Standing, she rubbed her arms, trying to erase the goosebumps that had scattered over them. His eyes narrowed on her with concern.

"Laura—" She shook her head to warn him off, then began pacing as she spoke.

"You gave me your word, Mr. Steele," she reminded him, then pushed forward. "Once we arrive in London, I suspect there won't be any time to rest or recuperate, so we need you as well as possible before we leave." He parted his lips to speak again. She held up a hand to stop him. "I understand that the idea of Townsend reporting back to the Earl of Claridge and Daniel is… unpalatable… for you given their likely deceptions, but you're too close to this and missing the larger picture." The bowl landed back on the bedside table with the clatter of a spoon.

"The… larger… picture," he repeated with displeasure, emphasizing each word. She scowled at him.

"Mind the antique furniture, Mr. Steele. It did nothing to offend you." The muscle in his jaw ticked with irritation. As she oft did, she ignored it. "Yes, the larger picture. If we simply disappear or he's made aware we're on the hunt for your would be murderers, there is every likelihood His Lordship will call out the guard, so to speak. If you allow Townsend to continue with your care, then we can control the narrative: We mention Murphy's impending visit and that we're handing everything off to him so that you can focus on your continued recovery. Then, during his visits with you, we bandy about ideas on where that will be. I'm sure there are places in any number of towns and cities across Europe you've considered it a safe place to lay low for a while and that Daniel is aware of many of them, lending credulity to our story. Am I correct?" Remington scratched his chin.

"Perhaps." Taking a deep breath, she prepared to share a truth that was as frightening to admit as it was honest.

"Then, there's this… It—" She cleared her throat, unprepared for the sudden frog in her throat brought on by the memory of too recent events. Hearing the catch in her voice, he sat up slightly straighter and watched her closely. "It hasn't been two weeks since I was on a plane crossing the Atlantic not knowing if I'd find you alive…" She drew in a harsh breath "…or if I'd get there too late and you'd be… gone." Her voice broke on the last word, compelling him to move to sit on the side of the bed.

"Laura, come here," he patted the bed next to him. "Come, come." She glanced at the spot then turned away, embracing herself, to pace.

"I know I'm hard on you. You get knocked out and I tell you to get up and move. You get beat up, I tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself. I didn't realize the number of injuries you've had since becoming Remington Steele until Townsend and I spoke when I arrived: Fractured ribs, multiple concussions, broken legs and that's not even taking into consideration the number of abrasions, lacerations and contusions." He jumped in during her brief pause.

"I believe we had a similar discussion a couple years back, did we not?"

"Laura… This Remington Steele you invented… I mean… He isn't a plumber."

Her eyes flickered to him then away.

"This is different," she emphasized the last word. "You nearly died. You—"

"Not because of what we do, Laura," he reminded.

"Let me finish!" she snapped. He held up both hands, palms towards her.

"Go on."

"You're not ready, Remington. You need more time to heal and we need Townsend to help to get you as ready as he can before we leave. Let him treat you and follow his orders. We can use the time we're still here to investigate your past and either eliminate or confirm you're the Earl of Claridge's son." He forgot his promise of silence, again.

"Ah, so that's what this is about. Your determination to prove—" She threw up her hands in frustration.

"No!" she refuted. "It's about me being afraid, Mr. Steele! We have no idea what we might come across in London. Your ribs, fingers and kidney are still healing. Your stitches haven't even come out yet! Look at you! A walk – a long one, yes, but still a walk – and you're exhausted and hurting, even if you're too stubborn to admit it!" She let out a long breath, pressing her hand to her forehead and tipping her face towards the ceiling, gathering herself. "Do I want to prove the truth of your paternity?" She dropped her hand and looked at him. "Yes, I do! You deserve to know the truth, whatever it is! But it doesn't change the fact that I'm not ready, yet, either." His brows snapped together.

"You're still not well and didn't say anything?" he demanded to know.

"That's not what I mean," she replied elongating the words. "I'm having a hard time letting go of how I felt on that flight and when I saw you in the hospital. It was hard when you chose to voluntarily deport yourself, but that didn't compare to how I felt last summer when you just disappeared. I didn't think anything could… frighten me more or… or…. hurt more, not knowing if you were alive or dead, in jail or free. I was wrong! All I can think of right now is keeping you safe and that makes me a liability!" Suddenly weary, she joined him sitting on the side of the bed, dropping her eyes down to her hands. "All I'm asking for is just a few more days, a week at the outside, to give your injuries more time to heal." He studied her for a trio of long seconds. Was she really still that shaken? Or was this a ruse to get him to comply to her demands for time? Did it even matter, given his thoughts as he'd approached that very bedroom door?

All she'd ever needed was time, after all, when her fears were involved. It was so little to ask.

"If you need more time, then that's what we'll take," he told her simply. Her snapped up, her eyes flying to his face.

"I was expecting any number of arguments," she said, disbelief shading her words.

"Yes, well, a delay in departure does come with its benefits," he mused, plastering a smarmy smile on his face he knew would tweak her and added a cocky lift of his brow and leer just for fun, "What better place to…" he took her hand in his once more, bussing the knuckles "…renew our…" a waggle of his brows "…physical relationship…" he released her hand "…than in a castle, with the misty, morning light of Ireland bathing the room in its soft glow?" She averted her head long enough to give a healthy roll of her eyes at his chicanery. Once more, he needed a reminder she could give as good as she got.

She raked her eyes down then up his lithe frame, pausing… twice… to admire the physical effects of her openly lusty appreciation.

"Oh, I don't know," she drawled, stroking her throat. Her eyes roamed towards the window, "I was thinking more along the line of down by the lake under a star-filled sky as a cool breeze caresses our… hot… bodies." A vision came crystal clear to him: The light of the stars making the delightful dapples of color that danced over her skin glow and the moonlight casting itself over rosy nipples topping alabaster orbs of soft—

Overused muscles twitched and his bones screeched their outrage as he shifted to his side and pressed her to the bed, partially beneath him. "Bit damp out tonight, so what's say we split the difference?" he murmured with a tip of his head. "Let's turn out the lights," he dropped a kiss on her lips, then titled his head the other way, "…throw open the windows…" another kiss "…and make love in front of the fi—"

She weaved away from him and sat back up, much to his consternation. Glowering at her back, he eased himself back up.

"And Townsend? You'll be cooperative?" He narrowed his eyes.

"I suppose that depends on how you define 'cooperative.'" Turning more towards him, she held up a single finger.

"To begin with, you follow his directives and honor the limitations he sets."

"What else?" She wrinkled her nose.

"I'm not suggesting pain medication. I know how you feel about that." He wasn't so foolish as to believe there wasn't a 'but' coming and played a tried but true card.

"Your brow's twitching." Her hand flew upwards to rub at said brow even as she refuted the charge.

"It is not." A lift of a single brow was his only response. She frowned at him and huffed out a breath. "You take the muscle relaxants," she continued in a rush, "Which, I assure you, you'll want to do." He began to cross his arms again, but, at the first twinge from movement, thought better of it: The last thing his partner needed was something to add weight to her position.

"Oh? Do tell."

"You'll heal faster," she stated simply, "Which means…" she drew out the word to pique his curiosity, then walked her fingers up his arm "…all the sooner you can scratch my…" she leaned in and flicked her tongue against his earlobe then kept her mouth close so her breath warmed to wetness "…itch." He gave her his most charming smile, while slipping a hand behind her neck, cupping it.

"An itch," he murmured, his lips hovering over hers, "I assure you, I can scratch right now." With a hum, he leaned in to cover her lips with his own…

That hum turned into a gasp followed by a loud moan when he found himself, in a most undignified matter, falling face first to the mattress when the object of his attention slipped away. Turning his head, he found that very person standing a foot from the bed with a smirk on her face.

"You were saying, Mr. Steele?" With a groan, he pushed himself up high enough to level her with a glare.

"You're a cruel woman, Miss Holt," he complained, breathily.

"Only when I need to prove a point." He accepted her assistance in righting himself, then sat next to him again. "If you can't keep yourself upright when I move away, how can you possibly dodge a suspect in your current condition?"

"I hardly think I'll be making a pass at my would-be assassin," he groused.

"Oh, I don't know," she quipped, "Given your past dalliances with vipers, you—"

"Lau-ra…" he growled the warning. A corner of her mouth lifted and she gave an unapologetic shrug of one shoulder.

"Do we have an agreement?" she asked, directing the conversation back to the discussion at hand.

"Given you dropped everything to be here for me in my time of need, how could I not give you what it is you need now? Hmmm?" Seeing the relief on her face and the way some of the tension left her shoulders was worth every bit of the concession he'd made, in his estimation. She gave a sharp nod of her head and stood.

"You need to eat," she reminded. She handed him the bowl once he repositioned himself against the pillows, then sat down near his knees. "We're going to need a way to communicate with Murph once he gets to London. Do you have any ideas?"

"Mmm," he confirmed around a mouthful of stew. Swallowing, he continued, "I'll be giving him a list of some acquaintances who can be counted upon to pass along a discrete message for a few quid."

"More trustworthy acquaintances than Chalky, I hope." Taking another bite of his dinner, he looked up at her through his lashes.

"Acquaintances who know their livelihoods depend upon maintaining their silence. Miscreants we may be but betray one of us, you betray all." Laura tilted her head, thoughtfully.

"Is that how you still see yourself? As one of them? A miscreant?" Taking a last bite of stew, he gave the question some consideration. Setting the bowl aside, he reached for his tea, enjoying a sip before answering.

"That's a complicated question, love." He had her full attention.

"How so?"

"Well—"

Their heads turned as one towards the bedroom door when a knock sounded. Reluctantly, she rose to answer it.

"Hold that thought," she ordered, pointing a finger at him as she crossed the room. Swinging open the door, she found Townsend waiting on the other side and welcomed him in. "I'm sorry for the late hour," she apologized as he stepped into the room.

"I believe I'll survive," he replied, jovially. "Given I spend an hour a day with your husband, at most, I have twenty-three other hours to catch a few winks. Now, how is my patient this evening?"

"The phrase 'stubborn as a mule' comes to mind." Her quip drew a laugh out of the older man.

"That seems to be a common state for Mr. Steele when I come to visit," he noted.

"Why is it I perpetually feel the need to remind people I'm right here?" Remington groused.

"Oh, we're quite aware of that, Mr. Steele," Laura riposted while joining him on the bed. Townsend secured the blood pressure cuff around Remington's upper arm.

"Your blood pressure is higher than I'd like, Mr. Steele and given the way you're guarding those ribs, I feel safe speculating you've overdone it again today."

"Guarding?" Laura wondered.

"Mmm," Townsend confirmed. "It is the body's natural response to guard injured areas from further harm. The muscles around the healing area contract, which actually works counteractive to the healing process. The contracting muscles around these ribs, for example," he palpated the injured areas of the ribs, earning a swift intake of breath and glower from Remington, "Are pulling against them, slowing healing." He turned his focus to Remington. "While I admire your determination to get back on your feet again, you are doing yourself no favor by pressing your recovery."

"What would you recommend he do to optimize healing?" Laura inquired. After dressing the still healing wounds, Townsend pulled a fresh compression bandage from his bag and began wrapping those ribs.

"Limit activity to one or two walks each day, no more than an hour's time each and for the next several days I'd recommend increasing the dose of muscle relaxant in the evening and adding a low dose in the mornings." Remington's lips parted to protest.

"Mr. Steele has turned over a new leaf and vows to be a… most cooperative… patient," she interceded before he could speak. His mouth clamped shut and the look on his face clearly decreed she was a traitor. Townsend laughed.

"Why is it I believe said vow is less voluntary and more extracted?" She gave him her most innocent look.

"I have no idea what you mean." The claim of innocence drew another laugh from Townsend. He looked to Remington.

"You have your hands full with this one, I think." Remington hummed his agreement.

"You've no idea just how full." Townsend reached into his bag, removing a vial and a syringe.

"How long do you think until Mr. Steele won't need your services any longer and can travel?" Laura asked the doctor, as much to distract Remington as to lay the foundation for their plan. "We've called in another P.I. that used to work at the Agency and he'll take over uncovering who's behind Keyes' murder while Remington continues to convalesce."

"Convalesce? You make me sound like a doddering old man," Remington took exception to the word.

"Recuperate, recover, rest, heal. Do any of those word suit your vanity more?" Townsend covered his laugh with a cough. "In the meantime, we thought we'd find somewhere a little sunnier and warmer to lay low." As always, Remington easily picked up her cue, and furthered their plan.

"I was thinking, Laura. How does Venice sound?" He winced when the needle pierced his skin, but to his credit, didn't break role.

"Like you'd be intent on playing tour guide by day and would want to join the frivolities by night… all night," she replied.

"Even after I release Mr. Steele from my care, he'll need to gradually return to his regular routines. His body has sustained considerable trauma and it will still be weeks before he's ready to return to being as active as he was prior to the assault." She returned her attention to Remington.

"Surely, given your allergy to anything that remotely resembles work or unnecessary expenditure of energy, you know of where tall, cold pina coladas and warm sun are the names of the game." Remington scratched his chin.

"Oh, a half-dozen places or so come to mind if we're limiting ourselves to Europe."

"Maybe Dr. Townsend may have a few ideas as well," she suggested.

"My wife and I favor the French Riviera, particularly Cannes and Monaco." Laura tapped a finger against her chin.

"I can't say I enjoyed the last trip we took to Cannes," she mused aloud, enjoying watching Remington squirm as he recalled precisely why that was.

"There's a beautiful little beach called the Blue Lagoon in Malta where we've gone on holiday a pair of times," Townsend offered up a second option. Remington gave the man a pained look. "Ah, I take it you've been to Malta and haven't fond memories?"

"Let's just leave it at it might be the wiser course that I present Mrs. Steele with potential destinations," Remington replied, drawing another laugh from the doctor.

"Why is it I suspect Mrs. Steele's not the only handful?" he chuckles.

"You have no idea," Laura muttered, drily. Townsend closed his bag and stood.

"I'll see you after breakfast, Mr. Steele."

"I'll walk you out," Laura offered. After showing the doctor to the bedroom door, she locked it then joined Remington in bed again. She glanced at him while stroking her throat. Seeing this out of the corner of his eyes, he heaved a heavy sigh.

"Alright, let's have it," he told her, wearily.

"Eilis's aunt, Molly, is still the cook here. She's agreed to meet with us tomorrow at our convenience. I was thinking between breakfast and lunch?"

"If I agree, can we put this matter to rest for the evening?" he inquired, his frustration clearly showing.

"Yes," she answered simply.

"Fine," he agreed, then got out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

Laura slipped out of bed as well. Turning on the lamp on Remington's side of the bed, she turned off the light by the vanity then added a pair of logs to the fire before getting back into bed. Stretching out on her back, she tugged up the blankets and comforter then slung an arm over her eyes waiting for him to reappear. Several minutes had passed before she felt the bedding shift and the mattress next to her sink.

"I was beginning to think you'd decided to sleep in the shower," she commented, dropping her arm to look at him.

"Flossing is not without its challenges when two of one's fingers are splinted," he shared, wryly. Reaching for the lamp, he turned it out, casting the room in darkness except for the light cast off of the fire. She shifted to her side so she could fully see his face.

"I want you to know, I understand how difficult these last months have been for you. The deportation, the attempts on your life, not to mention whatever Daniel's up to and the possibility that the Earl is your father. Any one of these things would have sent you disappearing into the night not so long ago." He turned his head to look at her.

"You left out a few things," he informed her. "Being on a different continent than you for the better part of a year, you being framed for murder, Felicia conspiring with Daniel and Michaels' imminent arrival, to start. Frankly, I'm bloody well tired of it all, but I haven't felt the slightest urge to cut my losses and disappear, because there is something far more important at stake." She propped herself up on an arm and rested her head in her hand.

"The hope for an unlimited expense account?" she quipped, knowing full well he meant their future together. He pursed his lips, eyes glittering with humor.

"Well, now that you mention it…" She leaned down and tapped a kiss to his lips. She hovered nearly nose-to-nose with him when the kiss ended.

"Not happening."

"Awwww…." he feigned a pout. She brushed her lips against his again.

"You need to get some sleep," she advised, then shifted to put space between them. His arm tightened around her.

"Laura."

Her eyes flickered upwards and with a simple glance at his face knew what he was asking. Carefully, she lowered herself down at his side, resting her head beneath his shoulder and reaching an arm across his waist. With a sigh, he moved slightly to get comfortable, then wrapped his arm around her, resting his hand on her hip. It was purely out of habit that she began lightly stroking his side. In silence, she watched the play of light on the ceiling from the crackling fire, while replaying the day's events in her mind, then turning towards what they might anticipate happening the following day. The meeting with Molly would be unavoidably difficult for Remington as more of, what she was certain, his past was uncovered. She wondered if it had even registered with him that he would be speaking to the woman who was likely his great-aunt. Would he feel a connection to her, as he had with the Earl… at least until his belief the Earl had rejected him had sparked his ire? Her Mr. Steele could be positively intractable when he'd made up his mind about something and in her estimation his anger had him prepared to reject—

"Before I met you," Remington spoke, surprising Laura as she thought he'd fallen to sleep, "I spent half my life with those 'miscreants' of whom I was speaking. The shady side of the street and the people who work it, provided me a home, food on the table, clothes on my back, an exceptional education and a way to make a living while also offering a certain amount of assurance I wouldn't find myself living on the streets again. Amongst those miscreants, I also found some of the most honorable people I know – not all, by any means, but some. The Major, Henri, Wallace, Marcos, Monroe and Daniel, despite how I feel at the moment, all come to mind. I may have left the life behind, but I imagine I'll always feel an affinity with them."

"I can understand that," she answered, quietly.

He bussed her on the top of the head then closed his eyes, letting her warmth and touch lull him to sleep.

In a tiny bedroom which barely had room for the double bed on which four children slept, a small boy lay curled up on a pallet – which was little more than a sheet tossed upon the floor – his legs pulled up to his chest and his hands clamped over his ears. The voices in the room outside were raised in anger causing him to press harder against his ears in an attempt to drown them out.

He'd been down this road before. Sometime in the next few days, he'd find his meager belongings stuffed into a pillowcase and he'd be on his way, again.

A woman, humming. Familiar somehow. Both comforting and haunting.

"We'll be betta off wit'out 'im, ye'll see."

"Ex-partner, Monsieur Lebret. When this case is finished, so are we."

An aged rocking horse missing part of its mane. A child's laugher.

"I was better off without you anyway!"

A small, dark closet. A child huddled in the corner, crying.

"My son has hazel eyes. Like his mother."

A beefy, calloused hand swinging downwards. Stars. Ears ringing.

"I'll be betta! I'm sorry. I'll be betta!"

A child's squeal of joy.

"More, Mamaí, more!"

"Mamaí! Mamaí! Wake up. Mamaí!"

"All I'm suggesting is that maybe we take some time, think about it for a while…"

Remington woke on a strangled gasp of Laura's name, broken out in a cold sweat, his heart racing and breathing hard. He scrubbed his face with his hands as he concentrated on slowing his breathing, shocked when he dropped his hands and found Laura sitting up, a hand lying against his chest as she peered down at him.

"I'm right here," she assured in a tone so reasonable… so matter of fact, so… Laura… it instantly calmed his nerves. Releasing the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, he nodded his head. "Bad dream?"

"Yes… No… I don't know," he answered honestly, with a shake of his head. He lifted and dropped his hand in a half-hearted wave of dismissal. "I'm fine." She nodded and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Then get some sleep." She resumed her position at his side and he closed his eyes at the familiar feeling of her fingers stroking his side.

His last thought before falling to sleep was he knew at least part of that dream had been memories from his past, but he had the uncomfortable feeling it had actually been made wholly of memories.